Do Not Sit Idle

Far beyond the castle where Pilgrim tossed in troubled sleep a man was walking down a quiet road in Aberdeen. Albus Dumbledore moved quickly, humming a song the words to which he could not remember,

'Why should I sit and sigh,

Puin' bracken, tum te tum,

Why should I sit and sigh

On the hillside dreary?'

The late afternoon rain had seen the usual shoppers and pedestrians shied away from the rain-slicked streets. There was more to it than that though, Dumbledore reflected. The air was chilly, even for December with a heavy dampness which sank into the bones and dulled the mind and spirits. The rush and cheer of Christmas was absent and even the seagulls which watched from the lampposts seemed more listless and less numerous than he would have expected. It was the unmistakable touch of the Dementors on the land, slowly poisoning the environment with a pervasive despair. The concrete, steel, and rendering of muggle architecture hammered home a message of the degradation of the soul.

With the Doom of Nimue on the country covert magical travel the length of the country was impossible. Instead Dumbledore had taken a broom with one of the more trusted aurors to the outskirts of Aberdeen. Then, with permission, he filled the auror's mind with a memory of a dull reconnaissance mission and set off through the suburbs veiling himself under disillusionment until he reached the city centre. Peering into the shop windows he transfigured his robes into a neat three-piece suit and raincoat in plum velvet and his hat became a briefcase. He tucked his fob watch into a pocket, straightened his beard and set off removing the disillusionment in a quiet alley: it would after all have been inconvenient to be hit by a car or bike.

Now approaching the great steel and stone cathedral of Aberdeen's station he paused to consider his options his options before buying a ticket to King's Cross. The journey was, the ticket salesperson said, going to take at least eight hours and so he bought a book from a small, drab book shop to while away the time. He also handed over a few pounds drawn from a deep pouch to purchase a packet of tablet and a bar of chocolate to help drive away the chill.

Within the arc of the train station he was of a mind to think back to his days as a schoolboy taking the Hogwarts Express back and forwards, but the grimy diesel engine which pulled into the station was far removed from such memories. He sat quietly reading in his seat as passengers flocked off and on and the afternoon light ebbed away into dull grey clouds fringed with yellow, and threatening snow. The snow itself appeared shortly after he left the first train to change in Edinburgh, wishing that the Doom did not interfere with time magic. A time turner could have smoothed his progress immeasurably, but instead he had to wait in the long hall awaiting another train. Edinburgh itself called to him, the old, old city with its own wild magic still buried within the soil and stone. It was dusk by the time that the train left the station. The white flakes swished past, melting when they hit the carriage windows. He looked out into the darkness where lights occasionally blossomed in the towns they rushed through, and in more distant villages, like fireflies.

Eventually, despite the slow chug-chug of the town and the stiff, unyielding seats he set down his book, folded his arms over his waist and drifted into a fitful sleep. He could not have said what time it was when the ticket collector, making a final round of the train shook him gently on the shoulder.

'Excuse me sir, we're just pulling into King's Cross. Better collect your belongings and get ready to disembark. We'll be there in five minutes,' the man said.

Dumbledore blinked, the carriage which had been mostly full was now almost entirely empty. A couple stood to one end, doing up each other's coats as if they expected to step out into a blizzard. However, given that the train had not been stopped he assumed that snow could not yet be settling on the line. 'Ah, thank you. Might I ask, is the weather particularly poor tonight?'

'Ach, there has been a snowstorm coming in from the west. Should hit here in an hour or two. You've got someone to fetch you from the station?' The man asked. 'It's going to be a rough night to be out there late.'

'Thank you, I shall be quite well. I do not have so very far to go tonight,' Dumbledore reassured him.

'Well, if you need any help just ask at the ticket office,' the ticket collector said, with a slight frown, evidently uncertain about allowing an elderly traveller out into the London night.

The electric lights of King's Cross painted the bricks in cold and unfriendly light and shadows. The occasional underground train was still working and purchasing another ticket Dumbledore descended into the maze of tunnels. He let his feet carry him down into the dusty, grime-stained network. The smells of urine and old sweat filtered through the carriages. Braes squealed and shrieked in protest around the bends.

When he stepped out of Highbury and Islington station and began to stride towards Grimmauld Place it was a relief to have the fresh, cold, winter air in his lungs and the taste of frost on his tongue. Snow was spiralling down out of the black night, glinting and glittering in the yellow lamp light.

The streets were again almost empty here, though without the chill of the recent passage of dementors. Within the tall houses cheerful lights were visible. Some families had already strung up lights and reds, greens, and blues mingled with the golds. On the curtains of the houses silhouetted scenes of domesticity played out.

He passed a middle-aged couple who smiled with childlike delight at the falling snow. The woman laughed as the man mimed trying to catch a snowflake with his mouth. They gave a cheery wave to Dumbledore and though he wished them good evening his hand tightened around his wand. The likelihood was that they were no more than what they seemed and yet there was always the possibility that the Death Eaters might have found the area.

Five minutes later he stepped into Grimmauld Place itself. Dust lay thick upon it. A handful of charms revealed that the defences still held, but also that there was no-one inside, for some reason they had chosen to abandon it, at least temporarily. He stepped forwards slowly, his footsteps muffled by the carpet and the dust. The dust began to rise, and he felt the tang of spellwork on the musty air. He waited intrigued, as to what – presumably Alastor – had done to defend the house. There was silence in the house. Upstairs a floorboard creaked. The dust was flowing up the walls in strange patterns, like a rich fungus. He cast a bubblehead charm. 'Be off with you.'

There was a twitch of magic and the dust lunged at him in spindly shapes. He felt the spell try to signal outwards. He caught it both parts of the spell like a fisherman running a net through the water and immobilised the dust. It would be better to control news of his return. Alastor was paranoid enough to believe someone was impersonating him and spread the word beyond Dumbledore's control, if he could bring himself to trust anyone enough to inform them.

It took nearly twenty minutes to find and disarm every booby-trap Alastor had left, or at least all of those which could have been problematic. As it was even Dumbledore was uncertain as to why the chandeliers were all wrapped in curses. He assumed Alastor must have once seen a muggle swashbuckling film, he would ask him about it when he next saw him, he resolved. The main cause for the delay was the process of examining each room he intended to use and even the rooms he did not in case Alastor had set something ready in them should another trap be foiled. As it was, he had, fifteen times in fact, and twice with traps upon the backup traps. Usually it was the work of a moment to disarm the spell, or in a few cases muggle bear traps, cunningly broken floorboards coated in neurotoxins, and even a readied crossbow.

It must have been close to midnight when he made his way to sleep. There was still the temptation to find a quiet hotel and stay there instead, but his wallet was already running low on funds he could not replenish without either making himself too obvious or by stooping to using magic on others. He put it away and turned to sleep.

He left Grimmauld Place the next morning, leaving a couple of charms behind him to inform him if anyone entered. From what he had seen he suspected that the Order had abandoned the house as their headquarters during his absence, presumably afraid that if he had fallen its security would be compromised. Although he had established that the fidelius charm remained he wondered whether it had been there whilst he had been away.

Determining that the first necessity was to test the waters with his own eyes he worked on his appearance that morning, and furthermore he needed to eat. Reluctantly he transfigured his beard and hair, darker and shorter until he might have passed for a man in his sixties. His suit was a deep blue with golden stars on the lining. He kept a hat this time, instead transfiguring a pillow into a suitcase with an expanded space in the handle where he stashed the elder wand, within his grip at all times. He added a few incongruous details to reveal to any observer that he was a wizard in muggle garb: a stick of celery at his buttonhole and a tie pin in the shape of a dragon.

Setting out into London he headed towards the leaky Cauldron. The streets were dark with melting, slushy ice. The tube trains were slow and packed with workers from closed lines. As he exited the doors of Leicester square tube station and looked up and down the street. He noticed the charioteer on the hippodrome opposite was fringed by the purple tinted clouds, heralding more snow. He wondered for a moment if he might be better off moving out from London immediately before putting the thought to one side. He followed the Charing Cross Road down for a little way until he saw the small, crooked façade of the Leaky Cauldron. There were a pair of wizards watching the entrance from across the street. They were probably aurors, he judged. Their eyes did not skip past the Leaky Cauldron as they spoke and their dress was too in keeping with the muggle crowd to make it likely that they were with the other side, at least not directly.

Dumbledore processed their presence without breaking his stride and made his way to the Leaky Cauldron. The inn was lit by the usual warm light. The scent of magic in the air chased away any lingering darkness of mood or atmosphere. A large Christmas tree had been set up to one side, decorated with silken ribbons and slender red candles whose flames shone brightly between the boughs.

Conversation faltered slightly as he came in. Patrons glanced up from their tables and booths. Several heads moved towards wands before relaxing as they took in his appearance, mentally categorising him as probably a poor half-blood. Dusting himself off and slinging his coat over his arm he walked over to the bar and ordered a bowl of the porridge and a pot of breakfast tea in a few clipped words before picking up a spare copy of the newspaper and making his way to an unoccupied booth. He did not pick one of the most shadowed corners, instead he decided to hide in plain sight. Dumbledore settled back into his seat, watching the room whilst skimming the paper.

The Prophet was filled with the usual Ministry prompted words. It praised Scrimgeour's bold new initiatives; sympathised with the difficulties imposed by the Doom, but defied nay sayers to argue that Scrimgeour had not chosen the ideal time to impose the restrictions in order to curtail He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's threat to the Statute of Secrecy. There was also some speculation as to his own whereabouts, though filtered through a lens of optimism to keep up morale. Only one item caught his attention, a piece announcing that an independent commission of delegates from the International Confederation of Wizards were to arrive in Britain within the week to evaluate the country's adherence to the Statute of Secrecy. The author of the piece wondered how British wizards could tolerate the intervention of foreign powers in their internal affairs and Dumbledore wondered if there was a shadow of the Minister's or of Tom's hand there. Was Scrimgeour trying to appear strong and avoid surrendering power? Or was Tom simply sowing further seeds of discord? He sighed and rubbed his temples, it might well be both, and neither, simply a journalist trying to sell papers.

He folded up the paper and turned to his breakfast. He added a splash of milk and a sugar cube to his tea. He sprinkled a teaspoonful of brown sugar – helpfully provided by Tom the landlord – onto his porridge and tucked in, keeping an ear open. Most of the conversation was inconsequential to him, though evidently important to the participants: Christmas presents; parties; the latest Quidditch game.

As he was finishing his finishing his first cup of tea and reaching for the second though he heard something which piqued his interest:

'Gaius and I are thinking of leaving. We have a cousin in Morocco. It's too dangerous now. Dumbledore gone … you know I didn't always agree with him, but she was the only one You-Know-Who ever feared. With him gone, its only a matter of time before He is in total control. You should get out too, muggleborns won't be safe, mark my words,' said a woman's voice in an undertone.

'I don't know. Jean just got a new job at the Ministry and the pay is good. I don't know when we could go. Neither of us are any good with languages,' a man said. There was the clink, clink of a teaspoon against china.

'Listen, you weren't around in the last war. It was like this before, at the start. Towards the end people were fleeing, leaving everything. Dumbledore was practically the only one left fighting. Everyone else died: the Prewetts, the Hollands, the Godwins, and of course the Potters, all of them died,' the woman insisted in an undertone.

'Perhaps. I'll talk to Jean. She's a bit worried, said some people in the Ministry think He's making sense: too much corruption amongst the high ups. Some of them are saying He's not the same, claiming it isn't about blood this time, perhaps it'll be different. With the Doom, I'm not sure how we'd even leave. I haven't got a muggle passport, haven't paid taxes to them in years.'

'Just saying. Look to your options whilst you can.'

Their conversation turned to other matters. It was strange for them to meet and breakfast in public with danger handing over their necks, Dumbledore reflected, but without instructions against it from the Ministry he was not surprised. The more afraid people were the more they needed one another. Scrimgeour, holding onto power in the face of Tom's unseen hand, was walking a tightrope between panicking the country by imposing harsher restrictions and letting people walk into danger like lambs to the slaughter.

'I swear that auror would have torn every one of Aelfric's presents to shreds if he'd been allowed to. Thank goodness Yarrow stepped in …' a wizard passed through the pub complaining to his companion and passing away.

There was a fairly constant passage of people through the pub. More than usual, without the floo or apparition foot traffic had evidently increased exponentially. However, by Dumledore's best guess it was still far below the usual numbers, even accounting for the other passages into the wizarding quarter of the city. He paused and lowered his cup of tea as a familiar voice pierced his contemplation of the situation.

'I require a room for a meeting, Tom. Private. You understand,' a rich baritone murmured. 'Twenty minutes time. A witch will be arriving who will ask to be shown in. You will oblige her.'

Dumbledore looked up out of the corner of his eye. A wizard in a dove-grey robe stood beside the dark wood of the bar. He was a little over six foot in height and bore himself with an air of complete self-assurance: Agravaine Greengrass. A slender witch with a wickedly curved dagger in a sheath, as well as her wand, hung back behind him, his bodyguard and an individual Alastor had privately confided to Dumbledore that he believed erased any obstacles in Greengrass' 'business' dealings: Arianwen Annwn

It was a complication he did not need. Greengrass not only sat on the Wizangamot but was deeply embedded in the upper echelons of the criminal wizarding world, with agents as far afield as the Urals. Despite publicly espousing pureblood supremacy Greengrass had maintained a profitable neutrality, supplying both sides in the last war. A detail such as Dumbledore's return could undoubtedly be sold for a pretty penny, and Greengrass and Annwn had taken up a table in the centre of the room whilst they waited for Tom to prepare their meeting room. An odd detail, who would Greengrass choose to meet in a location as public as the Leaky Cauldron? Either someone who touched upon his more legitimate business interests, was it a cover for passing information to the other side, or did he want to signal his contact to a third party to smooth ruffle feathers and assuage suspicions of double dealing?

Dumbledore began to make small and subtle alterations to his garb, whatever the answer it was too much of a risk to sit feet from a man who had watched him in the chamber for years. A frayed hem appeared on one cuff, the edge of his gat took on a battered look, the back of his coat had the smooth gleam of the over-worn and threadbare. He stood after a minute or two and carrying his briefcase with him as he wobbled the bowl, teapot and cup over to the bar in his off hand. He was halfway to the door when he heard Greengrass' voice behind him.

'I say, excuse me. You there, by the door. Don't I know you?'

'I don't think so, sir, I'm sure I would recall,' Dumbledore mumbled, keeping his shoulders stooped. His voice trembled on a few of the words, struggling with adopting a persona suddenly and he winced at the sound, too evidently false to his own ears.

'I'm sure I do, it'll come to me in a moment. Annwn, you don't recognise him, do you?' Greengrass said affably, riding over any reply. 'Perhaps I employed you as a gardener? Grimblethorn, I'm right, aren't I?'

Dumbledore smiled toothily, if Greengrass had decided to toy with him then so be it, 'My brother, perhaps sir? He does some pruning work, some gardening, hates a weed so he does. Makes sure nothing in a garden will choke out other plants.' He straightened a little taking the opportunity to survey the room. He had not intended it to come to this, but he could probably stun and obliviate everyone here before they could leave. If only Fawkes were there it would have been so much easier, though if he had been it would undoubtedly have given the game away.

'Ah, yes. Of course,' Greengrass smiled thinly. 'So very passionate about such things. I have always preferred to preserve a few weeds. It makes for a more varied life, and of course one man's weed is another man's delight. Consider the lawn and the bumblebee. The bees rarely settle on a perfect lawn but introduce a little clover or some wildflowers – weeds in most gardens – and you'll soon move from cold perfection to a much more sustainable environment. Provided the grass and bumblebee are prepared to make that compromise of course. What do you think?'

'I think it would have to be a very open field for that kind of compromise. Personally, I am more of a flower man, not that I get to do much cultivation of them, always like chrysanthemums. Still I should be off, sir. I trust your business goes well,' he said tipping his hat to Greengrass and turned away. Greengrass may have made him, and he would see the consequences of that, but for now he had a train to catch.

Muggle London was filled with Christmas shoppers. Men, women and children wrapped up against the cold. They loudly speculated about the chance of an actual white Christmas and marvelled at actual snow in London as it had begun to fall again. Bright light spilt from shop windows turning the dull London streets into fairyland, filled with tempting fruits.

Dumbledore hurried on his way, turning away from Paddington, where the likely snow on the line would shut down the trains and instead towards Victoria where coaches and buses might offer him a better chance. He bought a seat on a bus down to Exeter, suppressing the urge to look about himself every moment he waited in the decaying concrete and rendered bus-station.

The coach pulled in fifteen minutes late, choking up the air with diesel fumes which settled uncomfortably on his breakfast. He reflected, as they travelled to the south-west in a coach which hung between freezing and sweltering, that while the muggles had done many remarkable things it was all too easy to complain about the floo network, apparition or portkeys until one experimental muggle transport network.

He had long since planned out how to travel this way and had indulged in a few expeditions. However, as he massaged his cramped legs, he wished it had not been necessary to prove the point.

From Exeter he took another bus to Ottery St Mary and began to walk, following the paths by the river up stream to the small village of Ottery St Catchpole. It was half past three with the light failing that Albus Dumbledore walked up the snowy field to the tottering structure of the Burrow. Some way away there was the clucking of chickens as they searched for food.

He paused some way beyond the bounds of the Burrow. Examine the defensive charms it was evident that they had recently been updated. He looked about himself and then conjured his patronus and sent the ghostly phoenix towards the house. It flickered for a moment as it passed through the defences and soared towards the house.

A few minutes later Molly Weasley emerged from the house, short and plump as ever though as she came closer there seemed to be fresh lines on her face. Her daughter followed behind her evidently arguing against something. Probably, Dumbledore reflected ruefully coming out into the presence of villain brazen enough to pretend to be Albus Dumbledore. He ended the enchantments on his hair, beard, and clothes with a flick before sheathing his wand.

'Good afternoon, Molly. Forgive me for the unexpected intrusion, but I found myself in the area and I thought to myself that it would be delightful to pop in and see my dear friends: the Weasleys,' he said.

'You … you can't be,' Molly stuttered, coming to a halt some twenty feet away and starring in shock.

'I not only can be, I most definitely am. Presuming of course that you intended to indicate that I was not in fact myself,' Dumbledore said as lightly as he could. 'Forgive me, Molly. If it had been in my power, I would never have left you all as I did.'

'Is Harry with you? Did you bring him back too?' Molly asked, peering around as if Dumbledore might produce him from thin air.

'I fear not today. I have set people to that task. I see Miss Weasley is well at least. Might I assume that young master Ronald is safe and sound as well then?' He asked suppressing the pang of guilt which surfaced at the thought of Hogwarts and the students.

'Yes … well, he's in his room. He hasn't come out or said much since,' she admitted quietly. 'I'm sorry Albus, but I need to know it's really you. What did you say when you found Arthur and me behind the greenhouses in seventh year?'

Dumbledore paused for a moment to think, 'I believe I remarked that romance rarely blooms in potting sheds. Or something to that effect. I am glad to know that he is at least physically well. Molly, I would ask you to believe me that I will do everything in my power to ensure that Harry and the other young men and women are brought out safely.'

Dumbledore stared into the homely hearth of the Weasley's kitchen hands wrapped around a cup of tea. There had, once Molly had allowed him inside, been a great many tears. Ginevra Weasley, although quiet had remained remarkably composed with an amazing and understandable belief in Harry's ability to come through the most challenging of circumstances.

'Molly, do you have any sandalwood? Just a few slivers will do. I could also use any rosemary, a small bit of thyme and a droplet or two of dragon's blood, if you have them,' he said after a while. The sun was crossing the horizon outside and casting golden and red beams over the kitchen.

She nodded, choosing not to question him. A few minutes later she returned with a small dragon-leather box. It was old and battered, a faded name was set into the leather: M. Prewett. Dumbledore opened it gently. Inside were nestled several dozen small, dusty glass vials. He turned them gently with his fingertips looking for the ingredients he required and set them on the table. Molly went out into the herb garden to collect the more common herbs.

'Excuse me, Professor, what are you doing?' Ginevra asked from the other side of the table as he began to coax the fire higher.

'The Doom of Nimue is an ancient magic. As ancient as the name implies, although updated over the centuries. It counters most forms of near instantaneous magical transportation. However, it is a British piece of magic, first cast in Nimue's own tongue. However, the phoenix, that most remarkable of birds is not native to this windy isle. Instead it came first from ancient Egypt. They are also incredibly rare. No two have ever been sighted together, leading to the legend amongst muggles that there is only one. As such the Doom does not cover them. Nimue herself would never have seen one, and it would be exorbitantly costly to update the entire configuration to prevent a phoenix for travelling. I'm sure your father has informed you how reluctant the Ministry can be to spend the taxes it so assiduously collects,' he explained as wrapping a flame-freezing charm around his hand as he began to place the ingredients into the fire.

'So, you're making Fawkes come here?' She asked as Molly placed the icy rosemary and thyme on the table.

'Very close. I am sending a request to him,' he said tearing the rosemary into small pieces. 'One should not attempt to force anyone to assist them, or else the helper turns to bitterness and seeks to undermine the help they can deliver. This is a supplication rather than a command, an old piece of magic a very old friend of mine once taught me. And now, I must beg your silence.'

He began to sing softly, and although his voice was cracked with age and weariness the air shifted and sung with him. The motes of dust in the air shone in the fading, fiery light of the sun. The flames in the fireplace rippled, burning brightly as they consumed the ingredients. He sung in Occitan first, as Flamel had taught him the spell and the words hung in the kitchen, humming against one another. He could feel them spinning around them, flowing through himself and through Molly and through Ginny like the song of the phoenix. Gradually, instinctively they joined him in the song, old, middle-aged, and young voices blending in harmony. The words changed in his mouth, from Occitan to older tongues, Farsi and Egyptian, the languages of man which the phoenixes first heard. The sandalwood caught, soft, warm, scent cutting through the air. Their voices wove together with the smoke as it curled away from the fire and rose for an instance as a grey bird of white and gold before rising through the chimney and vanishing.

The spell ended. The room was dark. The sun had set, the fire dead. They sat in silence for a time, unable to express the moment they had shared.

Then like the rising sun there was a flare of light before them and red and gold fire flashed like lighting as with a trill of brilliant song Fawkes appeared before them.

A/N: I am not sure about this chapter. It might be a pleasant interlude with a few plot relevant points. It might be tiresome and pointless. Let me know. Next time the Order shall meet, and plans will be made.