The Logic of Fate

by Gavrahil

Harry’s world stands at the brink of destruction and Voldemort has a plan! But hope is often found in the most improbable of places. 7th Year AU story. R&R!

3. The Visit

A/N: I'm terribly sorry this update took me so long, but on top of my enormous workload at the university, some moronic publisher in the US (I'm not kidding) and assorted other catastrophes, which threatened to sink my university project… I had writer's block and had to re-write this chapter a few times, before I liked it.
Again many thanks to my little brother for beta-reading and to anyone, who has taken the time to review.
And on we go!

Chapter 3 – The Visit

Robert hadn't exactly been sure what to think of the whole letter-affair, especially when he had discovered the very unusual messengers that delivered them. But what had happened after he had sent back one of these owls with his answer, seemed to redefine the meaning of strange on a daily basis.

The very next day a short man seemingly in his late-fifties, clad in a somewhat old-fashioned suit and a brilliantly yellow Basque-hat had shown up at his doorstep, presenting himself as Arthemis Felton and claiming to be a representative of the Ministry of Magic. Under normal circumstances Robert would have been torn between laughing out loud and calling an ambulance for the poor man. But considering the events of the past week he looked the man up and down critically, before stepping aside and inviting him in.

When they reached the kitchen, Eliza was just about to finish her breakfast. At the sight of the unusual visitor, she jumped from her chair, to welcome the man, which provoked a surprised smile from Mr Felton.

"And this must be Eliza," he said bowing down a little to shake her hand. After a short glance to Robert, and an approving nod from him, Eliza grasped the man's hand and shook it vehemently.

"Yes, sir. That's me."

"What a spirited young girl," Mr Felton beamed down at her, before straightening up and looking apologetically between the not entirely consumed breakfast on the table, his daughter and himself. "But I seam to be interrupting…"

"Not at all, Mr Felton," Robert replied with a smile. "We were just about to finish breakfast. But we have some bacon and scrambled egg left, if you want to join us." Felton looked insecure for a few instants at such a proposal, but obviously magical officials were as overwhelmed with work as normal ones and Robert had the distinct feeling that his guest hadn't had anything to eat before his visit.

"If you don't mind…" Felton smiled and Eliza immediately pulled out a chair for him, while Robert walked over to the pan.

"You're welcome," he said, while he was piling the reminder of the eggs and bacon on a plate. "After all, matters of great concern should be discussed lightly."

"And matters of small concern should be treated seriously," Felton grinned back from his chair and added a smiling, "Thank you," when Eliza brought him a knife and a fork from the drawer. Robert stopped for a second, before he laid the plate in front of Felton.

"I am impressed, Mr Felton," he smiled back at the older man, while he seated himself again.

"The Hagakure is seldom known so well, even amongst us normals. Is it a common lecture among mages?"

"Wizards, Mr Morrigan," the old man replied kindly, while folding his Basque into a neat roll and stuffing it into his pocket. "And no, the Bushido or the Hagakure are almost unknown to my people. I just read them because I have a passion for philosophy. Bon appetite."

The next half an hour was then pleasantly spent chit-chatting about different things, mostly concerning the wizarding world and its workings. At a certain point Felton transformed – or rather transfigured, as he called it – a teaspoon into a vase full of flowers, to the great and joyful clapping of a delighted Eliza.

Felton seemed to think this proof enough of the existence of magic, but Robert remained suspicious: after all he knew what astounding effects could be produced with very simple means and as a man of science he would believe in the existence of magic only when he saw it performed in a controlled environment.

He figured however that it would be rude to ask, "Dear Mr Felton, would you mind accompanying me to the university lab, so I can stick a lot of probes everywhere into you?"

No, that was definitely not going to win him a new friend, he decided.

He tuned right back in to hear Felton say, "…so underage wizardry is strictly forbidden outside of Hogwarts as long as you aren't of age."

"And when is that," Eliza asked with gleaming eyes.

"When you are seventeen, I'm afraid, dear," Felton gave back with the knowing smile of an adult that has to explain to a child, that it's not yet time to unpack the presents. And Eliza's slight pout was sure enough proof of Robert's assessment of his daughter's intentions. Then something else came to his mind.

"You reach legal age at seventeen?" he asked a little surprised. "We normals…"

"The term is 'Muggles', Mr Morrigan," Felton corrected, but a sudden surge of giggles made his surprised gaze swivel over to Eliza.

"That sounds like something our teacher at school would give us lines for."

"Oh! I guess you could look at it that way," Felton said slightly befuddled at first. But only a moment later he exchanged a smile with Eliza, who was now trying hard to suppress her giggling.

But all humour had escaped Robert. Felton seemed to realize this, as he turned his attention back to him.

"British citizens," Robert began again, noticing a slight sting in his voice that he immediately tried to subdue, "become of age at eighteen." He waited a second to see if Felton had reached the same conclusion as he had, but the man only displayed vague puzzlement.

"Does this mean," Robert continued, "that Wizards are not bound by our laws?"

Felton stopped dead. He blinked once, his mouth a thin, straight line.

Robert was pretty good at reading people. He did it all the time, so he had a lot of practice. But right now Felton was as blank as a wall of polished marble. Robert could tell that he was thinking, but he didn't have the slightest idea what conclusion the old man was reaching.

Finally Felton sunk back in his chair, while a barely audible sigh escaped his mouth. When his eyes met Robert's again, they literally swam in guilt.

"I am sorry."

Robert sat back in his chair. This had been the last thing he had been expecting Felton to say.

"I am terribly sorry about this… It's our fault… We should have noticed…" Felton sighed once more and steadied himself for what he had to say next.

"This should not have happened. At least not like this," he said in a grave tone, but his eyes were now steady.

"Parents of magically inclined children are usually instructed and introduced into our world bit by bit over a period of at least a year, before their children come to be of age to attend Hogwarts. This is done to gradually accustom both the parents and the children."

"So what happened in our case then?" Robert asked in a much softer tone than his last question. Robert could tell, the man was genuinely sorry and he wasn't one to add to someone else's guilt.

"We thought that in your case the instruction would not be necessary." When Robert stared at him, not understanding what he was saying, Felton blurted it out, like if he said it quickly it would hurt less. "We thought your wife would tell you."

Robert felt the words like a fist in his stomach.

He glanced over to Eliza, who sat stunned in her chair, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. But only just: Not one drop ran down her cheek.

His gaze whipped back to Felton, while he felt his face tense and his fists clench.

"What?" He hadn't shouted or growled, but his voice had that same sharp and piercing tone that had made so many men cower or jump at his every word. Felton winced slightly as if that one word had been a whip through his face. But he pulled himself together almost immediately.

"Your wife was a witch, Mr Morrigan. I have everything here to prove it," he continued apologetically. Robert just extended his hand and received three rolls of parchment. One was Maria's birth certificate, elegantly written on the yellowish scrolls of parchment that the wizards seemed to prefer. The second and third ones seemed to be reports from Maria's fifth and seventh year of school. The first one was entitled "Ordinary Wizarding Level" and the second one "Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test". And both bore the Hogwarts crest exactly as it had been on the numerous letters to Eliza.

Robert realized with a shock that he had never seen a single scrap of paper from Maria's past, but all of a sudden it all made sense – in a strange and twisted sort of way.

Robert heard Felton resume where he had left off, but could just barely register it.

"In families where only one of the parents is magically gifted, the ministry's policy is not to interfere with family-affairs. We just thought that your wife would tell you, when she deemed the time to be right."

"But she's been dead for six months now." It was a barely whispered phrase, but the tension shattered like porcelain in a car-crusher. He and Felton both turned to Eliza, who sat in her chair as if made out of ice, her eyes big and demanding an answer, but both of them dry again.

"I'm afraid," Felton began, "that the Ministry of Magic has not been working as efficiently lately as it should have and I'm mortified to say that my department is responsible for this lapse: We did not know your mother was dead until a few days ago, when your letter reached Deputy Headmistress McGonagall," Felton finished looking from Eliza over to him.

His eyes were begging for forgiveness and now that Robert's temper started to settle down again, he began to notice other details that had escaped him before: the subtle rings under the old man's eyes, the sunken cheeks and the slight pallor of his skin were clear signs of continuous stress and entire nights of lost sleep. Robert guessed that all these signs had been camouflaged by Felton's spirit up until now. And sure enough he had probably made every effort to disguise them.

But now he lay open in front of Robert as if he had finally cracked under the weight of a monstrous rock and suddenly aged an entire decade all at once. The man was more than just tired, he was exhausted.

"I understand." Robert heard the beast in him claw at its cage. It wanted to punish the man and everybody else in this so-called Ministry for their mistake, for the pain they had caused Eliza and ultimately him. But he finally silenced its roaring and fixed Felton.

"I guess not even mages… Oh excuse me, Wizards," he corrected himself with the hint of a smile. "Not even Wizards are immune to error." He sat back, one hand still on the rolls of parchment on the table.

"I guess not," Felton responded with visible relief on his face.

Suddenly Robert felt a tugging on his left sleeve and his gaze, which finally left Felton, swivelled around to reveal Eliza standing at his side, smiling reassuringly with a hand on his shoulder. Again Robert felt memories wash over him for a second.

'She looks so much like her mother,' he thought, feeling his heart squeezed in what seemed to be a vice. Then the moment passed and Eliza turned around to Felton, all resolute determination.

"Tell me about Hogwarts, Mr Felton," she said standing there, too short to put her elbow on Robert's shoulder, but nonetheless as fierce and protective as a lioness defending her pups.

"Well… Where to begin," Felton started, leaning back heavily into his chair himself.

The next fifteen to twenty minutes Felton sounded exactly like another one of these talent scouts, Robert had met, who had absolutely wanted Eliza to join their schools, although the usual sleaziness was completely absent, thank God.

When Felton finished talking about the marvellous possibilities, which opened up for every student of Hogwarts – where Aurors supposed to be some kind of gardeners? – Robert had sat back again, his arms crossed over his massive chest.

"I see…" he mused a moment glancing over at Eliza, who was positively bouncing on her toes by now. He knew that everything Mr Felton had said must have seemed very exciting to every eleven-year-old and he knew his daughter well. So the next thing he did got the expected reaction from both Eliza and Mr Felton.

"Eliza," he said, "I want you to go upstairs and stay in your room for a while." And before she could even open her mouth for a reply, Robert added in a calm, but nevertheless pressing tone, "Now, please!"

She stood there for a moment and Robert saw the spirit to argue just underneath her jewel-like eyes, but in the end Eliza gave in and turning to Mr Felton, she said:

"Please excuse me, Mr Felton. It was a pleasure meeting you."

"And you, my dear," he had answered, rising from his seat and extending his hand over the table, so that Eliza could shake it. Then she disappeared through the kitchen door, but not before throwing a pouting glance back at Robert, who had to suppress a grin.

When his gaze went back to his guest Mr Felton was still standing at the table, staring at the spot where Eliza had just disappeared. Finally he sighed and sat down again, still not meeting Robert's eyes.

"I guess playtime is over. Isn't it, Mr Morrigan?" he said almost apologetically. When he finally looked up at him, Robert knew that the old man had expected such an end from the very moment he had rung the bell.

"I guess it is, Mr Felton," he answered slowly, picking up his mug of cocoa – he had never been able to get used to coffee, no matter how much he had tried. But even if the content of the mug had been pink-coloured, broccoli-flavoured mud, it would have been the excuse he needed to think over his reaction for a second.

When he sat the mug down again to address Felton, he found his guest looking at him… very surprised. He noticed this odd detail only at the edge of his consciousness, and just a moment later the expression vanished from Felton's face. But nonetheless there was no other way to describe it and the suspicion that had loomed in him throughout this encounter, was awakened again with burning fervour.

He drew himself up and rested his elbows on the table, his fingers intertwined.

"I understand everything you have told me, Mr Felton. And I admit, that most of it as well as the proof you have shown me sounds and looks very convincing indeed," he had begun. "But I also know that a lot of what you have shown me today can be faked."

At that Felton started to retort something, but Robert stopped him raising his hand, and continuing as if no interruption had occurred at all.

"And let's not forget the little misunderstanding, to which we have to attribute our current situation." He knew that he was using a quite diplomatic expression to describe the Ministry's blunder, but Felton's cheeks flushed nonetheless as he sunk back into his chair.

"So you will excuse me, if I remain sceptic of the whole thing, Mr Felton."

"But I can assure you that everything I said is true, Mr Morrigan," he said, drawing himself to the table and sitting at the edge of his chair, as if his argument would have been strengthened by him doing so. Robert met him steadily, his mind set on the task ahead.

"We are talking about the future of my daughter, Mr Felton, so excuse me if I can't take your assertions at face value. Judging by her school-reports, she is a gifted young girl with a knack for numbers, which will – by your description – go completely to waste at Hogwarts. And she already has a guaranteed spot at one of the most prestigious schools of this country. So as the facts stand right now, Mr Felton, I cannot allow her to attend Hogwarts. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, but…" Felton began to reply, but stopped almost immediately, obviously rethinking what he was about to say. He started two times over, but stopped almost at once again. In the end he simply shook his head and replied:

"Of course. I understand completely." He paused another second and then continued, this time with an almost pleading voice.

"But you have to understand our position as well: as long as Eliza isn't properly trained, she will represent a constant security risk for the Ministry. She could uncover our entire society with a single outburst of wild magic."

"To be completely honest with you, Mr Felton, I seem to have missed the part where this is my or Eliza's problem." Feltons face crumbled completely at that, his chin hanging limply from his face, his eyes staring unbelievingly at him. Robert let this sink in for a moment, to strengthen his position.

"Where it becomes Eliza's problem though," he then continued, "is that I know people. And I know that Eliza's talents will either be feared or exploited by the rest of society. Am I correct, Mr Felton?" Felton just nodded suspiciously, probably waiting where Robert would go with his conclusions.

"So the only safe option for her is to learn how to control her magic."

"Yes!" Felton exclaimed immediately, but Robert raised his hand again and the old man fell silent again.

"Hogwarts though is not the only option, Mr Felton. As I see it, Eliza could be taught at home how to control her magic, while attending a normal school, couldn't she?" Felton needed a moment to respond. He obviously hadn't thought of this possibility.

"Well… I guess…" he finally brought out. "But Eliza seemed very interested in attending Hogwarts," he continued. "Shouldn't we at least ask her what she wants?"

"I fully well know that my daughter would love to attend Hogwarts, Mr Felton. Every eleven-year-old would jump at the possibility to learn how to do magic." Felton grinned slightly, thus acknowledging his argument.

"But as her father I have the responsibility to decide what is best for her. At the same time though, I don't want to impede her development in any way. Do you understand my dilemma?" the old man's silence told Robert all he needed to know. The two men sat quietly for a while, until Robert finally spoke again.

"I might take Hogwarts into consideration as a possible option for my daughter's future, Mr Felton, but only under one condition: I want to visit Hogwarts, to shape my own opinion about the place."

Felton sat back in his chair, while another sigh escaped his lips.

"Yes. Headmistress McGonagall informed me about your request." He paused for a second, as if ordering his thoughts and when their gazes met again, Robert could see the glint of resolve in Felton's eyes.

"I have to tell you though, that this request cannot be granted."

"I am afraid that I have to insist on it, Mr Felton," he replied calmly and after a short moment during which Felton was looking around the kitchen, obviously thinking hard for a solution to the problem, he shook his head in resignation.

"Then I guess it will be private lessons then, Mr Felton?" Robert concluded.

"I'll have to discuss this with my superiors, Mr Morrigan," Felton replied, "but it's the best solution I can think of right now."

They both nodded in unison, as if sealing a pact and stood up together from the table. Robert began to lead the way to the front porch, but suddenly he felt something caress his cheek, as if a sliver of air had snaked its way through the corridor. When he looked back he found Felton still standing at the table, surprise written all over his tired face.

Robert waited another moment, before he said, "Mr Felton? This way, please?"

The old man blinked twice, before he tore himself out of his trance, responding rather embarrassedly, "Ah… yes, of course." Robert let him take the lead this time and when Felton was out the door he turned around once more.

"A pity, that we couldn't reach an understanding, Mr Morrigan. But I have to thank you nonetheless for an excellent breakfast."

"No, Mr Felton. I have to thank you for your effort. You have been very helpful and I whish, we could have met under better conditions."

"Same here. Give my best to Eliza."

"I will."

Robert watched the little man walk down the street for a while, his brilliant-yellow Basque clearly visible even from a distance, until he turned the corner into Turing Street.

There was no doubt that Robert was still sceptic about this whole affair, but one thing was for certain: If most wizards were like Felton, they sure as hell deserved a chance.

Three days had come and gone without any further notice or letter from the wizards, and Robert thought the matter concluded. Even Eliza had come to the grudging acceptance that she wouldn't be off to some cool magic school after all and by the pout she had worn for the entire day after Felton had come by, Robert deduced that she wasn't happy about it.

So it came to a surprise for both of them, when on the morning of the fourth day an owl soared through the open kitchen window and landed neatly on the back of one of the free chairs. As Robert detached the parchment from the outstretched claw, he noticed that the owl was the same that he had used a week ago for his answer.

"I don't know where this Hogwarts is, Chubby," he said to the patiently waiting bird, "but they're making you run quite a bit, don't they?" He followed the birds glance and saw a piece of bacon on his plate that he hadn't eaten yet. "Here!" he said and threw the bacon at the owl, who plucked it neatly out of the air and began to nibble on it with a smug expression.

The giggle at the other end of the table brought his gaze to Eliza, who said, "Chubby?"

"Well, it looks a little like uncle Chubby, don't you think?" he said with a grin, referring to Charles "Chubby" Kessler, a professor for astrophysics, who came by now and then. He had been a friend since Robert's early teaching days and both Maria and Eliza had liked him on the spot, so nobody had objected when Eliza had called him 'uncle' for the first time.

The giggle he got as a response to his comment seemed to mean that Eliza saw the same similarities between the bird and the little, plump man with huge, friendly eyes that brought her presents each time he visited. So he turned his attention back to the letter and opened the envelope.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class,
Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump,
International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Prof. Morrigan,

After cautious scrutiny of your appeal to visit our institution, the Headmaster and Board of Governors have decided to grant your request. You will be allowed to enter and thoroughly inspect every part of Hogwarts and its grounds at your leisure. If you whish to speak with teachers and staff, please kindly inform us about your intentions, so as to allow us to schedule the appointments beforehand.
Should you accept this invitation a member of staff will pick you up at your house at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

"What's it saying, papà," asked Eliza with eyes as huge as dinner plates, the moment he had finished reading the last sentence.

He considered her question for a second, trying to decide what this letter really meant. He had expected to hear from the wizards again, certainly, but he had guessed that the next letter he would get by owl would contain instructions about when, where and how Eliza would be tutored to control her power.

"I guess," he began after a while, "it means that you might go to Hogwarts after all, dear."

Eliza rushed near him and peered over his elbow at the letter, her grin spreading with each word she read.

"You mean I'm going?" she asked again, when she had finished reading. He looked down at her with a slight frown.

"It means," he began with a warning undertone, "that I will consider it, young lady."

Eliza's smile broadened a little more and her eyes sparkled with barely contained joy, but she kept from jumping around the kitchen, or punching the air… but only just, Robert noticed with a smile of his own.

Bringing his attention back to the letter, he reread the last sentence and then looked up to the owl, which was just swallowing the last piece of bacon.

"I guess, you're the return messenger, aren't you?" The bird looked back at him and blinked once firmly.

"Oh, well. I guess you'll have to visit grandma alone tomorrow Eliza," he said with a sigh and stood up from the table to go into his study. When he came down with the answer, he found the owl sitting on the table, nibbling affectionately at the nose of a giggling Eliza.

"I think Chubby likes your bacon, papà," she said between fits of laughter indicating Robert's now empty plate. The bird took Robert's frown with a careful amount of indifference and ruffled its feathers, before Robert walked over and fastened his letter to the outstretched foot.

"Here, you mugger," he said with a tone that belied his expression. "Now get out of here and don't fly into any power lines, you hear me?" The bird ruffled its feathers again indignantly and flew out of the open window.

Robert gazed a moment to where the owl had disappeared to, wondering for a second if he was making the right decision. But one glance over into Eliza's expectant eyes told him everything he needed to know.

In the end everyone needed at least a chance.

The next day Robert was pacing up and down the kitchen restlessly, throwing a short glance at the clock every time he walked past the fridge.

'Stop that,' he admonished himself, forcibly driving his steps over to one of the chairs. 'The clock is not going to run any faster, because you look at it every other second.' But there was nothing to it nonetheless, and Robert realized he was nervous. Which was actually another reason for his short temper at the moment; he had stared down the barrel of a gun and walked across enemy fire more than once, but this simple visit still felt rather awkward.

He sat down and took a few calming breaths, wondering about what he was going to see today.

For a second an image he had once seen on the cover of one of his science-fiction books flickered before his eyes. It portrayed a room that had apparently been designed by M.C. Asher with fantastic creatures sticking out of doors and passageways at impossible angles.

'Don't be silly,' he though, shaking his head slightly and glanced over to the clock again.

It was almost time.

For the twentieth time Robert padded his jacket and the pockets of his pants to make sure he had everything. Then he went through everything he had to do, before he left. Yesterday he had made a list of things he wanted to ask and clarify with the headmaster and when nothing had come to his mind anymore he had started correcting essays.

After dinner he had then packed Eliza's pyjama, her toothbrush and a change of clothes, before she had gone to bed.

In the morning he had brought Eliza over to his mother, who despite her age was still in very good shape and positively adored what she called 'her little rascal'.

"We're going to have loads of fun today, won't we Eliza?" she had said joyfully from under her snowy-white hair, which she usually kept bound in a long braid falling down her back. She had thrown a malicious wink at her granddaughter, who had grinned back wickedly. Robert had raised one of his brows critically at the obvious female conspiracy and had replied, "Just don't show her any of my baby-pictures, mum."

Eliza had then shrieked in mock surprise and his mother had radiantly exclaimed, "What a wonderful idea, dear! I haven't dusted off the old album in years."

'Yeah, right!' Robert thought with a groan, 'She just shows it to every soul that ever puts foot in this apartment.' But only a moment later a smile had graced his stony features and he had bent down to kiss his daughter and his mother on the forehead, before leaving them to their evil scheming.

Robert's gaze wandered to the kitchen window and for a moment he was so taken with the picture of the two women in his life that he overheard the first knock on the front door.

When the second knock brought him back to reality, he hurried to the corridor, but not before giving the kitchen a quick glance to ensure everything was orderly and in its place. When he passed by the mirror in the entrance he stopped for a second to subject his own appearance to the same scrutiny.

He was wearing a white shirt under a summer jacket in light brown colours with trousers in a slightly deeper tone and a dark green necktie. Since he did not know how extensive the school grounds would be he had preventively decided to wear solid walking shoes also in a light brown. Brushing away an imaginary piece of lint from his revert, he finally got to the door and opened it.

The woman in front of him could very well have been one of his Drill-Sergeants during his basic training with the marines: she was a little short, but her stern glare and her serious face simply implied respect. Her dark hair was knotted together at the base of her head in a tight bun. Two sharp, beady eyes looked over a pair of small, square-framed spectacles and her mouth was almost a single, perfectly geometrical line. She wore a dress, which seemed to be much too conservative for the warming summer-day, with its high collar, long sleeves and a skirt that covered everything but the tips of her dark-blue shoes.

When she spoke, her voice had the same sharp and rolling accent that Robert was used from his old friend Fred MacGregor.

"Good morning, Professor Morrigan," she said and extended her fine-fingered hand towards him. "My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall." Robert noticed with some satisfaction, that the woman's grip was firmer than her appearance would have you suspect it and before he could answer to that, she continued, "I am here to escort you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Headmaster Dumbledore is already expecting you."

Minerva McGonagall wasn't often nervous, but she had to admit that this particular business had her wound up tighter than she would have expected it herself.

Obviously that was something she would have never shown to anyone else, generally being a woman who didn't exactly carry her heart around on her sleeve. But this affair had already become more than a matter of gossip among the Hogwarts Staff and she knew exactly that if someone like Snape would have discovered how much this really troubled her, she would never have seen the end of it.

She wasn't even exactly sure, why she was so nervous about this whole business and she irritably stomped her feet a few times on the concrete, while she walked up Turing Street, which would bring her directly to Halley Road, where this ominous Professor Morrigan lived.

"He's just a Muggle, Minerva," she told herself firmly. "So what's the big fuss over him anyway," she continued under her breath, "besides the fact that he's the first non-magical person to ever set foot in Hogwarts since it was founded a millennium ago and that we are actually forced to give in to his conditions, because he seems completely immune to all mind-altering magic and…" Minerva let her thoughts trail off for a few instants, while she observed the monotonous back and forth of her skirt covering her steps on the grey concrete.

She hadn't almost been able to believe it when she had read Felton's report, but there it was. Arthemis hadn't exactly been one of her brightest students ever, but according to Filius he knew his stuff when it came to Memory Charms. He also had never been the type to invent or exaggerate. So maybe she was a little curious about this man… but it didn't explain her nervousness.

He had sounded like a polite and educated man in his correspondence and Albus was right, when he said that Professor Morrigan had quite the impressive resume.

'At least for a Muggle,' she thought with a slight frown. She had to admit that his academic achievements were impressive and although the titles and medals meant nothing to her, his military career sure sounded remarkable too. But it still wasn't enough to unsettle Minerva McGonagall, respected transfiguration teacher since 1956 to the degree she had been.

Then it occurred to her, that it wasn't the man she was afraid of, even though she didn't exactly know what to expect of him. It was the prospect of defending something against him that was not only very dear to her, but almost her entire life: Hogwarts and what it represented.

Dumbledore was surely right, when he said that parents shouldn't have been forced to send their children to them, but still Hogwarts was the headstone of the entire magical community of England. And the simple fact that… that this Muggle dared to question its validity and competence in the education of his daughter, was… was…

"Completely understandable," she sighed, slowing down her pace again, when she turned into Halley Road and began to walk up the small street, which was flanked on both sides by thin, willowy trees. She took a moment to watch their tops, swaying slowly in the barely perceivable breeze and used the soft movement to calm down her racing breath a little.

'Why has Albus decided to send me to this endeavour of all people,' she asked herself for the thousandth time. She wasn't the one to chicken out of anything and when her Headmaster told her to do something, she did her duty without question or hesitation. But this time she had actually found herself questioning Albus' decision to send her to bring this man to Hogwarts. She was sure there were people much better suited for the job, since she had to admit that she wasn't exactly the most diplomatic person at times and, in her opinion, this man would need a lot of convincing to allow his daughter to Hogwarts.

But she had been entrusted with this business and she fully intended to do what was expected of her. So she pulled herself together and raised her chin stubbornly, when she saw on one of the fences the little plate reading: Morrigan. She walked through the open fence and up to the door on which she knocked three times, completely ignoring the doorbell.

Nothing happened, and after a while she knocked again, her legendary temper starting to grow short. She heard heavy steps approach inside the house, which stopped shortly before the door was finally swung open.

Minerva drew in a sharp, silent gasp of air and only her years of practice in controlling her facial features prevented her surprise to show openly.

The man standing in front of her was more than a head taller than she was, making him even taller than Albus. He had broad shoulders and an upper body physique like a centaur showing through the casual but nonetheless elegant jacket and shirt he wore. In a match between him and Hagrid she wouldn't have been sure on whom to bet her money – not that she would actually ever have bet on such a barbaric act anyway. He had a square jaw, a straight nose and short, neatly cut, black hair with the slightest hint of grey in them. Two piercing dark eyes were staring at her resolutely and she felt the authority coming from him in slow, steadying waves.

'Pull yourself together, Minerva McGonagall,' she scolded herself sternly and greeted him politely extending her hand towards him, which he engulfed with his own. He had a pleasant handshake, Minerva decided: firm, but deliberately polite and warm, as if he didn't need to prove anything through a strong grip, or anything. But she noticed also something feeling rather jagged and smooth at the same time, and when she glanced down for a second, she saw that the entire back of Morrigans right hand was covered by a scorch-mark, that seemed to go on under his sleeve. It looked like the skin had been melted and had contracted unevenly, when it had cooled down again, leaving a patch of ugly scarred, hairless, leathery hide.

"It's an honour, Headmistress," she heard his deep voice rumble. "Please, come in."

She stepped past him into a neat entrance hall, with a little wardrobe on the right side. He closed the door behind her and waved her along the corridor, which was lined on both sides with shelves full of books. Through a door with a semitransparent window in it they entered the kitchen, which was neat and tidy, without actually being uncomfortable. Simple but elegant wooden chairs surrounded a polished table of dark-red wood – cherry she presumed, just like her wand. Various Muggle devices were standing on the floor, lying orderly on the counter, or hanging from the wall, but she couldn't see any fireplace or chimney where to prepare food on – just a strange glass panel in one corner of the room under what looked like a ventilation cap.

While she was taking it all in, Morrigan walked through the door and over to what seemed to be a cupboard made of spotless white material and putting a hand on the handle he asked, "Can I offer you anything, before we go?"

He sure knew how to be a good host, she thought appreciatively, but shook her head, before she responded, "No, thank you. We will have to leave immediately, I'm afraid."

He raised one eyebrow at that and for a moment he seemed to want to reply something to that, but in the end he just dropped his hand from the handle of the cupboard and straightened his back – making him even taller.

"Right then," he said with a curt nod and extended his arm back towards the door. Minerva shook her head, understanding what he was implying.

"No, Professor Morrigan, we won't need to step outside again. We will travel by the means of this," she said, while pulling a small, flat metal box out of the ruffles of her skirt. Morrigan looked blankly at her. Not one muscle twitched as he shortly glanced at the box in her hand, before his piercing gaze went back up to her critically. Minerva felt like she was being dissected and it needed every bit of the impressive reservoir of self-control she had built up during the years, not to cringe away from this inspection, but she raised her chin and shot him an equally cold glare. Then, as if they had reached some sort of unspoken understanding, they both relaxed and Morrigan came over to where Minerva was standing, coming to a halt in front of her.

"Lead the way, Ma'am," he said calmly, but Minerva could hear the slight hint of anticipation reverberating along with his polite invitation.

"Right, this is a Portkey," she explained adjusting her skirt around her, knowing that Albus preferred to make his Portkeys a little more 'exciting', as he put it. "You just touch it and it will bring us to our destination, Professor," she finished, looking up at him to make sure he had understood.

"Simple enough," he gave back with a curt nod and a slight, but warm smile danced across his lips, when he continued, "But we're not in class, Headmistress. Mr will do."

"As you wish, Mr Morrigan," she responded with a short nod of her own, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch upwards – and wrestling them down quickly. She extended the silver box towards him, opened it to reveal a pocket mirror and said, "We have to touch the inside of the lid at the same time. Are you ready?" He nodded again, his smile fading away to be replaced by a look of focused attention.

"One – Two – Three!" she said and reached for the lid at the same time as he did.

'Oh, I hate Portkey travel," she thought by herself as she seemed to whirl away into the darkness.

'God!' Robert thought while he was whirling away into the darkness. 'This is worse than a HALO jump.'

As soon as Professor McGonagall had finished her countdown and they had touched the lid, he felt a jerk right behind his navel as if a hook had been attached there. He tried to inhale, only to find out that he couldn't, as if all the air around him had suddenly disappeared. He tried to look around, but saw only pitch black darkness. He tried to steady the whirling sensation he had and to orient himself.

He hadn't felt like this since old Perry "Mad Dog" Rilley had ordered their pilot to perform a steep dive just to give them an idea what zero-G felt like and even then he hadn't lost his orientation. But here there wasn't any means of direction, since gravity itself seemed absent and he couldn't pull away from that wretched pocket mirror either. So he forced his eyes to remain open and concentrated on the remaining air in his lungs, remembering his dive training.

After a short eternity, just when he thought that this might go on forever and he began to ask himself how long he could still hold his breath, his feet slammed into the ground… hard… too hard for his linking so his instincts took control, bending him over into a ground-roll. Only a second later he was on his feet again and whipped around to Professor McGonagall, who was smoothing a ruffle in her skirt as if nothing had happened at all.

'You must have a stomach made of reinforced steel, woman,' he thought while he recollected his dignity and dusted off his clothes. Then he began to look around.

Apparently they were in the middle of a square of some sort, the irregular paving stone and the small well just a few feet from him indicating either an old city centre or a village. The rustic-looking houses at the corners of the square indicated the latter and a sign right over a rather old-fashioned and battered street lamp read: Godfrey Gryffindor Place.

The scenery was though nothing compared to the people. The few shoppers, who had been waiting or window-browsing in front of the shops, were all now staring at him, some of them even openly pointing fingers at him. That alone was already a quite clear – and rather rude – sign that he was an uncommon sight around here, but the dominant fashion on the square made him and McGonagall stand out like a pair of human-sized fluffy bunnies in a crowd of wall-street brokers.

Felton had told him that the wizarding community had chosen to live in seclusion from the rest of the world centuries ago, but this was ridiculous: most robes and cloaks around him were decades or even centuries out of fashion as if these people hadn't evolved at all since the middle ages. He certainly hadn't expected a technically sophisticated culture, especially considering the astonishment Mr Felton had displayed at the use of a refrigerator. But if he had to judge from the state of the people and the architecture of the surroundings the seclusion went far deeper than he had expected.

He turned his gaze back to McGonagall, who was just resetting the square-framed spectacles on her nose thus completing the inspection of her appearance.

"Where are we, Headmistress?" he asked his voice clam and even as always, which showed him that he had recuperated from that hellish Portkey ride. She answered in a similarly calm tone.

"We are in Hogsmeade. It's a little village at the outskirts of Hogwarts grounds."

"And I suppose my being here is an uncommon occurrence," he ploughed on, fixing his gaze on the beady pupils behind their square glasses. "May I ask why?"

"Certainly, Mr Morrigan," she responded evenly and started to walk towards one of the streets leaving the square. He quickly fell into pace with her, walking past all the people, who were still looking at him, like he was the second coming. His attention whipped back to Professor McGonagall, when she began to explain.

"This village was founded only a few decades after Hogwarts by Godfrey Gryffindor around a millennium ago. Godfrey's father Godric was one of the four founders of Hogwarts and is still considered to be one of the greatest wizards of all times. He and the other four founders of our school created the strongest ward-system around Hogwarts to…" McGonagall paused a second, seemingly looking for the best way to phrase her next thought. But Robert had a clue:

"To protect the children against witch hunts, public burnings and other assorted ways of unpleasant death at the hands of good, devout citizens, I suppose?" He was not able to keep the sarcasm completely out of the last part of his phrase.

"Brutally put, but essentially correct, Mr Morrigan," McGonagall acknowledged with a curt nod.

"So I presume," he continued, "that his son decided to extend this protection to a few adults, creating a refuge for witches and wizards, where they could be safe and free from human oppression. Am I correct?"

"More or less, Mr Morrigan. In a thousand years no Muggle has set foot in Hogsmeade, or has come as near as ten miles to it for that matter."

"Which would explain the astonishment of the people back there," he nodded, while noticing McGonagall's steady steps and regular breathing. So she was used to walk a lot, he concluded and stored that information away for future reference.

"And the fact that I am a Muggle, is so obvious because…?"

She stopped in her tracks abruptly and just looked him up and down with an arched eyebrow.

"I figured as much," he replied to her unspoken answer and after a few seconds of silence they both resumed their way.

"So, do the students come here too during their breaks or free periods?"

"No," she replied in her even cadence, while they reached a fork in the road and started walking down the left way. "The students are only allowed to come to Hogsmeade on special predetermined periods, usually during weekends. A written permission from a parent or guardian is required and only students of third grade or higher are entitled…"

While McGonagall continued explaining things like the houses, the point system and the student's timetables, they walked up the street and past some strange shops. Robert caught a glimpse at things like blood-flavoured lollipops and Cockroach Cluster in a place called Honeydukes. As he had already deduced from the letters he had received, the foremost writing utensils used by wizards were feather quills and when he walked past a shop named Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop he saw a lot of them displayed neatly on different shelves and rows. There were feathers of pheasant, raven, hawk and pigeon. But also exotic choices like condor, parrot and peacock. He even thought to notice a sign praising the qualities of hummingbird feathers.

After a while their conversation became more and more relaxed – 'Well, as far as this woman can relax anyway,' Robert found himself thinking with a smirk – with McGonagall explaining this and that about Hogwarts or wizards in general and Robert posing a question here and there. McGonagall was just talking about how students were selected into the houses, a proceeding that took place on the very first day of every school-year and was apparently called 'The Sorting', when they left the premises of Hogsmeade to step on a path that snaked his way up to a gigantic castle.

Robert was dumbstruck for a moment and could do nothing but take in the glorious picture in front of him.

The castle seemed to be a nexus of different styles and ages since Robert recognized the classical gothic style of the middle ages in the central building, but also the Renaissance, the Baroque and the Roman styles were present in various side-arcs and towers. He even thought to recognize some Greek and Persian structures, but wasn't quite sure of that. The lake at the castle's feet was a magnificent, clear and barely rippled mirror, which captured the sky in its entire beauty. To one side of the castle, and crawling up the mountains into which Hogwarts nestled itself, was a forest that went on as far as the eye could see. An old stone bridge crossed over the thinnest part of the lake towards the castle and suddenly Robert believed to see something protruding out of the water; a long flexible thing like a tentacle. But before he could look again to be sure, it was gone.

"That is Hogwarts?" he uttered reverently, before he could stop himself.

"Indeed it is," McGonagall gave back with a subtle smile that faded almost immediately. But instead of returning to her previous demeanour an expression of surprise pictured itself onto her features. It lasted only a second, before she composed her face back to the impassable mask she had worn the whole time and Robert almost missed it. But he didn't.

Immediately his brain began working to analyze and file this new information.

Sure the wizards were a very unique brand of people, unlike everything Robert had seen until now. But McGonagall seemed level headed, straight forward and quite aware of customs and mannerisms of normal society; So why this surprise all of a sudden, with no obvious reason?

She had told him that both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade were protected against Muggles, but until now he had seen or heard nothing that would indicate some sort of defence mechanism. Maybe the wards were something more subtle that could not be picked up by normal human senses, but he hadn't felt any noxious effects at all.

But wait! Her reaction reminded him of a similar one, he had just seen a few days ago in another wizard: it was the same surprise Mr Felton had shown at the end of his visit, though McGonagall was much better at concealing it.

So what did these two scenes have in common? Well the answer was simple enough: Him.

But he couldn't imagine what it was about him that could astonish wizards, who were – judging by that Portkey ride – used to the magical in their everyday lives.

'That's going to be an excellent question for this Headmaster,' he decided and pushed the matter aside. After all he was here to asses a school for his daughter and not his ability to surprise wizards.

"Shall we?" he asked, inviting McGonagall with his extended arm to take the lead.

"Of course, Mr Morrigan," she said after a second's hesitation and marched on.

Robert let his gaze scan his surroundings again, still not finding anything suspicious, before he finally fell into step behind McGonagall again.

'An Excellent question, indeed.'

Albus was sitting in his study, happily scribbling away to fill out the seemingly infinite flow of forms, which came from the ministry. But today he wasn't going to let the paper avalanche, which was part of Umbridge's petty revenge schemes, spoil his mood.

Today was an extraordinary day and he wasn't going to let something as trivial as this ruin it.

When somebody knocked at his door, he eagerly looked up from his work and to the door, before he called, "Enter."

The petite, but well-built form of Rolanda Hooch came through the door with a big smile plastered on her face. Albus could have sworn to see the static electricity between the spikes of her unruly hair crackle in anticipation. His suspicion was immediately confirmed when his flying instructor stopped in front of his desk and blurted out, "They're here."

"Excellent," exclaimed Albus with a joy that was, as he had to admit to himself, only partly due to the new acquaintance he was going to make in a few minutes. The other part had to do with not filling out any forms… at least for a while.

"Where are they now?"

"Last time I saw them, they were crossing the bridge and apparently this person is able to keep up with Minerva's pace," Rolanda replied.

"Oh," Albus said, standing up from his chair. "This gives us only a few minutes to reach the front porch," he said and began to walk towards the door. Rolanda fell into pace with him, but because of their difference in height and the long strides Albus used when he was in a hurry she had to work hard to keep up.

"Could you see something else, Rolanda?" he asked and she responded without the slightest pant, which was another indication for her fabulous physical form.

"Just that they seemed to get along fine, Albus. In fact they seemed to be chatting happily away, from what I could see."

Albus felt the corners of his mouth stretch into a grin.

"Told you so," he said to the little woman hurrying alongside him.

"Yes, yes. I'll give you the two Sickles later. But how did you know? Have you met him before?" she asked with a furrow between her sharp eyebrows that warned Albus about alternative uses of brooms, besides flying. So he just smiled his most charming smile at her and said nothing, extending his strides a little more, so that Rolanda had to fall into a fully fledged trot to keep up. They stepped down the last flight of stairs and out the main gates just in time, when Minerva and their guest took the last turn of the path.

Albus had about a minute to appraise the man, who walked beside Minerva and even considering his little bit of research about what the Royal Marines were exactly and how they trained, he had to say that he was impressed: the sheer size of the man was already intimidating, even if Albus had learned a long time ago, that size was a very poor measure to appraise people. The way he moved though, steady and fluently, almost reminded him of a predator, which was well aware of his surroundings and his own strength.

He wore a very simple and practical, but nonetheless elegant Muggle-ensemble of jacket and trousers, that seemed to be so incredibly out of place here at Hogwarts, where the standard had been robes for a thousand years.

When the strange pair finally approached, Dumbledore finished his inspection of the cleanly shaven face, with its hard, square jaw and short hair. The slight streak of grey in it was the only hint at the man's actual age.

But the most disturbing attribute of his appearance were his eyes: deep, dark pits, which betrayed the indescribable beauties and unspeakable horrors they had seen. Albus didn't require Legilimens to realize that the calm shell this man displayed was a mask, probably born out of necessity and self-preservation, which had at a certain point become a habit. Watching this man was like watching a wild animal contained in the shell of a gentleman, clawing the inner side of his skull to get out.

Albus had talked to Felton yesterday, to get a first impression of what he had to expect from this unusual visitor and now he knew exactly what the elderly Ministry official had meant:

This man was dangerous!

But there was also something else… just barely visible under the surface of his dark irises. Albus couldn't exactly define what it was or even how he could have missed it in the first place, but it made him nonetheless feel safe and at ease.

"Welcome, Professor Morrigan. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and very pleased to meet you," he introduced himself, extending his hand.

"Thank you very much, Headmaster. I am very glad that this visit was finally made possible," Morrigan gave back in a deep, steady voice grasping his hand with a firm grip.

"I understand," he interrupted himself to throw a short glance over to Minerva, who just nodded almost imperceptibly, "that the authorization was given mostly thanks to your authority. So I wanted to express my gratitude to you for this opportunity to visit your school."

"No need to thank me," Albus waved the thanks aside. "It is both an obligation and a pleasure to show you our school. After all you made a fair point in your letter, when you said that a parent should be allowed to visit for the good of his child."

"I am glad we agree on that, Headmaster," Morrigan replied with a curt nod.

"Indeed we do. But where are my manners? This is Madam Hooch, our flight instructor," he said with an inviting wave over to the woman at his side. Again Morrigan extended his hand, but this time he accompanied it with a short bow. If it was because Rolanda was so much shorter than he was, or out of an old-fashioned sense of etiquette Albus couldn't say, but it was nonetheless a nice gesture. Rolanda herself seemed to be somewhat lost for words for a few seconds before she managed a, "Welcome at Hogwarts."

"It's a pleasure, Madam Hooch. But if you don't mind me asking, what do you teach exactly?" Rolanda goggled at Morrigan for an instant, but Albus came to her aid immediately.

"Oh, I'm sorry. My Mistake," he said with a chuckle. "It must seem quite extraordinary to you to have a flight instructor at a school."

"You might say so, Headmaster," Morrigan gave back with a raised eyebrow. "We normals – I mean, we Muggles – we usually are not able to learn to fly until we are of age. And even then a license requires dozens or even hundreds of hours of practice depending on the machine you intend to fly. What do the students learn to fly here?"

"Brooms."

Morrigans other eyebrow went up.

"Brooms?" he repeated with evident incredulity all over his face.

"Yes, indeed, Mr Morrigan. If you like we can give you a short demonstration, but there is much more to see at Hogwarts, than just the Quidditch pitch," Albus returned happily, inviting Morrigan with a fluent gesture to follow him.

Morrigan nodded shortly. "I haven't any other engagements today. But if I might be so bold, Headmaster: what is Quidditch?"

Albus chuckled.

It was turning out to be a very interesting day, Albus decided while he walked at the side of Mr Morrigan – Mr and not Professor as his guest preferred to be addressed – down the Second floor corridor towards the stairs to the dungeons.

Before their tour Albus had lead his guest into the Great Hall, where the house-elves had prepared a little welcoming buffet, which Morrigan had thankfully refused, stating that he had already eaten and was eager to see the castle instead. Dumbledore understood this very much, but he on the other hand hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. So he had convinced Morrigan to enjoy the short stop with him.

They had sat together comfortably for half an hour chit-chatting about a wide range of arguments. During this time Albus had seen his first impression of the man verified as Morrigan was an equally refined and respectful man, who posed many questions and was also actually interested in hearing the answers.

After this little intermezzo, they had begun their tour of the castle starting with the Transfiguration department. Since Morrigan and McGonagall had already had time to talk – and seemed to have grown quite accustomed to each other, Albus noted with slight amusement – this part of the visit was quite short. McGonagall had simply shown him around her classroom and the laboratory for the N.E.W.T students and explained the basic theoretical principles of Transfiguration to a very interested-looking Morrigan.

Their next stop had been Firenze's Room and when they entered it, Morrigan had given a low whistle. Albus had to give Morrigan credit for his calm composure, when the room's inhabitant had stepped out behind an oak. But the old wizard had seen the look of awe just beneath the surface of Morrigan's mask of polite indifference, when Firenze came over and offered his hand.

"I have foreseen your arrival," Firenze had said while reclaiming his hand from Morrigan – without the need to straighten up again, as Albus noticed. Morrigan was so tall that he and Firenze could see eye to eye.

"Well," Morrigan had replied with a short glance over to Albus, "I have sent word of my arrival beforehand." Firenze had just looked mildly interested, as if the last phrase had made exactly his point. At that Albus had decided to intervene, saying,

"Firenze is our Divination teacher, Mr Morrigan."

And then it had been Albus' turn to be surprised, when a shout of, "Not the only Divination teacher," had come from behind the very oak Firenze had stepped out from. Only a moment later an ethereally fuming Sibyll Trelawney had hovered out from behind the tree and come to a halt beside Firenze, who had looked at her with the same polite interest he had shown towards Morrigan.

"Aha!" Albus had exclaimed, recuperating quickly from the shock of finding Sibyll Trelawney outside of her smoky and dusty tower and thanking fate that now he would not have to climb all the way up to her study. "Indeed not the only one. Mr Morrigan, may I present our senior Divination teacher to you: Professor Trelawney." The 'senior' had seemed to placate Sibyll a little and she too had offered her hand to their visitor.

Again Morrigan had given a curt bow, when he grasped Sibyll's fingers and for a moment she had lost her usual airy attitude, her already magnified eyes growing even wider. But after a short glance to Firenze, who had shaken his head imperceptibly, for the first time Albus could remember, she seemed to decide that her knowledge was best kept behind her teeth.

"So… Divination," Morrigan had said after dropping Sibyll's hand again and looking from her to the centaur and back again. "Seems like a… loose subject," he had said with the distinct expression that he didn't know what to think of it.

"Oh, not at all," Sibyll had replied at once. "Divination is an art that requires strict discipline and constant practice." Albus had barely managed not to snort, but Firenze had nodded gravely and said:

"Indeed it is. It requires years of practice and experience to read the waves of fate and even then a true seer has always to question his predictions, since fate is a fickle companion."

To Dumbledore's renewed surprise, Morrigan had seemed satisfied by this answer as he nodded slightly and smiled at the strange couple before him.

"Well, Madame and… Sir…?" Firenze had nodded. "It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance." They had shaken hands again and Albus and Morrigan had left the room shortly after.

After a minute of silence during which they had reached the central stair-case, in which Morrigan had muttered something like, "M.C. Asher indeed," Albus couldn't contain himself anymore.

"Pardon me if I ask you something, Mr Morrigan, but do you believe in Divination?" he had asked, his curiosity well masked, but present nonetheless.

"Not at all, Headmaster," Morrigan had responded with a short, sheepish smile. "Everything I learned during my studies points to the direction that the whole universe in an inherently unpredictable system. But Mr Firenze's attitude to question everything and most of all what he deems to know to be true is much too wise a perception not to like. Even Socrates said, 'The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing'."

"Indeed," Albus had said appreciatively. This man earned the old wizard's respect more and more with each instant.

"And after all," Morrigan had continued with a sly grin, "all my studies hadn't deemed the existence of a centaur possible. So…"

Albus had only chuckled.

Following this very promising start, they had visited the Astronomy Tower, the greenhouses and the Quidditch pitch, where Rolanda had given Morrigan a demonstration of broom-flight. After that they had visited Hagrid, who had just been feeding Buckbeak – or Witherwings, Albus remembered.

After they had left Hagrid a slightly concerned-looking Morrigan had asked him to show him the infirmary and Albus, looking back to the little hut at the edge of the forest, thought to know, where the man's worries where coming from. But as soon as they had left Poppy, after the matron had lengthily explained how she was prepared for almost anything, Morrigan's expression had lightened considerably again.

Now they were descending the mouldy staircases to the dungeons and Albus hoped against all odds that Severus wouldn't ruin everything with his usual harshness. The Potion's Master was a difficult character during his best times, but during the past month he had been positively unpleasant. After last year's disastrous attack though, Horace Slughorn couldn't be persuaded to stay any longer and so Albus had been forced to reassign the position of Potions Master to its former holder.

When they entered the damp room, Severus was working over a complicated construction of cauldrons, glass tubes and hoses, which emitted a generous amount of putrid-smelling purple smoke.

"Severus?"

"What," the Potions Master responded short-tempered, while he turned around to face them ill-willed. When he saw Morrigan his brows furrowed and his nose wrinkled in disdain.

"Ah, yes," he said, contempt oozing out of every syllable, "the Muggle."

'Good God, Severus,' Albus thought despairingly and shaking his head slightly, before he fixed the Potions Master with a warning glare. But Severus seemed to be positively determined to be uncooperative today.

"I'm sorry, Headmaster, but at the moment I have something of actual importance to attend to," he continued completely ignoring Morrigan's presence.

"If we are interrupting something, we could…" Morrigan began in a pacifying manner, but was almost immediately interrupted by Snape, who now addressed him directly for the first time.

"How incredibly perceptive of you," he almost snarled.

Albus looked apologetically back to Morrigan, whose features had hardened into a mask of absolute neutrality. His eyes though were as piercing and penetrating as a killing curse and Albus could see the beast clawing at the surface again.

"I think, I have seen all I need here, Headmaster," he finally said turning on the spot and beginning to walk towards the door. When Albus saw Severus preparing for a retort, he was just able to think, 'Don't push it, Severus.'

But every hope was vain as the Potions Master turned around to his work and said, "Finally free of the amateurs again."

Morrigan snapped around, looking daggers at Severus and Albus thought he felt the temperature drop of a few degrees.

"Amateur?" he asked with a voice that seemed to chip ice as he spoke. "I am not the one working in a sorry excuse of a laboratory that has the security precautions of a medieval torture chamber," he said, while slowly walking back to the now slightly insecure Potions Master.

"I am not the one concocting an obviously volatile compound without the insurance of a simple ventilation system," he continued still advancing. "I am not the one working near open flames with a long-sleeved robe, which could catch on fire at any moment." He came to a stop just a foot away from Severus.

"And for the distillation of an organic liquid," he finally said, pointing a finger at the construction by Severus' side, "that siphon there needs to be inserted the other way around."

While Albus had to fight down the urge to laugh out loud, Severus snapped around to his construction to find out that he had indeed inserted the conjunction-siphon between the Mandrake-extract and the Bowtruckle-hide the wrong way. He immediately spun to face Morrigan again, but before he could say another word the other man bowed down to him a little and said, "Good day, Professor," and walked out the room with three quick strides.

"Headmaster…!" Severus rounded on him, but Albus just looked quizzically at him and said:

"Hmm? I'm sorry, Severus. Did something just happen? I must have missed it, but you'll undoubtedly be able to tell me about it at dinner." And before the Potions Master could retort to that, Albus left the mouldy dungeon as well.

When he caught up with Morrigan again, who was waiting just outside the dungeon door, he said, "I have to apologize for Professor Snape, Mr Morrigan. I don't know what…" But Morrigan raised a placating hand.

"No need to apologize, Headmaster," he said shaking his head slightly. "Characters are different and sometimes they just don't cope with each other. But I have to tell you that I am seriously thankful for you nurse's obvious ability, because otherwise I would seriously doubt that any of your students would reach a mature age."

"Oh, Professor Snape would never…" Albus began reassuringly, but again Morrigan stopped him with a raised hand.

"I don't doubt it, Headmaster. But a temper like his paired with a laboratory as outdated and insecure as that is indeed a reason for concern," he finished with furrowed brows.

"I guess I can't make any promises about the temper, Mr Morrigan. But every suggestion about laboratory-security is greatly appreciated. Although I assure you that no grave accident has ever happened during any Potions Lesson since I have become Headmaster, because even if it doesn't look it, Professor Snape is one of the most accomplished Potion Makers in the country."

"That is reassuring," Morrigan replied conversationally and began to retrace his steps out of the dungeons. "But I hope that you haven't already run out of charming staff members."

Albus smiled and followed the younger man along the dark corridor.

"No," he said, "In fact the next person we're going to see is not only one of the finest Professors at this institute, but also a long-time friend that I am positive will make a great impression on you, despite his size."

Morrigan lifted an eyebrow, but suggested a bow and said, "After you then, Headmaster."

Filius Flitwick had always been fascinated with mysteries and riddles and any closed box was an almost irresistible siren call for him. It was a curiosity that permeated his whole mind and drove him always to find out more about what was hidden.

Luckily for Filius this vice – which he admitted his little obsession to be – was accompanied by the even greater virtue of reason. This combination, over the years, had made Filius into one of the most coveted and renowned expert charm- and curse-breakers in Europe.

During the war almost twenty years ago Dumbledore and the Order had relied heavily on Filius for any task concerning the opening of dark artefacts, Death Eater hideouts and the decryption of secret messages.

The department of Mysteries itself had offered him a high-ranking position almost as soon as he had gotten out of school. He had however refused, preferring to travel the world for a few years instead and discover old secrets long forgotten and new secrets never told.

But since these days long ago, his method had not changed at all: consider the problem, find a solution, then invert the problem and see if the solution still fits. If not, start again!

This approach allowed him to see different angles of the same subject and consider all the possible options, before even starting to consider any viable solutions. Of course, as Alastor Moody had stated more than once, this was not a viable way of thinking for the battlefield, but nonetheless Filius had done his share and to this day very few riddles had escaped his brain unsolved.

'Except that weird cube-thingy I bought a few years ago. Damn you Mr Rubick!' he thought frustrated, as he looked over to his present task, which sat innocently on the middle of his carpet and seemed to mock him with it's sheer presence.

It was a trunk that had been confiscated during a raid by the successor of Madame Bones at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Luckily this successor – whose name Filius kept forgetting – had had enough good sense not to open or even touch it, but she was pretty sure it contained something of value to the Dark Lord. So she had asked Dumbledore for help and Albus finally had given it to Filius, who had gladly accepted the new challenge.

'Gladly… Hmpf!' he thought. Well, that had been before he had spent three weeks trying to safely find out what it was, without much result.

Filius sighed and turned on his stool. He took his glasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose for a moment trying to think clearly. He knew that the trunk had powerful runes and spells protecting the lock. He was pretty sure that the runes themselves represented some kind of code or combination. But he hadn't been able to find any of these runes anywhere in his books, so he supposed that the runes themselves had been encrypted.

Every decryption method he knew though had been unsuccessful and the Ministry was now sending almost daily owls, to inquire on his progress.

Filius sat down in front of the trunk and rested his chin on his intertwined fingers. He stared at the box with its elegant, light build, the finely crafted metal strips fixed together with golden bolts. The deceptively light wood within the metal frame was smoothly polished and of a sandy colour that…

If Filius hadn't been sitting right now, he would have probably fallen over.

"Sandy!" he exclaimed triumphantly rushing to his desk. He climbed on his stool and began to search his notes frantically.

"It's no new form of rune-language," he explained to his office at large, while entire stacks of documents toppled over and glided to the floor. "It's a very old form of rune-language. Or to be more precise," he finally explained with a little squeak of joy as he pulled a sheet of battered parchment from the rest and jumped from his stool, to compare it to the trunk, "It's the oldest form of runes there is."

He ran to his bookshelf and browsed the books neatly ordered in it until he found a rather thin and old volume entitled Phoenician Cuneiforms.

"It's like that," he continued his lecture to the empty room, "Runes are not an invention of the German tribes, but were imported from the south. Greek and Latin alphabets evolved from older sign-alphabets like the Babylonian or Phoenician Cuneiforms, but the signs themselves became more sophisticated, because these civilizations used other materials than wood to write. The Germans though inherited the raw form and adapted it to their needs, which resulted in what we know as runes." He finally finished to skim through the book and fixed the trunk with a slight smirk on his face.

He began to translate what was written on it holding the book in his left hand and muttering something like, "Hmm…", "And if we try to…" and "That can't be right!"

After half an hour he finally thought to have it all together and the book snapped shut in his hand. He glared at the chest in victorious satisfaction as he approached it. He carefully placed his fingers on the right runes and after checking everything for one more time he said an old and almost forgotten word of power.

He immediately heard a sharp clicking noise as if a bolt was sliding out of its lock and the slight tremor went through his exuberant body like a stunning charm. He felt the lid of the trunk open slightly under his fingers and he began to lift it.

Then, suddenly, he realized that he couldn't pull his fingers away from the lid anymore and that his body was being drawn forward… towards… no… through the lid, into the trunk!

'A trap!' he though, while he felt the panic rise inside of him.

He looked around to find something to hold on to, but there was nothing. He held his breath, like someone, who's about to jump into deep water and his ears buzzed with adrenaline.

Just when the darkness was about to swallow him whole, he heard the door open and Albus' voice ring through the room.

"Filius? I wanted to introduce you to Mr Morrigan who's come to visit… Filius? Filius!"

Then, before Filius could say or do anything else, the sharp snap of the trunk separated him from the rest of the world and the analytical part of his mind murmured into the darkness,

'The rune for "lock" can also mean "prison" in the Phoenician translation.'

"It's no use, Albus," Minerva said exasperated, turning away from the stubbornly locked trunk. "It's as if it was specifically designed to repel magic as soon as activated. I don't know who could manufacture such a thing, but I am sure it was created with the purpose to trap and ultimately kill somebody."

She almost kicked the damn thing, but restrained herself just in time. It was so frustrating to be right near Filius and not being able to do anything to help him.

"I concur, Headmaster," Severus intervened, his face slightly flushed under his pale skin. He had run all the way from the dungeons. "I even tried a few potions, but they all seem to lose their magical power as soon as they touch the trunk." He looked sourly over to the object of his disappointment, but she couldn't help but notice the piercing stare and blown nostrils: a clear sign of Severus' rising temper.

"We could call a curse-breaker," suggested Pomona with a hopeful look, but Albus simply shook his head gravely.

"If I see this correctly, Filius has less than half an hour, before he runs out of air and…"

"We have five minutes."

This statement cut through the varied conversations like an executioner's axe. Everyone turned to Morrigan, who was kneeling behind the trunk, seemingly inspecting its hinges.

"Don't touch that," snapped Severus and turned around, his robes billowing angrily behind him. But Morrigan finished his inspection as if the Potions Master hadn't even spoken, then he rose and addressed Albus.

"Can magically enhanced metal withstand high temperatures?" he asked directly, completely ignoring the now fuming Severus.

"To a certain degree," Albus answered immediately, his brows furrowed in question. "How high a temperature do you mean?"

"About 2000 °C," Morrigan responded flatly without even a twitch in his stony features.

Albus stared at him for a moment incredulously. Then his furrow became deeper as he asked, "What do you have in Mind, Mr Morrigan?"

"To weld him out," he responded again giving Albus a decisive nod.

"This is ridiculous," Severus finally erupted. His cheeks were now almost pink and his eyes threw lightning bolts at Morrigan. Every other man would have at least considered his next action, but Morrigan wasn't every other man, Minerva concluded.

"What could you possibly do in five minutes to…"

"Four now, Professor." Morrigan shot back, meeting Severus' glare with icy determination. "Seven, if we count the three minutes' frame, before the brain starts taking serious damage."

Minerva was shocked. How could he say that with such a calm and plain voice, as if an insect were trapped in the trunk and not a fellow human being? But he didn't leave her enough time to ponder on it, or even formulate another thought.

"I need iron oxide and aluminium in powdered form and a magnesium strip. And I need it yesterday. Headmaster, tell the nurse to be ready to reanimate immediately and we need someone to talk to him, to keep him calm as to prolong his oxygen reserve. And I need a hammer or something similar."

"A hammer?" Severus' voice was almost shrill now, but Morrigan returned to the inspection of the trunk without giving him another glance.

When nobody moved for a second, just staring at the kneeling Muggle in front of them, Morrigan looked up and Minerva felt a cold shiver run down her spine at the sight of these eyes. She realized that these eyes had seen far more than she wanted to give them credit for, and that this man had faced situations a lot worse than this one. It was as if he was used to death and despair, but in the meantime refused to accept them.

"Now, people!" The short order – and there was no mistake about that: it was an order – immediately brought Minerva back to reality and she began to move at once, as everybody else did. Only Severus remained where he was, glaring at Morrigan, before he said, "Truly Headmaster. This is ridiculous. He's only a…"

But Albus stopped him with a raised hand, his face now set and his eyes gently piercing.

"Please, Severus."

Severus seemed on the verge of saying something for a moment, but after a look into his employer's eyes just nodded curtly and said, "Of course, Headmaster." And with that he disappeared through the door and Minerva didn't lose any time in following him.

When she came back with Madame Pomfrey, she found Morrigan already bent over the trunk, a folded piece of parchment in his hands, apparently trickling down some kind of powder on the hinges. Albus was following his every motion with a mixture of interest and anxiety, while Severus was standing over by the table, throwing a furtive glance now and then, when he felt unobserved.

When Morrigan finished, he walked over to the table and collected two thin strips of metal and stuck each to one of the hinges. Then he grabbed inside his pocket and produced a box of matches, while he threw a glance at his wristwatch.

"We're cutting it close," he said, opening the box and lighting a match. "He should be out of oxygen by now," he said and kneeled down to the trunk. Minerva noticed a small but sturdy hammer right beside his knee, but her glance immediately went back to the lit match in Morrigans hand.

He held it to the first metal strip and squeezed his eyes shut. The metal almost immediately lit up with a blindingly bright flame, but Minerva couldn't do anything else than stare as Morrigan lit up the second strip as well and blew out the match. For a few seconds the white flames wandered along the strips as they consumed them and then went out.

Minerva waited anxiously with her breath held for a few moments, expecting the lid of the trunk to blow off at any second.

But nothing happened.

After a few more instants of absolute silence Severus' voice boomed through the room.

"See?" he screamed. "I told you it wouldn't work. I told you this Muggle had no idea what he was talking about. Filius' blood is on his hands now, on his…"

Suddenly, right in the middle of Severus' steady stream of insults, a stinging smell punctured Minerva's nose. It was as if something was burning, but more intense though. When she looked back at Morrigan, he wasn't getting up in defeat, but rather staring in concentration at the back of the trunk.

When Minerva dropped her gaze to the hinges too, she stared at them in disbelief for several seconds, before she remembered to breathe again: the hinges and all the metal around them was now read hot and melting, while a thin wisp of smoke rose from them.

Morrigan waited a few more seconds, until the frame was starting to melt away and then wound up and struck the point were the hinge had been only a moment ago with the hammer. He repeated this with the other hinge, dropped the hammer on the floor and gave the trunk a solid kick with his boot. The lid flew right off it to land near the door with a loud clatter, Pomona and Euclidia jumping out of the way.

He then immediately grabbed Filius and lifted him up like a doll, before he asked a completely befuddled Madame Pomfrey, "Where do you need him?"

A few minutes later Filius was awake again and on his way to the hospital wing. Poppy had almost forcibly strapped him to the levitating gurney she had conjured and was making her usual fuss over him. Everyone else in the room was catching their breath after the excitement.

Everyone, but Morrigan.

He was simply staring at the trunk with a pensive expression, completely unaware that the rest of the room was staring at him.

Finally Albus broke the silence.

"Well done everyone," he beamed at the room at large, clapping his hands. "Well done indeed. And a special compliment to you, Mr Morrigan. I would have never expected such a thing. I must really admit that I'm impressed and…"

"You haven't told me everything. Have you, Headmaster?" again Albus wondered at Morrigan's ability to drop a room's temperature almost instantly with a single comment, although many people had said the same about him too.

"I am by no means an expert on hieroglyphs and the exact workings of this chest are a complete mystery to me, but I recognize a trap when I see one. And since the wood of this chest still smells of carpenter's shop and the scratches on the screws are still fresh, this device has been manufactured recently. Furthermore what you told me about Professor Flitwick and what I have read on the papers on his desk seems to make him the only qualified person to open this box. This and the fact that this chest is too small to accommodate any normal-sized human, but seems to be tailored perfectly for Professor Flitwick's size leaves only one viable conclusion: This trap wasn't only manufactured recently, but with the sole purpose of killing one of your Professors. Am I wrong, Headmaster?"

"Well, I guess there are a few facts about our world I might have missed…"

"You owe me an explanation, Headmaster," Morrigan cut him off, "and if I don't get it within the next minute, I will walk out of here and my daughter will never set foot in this school."

For a moment there, Albus thought that Pomona's eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. It wasn't like Morrigan was being disrespectful. Albus had had that before and knew perfectly well how to turn the tables and take control over a conversation with someone, who was being rude. But Morrigan was stating facts. Pure and simple facts; he knew Albus owed him an explanation and knew also to be in the position to demand and insist on it, although Albus doubted Morrigan ever had to insist on anything.

He exchanged a look with Minerva and after a short glance over to the waiting father she nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Very well, Mr Morrigan," Albus sighed. "I knew this was going to be unavoidable sooner or later. But would you please answer a question, before I explain everything to you?"

Morrigan fixed him with a stare that could have melted steel at least as well as his powder had only a few minutes ago. But Albus stayed calm and their little staring duel ended with no one as a winner and both with a whole lot more respect for the other one.

"One, Headmaster," Morrigan said calmly. "Make sure it's the right one."

The deafening silence that followed and the incredulous, yet interested stare he was now receiving from Morrigan both told him that his question hadn't only been the right one, but that it had struck gold.

Albus smiled.

A/N: What has Albus asked Morrigan and what happened to Harry in the meantime?
See you in the next chapter.
Quiz Resolution:
Krishna (Sanskrit for 'black' or 'dark blue'), is according to common Hindu tradition the eighth avatar of Vishnu and one of the most popular Hindu deities. Since I cannot post any links here, I strongly recommend a trip over to wikipedia to read the whole article.
And as always, here's the next little riddle:
What has Morrigan used to melt the hinges?
I know this is a tough one, but who doesn't try, doesn't win. Right? A tip: ask your chemistry teacher.