"Come in, come in," Dumbledore said, opening the door with a quick glance at one of the dials on his walls.
"Sorry I'm late," Loki said, shaking off his umbrella. "The festivities…"
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said. "It's your day, isn't it?"
"Harry Potter day, more like," Loki said, though he couldn't quite hide a grin as he vanished the glitter from his robes.
It had been a while since he'd entered Dumbledore's office—perhaps a year or a year and a half— but the irritating sounds had not changed a bit; if anything, it seemed like he'd added one or two knick-knacks, though Loki would be hard-pressed to name them. He examined a twirling ball on a pedestal, then flinched away— the other side was a mirror.
There was a basin on the desk, glowing softly with magic. A pensieve.
He bent down, idly examining the carvings on the side.
"It was Flamel's," Dumbledore said, rifling through his desk. "I'm sorry; it seems the time has slipped away from me yet again. If you can spare a moment?"
"Of course," said Loki politely.
Dumbledore drew a key from the desk and knocked twice on a section of wall, then twisted his key into the lock that appeared there, disappearing up the stairs.
Loki glanced around, taking in the other additions since his teaching stint. There were a few new mechanical devices whose purposes he could not divine, a red bird on a perch. The pensieve was empty, disappointingly. He thumbed through the correspondances on the desk- notes on students and behavior. There was a tray of lemon drops, and a well-thumbed book on Norse mythology.
So he hasn't forgotten, Loki thought. Good.
Dumbledore finally came back down. He had changed into purple robes with a silver trim. As he crossed the room, the bird launched itself off its perch and came to land on his shoulder, red feathers flashing with hints of gold.
"Is that a phoenix?" Loki asked, looking up at the bird.
There was something… beautiful about it. Pure, like fire. It met his eyes regally, unblinking.
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "This is Fawkes."
Loki stepped closer, though Fawkes did not budge an inch. He had read about phoenixes. There were many rumors; few concrete facts. Phoenixes had healing tears. Their feathers were given willingly, or not at all. A phoenix could transport the pure of heart through fire, though the impure would be incinerated.
He looked into Fawkes's eyes, black, with rims of yellow flecked with orange.
"Well," Loki cleared his throat. "Shall we portkey?"
They appeared in a dark room with a broad window, overlooking the Swiss Alps. Wrapped around the three other walls were several tiers of standing space, hemmed by rails. Here stood the most powerful, diverse, and argumentative crowd of magic users in the known world; delegates of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Albus nodded at Kaiserin Graf as they passed, taking their seats beside the Ugandan delegation. Loki was looking around with open curiosity at the delegates, taking in the wizards and witches of different countries- Southern Italy, Portugal, Egypt. The last ICW Conference had been two years ago, just before his appointment as minister.
"Ah Dumbledore," a new voice said, slipping in beside them. "Nice phoenix. Did I make it on time?"
"Ms. Harrison," Dumbledore said cordially, surprised to see the American representative was the same as it had been last time.
"I'm afraid we haven't met-"
"Loki," Loki interjected smoothly, holding out a hand to shake. "The Minister of Magic."
"Ah yes," Harrison said, shifting her coffee to her other hand. "I do remember something about that now…"
She levitated the coffee with a flick of her wand and pulled out a sheaf of typeset papers, balancing them against the railing and scanning through them quickly. From what Dumbledore gathered, the American Ministry was a nominal institution at best, serving little capacity beyond what was needed to uphold the Statute of Secrecy.
By contrast…
He glanced around, finding Lefevre across the room. The aging French dictator sat in a chair, surrounded by advisors. Lefevre had been ruling magical France for a hundred years now, and, if the rumors were true, the muggle government had fallen to her influence in recent times as well. Lefevre waved at him, a lazy lifting of the fingers.
He turned to the advisors she had brought. A minister and a general; Pierre Ruiz and Aicha Hamidou, if he recalled correctly. The latter gave him a nod.
A tapping sound rang out and Kaiserin Graf approached the lectern. "Let the 148th Annual International Confederation of Wizards Conference commence," she said, casting a regal eye around the room. "As per usual, we find some absent delegations, as well as some new faces among us."
Loki smiled. Albus swept the room, catching expressions ranging from curiosity to outright suspicion. Rasmos Munter and Yvette Pelle exchanged glances. He could guess what they were thinking. Bagnold had had a reputation for being honorable and perhaps, a little naive. Loki, by contrast, was a warlord.
Graf was continuing.
"...present your grievance here and the confederation will hear it out."
"Southern Italy would like to open a case for the return of Cyprus," a young man said, approaching the lectern, and Albus suppressed a sigh. Year after year, the same issues were raised, debated, discussed.
He saw Harrison begin to take notes as the Ugandan delegate tapped the railing. Across the room, Ruiz seemed to be trying to catch Loki's eye. Fawkes shifted on Albus's shoulder, discomfited. The last time Albus had been here, it had been to beg for assistance with Voldemort. Wrong place, wrong time. Now he was back, listening to the squabbles of countries while the world was at risk.
The French delegation stood, the advisors floating Lefevre's chair between them, though she did not speak in public, as was customary. Instead, Ruiz took the lectern, responding to some invisible signal.
"Her Majesty Lefevre," he said, "Would like to request the return of several items stolen by our British neighbors."
The other delegates swiveled toward them. This was old news; France had been peddling the same story for almost two years now, but they wanted to see how the new British Minister would react to the affront.
"Britain denies all such claims," Loki said.
"We have several articles of proof," Ruiz said, lifting a sheet of parchment. "Including a document of origin for the Philosopher's Stone, the rights to which have been denied our country for generations."
"The philosopher's stone has been destroyed," Loki said.
"Forgive Her Majesty if she finds that difficult to believe," Ruiz said. "No invitation of proof has been offered by the culpable party."
Loki leaned forward. "It would take more than a philosopher's stone to revive Your Majesty," he said, looking Lefevre in the eye. "And your greed on the subject discredits you."
Albus winced.
"You are a young minister of a war-torn country, and for that you have Her Majesty's sympathies," Ruiz said. "But if you do not rescind your angry words, she will defend her honor and the honor of France."
Loki raised an eyebrow, and Albus stepped in before the situation could further devolve. Merlin, it was almost like he wanted to start another war!
"Please," he said. "There's no reason for this to get out of hand. We fought together as allies, more than once. I'm sure we could find a peaceful end to this debate, given the chance."
"Yes," Ruiz said, his yellow eyes narrowing. "We will send you our list."
Albus sighed.
"Right," Graf said, as the French delegation returned to its space. "Next issue?"
"I would like to speak," Loki said, and Albus turned, surprised.
"Yes?" Graf said warily.
They approached the lectern, Harrison watching curiously.
"What news have you on Russia?" Loki said, an illusory map of the USSR unfolding behind him. Albus saw surprised faces- not many had been treated to that particular trick, apparently.
Graf was not among them.
"The USSR left the ICW over fifty years ago, when they cut off all relations," she said. "We've had nothing from them since, other than a steady stream of refugees."
"Then let me enlighten you," Loki said. The image behind him changed, becoming a skull with curving legs. "European delegates may recognize Hydra, the muggle terrorist organization not long ago defeated in Germany."
Albus recognized the symbol. Hydra had been a strong fringe group in Grindelwald's war.
"What is the significance of this?" Graf asked. It looked like she recognized the symbol too, and was not happy about the reminder.
"The group is now operating in Russia," Loki said, looking around the room, "Aided and abetted by wizards."
This time, the surprise around the room was audible. Lefevre raised an eyebrow, President Essam was frowning, and Rasmos Munter had a slight sneer.
"That is a serious allegation," Graf said.
"I have it on good intelligence," Loki said, "But the rest of you are welcome to verify, if it is within your capabilities."
"What are their aims?" someone asked.
"That I do not know," Loki said. "But the might of magic paired with a force of muggle proportions is something to be feared indeed." He sounded more impressed than afraid himself.
"I don't see what we have to fear from wizards so debased they would comingle with muggles," Munter said.
"It represents the highest breach of international law," Graf said, sounding angry. "And an affront to the very purpose of magical governance. We will impose sanctions, reinforce our borders, and put an end to this madness. All in agreement?"
This got the votes of most of the room; everyone understood the importance of secrecy from muggles.
"Very well," Graf said. "Next?"
"Spain," and now another delegate approached the lectern, "Would like to contend with Iberia over the recent closure of the northern dolmen doors against the tenets of the portkey coalition treaty of 1799..."
The sun was setting when they returned at last to the Hogwarts grounds, Albus's nerves worn from the hours of political posturing and debate.
Loki, by contrast, seemed enlivened.
"They don't realize," he was saying. "Russia is sitting like a vast old spider and-" he cut off as Dumbledore opened his office door, Fawkes launching off his shoulder to rest on his perch across the room. He gazed into the open space.
He had forgotten to secure his office, he realized belatedly. Had anyone come in?
"You look tired," Loki said, and Albus looked back at him.
"Merely busy," he said, after a pause.
"You should get some rest," said Loki, his voice almost kindly.
"Yes," Albus said, his hand still on the doorknob. "Perhaps I should."
Loki looked back at him, frowning.
"Good," he said, at last.
Albus waited for him to leave, a slight smile on his face, then closed his office door. He tapped the desk with his wand and a long drawer rolled out, empty but for some papers. From inside that drawer unrolled a smaller one and then another, continuing until the final drawer, barely large enough for a single pouch.
Albus whispered something to the pouch, tipping it over. The weight of the vial dropped into his hand, and he wrapped his fingers around the cold glass.
He turned back to his desk, raising the silver vial with shaking fingers. The liquid splashed in unevenly, rising above the level of the basin before settling in the center. A luminescent figure floated out, Loki sitting with his head bowed.
Everything they can reach, they conquer.
The image dropped back into the bowl, and Albus leaned over it, steadying the basin between his trembling wrists.
A few more hours tonight, perhaps. A few more hours in the pensieve, reviewing memories of books, reviewing plans. A few more hours trying to think, trying to save the world.
Perhaps he would even think of something.
The moon was rising above the Hogs' Head inn.
"One firewhisky- no, make that one for everyone here!" Gilderoy Lockhart proclaimed, spilling a pile of galleons, sickles, and onto the counter.
If he was hoping that someone would ask for the cause of his generosity, he was sorely mistaken. Instead the bartender raised thick gray eyebrows over sharp blue eyes.
"You're going to count that," he said flatly, turning back into the bar.
Gilderoy did, making sure to factor in the buxom blond in the back of the bar and her beautiful dark-hooded friend, and was just trying once more to subtly call the barkeep's attention when a black-haired lady stepped in, letting in a summer breeze.
To his surprise, she walked towards him, dropping a galleon on the counter.
"One firewhisky," she said, turning to the bartender, who was suddenly standing right there.
"Please, allow me," Gilderoy said smoothly, putting his hand on hers before she could finish paying.
She gazed at him with cold green eyes until he removed it, then shrugged.
"If you insist."
"I suppose you're wondering what could be the occasion!" Gilderoy said, gesturing grandly at the bartender, who glared at him over twelve full glasses.
"If I were to guess," The woman said, lifting her glass to the light, "The breathtaking exploits of some gallant hero you obliviated."
For a moment the words refused to parse, then Gilderoy's heart leapt in his chest and he stepped backwards, a hand edging toward his wand.
"But never mind that." She sat down. "I have a proposition for you."
She leaned in, her voice deepening to an almost masculine tone.
"How would you like to break some international laws?"
A/N: Hello and welcome back to Heir Descendant. Time is moving a bit more quickly now, in little starts and stops, and the world is cracking just a bit wider. As a note, and I hope this is not too disappointing for you, for a number of reasons this fic is not FB compliant, though I found the movie rather fun. I hope you will enjoy what comes nonetheless! Sincerest thanks to Prevaricator's Penchant for her quick and crucial beta'ing of both this chapter and the last, and thanks to Bluejay for prereading.