On 1st September, Albus could be found at the staffroom window, alone and resembling a dreamy sentinel on a watchtower. It was twenty to ten, almost the hour for the staff meeting, yet the panelled room was shrouded in shadow: without the many candles hovering in mid-air, it would have possessed a ghost-like quality more appropriate for dusk. Rain was drenching the Hogwarts grounds—a most inhospitable scene for anyone unaccustomed to this land.
Many thoughts flitted through the headmaster's mind while his eyes lingered on the distant Forbidden Forest. He held out hope the evening of the competing schools' arrival would be clear and warm. He hoped the weather was different in the Austrian Alps, for he knew how lonely and dispiriting it felt to be confined with nothing but memories when the daytime sky offered no light. If so much as a free moment presented itself that day, he was determined to make a trip to Nurmengard; if absolutely impossible, he would ask Fawkes to keep Gellert company. He also hoped the downpour would not impede Alastor Moody's already tardy journey.
An owl had reached him in the wee hours of the morning to transmit a note by Arthur Weasley: the Auror, it said, believed to have been freshly attacked. Detained by the Ministry, he was unlikely to come to Hogwarts before the meeting was long over. After the events of the World Cup, this could not be a coincidence, Albus was positive of it—on the contrary, the trouble had barely begun. Perhaps he had let his suspicion run away with him; still, he would not relax until Harry had safely stepped inside the castle. The Weasleys—and he could never thank them enough—had sworn to protect the boy all the way to Hogwarts Express.
A shiver of elvish magic drew his gaze to the side table, which was filling with refreshments: teapots and mugs, scones and shortbread, sandwiches and biscuits. Not a minute later, the first footsteps resounded behind the door, and he smiled at the familiar voices.
Minerva McGonagall always arrived before the others… unless Rolanda Hooch beat her to it. Both brisk and athletic, both self-disciplined, they marched in together and beamed upon seeing the wizard.
"Albus!"
"I'm so glad to see you." He approached to embrace them. "How have you been? Had a good summer, Rolanda?"
"Ah, not bad," the amber-eyed witch replied. "At this point, coming to Hogwarts is like coming home."
"It is our home," he agreed, glancing from one woman to the other. "And you, Minerva? You both planned on attending the Quidditch World Cup. I'm relieved to see you safe and sound."
Now that he stood close to the Transfiguration teacher, he could feel her magical aura churning with tension. He knew her better than most, and it cost him no effort to picture her fighting the Death Eaters in the burning camp.
"Come here," he murmured, pulling her into a hug, which she returned with an anxious sigh.
"Oh, Albus, the year hasn't even started, and I dread to think what it might bring. The Dark Mark in the sky for the first time in twelve years!"
Madam Hooch shook her head in silent agreement. Another person's presence then claimed their attention. Severus Snape had walked in soundlessly, yet the magic around him was too distinctive to remain unnoticed—it was Darker in nature and pulsated with quiet anger.
"Hello, Severus," Rolanda called. "Did you have good holidays?"
"Delightful," came a rather bored answer. "Headmaster."
"Good to see you, Severus. Tea?"
At the wave of the Elder Wand, the teapot poured the hot beverage into mugs, and Albus passed one to the young man. A dozen concerns pursued him in regards to this teacher, and one had become especially prominent in the recent weeks: if someone had cause to be alarmed about the Dark Mark, it was Severus. A concern shared by Minerva, whose green eyes also rested on the former Death Eater. Not that now was the time to address it: more members of staff were coming in, among them Filius Flitwick, Poppy Pomfrey and Irma Pince.
A chorus of greetings ensued, their group growing larger. Filius sought out the headmaster with a gesture of helpless regret.
"I expected to see you the first week of August! The Vienna Philharmonic played Schubert and Debussy. I told my sister: no way will Albus miss this."
Great fondness for classical music had created a bond of familiarity between the two wizards.
Albus groaned. "Alas, I was cloistered in Wizengamot for days. I can't tell you how jealous I am. I wish I could have said hello to your sister—we have to find an occasion."
"I can think of one," said a cheerful voice. Charity Burbage had appeared between them, her aura radiant, long hair sending a whiff of flowery scent around her. "The Christmas ball. Are those Muggle composers you just mentioned? Are they fashionable these days?"
"They're still beloved," Filius said as she proceeded to embrace them in turn. "The concert gave me the idea to try incorporating some of their work into our choir practice."
"Oh, please do! This way, we'll all hear it."
A collective ooh signalled the arrival of Pomona Sprout, who, as they knew, had become a grandmother during summer. Her first instinct, however, was a protective one: after checking that everyone was in good health, she hurried to hug Professor McGonagall.
"You have no idea how worried I was when I heard," she uttered. "You were there with the Ministry, apprehending those awful criminals. They didn't even spare the children."
"Now, now, Pomona, nothing terrible happened," Minerva assured her. "Those cowards scattered in different directions almost as soon as they saw us."
Charity intervened. "Pomona, why are we starting our meeting with this? I'm dying to hear the good news."
Sounds of agreement joined her words, and Albus came forward to take the blushing witch in his arms.
"Just what I was about to say. Congratulations, my dear."
At the general insistence, Professor Sprout opened her clutch purse to produce the photograph of a newborn baby girl. While they clustered around her, Septima Vector entered, gave the headmaster a shy nod and seated herself next to Severus.
A tug on Albus's arm distracted him. Turning around, he came face-to-face with an agitated Sybill Trelawney, who was attempting to pull him away.
"Hello, Sybill," he said gently, squeezing her shoulder.
"Headmaster"—her voice trembled—"I have to talk to you; this cannot wait. Again and again, the oracles show the same outcome: death is coming to Hogwarts. It's unavoidable. This year will end in tragedy."
Before he could muster a reaction, Minerva coughed, as if unable to contain herself.
"Good morning to you too, Sybill."
The distraught witch opened her mouth but hesitated, and no words followed. When a song came floating through the door, she, like everyone else, looked at the newcomer. One could have sworn the room had grown brighter with Aurora Sinistra in it. Like Charity, the Astronomy teacher exuded high spirits, though her colleagues had known her to transform seamlessly in times of need.
"Headmaster," she sing-songed, "Minerva, Filius, Charity, Septima, Severus, Pomona, Rolanda, Sybill, Irma, Poppy—oh, my, you are all here! Am I late?"
"Not at all. That being said, I already had half a mind to eat your favourite sandwich," Albus chuckled.
"No, not my sandwich!" She advanced to clasp his hands in affection.
"Aurora, dear, did you end up attending the World Cup?" Charity asked. "Try as I may, there is no escaping this horrid news."
"Oh, yes, I was there with my uncle—he was visiting—but we left straight after the match. It's a long way, and at his age, he can't Apparate long distances any more. I've heard what happened—it's awful." Her velvet black eyes landed on Professor Trelawney. "Are you all right, Sybill? You look a little pale."
"Sybill has seen another death omen." Despite Minerva's self-control, there was a biting edge to her tone.
"Oh… I see." Frowning, Aurora adjusted her headwrap, intent, it seemed, on concealing her unease.
The timid entrance of Bathsheda Babbling, the Study of Ancient Runes instructor, and Hagrid's much louder salutations eased the atmosphere. Nevertheless, Albus could not disregard the expression on Aurora's face. In addition to astronomy, she was more than proficient in divination, including the methods of centaurs. If she could sense Darkness in their future too, he did not fancy their chances in the slightest.
Something brushed his ankles: a dust-coloured cat.
"Hello there, Mrs Norris."
He scooped a piece of smoked salmon from a sandwich and fed it to the animal, then straightened up to offer Argus Filch some tea. The meeting could now begin.
Settling down at the head of the table, he waited for the others to take seats; he needed an instant to render his voice and expression as carefree as possible.
"I believe we are all here, and it makes me very happy to see you safe and well. I'll speak to Cuthbert later"—Professor Binns no longer perceived time the same way as living humans did; he therefore remained oblivious to every meeting they held—"and will brief Alastor Moody, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, when he arrives. He will be joining us in the afternoon. Now for the news you've all been waiting for… It will happen on Hallowe'en."
He paused mock-dramatically to allow his colleagues a little levity. Sybill did not stop wringing her hands, which prompted Madam Pomfrey to observe her with increasing solicitude.
"The two foreign delegations will arrive on 30 October," Albus went on, his notes spread before him. "The Goblet of Fire will ignite after that evening's feast, marking the official start of the Triwizard Tournament. The following evening, the three champions will be announced and brought up to speed. The prearranged dates for the tasks are 24 November, 24 February, and 24 June, pending further confirmation. All the tasks are to take place on the Hogwarts grounds and coordinated by us and the Ministry." He paused again, and for a few seconds, all that could be heard was the scratching of a dozen enchanted quills. "I'm afraid the Prophet will get involved; in addition, there will be an obligatory inspection of the wands by Mr Ollivander. As far as the Hogwarts champion is concerned, he or she will be excused from the final exams. The pool of candidates has been narrowed down to the students of age—that is verified and final. You are, of course, free to encourage those you believe would be interested in and fit for the challenge."
Most teachers expressed excitement at this piece of news; Aurora even clapped in delight. Septima and Minerva, however, exchanged a reticent glance while Severus's usually composed features betrayed scepticism: all three visibly doubted whether it was prudent to host such an event at Hogwarts.
"The Quidditch Cup will be cancelled, I take it," Rolanda Hooch stated with a sigh.
"I'm very sorry to announce it, but yes, Quidditch will have to be suspended this year. The Flying Class stays in force for the first years." Albus addressed the witch, "If you are open to assisting the Ministry officials in arranging the tasks, they will be immensely grateful for your help. I can come to your office later to discuss the details."
She motioned her assent.
"Will the foreign students sleep in the castle?" Septima asked, ever pragmatic.
He explained the schools' plans, which, he could tell, met with Filch's approval.
"They will join us for meals and will enjoy general access to the castle and its grounds, including the library," he added for Madam Pince's benefit.
The librarian nodded, never pausing note-taking.
"Hagrid, your help will be much appreciated as well." Albus smiled. "We might just have to bring in several exotic magical creatures, and your expertise will be invaluable."
"Of course, profess'r Dumbledore, s'r." The gamekeeper was beyond himself with joy. "Wha' creatures have we got?"
"I wish I could say. Sadly, the Ministry asked me to sign a non-disclosure agreement, so I can't venture information before they permit it."
"Ah, well, hope we'll see dragons a' las'!"
Aware of this obsession of Hagrid's, nearly everyone snickered. Not Madam Pomfrey; her indignation had been growing throughout the conversation and was now at its peak.
"Albus, I don't like the sound of it."
"Oh, Poppy, where is your spirit?" Aurora chimed in. "The Tournament is about meeting new witches and wizards, making friends…"
"You, my dear, count the stars," Madam Pomfrey said dismissively. "Most of the time, it's up to me to count the bones of our students. I shudder to think what it is they'll face this year."
Snape's cool voice remarked, "If this competition received international acceptance, I would assume the Ministry has taken steps to minimise the risk. Am I correct, headmaster?"
"It's certainly the goal of the age restriction," Albus said with a grave nod. "Besides, trained wizards will be on hand at every task, should the danger get out of hand."
"I still don't like it," the matron insisted.
"I will do my utmost to ensure the students' safety," he promised gently. "And I have every confidence the champions will be well tended to. After all, you have single-handedly run the hospital wing for years: it's the only reason our students are in excellent health. The creatures at the Tournament can't be worse than the Dementors. Even so, your care will be essential to the champions."
This mollified her a little.
"Why, thank you, Albus. I suppose you're right: this year's beasts can't possibly be worse than the Dementors."
"Precisely; it's all under control," Minerva concluded. "The Age Line will keep the younger and more vulnerable students out whereas the older ones will receive protection."
"Well, I think we can all agree no danger will discourage most students from wanting to test their chances," Filius asserted. "Will you be announcing it tonight, Albus?"
The headmaster nodded. "There is no point in delaying. Some of them must know already; it would be a pity to deprive the rest of them of excitement. This reminds me of the next point: I hope you have brought your dress robes. The Yule Ball will take place on Christmas."
"I've brought several," Aurora commented. "Some for the feasts. With weather like this, nothing is more uplifting than dressing up."
A few smiles followed this declaration, some amused and others slightly indulgent.
"Don't tell me you disagree," she protested playfully. "I come from a place where even Muggles dance at funerals. Presenting a smart front matters: it's important to keep students cheerful, and dressing up helps there."
"I doubt they'll need extra cheer," Septima noted. "I can't help wondering how we'll keep them focused—just imagine their reaction when they hear Quidditch has been cancelled and that foreign delegations will be arriving soon. Good luck getting them to study. We have quite the year ahead of us, if you ask me."
"Agreed," Bathsheda muttered.
In spite of sympathetic looks from Pomona and Charity, Aurora stayed outnumbered in her sentiments, though she was not one to take offence or hold a grudge. It was time, Albus felt, to change the topic. There were O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s to discuss, the yearly Apparition seminar to arrange, the rules and guidelines to reiterate, and the usual safety protocol to go over. Not until an hour and a half later did the meeting come to an end.
Amid the scraping of chairs and more light-hearted talk, the teachers vacated the room to head for the Great Hall, where lunch was about to be served. Snape lingered behind, having caught the headmaster's eye and understood the latter wished to speak to him in private.
For a few seconds, Albus considered the young man. It was true: his disquiet about this wizard never diminished. Thirteen years had passed since Lily Potter's tragic demise and Snape's employment at Hogwarts. Since then, nothing had changed. At his age, Severus could have found something to be passionate about, someone to share his days with—if necessary, he could have asked for help in moving on—but no. Fresh grief was one matter; this was not the same. Albus wished the Potions Master could find a little joy in his existence or learn to treat Harry more kindly. The fact that he never contemplated either was the most disturbing aspect about him.
Of course, all of this was much easier to reflect on than to say aloud. Snape was a grown man, and Albus had no right to interfere in his life choices.
"How have you been, Severus?"
The Dark wizard's answer was direct; like Barty Crouch, he could not stand small talk.
"I'm not sure who was among them, but I reckon Walden was there. The last time we spoke, he sounded frustrated."
Yes, the headmaster thought in disgust, Macnair would not forget the hippogriff's disappearance in a hurry. Killers hated having their victims stolen from them.
"And the Dark Mark?"
"Nobody knows."
"What do you think, Severus? Was it a friend or a foe?"
There was no conclusive evidence that could point them in either direction, Albus knew, but he was curious still.
"We all have betrayed the Dark Lord," came a quiet assertion.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Albus said,
"Three Seers from my circle seem to feel something is coming. I'm sure you have read the signs, as have I. If it is what we believe it might be"—Snape's black eyes glinted in the candlelight—"we'll have to be ready. Once again, I may find myself obliged to ask for your help. But I promise I won't ask anything of you that ought to lead you into direct danger."
An impenetrable barrier shielded the young man's mind, as it always did, yet his magical aura flared like a flame exposed to the wind.
"Any news of Sirius Black?"
He was furious, a fool could have seen it. Albus did not blame him. If anything, he could well divine the trail of thought the wall of Occlumency concealed from view.
The old coot, constantly asking the others to risk their lives, asking me to spy for him and place myself in danger. But on the one occasion when I request a favour, he turns deaf.
People did not choose whom they loved, and the same went for hatred. Somewhere in the world, a witch by the name of Vinda Rosier still roamed free, and Albus would have paid dearly to have her brought to justice—the more harshly, the better. If not for her selfish schemes, Gellert might have succeeded in his campaign; at the very least, he would not be spending what remained of his life in prison. Albus did not judge Severus for his feeling of bloodlust. Only, Sirius Black was no Vinda Rosier. Snape was not ready to accept this much.
"No news," he replied. "But I'm hopeful Alastor Moody might be of assistance."
It was a useless lie. Stupid was one thing Severus was not, and this was not taking into account his enviable intuition.
"I'll see you at the feast, headmaster. If you'll excuse me, I have classes to prepare."
He was on his feet, his robes billowing, his eyes full of ire.
"Tell me only this, Severus: do you know Igor Karkaroff well? Is there anything in particular we should expect of him?"
"Igor is a coward, but a sly one. Antonin recruited him, I believe—he sympathised with the Dark Lord's ideas. That being said, I don't see him as a serious threat. An opportunist is what he is: he sold all of our names to buy himself freedom. If anyone has a reason to be afraid, it's him."
"Thank you very much, Severus."
The younger wizard departed without a backward glance. Torn between weariness and guilt, Albus gathered his notes to follow his example and head for his office. He was fully conscious of his own double standards. He needed Snape, more perhaps than ever now that the Dark threat had resurfaced. If the Potions Master were to seek him out the following day, asking for permission to resign, to travel the world and enjoy himself, would Albus let him go and lose one of his most valuable lieutenants? The truth stung. And Severus was not the only one. The headmaster thought of Minerva, fearless but frail in her own way: a side of her precious few had ever glimpsed. The night of the World Cup, she had fought the likes of Macnair. This was not her conflict—it was his, Albus's. But he had entangled other people's lives in his war.
A fresh pile of letters awaited him on his desk, along with that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet. The front page was dedicated to Miss Skeeter's biting article on the most recent International Confederation of Wizards' Conference. As Albus's eyes slid absently over the text, he registered the words obsolete dingbat, which he knew applied to him.
"Quite right, Rita," he muttered, folding the newspaper for a later perusal.
There were more important matters to attend to before evening was upon them. With a caress on Fawkes's scarlet chest, Albus prepared to depart; he intended to bring Gellert a selection of food from the upcoming start-of-term feast. This plan was foiled by an unexpected memo from the Ministry that demanded that he join Ludo Bagman's department for a last-minute meeting on the Tournament's first task. Cross as two sticks, he complied, not before sending Fawkes to Austria in his stead.
By the time he was back, Hogwarts Express was due to reach Hogsmeade any minute, and there still was no sign of Alastor Moody. This did not change an hour later. Seated in the Great Hall amid other teachers and under an exceptionally stormy enchanted ceiling, Albus was consumed with worry. The only reassuring factor was Harry's presence.
Despite being soaked to the bone like the rest of the students, the boy was speaking cheerfully to his friends and Sir Nicholas. He had grown a little over summer, and his countenance exuded the joy that came with being where one belonged, at the place one cherished above all others. He did not know yet what was coming.
More guilt-ridden than ever, the headmaster faced the great oak doors, where Minerva had appeared at the head of a long line of first years. After their precarious boat ride, the children looked drenched, dishevelled and terrified all at once, eliciting sympathetic moans from Pomona and several other witches. The tiniest among the boys, however—the one wrapped in Hagrid's moleskin coat—shone with elation, not a trace of nerves about him. Albus could not resist an endeared smile. Year after year, for most of his life, he had witnessed this ceremony, and it never grew dull. There was something solemn about this tradition as old as Hogwarts, something pure and sacred. He hoped the first years, who were now listening to the Sorting Hat's song with expressions of awe, would enjoy their studies of magic and treasure their memories of the seven years spent in the castle. He wished they became happy in their new home.
With the last new student Sorted, Professor McGonagall carried the hat and the stool away. All the faces turned towards him, expectant, shivering with cold, and he felt no further delay was acceptable. Hot food and drinks first, excitement later.
"I have only two words to say to you." He beamed at them. "Tuck in."
The invitation was readily accepted by students and staff alike. Only Minerva shared his loss of appetite, though self-control impelled her to eat regardless.
"Have you heard back from Alastor?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "I expected him to have arrived at this hour."
No news still when pudding was served. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables were buzzing with chatter, and anticipation could be spotted among certain Slytherins, which confirmed Albus's assumption they knew about the Tournament from their families. At the Gryffindor table, an upset Miss Granger was not touching food, rather unlike her content Housemates.
The time had come at last. Getting to his feet, Albus drew a breath, and his gaze suddenly locked with Harry's. The bright green eyes were watching him with such warmth, such devotion, that for a few seconds, all thought fled his mind. This sensation passed, but the painful tug at his heart could not be dislodged.
Forgive me, Harry. Forgive me for sending you to those people again and again in summer. Forgive me for having failed to protect you. Forgive me for not being who you believe I am. You are the bravest and most selfless boy I've ever met, and I'll never be worthy of your fondness.
He wanted to say this and more. What he said instead was an ordinary expression of welcome.
"So! Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention while I give out a few notices."
The best delivery, he had learned, consisted in building upon familiar information. He started by mentioning Mr Filch's ban on magical toys and listing the restricted areas before proceeding to the point that was bound to anger most: the Quidditch cancellation.
"This is due to an event that will be starting in October," he clarified over an indignant clamour, "and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—"
The doors swung open, and as if in synchrony, thunder rolled through the Great Hall, shaking the walls. A man stood in the entrance. It was Alastor Moody; there was no mistaking his distinctive figure and long staff. And yet, as he lowered his hood, a fork of lightning threw him into dark relief against the torchlight behind him, and something about his posture caused Albus to blink and frown. This confusion was gone as quickly as it had come: relief obliterated every other feeling.
Thank Merlin.
"I'm happy to see you, Alastor," he said quietly at the newcomer's approach. "Are you all right? I was worried when you were delayed."
"Someone didn't want me here," Moody growled, extending his scarred hand.
Albus shook it, nodding. "We've saved you a seat. Welcome."
He straightened up to address the students, whose attention was hanging on Alastor's every motion.
"May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? Professor Moody."
No one joined him in clapping but Hagrid, which took Albus aback. The children's amazement at the stranger's dramatic arrival was natural; the staff's, not so much.
"As I was saying," he began anew, his voice lighter now that this source of anxiety had been laid to rest, "we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."
"You're JOKING!"
The exclamation had erupted from Fred Weasley, and it loosened the tension so well that the student body practically dissolved in mirth. Unable to help it, Albus laughed heartily. A joke occurred to him, a silly one he had heard not long ago from Ludo Bagman, and to amuse the teenagers even more, he started telling it, only to be halted by a disapproving Minerva, as he knew he would be.
He hence concentrated on the Tournament, explaining everything from its history to the arrival of the foreign schools. As Filius had predicted, his allusion to the death toll did nothing but exacerbate the youngsters' curiosity and boldness… both of which were replaced with displeasure at the first hint at the age restriction.
"I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen."
The Weasley twins' obstinate scowls gave him to understand he might as well have saved his warning for the nearest wall.
"And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"
Sliding back into his chair, the headmaster was pleased to see Moody eating without a care.
"Arthur notified me this morning. What happened, Alastor? Is everything all right?"
"All good, Albus," the Auror assured him between bites. "Takes more than a few unruly Muggles to defeat me."
His magical eye swivelled in its socket, taking in their surroundings. It stopped on Severus, and a slow, discreet grin lifted the corners of his mouth.
"Any staff members I should know about?"
"No," Albus said sincerely. "All of them are friendly and dependable. I will make the introductions shortly. Did you say Muggles disturbed you last night?"
"Muggles, or someone who wanted me to pay attention to Muggles. I don't believe in coincidence, old friend. I read newspapers. Who could have known about our arrangement, eh?" He chuckled, shaking his mane of grey hair. "It's good to be back on duty, though; I was incredibly bored in retirement. How have you been?"
"For my part, pleasantly busy. I'm glad we'll share some of the load again."
It truly was soothing to have his friend back, to witness his familiar manners and exchange the news. Albus would have liked to ask more questions on the previous night's brawl, but the members of staff were standing up, ready to meet their newest colleague, and presentations were in order.
Minerva and Hagrid greeted Moody cordially; both had gained great respect for him during the days of the Order. A little more reticent, Filius and Pomona offered him polite smiles while Septima and Bathsheda were more timid still. Severus did little to disguise his animosity, and what rescued the situation were Aurora and Charity's presence of spirit and their short if animated conversation with the Auror, which briefly touched upon Charity's hobby of collecting Muggle artefacts. It was Rolanda Hooch who truly stirred Alastor's interest.
"I collect things too," the Flying instructor declared. "And keep them all counted. If anything is required as evidence, come to me first."
Fond of such humour, Moody burst into laughter.
"Have you ever thought of becoming an Auror, Miss Hooch?"
"Why, thank you, but no. I like all my body parts, and I don't like bad wizards. I play fair and expect the same from my opponents."
"All right, no Auror work for you—I'll come to supervise the next Flying lesson then."
The headmaster could almost visualise the spark between them, and the thought kept him merry throughout the evening, which he spent showing his friend around and triple-checking the protection around Hogwarts.
One step into his office put an end to his cheer. Stationed on his perch, the phoenix was flapping his wings, his flaming tail restless.
"Fawkes, are you all right?"
A soft cry quelled this alarm.
"Is Gellert all right?"
Another soft cry. Albus exhaled; his heart was hammering as though it meant to tear through his chest.
"What upset you, my boy?"
A suspicious note had done. New letters had been delivered during the feast, and between the signed and sealed envelopes, Albus found a creased page that must have been ripped from a calendar. The heading read 8 August. Despite a couple of small holes, left no doubt by the tip of a quill, nothing had been written on this piece of parchment, though it was spattered with ink. A particularly large stain had spread over the date, cutting it in half so that it resembled number 3.
"Do you know the owl that brought this?" Albus asked his familiar.
Fawkes cocked his head for no. One could explain this as an honest mistake, the blunder of a distracted sender, who had likely entrusted his bird with a page of draft instead of a finished letter. Yet Albus could tell this was not the case. Only, no matter which spells he cast or which tricks he resorted to, no invisible words appeared—the parchment was, in fact, quite devoid of magic. The curtains undulated on either side of the open window. The bearer of this enigmatic message had long been swallowed by the night.