The Sentence

"Good on time, 're ya?"

"Please Barnabas, you know me better than that."

Barnabas Cuffe leaned back in his chair and chuckled. He spoke with a cockney accent, though Rita had never asked if her editor was really from the area. He wore his beard proudly despite its salt and pepper colour and usually donned a black bowler hat to cover the growing bald spot on his head. At the moment however, it sat on his desk.

"It don't hurt to be reminded e'ery once in a while." Barnabas broke into a yawn and reached for a steaming mug on his desk. "Ne'er thought I'd see you back in the court room. Andy nearly threw a fit, he did. Thought the case was his for sure."

Rita rolled her eyes and pushed off from the wall to stand before him. "Please, this story is larger than just the court case. Andy wouldn't know what to do with it, and we both know he couldn't handle the Ministry breathing down his neck."

"No he wouldn't, but least he don't sit on interviews like you do." Barnabas narrowed his eyes slightly. "You interviewed that Merlin boy weeks ago, so 'ow come i's not crossed my desk?"

Rita didn't even blink. "Come now Barnabas, you know the danger of milking a good story too quickly."

Barnabas huffed but nodded all the same. "You bring in a lot of traffic Rita," he said carefully, "but don't get too cocky now. I'm expectin' a hell of a story for the evenin' edition."

Rita turned on her acid green heels. "Of course," she tossed over her shoulder, and she left the office. From the corner of her eye she spotted Andy next to the stove, putting on the kettle. He was lanky, with a nose that had been broken at least twice and curly brown hair.

Honestly… if that punk tried to swipe another story from her, Rita would see to it that he made tea for the rest of his career. Then again, she'd been the one to swipe stories back in the day—made a name for herself too—but at least she'd done the stories well. She could handle it. The bureaucratic bullshit, the ministry sticking their nose into her articles—changing and spinning the news as they saw fit. The paper wasn't there to tell the news, it was to calm the public, to reassure them that the shit they saw wasn't all that important.

Sometimes it was fun. Other times it irked her. Pity she liked her job too much to fight against it.

Rita swung by her desk, grabbing an extra note pad and sticking it in her crocodile-skin handbag. One could never have too many. There was a wrap of knuckles against wood, and she looked up to see Bozo leaning against it. Her favorite photographer. If she needed a photo, it didn't matter how, he would get it for her. He was a paunchy man, though he claimed to be working on it. Somehow, Rita thought the look suited him. He was more imposing and impressive this way. He scratched his stubble, brown flecked with gray, and looked at her with dark brown eyes.

"You wouldn't be leavin' without me, would ya?"

Rita laughed. "I would be lost without my photographer. Though," and here she pushed a memo from the ministry toward him. "This time they've specified no photographs of the proceedings."

Bozo hummed. "So, setting up in the hallway then? Snap a few as they leave?"

Rita paused a moment, considering. "Ideally, but do try to ask permission this time. I've heard word that the Minister of Magic himself will be in attendance, and I don't think we need to antagonize him." She shrugged, "Besides, they'd dare not deny a photo—free press and all that."

"And if they do dare?"

"Take the photo anyway."

He smiled, a wide one that took up most of his face. "That's what I thought." He checked his watch. "Time to go?"

"I should think so." Rita snapped her bag closed and led the way out of the publishing house. One apparation later, she and Bozo strolled the halls of the Ministry. It always amused her how people would regard her. Some looked downright scared, others angry, and some waved pleasantly as she passed through the crowd. Rita had long forgone the idea of pleasing everyone; then again, maybe she'd never wanted to.

She checked her watch as they got into the lift, and turned to Bozo. "See if you can't snap a photo of Quirrell being brought into the court room."

For once, Bozo looked less pleased. He coughed, and pulled at his shirt collar. "You think we need that? I mean, there's only so much room in the paper and a shot of the kid and everyone leaving after they make the decision would make a better header, wouldn't it?"

Rita raised her eyebrow. "As opposed to the scandal of a previous Hogwarts professor being ushered in by Dementors?"

At the mention of the Azkaban guards Bozo lost colour. "W-what's their policy on photographs, anyway?" The lift skidded to a halt and Rita led the way out.

"I'd really rather not get my soul sucked out," Bozo called after her in a loud whisper.

"Are you daft?" Rita said turning around to stare at him. "That's the equivalent of a death sentence."

"So?"

She rolled her eyes. "They don't give someone the death sentence for taking photos."

But Bozo still looked unconvinced, not that she blamed him. Dementors were foul, and even if they didn't stoop to kiss her beloved photographer, there was still the emotional abuse to consider. But he would do it. She saw the resignation in the way he adjusted his bag strap, and in the setting of his jaw.

The man deserved a bonus for this.

Ahead, Rita spotted the courtroom doors, pushed open as Wizengamot members entered in talkative droves. She nudged Bozo. "Feel free to set up," she said, and after he'd nodded, she strode toward the crowd. By the door stood Cornelius Fudge, wearing his favorite bowler hat and engaging Lucius Malfoy in polite conversation. She didn't even need to clear her throat.

"Ah, Ms. Skeeter." Malfoy had turned around. She was always amazed by his ability to smile so convincingly. "Do you require a quote already?"

"Ms. Skeeter," Fudge said quickly, glancing at Malfoy with raised eyebrows. "I do think that this is hardly the time…" He sounded stressed. Lovely.

Rita smiled at the pair of them, enjoying the way it unsettled Fudge even more. "Oh, just greeting the gentry, nothing wrong with that I hope?"

Malfoy laughed, a smooth practiced sound. "Wouldn't expect any less from you, Ms. Skeeter. And—ah, young Mr. Evans is here at last."

"Oh. Good." Fudge deliberated for a moment, glancing at the pair of them before excusing himself and walking over to meet Florean and Merlin as they came up the hallway.

The boy looked like before, hair tousled but neat and his blue eyes brighter and older than they had any right to be. He seemed excited, with a slight spring in his step, though he was calm when shaking Fudge's hand. Florean looked more nervous, visibly fumbling his words. She heard Malfoy laugh softly beside her, and this time the sound was different. Darker, with a melancholy that reminded her of dark halls and monastery bells.

It gave her the chills.

"Something amusing?" she asked without averting her gaze from the boy.

"Fudge is terrified of him."

Rita tore her gaze away to stare at Malfoy, her lips parting slightly. "Is he now?" she asked, almost breathless. Now, that would be one hell of an angle for her story— "The boy himself or of what he says?"

Malfoy glanced at her, "I think you're clever enough to know which." Merlin and Florean passed by them, watching curiously. Rita waved to Merlin, and to her surprise he waved back. He disappeared into the courtroom.

"Well, I'll be sure to find you if I need a quote," Rita said, stepping toward the doors herself.

"I would be surprised if you didn't."

He followed her inside the room and the doors closed behind them. Malfoy had always freely given her quotes. Whether he enjoyed the spotlight or the spin she put on her stories—she didn't know. He was a difficult person to characterize, and she had no desire to antagonize a man who had managed to not only dodge punishment for Death Eater activity, but rise to great influence and power despite it. He could finish her career with one owl, and probably end her life at the same time. So, she tended to agree with whatever he said and was happy he gave her such amazing quotes for her articles.

Rita sat down at the end of the row in the guest section, putting her directly across Merlin and his guardian. At the moment, the boy was staring at the chair covered in chains, rooted at the center of the room. It seemed to unsettle him.

A rustle beside her told her that Malfoy had decided to take the seat next to her. And, for the first time, she wasn't sure how Malfoy wanted her to present the Merlin boy. She was suddenly scared of getting it wrong. Rita cleared her throat, steeling herself. Don't lose your nerve. She opened her purse and her acid green quill jumped out, followed closely by her notebook.

Conversation is muted this time around as the prospect of facing the defamed Quirrell and determining the allegations set against him turn the mood. Merlin Evans sits beside his guardian, Florean Fortescue, once again relying on the man in order to explain what's happening. He's nodded toward the chained chair in the center of the room, and frowns as Florean explains its purpose. Merlin does not seem to like the idea of chaining someone up, which is interesting since the main in question attempted to murder him and is facing allegations of conspiring with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Behind the podium, Amelia Bones got to her feet and silence fell at once.

Still supporting the monocle, when will the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement realize that it's the end of the twentieth century and buy herself a stylish pair of glasses that don't make her look like a stern school-teacher?

"The trial of Quirinus Quirrell, previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy, is now called to session. The defendant will present his case, following which he will be sentenced in accordance with the law."

Dumbledore has frowned—it's a well-known fact that the headmaster harbors no love for the dementors. Merlin appears to have frozen in his seat—dreading the arrival of his ex-professor, no doubt. Madam Bones nods towards the doors and they fly open to reveal Quirrell, escorted by two of the robed creatures.

Beside her Malfoy stiffened, and Rita felt the cold despair seize hold of her lungs. She never got used to it, even during her time as a crime reporter. That awful depression that lingered even after they'd left. She swallowed, trying to ignore the frosting of her breath and the whispers in her ear.

Quirrell looks haggard, with his cheeks sunken and eyes shadowed. A fuzz of light brown hair covers his head, the famed purple turban finally retired. And although there's sheen of sweat on his brow, he holds his head high. He stares unnervingly at Merlin who—

Rita's quill stopped.

Children often had a strong reaction to the dementors. All their fears and insecurities—even the unrealistic ones—made them easier targets. And children who were involved in criminal cases had it even worse. But even though Rita had been prepared to see Merlin pale-faced and shaking—the sight was so much worse.

Merlin had grabbed his head, and in the silence his shallow gasps filled the room. Florean put his hands on Merlin's shoulders, speaking in a hushed voice that echoed like a shout.

"It'll pass. Merlin—it's okay, I—are you all right?"

Rita could hear Merlin's breathing grow more labored. He sunk down in his seat, disappearing from her view. Florean stopped pretending to whisper entirely.

"Merlin!"

Dumbledore stood up, and Rita realized for the first time that the dementors had already seated Quirrell into the chained chair. They were hovering next to him, refusing to leave.

"Your duty is done, leave the room!" Dumbledore ordered the dementors, his voice just as cold as the air, and they quickly withdrew. The door swung shut behind them. As soon as they'd left, low conversation broke out.

"That was more than just emotional turmoil."

Rita glanced at Malfoy before looking back at Merlin. He was slowly getting back into his chair, taking the chocolate that Florean offered with shaking hands.

"Dementors don't cause physical pain."

"Pain is pain."

Merlin was rubbing his head with his fingers, speaking so quietly to Florean that Rita couldn't hear him. Dumbledore had leaned over to talk with him as well—and all the while, Quirrell watched. Silent. Blue eyes wide and curious.

Merlin appears to have had a particularly averse reaction to the dementors, Rita's quill scribbled across her notebook. Dementors summon forth the darkest memories, hidden away in our mind and force us to dwell on the worst. Were Merlin's memories so terrible that they caused him physical pain? Did Quirrell's attack leave lasting damage on the young boy's mind or are there worse skeletons in his closet? Contact source at St. Mungo's—can dementors cause physical pain e.g. headaches?

Amelia Bones banged her mallet down, restoring silence.

"Quirinus Quirrell, you've been charged with the assault and attempted murder of Merlin Evans, and of conspiring with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Before we pass judgment, do you have anything to say in your defense?"

Quirrell isn't surprised by the charges, in fact he smiles. He keeps his gaze fixed Merlin, although his words address the Wizengamot.

"Ask your questions. You know I have no defense that could possibly stand up to the testimony of Albus Dumbledore and Merlin." Finally his eyes turned to the Minister of Magic, seated just behind Madam Bones. "Even though I was unsuccessful the Dark Lord will rise again."

Cornelius Fudge has started to bluster, face turning purple. He is infuriated by the mention of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—or is he about to suffer a heart attack? How can the man protect us from the famed dark wizard if he falls apart at just the mention of him?

"Is that a confession?" asked Madam Bones.

Quirrell shrugged, smirking now.

"Then tell us, where did you find him?"

For a moment Quirrell didn't speak, seeming to enjoy the deepening color of Fudge's face. "I met the Dark Lord while traveling in Albania. The dark forest holds many ghosts, but he was less than even the weakest spirit. He helped me realize the truth of this world—"

"This is preposterous!" Fudge had stood up, his lip quivering. "This testimony is nothing but lies to cover the depth of his own greed." He pointed a wagging finger at Quirrell.

Is it about time Fudge stepped down as Minister of Magic?

Madam Bones slammed her mallet down again. "Minister, I am preceding over this case and the accused will be allowed to finish his statement."

"But you can't possibly—"

"That is irrelevant," she cut across sharply. "Quirrell is charged of conspiring with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and he will give testimony in regards to it. I must ask you to sit down or I will have you escorted from the courtroom."

In a rare display of power, Head of Magical Law Enforcement Madam Amelia Bones informs the Minister of Magic that his personal bias have no place within the courtroom and that if he doesn't sit down and behave like an adult she will remove him. Fudge doesn't know how to react—he appears both affronted and embarrassed. He stares open mouthed at Madam Bones for a moment before throwing himself back into his seat—fuming like a child. How often does she save our society from Fudge's needless tantrums?

"Continue, Mr. Quirrell," Madam Bones said after it was clear Fudge had calmed down. "What is this truth?"

"You can't kill a ghost." Quirrell started to laugh. Rita swallowed, and her pen hesitated again. "And you can't defeat someone who has mastered Death!" Across from her, Merlin had narrowed his eyes.

Quirrell might be a crazy psychopath, but he's not wrong.

Madam Bones cleared her throat. "All those in favor of acquitting Quirinus Quirrell?"

Not a single person raised their hand.

"Quirrell you are charged guilty of the crimes posed to you and I sentence you to life in Azkaban." She banged her mallet down for the final time.

"Ah, Amelia why don't we allow Merlin to excuse himself before the dementors return?" Dumbledore suggested. Rita wondered how he made it feel like an order when his tone was so polite.

"Perhaps a good idea—Merlin?"

Merlin nearly jumped to his feet, nodding to the pair of them at the same time. "Thanks," he said softly, his cheeks tinting with pink. Florean got up as well, and started leading the way down the row.

Quirrell met Merlin's eyes again, and Rita saw something more than curiosity. There was malice, surprise, and a mutilated form of respect that made her skin crawl. Her quill went to scribble something down but she stopped it. She didn't want to document that look—or the fear of what it implied.

The doors shut after them with a thud.

Only A Boy

"You all right, kiddo?"

Merlin nodded, although all right couldn't be further from the truth. "I want to talk to Rita Skeeter before we leave." The idea of her writing about—well, about what had happened to him in there with the dementors made him nervous. Or, how she could twist it did. Her photographer hovered nearby, looking confused. He'd had his camera set up next to the courtroom doors, but clearly hadn't expected them to leave ahead of everyone else. Merlin dimly registered that he'd probably ruined some amazing photograph of the lot of them exiting the courtroom together—

Florean put his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Well, let's go around the corner at least. The dementors should be coming any moment."

That got him moving. He walked with Florean down the corridor until they were standing right next to the elevators. But even from this distance, when they came—he knew.

Florean had neglected to mention the dementors until they'd gotten to the courtroom. They had probably just slipped his mind, but the rushed explanation about the Azkaban Guards hadn't prepared him at all. They'll make you feel sad hadn't quite covered it.

They hit Merlin like the Dorocha, a creature born from that black space of hopelessness. But the dementors didn't need to touch you to chill your bones like the Dorocha did. They drained every happy thought just from standing in the same vicinity. They found the worst memories buried deep and dragged them to the surface. Merlin cringed as he felt their aura drift over to him, cold prickling his mind. And then it started to hurt.

He hadn't known about the curse that had swallowed over half his life until the sorting hat had told him about it. It was the reason he couldn't remember why he'd come to this time period, and it was why he'd had such a hard time figuring out what he needed to do. He could barely remember the Hogwarts founders, even though they'd apparently been close friends. He couldn't remember the Bloody Baron or Helena Ravenclaw at all—even though they knew him. And every time he tried to touch those memories, it hurt.

The dementors reached right into that part of him, reaching for those memories with their rotting hands and forcing them to the surface. They didn't seem to know—or care—that they were too corrupted for him to actually recall. His head was splitting open, burning up, collapsing in on itself—

And he couldn't make it stop.

"Hey, you sure you're okay?"

Merlin managed to open his eyes, wincing as he looked up at Florean. His head still ached from his first encounter, let alone from the dementors currently down the hall. "I'll be fine." That was closer to the truth. He took a deep breath, relieved when he felt them leaving at last.

"Here, eat some more chocolate." Florean handed him the bar from earlier and Merlin eagerly broke off a piece.

"Why does it help?" he asked as he ate a piece. He felt his mood lift immediately, though he still felt weak and shaky.

Florean shrugged. "You'll have to ask a medi-witch for that one. I just know that it does."

Merlin nodded, finishing his chocolate. He heard the doors open and took another steadying breath. Time to face Rita Skeeter.

"You don't have to talk to her today, you know."

"I need to." Merlin grimaced and led the way back down the hallway. He stopped a little before the doors, watching as the photographer snapped a picture of the head Wizengamot members, Dumbledore, and Fudge.

"Ah, Mr. Evans, I hope you are feeling better."

Lucius Malfoy had emerged from the sidelines, and Merlin thought he saw a flicker of genuine concern in his light grey eyes. He hadn't expected that.

"Yes—a little."

Lucius gave him a long surveying look—as though he knew that Merlin wasn't being entirely honest—before turning to Florean. "You must be very proud, Mr. Fortescue."

Florean lifted his head slightly. "I am. Merlin's a good kid."

"I shudder to think what would have happened if he wasn't there to save the day."

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "That almost sounds like a compliment, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius chuckled softly, and readjusted his grip on his cane. "I know when to acknowledge power, Mr. Evans." He nodded curtly to the pair of them and started to walk away. "Oh, and Draco would like to purchase his school supplies next week. He's asked that you join him."

"Oh! Yeah! I mean, yes, that would be great." Merlin finally cracked a smile.

"He'll meet you at the shop." Lucius nodded again and left.

"I think he's warming up to me," Merlin said, turning to Florean but at the look on his guardian's face, his smile faded. Florean had his brows creased in worry, the lines of his face taunt. Merlin looked back at Malfoy's retreating back and said softly, "Don't look so grim, Florean. He hasn't asked me to be his new Dark Lord yet."

Florean started. He turned to Merlin and broke into a smile, shaking his head. "Well anyway, at least Draco will be coming around soon." Merlin didn't miss the way he avoided the subject.

"Ah, Merlin! Good, you're still here." Fudge had finally managed to escape Rita Skeeter and her photographer. He walked up to them, and slipped his arm over Merlin's shoulders. "Would you mind if I had a quick word?" he asked, nodding to Florean.

Merlin had a sinking feeling he knew what this was about. But he still nodded when Florean caught his eye.

"Of course, Minister," and with that, Fudge guided Merlin a little ways from the group. When they were a suitable distance away, he turned to Merlin and gave a strained smile.

"First," he said and he took Merlin's hand. "I want to congratulate you on the outcome of the trial. Unanimous vote, Quirrell won't ever be getting out of Azkaban."

The thought of a lifetime with dementors made Merlin shiver involuntarily. "But?" he asked, knowing what the minister really wanted to ask.

"But," and Fudge sighed. He glanced once more toward the group around the doors, and spoke in a bare whisper, "Are you positive you saw He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Did I miss something? Quirrell confessed sir," Merlin said slowly. If Fudge's explosion during the trial was any indication, the man was in serious denial. "What more proof do you need?"

Fudge gave a nervous laugh, putting his hand on Merlin's shoulder again. "You're young—" he began and immediately Merlin narrowed his eyes. "But not long ago every single criminal claimed to have been working with You-Know-Who. It was a popular plea bargain—your life in exchange for information. So forgive me if I don't take that man's word. He doesn't have two faces at the moment, after all."

Merlin's face had gone impassive. He was sure Fudge was right, and that several criminals had used Voldemort as an excuse for their heinous acts. "He made me do it," sounded a lot better than an outright confession—but Quirrell had admitted to voluntarily working with Voldemort. And there wasn't any bargain to be made.

"I know what I saw, sir."

"But it was dark. Isn't it possible you only thought you saw—"

Merlin shook his head and cut him off. "What do you have to gain Minister, by pretending he doesn't exist?"

Fudge flushed, but managed not to lose his temper. "Yes, well—" He let go of Merlin's shoulder at last and straightened up, adjusting his cloak. "Well, in any case Quirrell can't do anymore harm. You ought to head home, Merlin. Those dementors took their number on you," and he quickly left, walking not back toward the Wizengamot but to the elevators.

Merlin sighed, and turned back to the group. Florean was still talking with Dumbledore and smiled when he saw Merlin heading back. But he didn't join him, instead Merlin found Rita Skeeter—who was deep in conversation with Bozo, looking excited. She spotted him at once and smiled broadly.

"Merlin, congratulations!" She seemed honestly happy for him. "How are you feeling, dear?"

Merlin grimaced. "Actually—that's what I wanted to ask you about."

Rita raised her eyebrow. "Now, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Dementors bother everybody. Unless you're going to tell me what memory they brought up?" Her acid green quill shot out of her bag at once.

"No!" Merlin said at once, and Rita sighed heavily. "I just don't want you twist it or anything."

"Twist it?" Rita took a step back in mock indignation. "Of course not—I was merely going to tell my avid readers that you were upset by the arrival of the man that had put you through so much pain." Her smile turned feral, "Although a story about what sort of skeletons lie in your closet would be more interesting, wouldn't it?"

If she only knew how many skeletons…

"I just don't want you making any guesses about why," he said honestly. He swallowed, hoping that he wasn't giving her ideas instead. "I don't really want to deal with everyone at school asking me if it's true that I…" he trailed off implicitly, not wanting to finish that sentence.

Rita looked thoughtful. Her acid green quill had disappeared back into her bag. "Well, that's not entirely undoable. I'm sure you understand I can't omit it entirely."

Merlin nodded. "Yeah, just—" he shrugged.

"I'll see what I can do," and to his surprise, Rita gripped his shoulder briefly before turning back to her photographer.

Maybe he looked sicker than he'd thought. He found Florean walking toward him and decided that home—and bed—sounded like a brilliant idea.

Only A Boy

Cornelius Fudge was going to be a problem.

Dumbledore had known it for a while now, although he had hoped that the Minister would see reason. The fact that he refused to accept not just memory evidence but Quirrell's outright confession meant that his denial was worse than Dumbledore had feared. Fudge might never see reason. Fear could do that to a person.

He watched as Merlin retreated to the elevators with Florean. The boy certainly looked worse for wear, that pallid quality in his cheeks hadn't left since the encounter with the dementors. Florean had told him that even from down the hall, Merlin had sensed them. Dumbledore couldn't say he was entirely surprised—if the incident with the troll was anything to go by, Merlin had a strange affinity with magical creatures. Though it was interesting…

"Headmaster."

Amelia Bones had disentangled herself from the crowd. She fixed him with those cold blue eyes and nodded—a look he understood. It was time to plan countermeasures. He fell into step beside her, and together they left the Wizengamot members still excitedly discussing the case. Amelia was still fuming over Fudge's outburst—he could see it in the rigidity of her shoulders, in the corners of her mouth.

"He's just scared," he told her. "I still hope that he'll come around eventually."

Amelia shook her head. "There's only so much evidence he can ignore. At this point it's willful negligence and it won't be long before his inaction has brutal consequences." But she didn't sound angry, if anything the Head of Magical Law Enforcement sounded exhausted. "His fear has frozen him, and we can't be led by a frozen man."

They'd reached her office. Amelia pushed open the door for him, revealing another man already waiting inside, appraising the Vase with twelve flowers. "You must tell me where you acquired this, Madam," he said as he turned to the pair of them. "I do think my office could use a little color." He inclined his head, "Albus."

"Rufus."

Rufus Scrimgeour bore his age with pride. His mane of tawny hair had streaks of grey, though from behind wire-rimmed spectacles his yellowish eyes were alive. He crossed over to them, and despite a slight limp in his leg; there was a surprising even loping grace to his movements. The Head of the Auror Office extended his hand to Dumbledore, who clasped it, feeling rough hands.

"It's good to see you again," Dumbledore said with a smile.

Rufus grimaced. "Wish it were under better circumstances." He turned to Amelia. "I received the memo—Quirrell admitted it then?"

She closed the door behind them and nodded, going to her desk. "It has become apparent that You-Know-Who is actively trying to return to power." She sat down, and after a moment Rufus took one of the high-backed musky red chairs. Dumbledore remained standing.

"We knew this day would come," he said heavily, resting his hand on the back of Rufus' chair. "One would hope we'd be more prepared."

"With Fudge ignoring the signs?" Rufus scoffed. "I assume he didn't take Quirrell's admittance well."

"That would be putting it mildly," Amelia said. She brought her hands together before her, thoughtful. "I will try—" and here she met Dumbledore's eyes "—to work on him, but we can't wait for Fudge to catch up."

"What do you need?" Rufus said at once, sitting up in his chair.

"Although we cannot yet officially reinstate the Order of the Phoenix, it would be prudent to inform all former members of these proceedings." She met Dumbledore's gaze again, and continued after he'd nodded. "See who else we can bring into the fold—but we can't give Fudge a reason to panic."

"Panic?" repeated Rufus, frowning.

"If he suspects we are acting without his approval and under the assumption that Voldemort is returning," Dumbledore said, noting the way the room flinched at the name, "he may believe we mean to usurp him. His fear will not let him differentiate between the nonsense and practicality, and we don't need to fight the ministry as well."

"This isn't going to stay quiet," Rufus said glancing between the two of them.

"I'd be very surprised if Fudge allowed the Prophet to start broadcasting news of Voldemort's return," Dumbledore said raising his eyebrow. "He doesn't want a panic, and he's going to try to squash any attempt to do otherwise."

Amelia sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Well, all the same we don't want a public panic either. I'll do what I can to make Fudge see sense—if we're lucky he'll get enough heat to sanction the reinstatement of the order just for determent purposes. He's not back yet, but his death eaters are certainly still around."

"Yes," Dumbledore said nodding. He had no doubt that Lucius Malfoy would inform the rest of his circle the details of Quirrell's case. It was only a matter of time before they acted, if only to save their own skins.

"That's it?" Rufus said, his voice rising. "That's all we can do? We have a chance to get out in front of this."

"And we are, my friend. But this is a place where we must tread carefully," Dumbledore said calmly. "Fudge might still come around, and at this stage panicking the public without a real threat just might push the death eaters to act before Voldemort actually returns."

"Right now," Amelia said meeting Rufus' eyes, "this is just story of failure. Those with fluid alliances won't see this as true power. But if even one of them decides to follow in Quirrell's footsteps, he will come back. I don't know how, but it's clear to all of us here—" and she paused a moment to look at Dumbledore "—that it's only a matter of time. We need that time."

"To do what?" Rufus growled. "Convince Fudge?"

"To prepare, Rufus," Dumbledore said softly. "It's been nearly twelve years, all our contacts have dried up. Alliances have broken. And what more, we don't even know how he's coming back to power." He shook his head. "We already killed him once, Rufus. It's clear that isn't going to be enough this time."

Rufus finally nodded, the heat leaving his face. He stroked his chin for a moment, fingers curling in his tawny hair. "I'll see what I can do. One of my auror's might have a contact in the Department of Mysteries, perhaps they can figure something out."

"Very good, keep me informed." Dumbledore checked his watch, "And I must be getting back to the school—they'll be needing this information as well."

"Of course." Amelia and Rufus both stood, and Dumbledore nodded to the pair of them.

It didn't take Dumbledore long after that to apparate to Hogsmeade, and twenty minutes later he strode into his office. But before he'd even had a chance to sit down, the office door banged open and Snape barged inside.

"Tell me you aren't serious," he spat, crossing the room in a few furious strides.

"I generally am, although in this case you'll need to be more specific."

Snape's lip curled. "I've just been told that you've decided whom to hire as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."

Dumbledore sighed and sat down at his desk. "I'm sure you're aware I couldn't hire you."

"I know that," Snape shot back his voice rising. "But surely there were better candidates than him?"