Author's Notes: You will notice that this chapter is very short, and seems rather abrupt at the end. This is done for a reason, so I'd like for you to keep that in mind. You'll also notice that this is the second-to-last chapter.

Augurey Lullabies:
Professor Binns

A deep and penetrating chill had overcome the castle, seeing into even the most inaccessible of corners. As the months of winter neared and progressed each year, it was always the same. Yet for some, as each day passed, the cold grew more prominent and instilled itself in the very marrow of their bones. Bones that were old and thin and fragile, just as were the bodies for which they created form. However, such bones were scarce within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for its walls housed a large portion of wizarding youth, whose exuberance seemed to make them immune to the true nature of the season.

Still, it was not so cold to force water to freeze into ice and snow, and so a heavy rain lashed against the castle that evening. The glass panes inset into each window shuddered within its frame as thunder rolled across the deeply darkening sky, briefly illuminating as bolts of lightning shot through the clouds. Through sorrowful eyes, a green-plumed bird watched the onslaught of droplets, giving a low, despondent cry as they fell until it was fused into a melancholy song.

There was a rustle of movement as the augurey started from its perch upon the back of a winged chair. A chair whose occupant too had stirred just a moment before.

Cuthbert Binns raised a papery hand to calm it, age-spotted fingers deftly stroking its feathers until it nuzzled its head against him. He murmured softly an inaudible statement, and the bird closed its eyes.

At the subtle sound of a door opening, the eyes of both man and fowl flew open, wide and alert. A young witch entered the room, her Head Girl badge gleaming in the firelight.

"Ah, my apologies, Professor, the girl said, stepping in further. "I didn't know you'd be sleeping."

"That's quite alright, Miss Merrythought," he replied quietly. His voice was low and dry as though parched. "I was merely resting. Is there a matter you wished to discuss?"

"Yes, Sir. The Headmaster sent me to tell you that he has called a meeting, for the Heads of Houses. It's in the staff lounge, at ten-thirty tonight."

Cuthbert nodded. "Very well, then. Thank you, Miss Merrythought."

When she hesitated, he looked at her sharply through his spectacles. "Is there something else?"

The girl looked uncomfortable. "Er, he wanted me to accompany you—"

"You may tell the Headmaster that I am in no need of assistance," he interrupted. "And I shall be there shortly."

"Yes, Sir," she nodded, knowing not to press further, and turned from the room.

With a sigh, he glanced at the clock upon his desk. The thin hands pointed out ten-twenty-five. The girl must have been delayed, or had otherwise delayed herself, for he knew the Headmaster as one to give a much greater forewarning than that which had just been delivered. Galatea Merrythought, though in possession of a quick wit, was not a member of his own House; rather, she was suitably placed in Gryffindor. Always did she mean well—for that was why he himself had recommended her as Head Girl—yet there were occasions in which he could not help but believe that a Ravenclaw was better suited, or perhaps simply more reliable.

Cuthbert closed his eyes and braced his arms upon those of the chair as he prepared to stand. With a grinding, nigh unearthly creak, he stood, his bones protesting their sudden shift in position. He breathed deeply for a moment, and then glanced once more at the clock. A minute had passed since he last had looked. A proper forewarning would have allowed him to traverse to the staff lounge by way of foot, yet now he was presented with little choice but to travel by fireplace. He was partial to walking, having done a great deal of it in his youth, though as of late, he had found the castle to be far too chilled to venture far from his usual places in the edifice. At the very least, the utilization of Floo Powder would bring a bit of warmth to him; it seemed as though he could never escape the cold which constantly clenched at his flesh.

With a shaking arm, he reached to pat the head of the augurey, then turned to the fireplace. His fingers quivered as he fumbled with the lid of the jar in which the powder was contained, so much so that it fell to the floor and rolled to a stop at his shoes. There it would have to lie until he returned, he decided, not feeling that he had the time to replace it upon the jar. It seemed so strange; only the day before, it felt as though his grip had been sturdy and firm. However, the day before might have also been a lifetime ago, or perhaps merely a century. Time had little place or sense of being to a man whose two-hundredth birthday had passed more decades ago than he could readily recall. Like most men, he was proud, but unlike many, he was reasonable, and could not deny the truths that logic provided. Cuthbert Binns had, at some point either in history or the present, become old.

The fire roared up in a rush, greedily devouring the Floo Powder nigh as soon as it was dropped. The aged man inched forward, summoning an ebony cane from the air around him. This was a last measure, for he had always prided himself in his punctuality. In all of his life, never had he been a moment late, nor had he been a moment early.

"The staff lounge," he wheezed, and pulled himself into the now emerald flames.

Just as he had hoped and predicted, he was instantaneously encompassed in a feeling of warmth, and he relished the few seconds he found himself experiencing it. The spinning did catch him off-guard, however, for he had not remembered it being so dizzying. When at last he reached his destination, he leaned heavily upon his cane, breathing deeply as he had before. And nearly as soon as he emerged from the fireplace, he felt someone at his side.

"I am perfectly capable, Miss Merrythought," he panted.

"Cuthbert." The voice was low and stern, though not unfriendly. He blinked, struggling to peer at the speaker and adjust his spectacles simultaneously.

"Ah, Edward, I'm afraid I didn't—"

"You caused Miss Merrythought a great deal of distress when he refused her assistance, you must realize," the young Headmaster told him gently. Begrudgingly, Cuthbert allowed the man to lead him to a chair—one which, he did not fail to notice, was the nearest to the fire.

"And you must realize that, as I have said many a time before, I am perfectly capable of movement without assistance…"

"No doubt you meant to walk all this way—"

"Never mind me, Edward." He waved his hand in slight impatience, settling comfortably into the cushion which the chair provided. "I doubt that this meeting was called the discuss the habits that come with age."

Edward nodded, and then glanced about the room. The three remaining Heads of Houses had arrived respectively within two minutes of each other, and were regarding him with expectance.

"Very well," he sighed, and moved to the center of the room. "As Cuthbert as just informed us, I have not called this meeting to discuss matters that would now seem redundant to us. It has come to my attention that there have been a series of… attacks, perhaps one might say, between members of different Houses. The rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin has escalated to such a degree that—"

"I thought we were avoiding redundancy," a stout witch muttered as she adjusted the position of her yellow and black scarf. The man beside her chuckled appreciatively, though Edward scowled.

"This time, Augusta, it differs. Numerous students have already been sent to the Hospital Wing, and are under intensive care. Members of your House as well, if I must remind you."

"It is alarming, I admit, but—"

"It's understandable!" barked the man who had chuckled before. Cuthbert gave a sigh into his cold hand, though this exhaling of breath soon turned into a loud and resonating cough. He needed not to look up to sense Edward's alarm.

"Edward," he growled when once more he could breathe. The Headmaster was nigh a child to him, and had little understanding of age. There was no reason for him to possess such knowledge, though at times, his ignorance caused Cuthbert to become weary. The man had always cared too much; Cuthbert knew this well, for he had taught Edward throughout the entirety of his schooling.

"It's understandable," the Head of Gryffindor reiterated, though with less enthusiasm than before. "After all, what with the approach of the Triwizard Tournament so near, students simply wish to increase their chances of being selected as a champion."

"Sabotage is inexcusable, Orion! We must…"

It was then that Cuthbert found himself unable to hear as clearly, and his eyelids began to lower as though weighted with bags of sand. Like slipping beneath the surface of a Lake, his muscles relaxed, and he drifted off into slumber, heaving one last, great sigh. Somewhere in the castle, an augurey gave a low, mournful cry, and the rain drummed on.