The arsenic-green office seems little changed, save that there is another person in a second uncomfortable chair. "Used the headmaster's floo, John?" the Minister asks, making conversation.
"No. Went down to the inn," Dawlish acknowledges. "Don't like him thinking he gets to control my comings and goings."
"Well said," Dolores tells him, wearing a subtly different shade of pink. "Especially after he tricked you into being responsible for all those… children."
"I find that I don't mind as much as I thought, ma'am," he shrugs. "They've been surprisingly easy so far. Just glad to have someone finally teaching them something interesting."
"Not too interesting, I hope," she counters.
"Now, now, Dolores," the Minister cautions. "Let's not have this debate again. We can't simply avoid teaching them how to fight."
"Why not?" she says, steamrolling his attempts to stop the argument. "I think one of the only things the muggles have gotten right is to try to take weapons out of the hands of the general public. John, certainly the aurors would have an easier time if every student from Hogwarts didn't know how to fight them?"
"Theoretically," Dawlish nods, clearly trying to find a polite way to explain, "but I don't think we can keep the spells out of their hands. There's already an obvious difference between those learning entirely from Hogwarts and those that can be homeschooled by their parents, just in the first few weeks I've been teaching them."
"Then we just make that illegal," she waves away. "A disarmed population is a safe population."
"Except we can't take their wands away the way the muggles can take their handguns," Dawlish explains, barely even stumbling over the muggle word. "If only you needed a special focus for combat spells, then we'd be getting somewhere. But there's no way to know if someone's learned those spells until they're casting them at you."
"Maybe," she allows, "but if they're not learning it at school, then at least the muggleborn won't know them when they inevitably…" she corrects herself as the two men begin to object, "if they descend into a life of crime and dark magic."
"It also means that there's a lot more work training new aurors," Dawlish tries to change the argument. "No wonder our latest crop of recruits were so green, with the defense instruction recently. Andromeda Black's girl is the only one out of the lot that didn't require six weeks of remedial, and for sure she learned it from her mum."
"Andromeda Tonks, you mean?" she corrects. "Such a scandal that marriage was."
The Minister finally decides to get his meeting back on track, suggesting, "We can table the discussion of educational standards. We're here to learn what John has uncovered."
Dolores grudgingly says, "Of course."
Seeing that he has permission, Dawlish begins his summary, "No rumors of Black being anywhere near the castle. And there would be rumors. One good thing about teaching is that I overhear a lot, when the kids gossip in class and don't think I'm paying attention. Already passed on a half dozen actionable tips to Scrimgeour just based on kids talking about their families."
"We'll keep the dementors in the field all the same," the Minister decides. "If for nothing else than the cover. And it would look bad if we removed them and he did show up. It's strange that no one has turned up any real sightings of him. We even told the muggle press that he was an escaped killer and gave them a way to contact us. Nothing."
"Neither Dumbledore nor Potter seem worried, either," Dawlish shrugs. "Maybe the old man has his little birds giving him better information of Black's whereabouts than we have. Maybe they already caught him and put him in the ground for what he did to the Potters." He sighs and admits, "But I'm just speculating."
"Shame," Dolores says. "This 'Order of the Phoenix' would be illegal if we could prove he was operating it again."
"Barely," the Minister corrects. "I think it's technically classed as a valid mercenary organization from the war, when we needed all the help we could get. Gray area about whether it's not acceptable in peacetime. First we'd have to prove they were active, and then get the wizengamot to censure it. Hard sell while Albus is Chief Warlock."
"Yes, well," Dawlish begins speaking again, when it's clear that the Minister is finished, "you got my letters about Quirrell and about the basilisk?"
"We did," the Minister nods. "An actual basilisk?"
"I saw it moments after Potter killed it," Dawlish nods. "Colossally huge. I wouldn't have wagered the entire creatures department would have been able to take it down, especially without most of them dying. Potter and his friends figured it out, got a rooster, and Bob's your uncle."
"Good thinking, that lad. I suppose the stories are truer than we expected, then?" the Minister checks.
"He's definitely got the ethic to solve problems," Dawlish acknowledges. "And he's probably the best in his year in my class. I hear he's doing very well in his others as well. Could be the next Dumbledore, at this rate."
"I take it you don't say that lightly?" asks the older man. Getting a nod, he suggests, "We should meet him. Get him on side. I hear he plays quidditch? Maybe we can go see the next match…"
Dawlish nods, "Sounds like a plan, sir. He can't go to Hogsmeade yet, so you'd have to meet him on the grounds."
"Good. Now, back to your earlier point. What is this about Quirrell? Possession?"
"Sounded far-fetched," Dolores adds.
"That one I didn't see," Dawlish prefaces, "But according to Potter and to the other rumors in the school…"
Once again, Schöne Margarete lurks at the mouth of the alley, perhaps hoping for a better hunt this evening. A different club has already moved in across the way, popping up in another abandoned warehouse and playing a subtly different strain of dance music. Unfortunately, that means that the foot traffic is on the other side of the road, and she lurks impatiently, waiting for someone to come closer to her hiding place.
Finally, a shabbily-dressed man and his equally-shabby black dog pass in view of the alley. She hesitates, the dog clearly a risk, but perhaps the two are homeless and won't be missed. Trying a different tactic since these likely don't have a penny to spare, she simply asks, "Guten abend, mein Herr. Haben sie eine Zigarette?"
"I'm sorry," the man answers, he words English in both language and accent. "My German's a little rusty. Are you asking for a cigarette?" As he pats his pockets, seemingly to check, he moves closer and the strobing lights of the club catch the side of his face, revealing a few old, deep scars. His face looks drawn, as if he's very recently been ill, or is badly hungover.
"Yes, please, for an old woman," she says, reaching out a hand as the man comes almost within reach.
"Oh, you don't seem so old," he says, politely, stepping into the darkness of the alley where she's ready to strike. "At least for a hag, yes?"
That stops her as she's preparing to make the grab. And she realizes she's lost track of the dog. With a quick whip of her head, she spots it, bracketing her against the alley wall. She'd have to clamber over the dumpster behind her to escape and, yes, as she turns back the man has a wand leveled at her and would have an easy shot at her back. "What do you want?"
"Well, we can talk later about how you shouldn't really be trying to eat muggle tourists and clubgoers," he begins. "But I think the more pressing question is whether you recently met an old friend of ours… and where you directed him after that."
"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offers Severus Snape, as he takes a seat in front of the headmaster's desk. The office remains just as busily furnished as it ever is, though the slightly-mournful, yet still beautiful sound is new.
"Your bird is broken," Snape observes, not even bothering to reject the offer of sweets and looking over at the faded red ball of feathers sitting close to the fireplace for warmth.
"I must admit, I had expected his burning day to come sooner," the headmaster agrees. "I believe with all that is going on recently, he has chosen to wait. Or perhaps I simply misremember the length of his last few cycles."
"Potter's mind is unbreachable, at least with subtlety," the potions professor changes the subject, small talk over. "I could certainly try the spell with a wand and the incantation, should you allow it."
"That seems a bit extreme," Dumbledore negates. "And his friends?"
"As open as ever. Though they have begun to avoid looking me in the eye, as if they understand what is happening."
"Hmm," Dumbledore muses. "Irma did ask me about the missing occlumency tomes in the library. It's possible they somehow realized what was happening. I thought I noticed a reaction from young Harry when I last tried. They have been reading extensively of late, so might have come across the concept and recognized what was happening. In which case I have more to repair in this relationship than I expected."
"What bothers me is how the child developed his resistance in the first place," Snape says. "It didn't feel like any occlumency I've encountered before."
"The basilisk? Well, none have ever suggested such a boon before, but none have slain a basilisk of such age, let alone one with the past of Harry Potter." Seeing that Snape isn't buying it either, he suggests, "He mentioned that Lucius' house elf was trying to warn him about the Chamber. Could it be some elven protective magic?"
"It could be. Short of questioning Dobby, I don't know how we'd find out."
"Ah, you are familiar with the elf in question. The children suggested that he is very badly treated?" Dumbledore pushes a slight reprimand.
"Do you want me to insist to the Malfoys that they take better care of their servants? That elf is not the worst-treated of those I've encountered in Death Eater households."
"I believe the children are planning to make that issue moot, regardless," the old man grins conspiratorially. "Speaking of other households, it occurred to me that Tom might have secretly sired an heir of his own. As, I believe, it occurred to Hermione Granger."
"Not to my knowledge," the younger man shakes his head. "If he'd bedded anyone within the circle, it would have been very unlikely to remain a secret. And he was always very focused on mayhem in the field, not the… other activity that some engaged in."
"A secret lover, perhaps?"
"He never loved anyone but himself," Snape snarls. "And seemed fundamentally uninterested in carnal relations for their own sake."
Dumbledore sighs, "Then we remain without a lead as to who was able to open the passage and summon the basilisk."
"You're avoiding the obvious," Snape insists. "Potter found out about it. He summoned it. And he killed it for the glory."
"You really should see the boy as he is, not as the copy of his father you imagine him to be, Severus. To the best of my knowledge, the slaying of the basilisk would have remained a secret had Myrtle Warren not spread the tale around. Harry still seems reticent to answer questions about it. Especially with Lucius' involvement, I believe it is exactly as he said: someone else released it, he heard it, and they eventually came to the correct conclusion."
"And then marched off on their own to fight a monster that would have challenged the entire staff of the castle," Snape sneers.
"Taking the kind of initiative we hope to see in the future," Dumbledore shrugs. "I think that he is in little true danger unless he is face-to-face with Tom himself."
"And the starry-eyed followers that he drags into danger with him?"
The old man sighs, admitting, "I cannot begrudge the young man for surrounding himself with good-hearted companions, nor blame him for those that may fall in the pursuit of good works. I believe those that are with him understand the dangers."
"They're children. Annoying, idiotic children, but children nonetheless. They won't understand the danger they're in until they're dead on the ground. Maybe not even then, with as quick as the Weasleys are on the uptake."
"Perhaps," the headmaster dismisses. Changing the subject, he asks, "While you're here, what can you tell me about the first-years?"
"Every year, a worse crop of dunderheads…"
The room made of paper and ink is well lit, moving light playing across the couch as the dark-haired young man stares at the portal to the real world in concentration. Still somewhat blurred, it is at least clear enough to navigate in, which is what he appears to be doing. A subtle bob of the frame indicates that it is not some magical camera he is piloting, but a human being, staring through their eyes.
Gray stone and curving walls reveal that the person the boy in the room is controlling is climbing the stairs of a tower, stopping at a door as the shake of the view lessens at the top step. A tiny, pale hand reaches out into frame to open the wooden door, but it opens before being touched, revealing a small, mouse-haired boy with a large camera hung around his neck.
"Oh, hey! Posting a letter early, too?" the camera boy asks. "My little brother is so excited to get owl mail! But I guess you're used to it, huh?"
"Yes," the shade on the couch says, his words having an odd echo as they're repeated at a higher pitch in the real world, "just writing home to mum, you know. See you later."
The dismissal seems to take, and the mouse-haired boy nods, "See you!" He disappears from the frame as he heads down the stairs. As he moves, the view turns to confirm he's actually leaving, and then snaps back to the room.
Inside, dozens of owls sit on various perches, the floor of the room surprisingly clean for such a roost. A brilliantly white owl stands out from the others, and the boy in the couch mutters, "I could so easily take something from him in payment for what he took from me… later, perhaps."
Having reached that conclusion, he gestures from the couch as if pulling something from a robe pocket, and the hand in the frame comes back into view holding a stack of small envelopes, already affixed with cord to tie each to an owl's leg. One by one, the small hands in the viewing window (mimicking the motions of the boy on the couch) tie them to the legs of the owls, sending them on their way. Each is addressed to Hogwarts, and each sports a different name. One by one, they reveal Marcus Flint, Marilyn Macnair, Lucian Bole, Nerys Orpington, Graham Montague, Theodore Nott, and finally—almost grudgingly—Draco Malfoy.
"There. Let's see if any of them are worthy of their parentage," the boy says to himself, and then says, more loudly, "Back downstairs, girl. Let's see if I can let go without you passing out this time. Wouldn't do to have you fall down the stairs…"
Harry furiously scrabbled to find a quill, ink, and parchment as Ron's alarm woke him. He was remembering more this time, struggling to hang onto the particulars of the dreams that might not be dreams.
The most recent was the most clear: the Heir was writing to the Slytherins, probably with some new plan.