"Maybe… I want to say something to you before… Thank you"

—

?, The Himalayas

On top of snowy peaks, far from human influences of any and all kinds, was a falcon. Now, there were many things that one might think when seeing a bird on top of a mountain above the clouds.

If the watcher were to be an enthusiast of creatures of the avian variety, they would be flummoxed, for that bird in particular would not be one that could be on top of that mountain. Or within a hundred miles of that mountain.

Or a thousand, really.

But that would be semantics.

The real question would be…

Why is a bird of prey commonly found in plains known to prefer trees of a medium height as their roosts on top of the world's tallest mountain?

"The view's to die for, but the effort to get here isn't really worth it. Or is it the effort taken to get all the way here that makes this scene so beautiful in the first place? Or maybe it's the magic of the sun's glare and immense cold? Perhaps the theory of S- no, but then, hmm, but that one guy from Aus- no he was a crook. Why am I even here again?"

The bird, smoothly transitioning into a human being while pacing around, lost in thoughts incomprehensible to anybody not well beyond the realm of… normal and paced around the mountain peak.

A peak the rough size of four tennis tables stacked together side by side lengthwise.

A peak that was slowly changing and transforming with every frantic step the black-haired man with the rather prominent ears pacing on it rather furiously, before stopping suddenly when the first rays of the sun touched him.

"Oh… That massive idiot! He…"

For a while, there was nothing but solemn silence on the top of the mountain. And then the man got smacked in the face by a flying paper aeroplane.

"Oh, of all things, I was having a moment! I know it was you, you little kit-kat! I have a stave and I'm not afraid to use it with my perfectly functioning voice, thank you very much!"

Even as he grumbled, the man unfolded the sheet of paper, absent-mindedly flicking a finger at the mountain top that reverted to its previous state.

The sheet revealed itself to be a newspaper. The front page of a brand that the man had found particularly obnoxious and his friend found entirely hilarious.

Hilarious enough to be strategically placed wherever he would look, first thing in the morning

The paper's front page seemed to be entirely dedicated to a rather unflattering picture of some poor, beggar-looking chap in some big room.

The man sighed, the paper hadn't changed much since the last time he had last cursed his eyes with the curse of looking at one of its pages.

How the paper made it all the way to him was a thought that didn't really bear the need for much thought. Magic had a way of bringing things to his attention when it was properly needed.

Case in point, the mountain.

Judging by the date on the newspaper, assuming that it was fresh, and that there hadn't been a change in the calendar system since he had last checked, which would really suck, he had been stuck on the mountain for about seventy years, more or less.

The man sighed deeply, fondly patting the top of the mountain, reassuring the magic within that there was no fault to be found in its actions. It was perfectly normal for a living being to feel lonely, after all.

Maybe even himself. Although he wasn't quite there yet. He could endure. He had a purpose.

But perhaps he missed his best friend.

He could endure.

But by all that was magical, he missed switching a particular idiot blonde's boots and watching him stumble around trying to figure out why he was being so clumsy for no perceivable reason. Of course, he would declare the reason to be witchcraft and leave it at that when he suddenly walks fine the next day.

He missed messing with his tankards and laughing as the kindhearted idiot tried to go through his day in court without showing how much he absolutely hated that his 'water' was actually 'fermented goat milk'.

The man sighed as he mused on how far he used to be able to go before the king's poker face would break.

The answer was, in case you might prove curious, was 'quite far'.

The man opened the newspaper, from his homeland, because that place always had quite the way with words.

As he fondly reminisced on the nature of the yellow pages before his eyebrows shot up.

"Huh. Looks like it's time I went home."

The wind softly ruffled his hair as the man spoke, and he took a step, before disappearing from the mountain. The only thing there that spoke of him ever being there was a particularly warm gust of wind passing westwards.

—

Albus Dumbledore looked at the documents in front of him in befuddlement before looking at his jar of sweet meats, wondering if his staff had somehow managed to get his Potions Master to agree to dose him on a Bewildering Bauble for a prank, before turning to the person who gave him the document to ask a question.

Before he could, he was interrupted by a sigh, "Yes, Albus, that is indeed what it says. I checked. I had Filius check, then I had Pomona check, then I had Poppy check us. It's real."

Albus blinked at his second, sighing himself before getting up from his seat, taking off his hat, and began preparing tea.

Neither of them spoke a word as he poured her and then himself a cup of strong, black tea. It was not the occasion for sweets.

Albus sipped his tea and began, "You know, Minerva, one might say that our dear Professor has-"

"Don't Albus. I won't be able to hold m'self back. The sheer absurdity of this situation wants me to pop out a large mug and fill it with Irish coffee just like how me Nan used to make me on Christmas. We have work that needs doin'. And you need to concentrate on the school now. Call one of ye'r old mates and ask if one of 'em would-"

Albus blinked slowly at his perturbed Vice-headmistress even as she ranted and conjured up, with the help of a kind House-elf nearby, a peace-offering in the form of a large mug filled with an unidentifiable dark liquid.

Minerva took the mug and immediately took her leave, clearly intent on not showing her face to anyone in the castle.

Albus was relieved that the news had been broken to him so early in the holidays with so much time to spare, but his problem was not one he had ever thought would be one that would occur that he would have to deal with.

A strange thing to think of what should be a perfectly ordinary event. Something that should have happened before Albus had first stepped foot on Hogwarts, really. Why had it not happened?

"I can see what you're thinking there, Albus. It's not my fault that our brilliant professor left as soon as his contract term was finished without a single minute for poor me to renegotiate." A portrait behind Albus huffed, knowing him far too well.

"Brilliant man, he had been, that Aeolus. Brought magic to his classrooms, he did. Can't blame me for sticking a contract up his assistant's arse, can ya? Who woulda thought old Binns would be… that?"

Albus indeed thought that. The contract that good Armando had been talking about had been one that he had been thinking of a way to break for all of his Professorship on Hogwarts.

It had dogged him in his sleep, sometimes, seeing impressionable young students having such an… impression of the history of magic.

In his hands was the signed and sealed resignation of one Cuthbert Binns.

A cause for much celebration for Minerva and himself, certainly. There had been a big pot on Binns' retirement before their own timely (or, as it was looking more and more likely with every year, his own untimely) demise(s).

A hefty sum, to be sure.

Albus paused in his musings and asked the portrait of his own Headmaster to clarify on something, "excuse me, Headmaster Dippet, but who was our dearly departed Professor Binns' predecessor? Their name, please?"

"Oh, why do you ask? hmm, the man mightily disliked being addressed with his own name, preferring to be called his last name. Aeolus, I believe?" The portrait snapped its fingers at Albus, "Ah, yes! Dragoon E. Aeolus! That's it. brilliant man. Reclusive family, if I am to understand it. Dreadfully susceptible to diseases till they hit fourteen or so."

"Hmmm."

"I know that sound, Albus. What are you planning?"

"I don't know, old friend," he replied as he took an unopened letter addressed to the Headmaster of Hogwarts from one Ariel E. Aeolus, "hopefully something to save myself some time. The situation with-"

"Bah, I know, I know. Just don't be surprised when you see some new variety of magical creature. That family is infamous for encountering the weirdest things."

Now, that was a story that Albus believed was worth remembering. "Oh? As in?"

"Oh, I don't know…"

Albus knew exactly what was happening and let himself be hooked anyway. He had always been a sucker for good stories. "Do tell me, Professor Dippet."

"Well, just remember that if you see a flying cat that talks, don't be too surprised." The man smugly left the boundaries of his portrait, leaving the flummoxed face of Albus Dumbledore behind, laughing heartily all the while.

Albus sighed at his own eccentric Headmaster and began writing a letter.

Next Time-

Harry saw a girl his own age in strange clothes armed with a huge walking stick hopping aboard the Hogwarts Express, holding what looked like a deeply upsetting conversation with the white cat on her shoulders.