Seated round the table, some at ease, others tense, were several wizards. Dumbledore himself, still just as bearded, still in the same violet robes and half-moon spectacles, sat at the head of the table. Molly and Arthur Weasley sat a little way off, deep in some heated but quiet discussion of their own, making no unnecessary noise. Sirius, looking a good deal livelier than at our last meeting, was chatting happily with Potter — the two of them sat to Dumbledore's right. Moody was there too, seated so as to keep everything in view — the entrance, the windows, the lot. Naturally, even sitting at the table, he leant on his great, unwieldy staff. Oh, and he'd refreshed his wardrobe — the combat leathers and fabrics were clearly new, the cloak new too, and I had no doubt that among the heap of magical rigs and pockets was stashed a whole arsenal, offensive and defensive both, mixed in with potions.
Tonks was busying herself with something incomprehensible and had already managed to catch her foot on a chair leg, very nearly crashing to the floor, which drew everyone's attention.
"Sorry," her hair briefly took on some mortified colour I couldn't even begin to describe.
Once everyone had finished being distracted by Tonks, their gaze fell on me.
"Hector, darling!" Molly Weasley, in some bright green-and-blue floral dress, hurried over and patted my shoulders, her face full of a kind of pride, as though I were her own son. "My, haven't you grown!"
"Hello, Mrs Weasley," I smiled. "Glad to see you in good health."
She nodded with a smile and stepped back, returning to her seat, while I approached the table, extending a hand to Arthur.
"Mr Weasley."
"Hector," he shook it with a smile. "Children do grow up frightfully fast these days."
I went round greeting everyone in turn, and Dumbledore ended up last in the queue.
"Professor," I nodded.
"Mr Granger," he smiled into his beard. "Glad that at least one person remembers my little request to be addressed as 'Professor.'"
Everyone took their seats round the table and looked to Dumbledore. Just as he was about to begin speaking, Kreacher entered the room, giving a deliberately loud creak to a door that had never once creaked, carrying a tray with a teapot, a single cup, and a plate of biscuits.
"Off you go, Kreacher," Sirius barked, "we're busy."
"Tea for Mr Granger."
That was the first time he'd ever called me that — and "Mr," no less — so the rest of the room quite genuinely bulged their eyes as the elf served this small, improvised spread before me. Alongside the teapot there turned out to be a little jug of cream, a sugar bowl with lump sugar, and, well… proper service.
Everyone watched this in silence, followed Kreacher's departure with their eyes in the same silence, remained silent as he closed the door behind him, and only Dumbledore stroked his beard, smiling.
"I see," Dumbledore spoke, unmistakable amusement in his voice, "that I'm not the only one who's found a way to that old curmudgeon's heart. Mind you, he's forever trying to slip me a laxative — quite the joker."
"I wouldn't, lad," Sirius eyed me, "risk drinking or eating anything from that little wretch's hands."
I'd already checked everything with magic and knew the teapot held excellent black tea, no additions of any kind. Quite strong, robust — precisely the sort that called for sugar and cream. To an Englishman of the classical persuasion, that might seem like blasphemy, but one has to understand: there are as many approaches to tea as there are varieties of it, and in this particular case, the combination was superb.
"I see no reason to doubt Kreacher's good intentions," I shrugged, briskly assembled myself a cup of tea, stirred in everything required, and, under the mute stares of the rest, took the first small sip. "Mm. A lovely brew."
"I understand," Dumbledore cut off the discussion beginning to brew over such an event as tea from Kreacher without a catch, "it's no trivial occurrence, but we're here on quite another matter entirely, so let's begin the discussion."
The door opened and a tall, powerfully built dark-skinned wizard entered the sitting room, dressed in national patterned garments cut in the manner of English wizarding robes.
"Apologies," he rumbled, taking the free seat. "Emergency at work."
"Understandable," Dumbledore nodded. "Now that everyone we were waiting for has gathered, I see even less reason for off-topic chatter. To begin with…"
Just as I was about to wonder what I was even doing here, Dumbledore laid out the first item on the agenda. Honestly, I didn't devote much mental attention to his speech, only catching the main points.
Dark wizards from the Guild would be arriving, to deal with the anomaly, which was Dark-magical in nature and posed an enormous threat to all the students, their parents, and the world at large. That last part, of course, he didn't say outright, but the context ran exactly that way. Incidentally, as someone party to its appearance and who understood more or less something about what was going on there, I was compelled to agree, to a degree. Yes, a threat. Yes, I was working on it.
"How dreadful!" Molly threw up her hands, and a few others echoed her. "Dark wizards, in Hogwarts of all places! Those poor children. They need saving, urgently!"
"Quite right, dear," Arthur backed his wife up.
While everyone offered their opinion, and Sirius went so far as to suggest going along and locking every one of the Dark wizards up in Azkaban, Dumbledore observed carefully, listened, drew his conclusions.
"Kingsley," he spoke, once the various arguments and outrage over the Dark wizards had died down, "what do we know about the anomaly near Hogwarts and at the Ministry?"
Kingsley, quickly and precisely, in barely a few sentences, related about the anomalies what I already knew — except for the situation at the Ministry, which I hadn't really been aware of in any detail.
"According to the Department of Mysteries' findings," Kingsley's bass voice was resonant but quiet, "the Veil of Death emits a particular kind of magic and summons a particular type of spirit, which causes possession in wizards. At present, several wizards have fallen victim to this possession and are under strict quarantine. Treatment methods remain unknown. The anomaly is isolated and relatively safe. The one at Hogwarts is considerably stronger, but the situation is exactly the same. There's one DMLE officer who's shaken off the possession, but he doesn't know the details himself."
"So the anomaly itself poses no threat to the students and residents of Hogwarts?" Dumbledore clarified.
"No guarantees, but as long as the students observe safety measures, then — for now — no."
Molly scoffed.
"I don't trust those brain-twisters from the Department of Mysteries one bit. They'll do anything for the sake of their research."
"Now, now, Molly," Dumbledore turned his gaze to the ginger-haired lady, "competent specialists work there. Incidentally, does anyone have information on who'll be attending from the Guild? What should we expect from them?"
"No idea whatsoever," Tonks shrugged, morphing her face into an owl's little visage and blinking her huge eyes foolishly.
"Two from the Guild," Kingsley rumbled. "I was at the negotiations. Didn't see their faces — all in black, in special masks. Only the hair was visible. One wizard, clearly older, but in good shape — grey hair visible under the hood. The other, a witch. Can't say about her age, but her hair was red. Very red."
"Er…" Potter drew the others' attention to himself. "You don't happen to mean the Dark Guild that's Spanish, what was the name again…"
"'Abismo,' or 'The Abyss' in English," Kingsley said. "Yes, that's them. Worldwide, though not known to ordinary folk."
Dumbledore looked at Harry with a silent question, as did Kingsley, while the rest paid his slip no particular mind. Potter, meanwhile, was looking at me, as though asking: "You think it's Her?"
"Harry, do you know something, my boy?" Dumbledore asked, fatherly.
"Er… It doesn't matter, Headmaster."
Dumbledore turned his gaze to me.
"I agree with Harry. The supposition holds no significance or importance regardless of whether it's true or false. And Snape's right, Harry," I smirked. "You are simply incapable of holding your tongue when it counts."
"Harry!" Molly joined the conversation in her characteristically overloud manner. "If you know something about Dark wizards, you're simply obligated to tell us and the Headmaster! We're worried about you…"
"It doesn't matter," Potter answered, more firmly now, with something like pressure behind it.
"But—"
"Enough, Molly," Dumbledore stopped her. "If the boys say it doesn't matter, then it doesn't matter. Harry isn't the sort to withhold important information."
Dumbledore turned back to Kingsley.
"Do you happen to know why Hogwarts, first of all? I'd have thought the wizards at the Ministry and the Wizengamot would prioritise securing themselves first."
"As far as I understand it, the decision was made because the anomaly at Hogwarts is many times more powerful. The school needs to be secured first and foremost."
"Striking depth of thought, I must say," Dumbledore nodded. "And why, when I was Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, did they never display such evident common sense?"
"Obviously," Sirius spoke up, "it's Voldemort's doing. He's surely made everyone vote that way so he can slip his lackeys into Hogwarts."
"Pf…" I snorted, finishing off my cup of tea in the process and gesturing to refill it. "There are already four Death Eaters in there. If he wanted, everyone in there would be one. Why go to such lengths?"
"Four?! No, fine, Snape," Sirius bristled, and actually leapt to his feet. "But three more?! Who are they? Speak!"
I merely arched an eyebrow.
"I believe, Mr Black, you've slightly confused me with your club's own planted spy. Try asking him."
"Mr Granger is right, Sirius," Dumbledore nodded. "What's more, I already have more than reasonable suspicions about a certain few members of staff. Given how few new ones there are, the candidates are obvious. And one more is most likely one of the students. Given who Tom and his colleagues are most likely to have taken up residence in, I suspect it's young Theodore Nott. But, let's return to the main topic."
Dumbledore looked at me, and at Potter.
"I'd like to ask you both to let the students in your Houses know that they must, under no circumstances, provoke the wizards from the Guild. No provoking, and no obstructing. Given that the Department of Mysteries hasn't managed to get to grips with the anomalies, we very much need the help of qualified specialists. Perhaps it's worth turning to one more, but he hasn't shown himself of late. A pity."
"Headmaster," Potter, since he'd been addressed, decided to take part in the conversation. "Why only warn us two?"
"Probably because not so many wizards know I'm alive?" Dumbledore chuckled. "Of course, I could speak with young Ronald, but… I think you understand yourself."
"Yes. And Hector?"
"Mr Granger," Dumbledore looked at me, "has considerable influence, not only within his own House, but across the whole school. His opinion will be heeded. And yours, Harry, will be heeded in Gryffindor, which matters just as much."
Harry agreed with that, though it wasn't the first time that day these particular thoughts had been voiced.
Dumbledore talked a little more about general goings-on at Hogwarts, after which he turned to me.
"Mr Granger, might I have a word with you alone?"
"Of course."
"In that case," Dumbledore rose from the table and glanced at Harry, "you go and chat with the others for now. As I understand it, you've missed your godfather terribly, and I'm sure you and young Miss Tonks have plenty to discuss, given your ongoing little 'sewing circle.' I'd ask that you not leave just yet, mind — I have things to discuss with you too, and it'll be a rather important matter. You understand?"
"Yes, Headmaster."
Dumbledore and I left the sitting room and went through to the dining-room-cum-kitchen — a sort of two-in-one arrangement. We didn't bother sitting — the conversation, evidently, would be a short one.
"Here," Dumbledore, with a conjuror's flourish, materialised a substantial stack of ancient books. "Sirius flatly refuses to take care of his family's books, and I'm too old and too tired to try talking sense into him."
"Thank you, Professor," I magically shifted the books into my bag, marvelling all the while that Dumbledore had remembered my request for access to the old works in this house's library.
"Think nothing of it," he waved it off, smiling. "He'd only have thrown them out otherwise, or let Fletcher cart them off. Frightening to imagine what some desperate vagrant out of Knockturn's back alleys might do with knowledge like that."
"You could simply have kept them yourself, so Sirius doesn't squander the estate."
"I could have, but knowledge, like money, ought to be put to work. I satisfied myself as to your good sense back in your fourth year, so I don't consider it a problem to hand you such rare and unique knowledge, Dark Magic though it may be. A good Healer ought to know that field even better than one who practises such magic. The same goes for potions."
"I'll be glad to live up to your expectations regarding my professionalism as a Healer."
Dumbledore smiled into his beard and nodded.
"I see you're careful with your words too — a good quality in a wizard. Speaking of Healing. That's precisely the subject I wished to raise in our little chat."
"I'm listening closely."
"As circumstances have it, I'm aware of your arrangement with Alastor. He himself isn't the sort to remind or to ask, so I find myself obliged to do it on his behalf. In your judgement, Mr Granger, are you competent enough by now to help my old friend, with your unique talents, rid himself of at least some of his curses? I'm not speaking of restoring the leg."
"I think so, yes, though to begin with I'd like to acquaint myself rather more thoroughly with certain blood curses — I'm nearly through that subject, and I'll need a week. Perhaps less."
"I'm glad to hear it," Dumbledore did indeed look pleased. "I won't claim this request stems purely from my old friendship with him, and that it pains me to see him in such a state. There's a measure of pragmatism here too — dark times aren't far off, and Alastor is a superb fighter. And yet, on account of his curses and the damage to his energetic body, he's not even half as strong as he could be."
"I understand. Within the space of a week, I'll fill in a few gaps in my knowledge and settle the matter of Mr Moody's health. Only the leg… That'll take a while. I can strip away the traces of Dark magic and curses preventing his energetic body from recovering — a prosthetic will function as well as his own leg would — but a new leg…"
"Don't trouble yourself over that," the old man smiled. "If the only issue turns out to be growing and grafting a new limb, I know who to turn to."
Dumbledore swept his gaze round the kitchen and spotted a stack of magazines that, judging by the covers, clearly belonged to Molly.
"Well now," Dumbledore suddenly smiled. "I'll have to ask Molly whether I might borrow a couple…"
He quickly flicked through a few pages.
"…knitting patterns too. You know, Mr Granger, I'm rather fond of knitting. The runic ones turn out particularly interesting."
Dumbledore took a couple of the magazines and headed back towards the sitting room. A few seconds later I heard Molly Weasley's indignant, muffled voice:
"I am not giving those to you, how many times must I say it?"
Well, then. And what was I to do? I hoped they'd sort out their business quickly and send Potter and me back. Events were clearly promising to stop being dull, thanks to my own doing — but that didn't mean Daphne would forgive my long absence on a day off.
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