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If there was anything Albus Dumbledore hated more than Aberdeen, it was surprises.
Albus suspected Caradoc Dearborn had called the unofficial Order meeting at the last possible moment and picked this particular Council flat for that reason alone. He would let Dearborn have this little victory. After all, he had a favour to ask of the Quartermaster, and it would be best accomplished if he let Dearborn think he’d won this round.
Albus paused at the doorway. Whoever was joining them at the meeting tonight either wasn’t there yet, or knew better than to speak where they could be overheard.
When Dearborn’s vulture Patronus had flown into Albus’s office earlier that day, it had not specified much except for a time and a place for the meeting. Nevertheless, Albus wasn’t overly surprised at the sight that greeted him when he entered.
The Council flat had been stripped bare except for a plastic card table in the middle of the living room. Five people sat on cheap folding chairs. There was Dearborn, of course. Benjamin Fenwick. Dorcas Meadowes. Alastor Moody. And Elphias Dodge, cringing at the sight of black mould creeping up the living room walls.
Caradoc had chosen his audience carefully. Fenwick and Meadowes supported the cause, but bore no particular allegiance to Albus himself. If Albus’s suspicions were correct, the three of them had probably spoken to Alastor earlier and convinced him to lend his support to them tonight.
Dear old Elphias, on the other hand, was here to meet quorum. Useless sack of bones. Albus wished he’d gone with his gut and brought Minerva along, even if it meant interrupting date night with Poppy and incurring her wrath.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Meadowes said. “And only fifteen minutes late.”
Meadowes had never set foot in Hogwarts, and yet her talents far exceeded that of any student that had passed through its doors since Albus had become Headmaster. Even if she was an irritating pest—second only to Dearborn—she was damn good at her job. Albus could not detect a single trace of the acetone-sour stench that seemed to cling to Potion Masters, even as he took a seat next to Meadowes.
“My apologies,” Albus demurred. “I had a particularly complex matter to attend to at Hogwarts. Students make keeping an organized schedule quite difficult.”
Only Elphias tittered, but Albus hadn’t expected anything different.
“What have you brought us here tonight to discuss, Caradoc?” Albus asked.
“Operational security,” Dearborn said. The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s the only item on the agenda.”
The problem of Caradoc Dearborn began long before the war had begun. He’d always been a little too assertive and a little too confident in his own abilities, even as a student. Dearborn was also very difficult to miss—he towered over anybody that had the misfortune to cross paths with him, and his strong features and bald head were difficult to forget. He was the perfect Auror archetype if Albus had ever encountered one. When Dearborn approached Albus in a pub in Glasgow two years ago and asked to join the Order, he’d almost refused on principle.
Unfortunately, the number of competent individuals who were willing to give up their comfort and employment to support the Order of the Phoenix full-time were a rarity. And so Albus had no choice but to take Dearborn into his ranks. To his surprise, Dearborn dedicated himself to supplies and logistics, securing rations and potions ingredients so that the others could spend more time on their respective tasks. It was hardly the glamorous position Albus had thought Dearborn would crave, but he’d forgotten just how meticulous Dearborn was as a student. All the colour-coded and carefully flagged reports on the pedagogical problems in Hogwarts’ curriculum really should have been more difficult to forget.
“Go on,” Albus said.
Alastor spoke next. “The Order is too vulnerable to infiltration. Right now, we’ve got everybody meeting at some safe house or another. All of us—the Aurors, the spies, the Healers, even Arabella and her phone tree group—know almost everything about everyone’s business.”
The words were Alastor’s, but the ideas were most certainly Benjy Fenwick’s. He looked innocent as could be, gnawing on a toothpick and doing his best to look entirely forgettable.
Even though Fenwick had, in fact, attended Hogwarts, Albus hadn’t realized it until he’d checked the attendance records for the late fifties. By all accounts, Fenwick had slipped under everyone’s radar. He’d been a mediocre student—slightly too rotund and milquetoast to attract attention. Another boring Hufflepuff in a house of many. It was only recently that Albus realized that had probably been Fenwick’s goal all along. It was a welcome characteristic for their unofficial spymaster, if irritating. Fenwick’s sharp mind and calculated mediocrity made Albus’s job all the more difficult.
“So what would you propose?” Albus asked. It would be nice if Dearborn’s little band of rogue elements would just get to the point already.
“We isolate the working groups and keep information contained,” Dearborn said smoothly. “No more group meetings. We keep everyone apart as much as possible. The combatants and Healers won’t know where the safe houses are, and vice versa.”
Dear old Elphias sputtered. “But morale—”
Fenwick might have been smiling, under his moustache. “The fact that one person won’t be able to single-handedly cripple this organization should be enough of a morale boost.”
Unfortunately, the rogue elements were right. A single spy could indeed cripple their entire operation, and if Albus’s suspicions were correct, there already were a few among their ranks. It was only a matter of time before Fenwick found them. If he had one shred of intelligence hidden underneath that moustache, he’d feed the spies counter-intelligence instead of killing them outright.
“It’s a good plan,” Meadowes said, a little unnecessarily in Albus’s opinion.
“And so you suggest isolating our individual groups,” Albus said. “The brewers. The Quartermaster’s team. The safe house administrators. The combatants. You propose creating a hierarchy of sorts, where only a few selected individuals—yourselves, I’d presume—would know the full extent of your respective factions.”
“Oh, but of course you’d know the entire picture,” Dearborn said. “After all, you’re our leader.”
Albus was tempted to reject the proposal based on the sheer amount of disrespect in Dearborn’s tone. But alas, it was a good idea. It would funnel information away from Albus, but it would maintain the security of the Order.
That was what had to take priority.
Albus pretended to ponder it for a few moments longer. Meadowes watched him, hawklike. Dearborn wiped his glasses on the edge of his shirt, either unconcerned or doing an excellent job of pretending he was. Elphias made a few token protests that everyone ignored.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Albus said.
The three ringleaders shifted minutely. Their barely concealed surprise was quite delightful. They’d clearly thought he’d drag it out.
“I presume you’ll figure out the details and then inform me when you’ve come to a decision. Now, if that is all, I’d like to add another item to the agenda.”
Fenwick’s moustache twitched. “Go ahead.”
“I have a student who wishes to join the Order,” Albus said. It technically wasn’t a lie. Pandora Trelawney had made her choice, just as he’d made his. “Bright girl. Very eager.”
“Is she any good at Potions?” Meadowes asked.
“I’m not feeding you more brewers, Dorcas,” Fenwick chided. “The last one had a nervous breakdown within the week.”
“She’s terrible at Potions, by all accounts,” Albus said.
Meadowes shrugged, interest ebbing away. “Pity.”
“Why are you bringing this up here, when you could just assign the lass wherever you see fit?” Dearborn asked.
Albus almost smiled. Almost. “She’s been dabbling in the Dark arts.”
Dearborn’s eyes narrowed. “And where did she learn them? I doubt the Hogwarts curriculum has degraded to that level, despite your total lack of oversight.”
Contrary to what Dearborn might imply, Albus knew a great deal of what was going on inside his castle. A student using highly potent Dark magic repeatedly—and not ending up the Hospital Wing after her first attempt—was something that demanded his attention.
The situation had to be handled carefully. He doubted Trelawney would walk willingly into Tom Riddle’s arms, but once someone began using Dark magic, they’d lose their moral compass in short order. He would know. He’d almost walked down that path himself, and all for a man with blue eyes and a wicked smile.
Regulus Black was hardly the next Gellert Grindelwald, but he’d clearly warped Trelawney’s mind to the point where her only concern was begging for a favour on his behalf.
It was a pity. If life was kinder, Trelawney would have gone on to live an entirely forgettable life, had entirely forgettable children, and died an entirely forgettable death. But now, she was Albus’s problem.
Albus turned his mind to Dearborn’s question. “She learned from a Black, I presume.”
Meadowes glanced at Alastor. “The one in your ranks?”
“His brother,” Albus clarified.
The fact that Sirius Black had overcome such a Dark upbringing to become the Gryffindor he was today truly spoke to his character. Although he certainly demonstrated a concerning lack of judgement. Another problem to handle when it arose—and it certainly would. Nobody could outrun the blood that ran in their veins.
“You think she’ll turn?” Alastor asked.
And there it was—the opening Albus had been waiting for. He’d have to send Alastor a fruit basket later.
Albus steepled his fingers. “Not if she had the right guidance.”
Dearborn’s expression shuttered.
It was a ploy, and Dearborn knew it, just as Albus knew he would never refuse. Not after what had happened to Elizabeth Dearborn.
Darker, older, and far cannier creatures than Tom Riddle called Britain home. The thing that had consumed Elizabeth Dearborn was one of them.
Over a decade ago, when the rumblings of war could barely be heard, Dearborn had come to Albus with a problem. Dearborn’s sweet, lovely, and utterly power-hungry wife had begun to show very concerning signs. Bloodshot eyes. Sharp smiles. A mouth full of bleeding gums.
When Albus laid eyes on Elizabeth Dearborn, he’d been reminded of Gellert for the first time in three years.
He’d made a choice, at that moment. It was one he occasionally regretted. Albus had sent the Dearborns on their way with platitudes and a few helpful resources, and hadn’t involved himself in the situation further. Perhaps Caradoc would have respected him a bit more if he had.
There was probably something out there that still wore the face of Dearborn’s wife, although it was not calling itself Elizabeth any longer. It was another rogue element to consider. So far, the creature had not made its position in the war known, but Albus knew it was only a matter of time.
Dearborn still wore his wedding band, ten years later.
So when Trelawney had entered his office, Albus knew exactly where he was going to put her. Even before Dearborn called the meeting, Albus had told Trelawney she would be going to the Quartermaster corps.
After all, Dearborn couldn’t stand by and let another person fall victim to the same moral rot that had taken his wife. It was an elegant solution.
“I’ll take her,” Dearborn said.
Albus smiled. At this rate, he’d make it back to Hogwarts in time for a cup of cocoa before bed.