Chapter Text
The crisp December air leaked into the stuffy atmosphere of the Hog’s Head as the door was poked open, fresh snow melting in cigar smoke, sweat, and the stale scent of butterbeer that permeated the room. The woman who slipped in was wearing a colorful loose-fitting tie-dyed dress that hung off her frail figure. She was a tall woman, stooping through the doorway, though more by habit than need. She wore an old knit maroon sweater with holes worn through around the sleeves end from where her ringed fingers picked at the loose thread. She had on a winter hat, perhaps the only part of her outfit appropriate for the weather, though she yanked it off as soon as the door shut behind her, stuffing it in an oversized pocket in her sweater.
On that Tuesday evening, December the 18th of 1979, the bar was unusually crowded. There were four patrons and a single barman scattered about the rather large room, almost deliberately not interacting with each other. The witch by the door was the closest, eyes flickering over to the woman as she walked in, though her interest did not last long. She was carrying something in an unusually large bag stuffed beneath the table that would prod at her ankles every few minutes before the witch gave it a swift kick, returning the crossword in front of her. The man in the corner had a hat tipped over his face, deep even breathing giving the impression he had long since fallen asleep, and the wizard at the bar only stared at his glass of fire whiskey, watching the ice melt.
In the middle of the bar, seated primly at a table, was the strangest man of the bunch. He had waist length white hair, properly aged, and a long white beard that was pulled together by a colorful tie around his belly. He wore a thick purple cloak with elegant silver trimmings that gleamed in the scattered light of the bar, and a traditional wizard hat upon his head, decorated with elegant gemstones. His name was Albus Dumbledore.
He was sipping pleasantly on some tea, twinkling eyes glancing at the door, as if he were waiting for someone.
He was.
He glanced over when the woman slipped in, face sparking pleasantly with recognition, even as she stumbled to the table, hand raking through her untidy brown hair before catching in the messy bun she had tied. She carried with her a large messenger bag which she gripped tightly to her chest.
“Ms. Trelawney,” Albus said calmly as she took her seat, gesturing to the bar man for another cup. “I’m pleased you could make it.”
Wild eyes flicked up to him and the woman opened her mouth, seeming ready to respond. She closed it. Opened it again. And then snapped her jaw shut. She stared at her old headmaster. Sybil Trelawney had changed much and also very little since her time at Hogwarts, some five years back. Her face had fallen into harder lines, and grey had already begun dotting her hairline. But the most prominent change was the weariness that clung to her. Deep purple circles hung below her eyes. Silence permeated the dank air between them before the barman finally brought over second cup of tea and set it in front of the woman. She grasped the cup in her hands, silver rings clanking on the ceramic. She took a long sip, eyes slipping shut for just a moment.
“Sybil, please,” she finally said, setting the cup down and seeming to gather her bearings. “It will be easier that way, I expect.” Her eyes darted around the room. “She’ll be here soon; she was running late – later than me that is – and you’ll want to invite Professor McGonagall down as well. You’ve a student to fetch.”
Albus frowned, blue eyes sharpening on the woman. “I apologize, Sybil. I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
The woman let out a slightly delirious laugh. “No, I expect you don’t. The meeting is still here tonight?” she asked.
Dumbledore’s blue eyes hardened but his voice stayed quietly pleasant. “Just what exactly are you referring to?”
Sybil met the man’s gaze steadily. “The Order of the Phoenix.”
Dumbledore’s eyes bore into her own. “I expect I just filled our Divination posting,” he said. Sybil actually smiled.
“You’ve done much more than that, sir.” As she was talking, she pulled something out of her messenger bag, a colorful book with the drawing of a boy playing Quidditch on the front. The gold lettering glinted in the low lighting of the bar. “You need to clear this bar, except that man in the corner,” she said, pointing the one who was sleeping. The man seemed to stiffen, almost imperceptibly as he was mentioned.
Albus raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest, shooting a look to the barman who suddenly stood up.
“Bar’s closed!” he yelled and before he was even done speaking, the witch by the door was out of her seat, grabbing her twitching bag. The man sitting by the bar took his time settling his tab and the one in the corner stood quickly, as if wanting to slip into the shadows.
“Not just yet, Severus,” Albus called and the man in the hat froze. It took another moment for the bar to clear but once it finally did, the barman waved his hand at the door, flipping the OPEN sign around in a show of wandless magic that in any other moment, would have been quite impressive. But instead, he immediately returned to cleaning glasses, as if nothing of note had occurred.
Albus glanced down at the book in front of him. Emblazoned in the golden writing on the cover, now legible, were the words Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. His twinkling blue eyes rose again to meet the woman across from him, a new respect flickering in his stare.
“I expect we have a lot to discuss.”