[Harold Prendergast]

Harold had had a lot of time to ruminate over the summer of the letters he had received, especially the latter one. His old friend had suggested that the travelling circus was in town. It was, of course, code - and at the time he had interpreted it as a suggestion that the Unspeakables were out and about, that a leak was in the Ministry and perhaps that someone senior was missing or mysteriously indisposed.

His recent trip to Diagon Alley on a matter of stocking items - the one that rather turned into an unexpected run-in with a curious curio seller - had left him plenty to contemplate and so it was that he found himself looking at the calendar as August's days were waning. He'd heard nothing - and Dumbledore had often been seen wandering the castle muttering to himself, almost feverishly of late. Something was afoot, and perhaps it was better if he, Harold, could get this rather trifling matter dusted off and quite resolved before the new term.

It was a over a week or so before the end of August, and he'd indicated to the staff in the castle that he should be gone to London for the day - it was an overcast Thursday morning that otherwise held little appeal - and to not prepare either lunch or dinner for him.

Bubo was poddling around on the desk, absent-mindedly even by the little owl's standards, and Harold smiled at him. "Now, Bubo, I'm going to be out all day, don't worry about me. I'll be back before the evening." He fed the little owl a couple of treats and Bubo seemed contented. "I have people I need to see and they would rather I don't write to them. But no matter, I will have scrolls for you to deliver soon." Bubo bobbed his little head. He liked feeling useful, even if that wasn't today.

Harold stopped in the small bathroom that was in his quarters, a splash of cold water on his face before doing this. He hadn't been back to the Ministry since... well... the day he last saw Sylvia. All subsequent inquiry had been at a distance through owls, fireplace connections and what in hindsight could laughably have been called clandestine.

He stared at the reflection in the mirror, it seemed almost farcical to him to see his own reflection there. He seemed older and more tired than he remembered himself looking. Perhaps teaching wasn't necessarily for him, as much as watching the imagination and enlightenment dawn in younger minds was joyous to behold.

"Come on, man, you can do this." He packed his precious pocketwatch in his pocket. It seemed like a day where it might come in useful. As would perhaps a few private papers from his stash.

He found himself almost walking down to the edge of the grounds on automatic; he'd done it enough times over the last year or so that it felt very familiar. And his routine, so precise, glasses in his pocket, deep breath, apparation.

- -

The side entrance to the Ministry building where he had intended to be was as unwelcoming as ever. He wondered if he should take the visitor's entrance, and since it occurred to him that he wasn't strictly a Ministry employee at this particular time, let alone part of his former station at the Department of Mysteries. Visitor's entrance it was, then. Reception was noisier than he remembered, but he supposed that was why he didn't go in very often through that entrance, not when he had previously enjoyed better options.

The receptionist looked at him, "Do you have an appointment, sir?"

Harold smiled his most genial, ingratiating smile. "No, I'm afraid I don't. I should very much like to speak to a..." He paused, wondering how to phrase it, and choosing to keep his voice calm and measured, but not loud. "...a specific member of staff from level nine."

The receptionist arched an eyebrow. Even she didn't know what went on in level nine, only that it was off limits to almost everyone and that she knew not to venture beyond the most outward door, and then only to pass messages to the wizard or witch on duty. The fact that this visitor knew to refer to it as 'level nine' rather than its more unnerving sobriquet - the Department of Mysteries - alone told her something about who she might be dealing with.

"Would you happen to have any identification, sir?"

Harold smiled again. "Yes, here are my identification papers." He handed over a piece of paper with a moving photo of him on it, pacing idly back and forth, though not impatiently so, bearing seals and generally identifying the person in the photograph as one Charles Wainwright - a legend written up for him during his time in the Department, and one to be used when dealing with the Circus in general. Better not to use real names.

The receptionist looked over the paperwork and returned it, after consulting with something behind the desk out of Harold's view. "Thank you, Mr Wainwright. Who were you looking to speak with?"

Harold thought for a moment. "Just tell the wizard or witch on duty that I should like to pay a visit, I'm certain the person I need to see will be sent out promptly."

There was a light frown from the receptionist - this wasn't how things normally worked, but this was her first time dealing with anyone wishing to visit level nine, and as far as she knew this was how it might be done. She knew better than to question it.

She dashed off a small scroll and with a wave of her wand, spirited it away. "If you'll please take a seat, Mr Wainwright, I'm sure someone will be along shortly."

Harold smiled politely and went to take a seat but even before he had the chance to settle, the receptionist interrupted him. "Mr Wainwright? Please take the stairwell, someone will meet you there."

He frowned, thanked her and made in the direction of the stairwell. This wasn't how he remembered it but it had been a while since he'd taken the front door to the Circus. And with the Ringmaster still away, so to speak, anything was possible.

More surprisingly, the door to the department was ajar, and no-one was there. This was most irregular.

[Albus Dumbledore]

The dark walls of the Department of Mysteries never ceased to be mildly unnerving. It wasn't the first time Albus had been here - it certainly did not seem like it would be the last. Level Nine in the Ministry was a deeply restricted place, even to him, but there were surprising perks to be had as a holder of the Order of Merlin, First Class, as well as Headmaster of Hogwarts, and holder of the Elder Wand. Not that many people truly understood or knew about that last detail.

It was not common an occurrence to be in the Department, but there were things Albus needed to know. Questions whose answers were only known to individuals who practically lived inside these walls, and questions whose answers could only be found in artefacts inside these four walls.

He had, of course, known the provenance of one of the newer (relatively speaking) members of faculty at Hogwarts - one Professor Prendergast. He was good, of course, and Albus had been pleasantly surprised to learn that applied occlumancy was a regular practice for (former) Unspeakables. Good habit to practice for those largely above the law, and surprisingly adept in many branches of magic.

So when he, Albus, had noted an enchanted scroll bearing a deeply enchanted seal arriving at the castle with Prendergast's name on it, curiosity had been piqued. And Prendergast, for better or worse, had seemed a shade less tense afterwards, as though having received an answer to a deeply personal mystery.

But a second scroll arrived. Prendergast had become more thoughtful. Albus had, of course, known about the enchantments on the scroll, some of the finest anti-tamper work he'd seen in a long, long time. The first scroll he had studied, but left untouched. The second, however, he had dismantled its seal, read the letter and reassembled the seal with a little extra flair. It wasn't that he didn't trust Prendergast - Prendergast was a good man at heart - but an Unspeakable running around Hogwarts armed with knowledge of the Time Room is not someone to be underestimated.

The letter had been in code, predictably. Albus would have been disappointed if it hadn't. Though the message fragment was a little more concerning - he wondered what precisely Prendergast made of it; if he'd made anything at all, he hadn't given the game away. Prendergast was obviously more on his guard than he had been that first summer he'd arrived in Hogwarts.

But it confirmed a few things Albus had suspected about movements by the Ministry and in particular about what moves were being taken against the rumours he had been hearing about a concerted anti-Muggle movement. Of course all of the attacks were just isolated enough and just infrequent enough that they could appear entirely disconnected, but if he, Albus, were managing such a terrorist campaign, that was exactly what he would do. But there had been reports of a mark left in the air in the wake of one or two of the attacks, of a skull and a serpent protruding like a tongue. That could mean only one individual.

With that all in mind, it seemed entirely apropos for Albus to locate himself in the Department of Mysteries, visiting multiple of the rooms there, asking occasional but unfailingly polite questions. All of which were answered in riddles that were deeply troubling and in concerto, had set the stage for something entirely untoward.

Albus's time was limited; he had things to do, preparations to make. The oncoming storm - if he was right - would prove utterly divisive. He frowned; it was not usual for the door out of the Entrance Hall back to the main atrium to be ajar. If it were ajar, presumably it were also unguarded. Most unusual. Most concerning.

- -

There was a property of the black tiles and stonework lining the walls of the Department of Mysteries that was not well known. It was probably for the best for all concerned that the walls had this particular property and entirely fortuitous in almost all cases that it was so. Other than in this particular circumstance.

Each of the tiles had some residual occlumency charmwork baked into the very ceramic foundation. It was considerably more difficult than normal to use legilimancy skills through the tilework - ostensibly to prevent the top secret research being leaked, but in this situation when Albus could have used it to observe who might be on the other side of that door, it was unhelpful. It wasn't impossible, but Albus didn't particularly want to let slip his own prowess from over-exertion trying to bypass the defences of the Department.

Wand drawn, Albus stared at the door as if to bore right through it. "Whoever is there, reveal yourself."

[Harold Prendergast]

Harold already thought it was pretty irregular for there not to be a wizard or witch on duty, and for the door to be ajar - but hearing a voice from behind the door, and one that he knew rather well.

"Professor Dumbledore?"

Of all the voices he could have heard in here, Albus Dumbledore's was not one of them. Harold had a deep respect for Dumbledore, and knew that Dumbledore was connected. Apparent free and easy access to the Department of Mysteries was not something he had expected; it wasn't done during his own time in the Department.

He wasn't sure if Dumbledore had heard, so he raised his voice and repeated himself.

It was met with some silence, so Harold drew his own wand, and with a gesture, waved the door open. As expected, Dumbledore was standing there, looking defiant and with his wand drawn. The sight of it was enough to send a mild shiver down the back of Harold's spine, it wasn't something he had seen before. Dumbledore as anything less than the smiling genial professor he had known.

"Well, Dumbledore, I didn't quite expect to see you here today. What, if I may ask, brings you to level nine?"

He lowered his wand, and tightened his grip on his own mind. He trusted Dumbledore pretty implicitly, but Dumbledore being here was unexpected, and the summer had had more than its share of unexpected things.

[Albus Dumbledore]

The door parted before him, and he was surprised to see Prendergast standing there, with a curious look on his face and registering surprise that he, Albus, was standing in the Ministry - in the Department of Mysteries no less.

He lowered his wand - it would be of no use here. "Quickly, you'd better come inside. The walls out there have ears."

Albus stepped aside to leave Prendergast room to enter. Without much more prompting, the younger man stepped inside the Department of Mysteries, and the door closed softly behind them.

A small smile danced at the corner of his lips. "That's better. Now then, what brings you to the Department of Mysteries, Prendergast? Or should I be calling you Mr Wainwright?"

[Harold Prendergast]

Harold was rather surprised to be invited in, Dumbledore was the last person he expected to see here. He had rather expected to see his old friend, E, that had sent the scrolls. "Well, uh," he paused, "I thought I asked first."

But since it was his employer and all, Harold quite felt obliged to offer up an answer. "That said, when I arrived at Hogwarts I said I had some unfinished business here at the Ministry and, well, it rather appears that the unfinished business has made itself known."

There was a sort of bemused expression on the older man's face, as though this was entirely expected and that Harold was explaining something utterly trite, as though selling buttons at the door.

Harold's voice grew a little darker. "I must say, though, Dumbledore, my security clearance for level nine is still valid. One of the perks of the job, I should add. But I am most surprised to see you here, I wasn't aware you'd been given permission to visit these floors."

Then something occurred to him, and he cocked his head, and smiled a wry smile. "Professor, I should prefer that you... forget the name Charles Wainwright."

[Albus Dumbledore]

Albus, in spite of himself, and the seriousness of why he was there, chuckled. "Very well, Mr - Professor - Prendergast it is."

He turned, making sure the corridor was empty. He'd come from deeper in level nine and he had encountered no-one - as intended - but the Department of Mysteries was probably one of the less... predictable of places.

"The question of why I am here is... somewhat irrelevant. I have questions, I need answers. Things are going on that concern me. Things that should concern all of us. I am sure you have seen the signs, the news stories. Your colleague, Montgomery, certainly has kept his own counsel on the matter. There is something very wrong in this country at present. Something very terribly wrong, and I believe I know where we need to start."

The younger man before him seemed to be taking a moment to react; Albus had a wry smile inwardly, for once Prendergast could listen to a long-worded speech and take a moment to take it in. It was one of his more delightful qualities, that usage of a dozen words when a couple would do, but the man really should learn to drop the unnecessary delaying words. That 'rather' in particular needed to go.

His voice lowered, his tone more urgent. "The attacks on muggleborns. Ah, yes," he remarked, seeing what may have been a glimmer of recognition, "so you have seen the stories. There are forces at work here that are more cunning, and far more organised than the likes of the Prophet may care to report."

"Do you, by any chance, recognise the name Voldemort?"

[Galen Yardley]

Galen was staring into the mirror of the Department of Mysteries bathroom. He'd just seen one of his handlers, a chap that liked to go by the painstakingly obvious pseudonym of 'Ethelwynne'. Over the years he'd heard many a silly English name, but Galen was convinced nobody would go as far as to actually name their child that. Not that it mattered that it wasn't his real name. Nobody went by their real name around here anyway.

He looked down at the photograph he'd brought into the bathroom with him. He was supposed to be blond, have hazel eyes and and a rather peculiar scar near his mouth. It wasn't a very pleasant look in his opinion, but thankfully the mission it was needed for was going to be short. He flexed the muscles in his face and willed the transformation to happen. His previous face briefly melted into his natural features before becoming this blond, pureblood gentleman he was supposed to impersonate.

A shrug and Galen had changed his clothing to match the face. His elegant three-piece suit melted into an old fashioned velvet robe with frilly cuffs. It felt a little gauche and therefore perfect for the personality he was supposed to assume. The look was complete and had come out perfectly. He could only hope that he wouldn't have to speak very much. Though his accent didn't usually raise any eyebrows, Galen was very unconvinced he had much hope of keying into the right regional dialect for this one.

Anyway, it was time to get on with it. Ethelwynne had said he needed results later in the evening. Galen emerged from the bathroom when he saw two gentlemen standing having a discussion. He recognised the younger of the two as a Professor who had recently made some purchases in his shop. Of course, he had met him while wearing a different face. It was a small relief. Ethelwynne's earlier instructions made much more sense now. Here was the 'small distraction to clear up first' his handler had warned him about.

He stepped closer to join the two gentlemen.

"Good afternoon," he greeted simply. "Can I perhaps be of assistance. You both look lost." Galen looked at the younger of the men. "Number 5 wanted me to tell you that he will be near the veil when it's almost closing time."

The words seemed a little curious, but Galen couldn't have been more disinterested in them. He'd dutifully repeated them as instructed, confident they would have their intended effect, Since working with the Department on occasion he had long since learned that everything was code and probably only made sense to the person it was intended for.

His eyes wandered over to the older gentleman. "And who have you come to see? Perhaps I can direct you?"

[Harold Prendergast]

Harold had just been about to respond to Dumbledore's question. Voldemort was a name he had heard spoken, but only in whispers, only in passing, and only in the places where he perhaps ought not to be. It was a name known to the Ministry and a name that lurked in the shadows. But as to what he knew, very little. He suspected Dumbledore knew more, perhaps Dumbledore knew the real name, as Voldemort was clearly a pseudonym.

However while he was pondering how to respond, another fellow came over. A blond chap, one he didn't recognise - though seemed to recognise him. Of course, the Department of Mysteries was not known for clarity of, well, anything.

And he had something to say, he addressed Harold directly, that "Number 5" had a message for him. Well, Number 5 was presumably E, the fifth letter of the alphabet, the architect of his being here in the first place. No doubt this chap had rather been instructed to use those words; it was unlikely that if he had been given a name at all, it was the same as the one that he himself knew his colleague as. That was the Circus for you: wheels within wheels, codenames for codenames, layers of misdirection. Harold had rather wondered what the muggles did about such things, especially as their capacity for disguise was staggeringly limited by comparison.

"Thank you, most interesting." That outlined when and where he should meet E, with a little less misdirection than usual. "If you should happen to see our mutual acquaintence again today, please tell him that the wagonmaker should be delighted, but that the strongman now cannot find the ringmaster to discuss the lion's cage." He put a finger to his mouth, and with a wry smile added, "Should the ringmaster send word, he should direct his attention to the school in the castle, and in particular the inn by the tree near the water."

He allowed himself a moment to reflect on it, while carefully encapsulating the thought within the brickwork that was his mind: the wagonmaker was, of course, Wainwright accepting the invitation. The strongman not being able to find the ringmaster was a reference to E's own letter, in particular that certain high ranking individuals within the Department were missing and that the nature of who was searching for whom had changed. And that, with a flourish, if anyone should get in touch, to send them care of the school in the castle, naturally Hogwarts, care of the oddly specifically named inn, Pren-dwr-gwest.

He was sure the blond chap would be rather indifferent to the words themselves, just as he had seemed indifferent to the message relayed to him. For an added theatrical flourish, he raised his right hand to his eye, joining the index finger and thumb together to crudely make the shape of a number 6 with his hand, and smiled. "Be seeing you."

[Albus Dumbledore]

Albus kept his face bland, and his mind strong. He had not entirely intended to encounter anyone from the Ministry that he was not expecting to see, and this interloper certainly qualified. In fact he was rather surprised that he did not recognise the blond gentleman at all, which was strange as he seemed young enough to have been taught at Hogwarts during his own tenure as a professor there, and the scar on his face was distinctive and memorable, but he could not place the face whatsoever.

It was of little matter, however, for he, Albus, was not the person this gentleman was interested in - he was far more interested in Prendergast, and he reeled off a codephrase. Fascinating! He had entirely expected codenames and pseudonyms to be respected in the name of compartmentalisation; if you don't know the identity of a colleague you cannot divulge it under something untoward. But to speak entirely in a different fashion was unexpected. It seemed a fairly private message for Prendergast - and in any event there was no obvious superficial meaning to be had; whatever that message was, it meant something to Prendergast.

The reply was no less cryptic, but at least Albus had something on the context; the wagonmaker was clearly Prendergast himself, or Wainwright as he had the paperwork for. Confirmation of identity of recipient, one might say. As for the ringmaster being apparently missing, this made sense; he had heard rumour that the Department of Mysteries was known informally as the Circus, run by the ringmaster. But that the ringmaster was apparently unexpectedly missing. That was... interesting, especially in light of the letter Harold had had. People being missing in the Department was not in any way a good sign. Albus could have laughed though at Prendergast's final comment... getting in touch with him via Hogwarts was inspired, especially with what would seem like a pseudonym to contact him under.

Albus also had to admit that for a man born and bred in Surrey, knowing the history of his family name in Welsh and using it in a coded message was a wonderful piece of misdirection. No doubt that 'Number 5' was familiar with that. But Prendergast having any familiarity with Welsh was unexpected.

The blond man turning to him, though, was perhaps a little awkward. There was no official business in which he was meant to be here, let alone authorised unofficially or otherwise to come and go as he pleased, though in some ways he did seem to have that authority unofficially.

"Thank you for the offer, but no, I must decline, I am afraid. Walls have ears - though not so much these wonderful specimens, of course, and I should prefer to not divulge my destination. Discretion and all that."

Then, as it seemed like going on a charm offensive might be a good defensive posture at the same time, Albus smiled. "I'm afraid I don't seem to have seen you before, are you new here too?" The fellow didn't have any special reaction to Dumbledore, so either he didn't know who Dumbledore was, or assumed that Dumbledore was a regular - which would suggest he was new.

"It is a lovely colour here, I very much admire the decoration, my compliments to the architect, don't you think?" There was a twinkle in his eye.

[Galen Yardley]

Galen slowly nodded at Wainwright committing the words he'd just been given to memory, even though he reckoned his changes were slim to see Ethelwynne again before the other man would. Still, he didn't want to be impolite and give offence.

The man's companion was acting altogether strangely. Seeing how he was on the 'Dumbeldore' assignment he had to be one of Hippogryff's new recruits, but his attitude was rather disrespectful. Something about not wanting to disclose his destination rubbed Galen the wrong way. It wasn't the fact that he wouldn't give it, but rather that the how seemed, well, plump. Anyone who had regular dealings with the department knew better than to make such a reference as openly as he had.

Even more curiously, for a fellow covert operative he seemed amusingly oblivious to department routine. Of course he hadn't seen this face before. That was the whole point. He supposed that as a true metamorph he was much harder to pick up on than those who relied on polyjuice, charms and make-up to get the job done.

"You should know better than to give yourself away as new," Galen said in a mild tone. "I doubt the  ringmaster would appreciate that. As for me, new legend." He didn't dare say more than that, not knowing this new recruit he didn't want to extend unwarranted trust. People working for Hippogryff often didn't last. The job was tough and did something to people's heads. Galen often mused that the only reason department business didn't get leaked more often was that clearance was ultimately tied to unbreakable vows.

"I have to say though that your Dumbeldore is quite exquisite. I remember being given that assignment myself when I was just starting out. Most impressive work on the eyes. For a moment there you had me thinking you were the real deal. Except of course, I think the beard should look a little fuller."

Galen shifted and flexed as his face grew a long, white beard to demonstrate exactly what he was talking about. It looked rather out of place on his current face and he was quick to shrug it away again returning to his assumed identity.

"The strange thing is," he mused on the topic of assuming appearances, "that sometimes you don't want an exact match so much as an idealised image. At least, that holds true for figures of renown and public interest. The public often picture them as more flawless than they really are when you get up close and personal."

He narrowed his eyes. "Though this transformation is really good. Was debating if polyjuice, but I think I smell a whiff of charm work. Very commendable."

[Harold Prendergast]

Harold, if he were honest, would have had to admit in the moment that he was rather amused, though he fought to retain his composure. Here, was an apparent member of the Ministry - perhaps an Unspeakable, perhaps not, though clearly familiar with who he was, having been fed information from a mutual friend. And next to the pair of them was the world famous, world renowned Albus Dumbledore - and yet the interlocutor was suggesting that this was some recruit on a mission of disguise.

After all, that was a standard opening mission, to practice disguising oneself as an assigned identity, and using a famous person who would normally never be around the Ministry was ideal practice - though it wasn't Dumbledore he had had to disguise himself as during his own early days, but rather some modest sportsperson, a Quidditch player, which was no doubt intentionally chosen because he himself was less than sporty.

The commentary was fascinating, however, and through the right lens, rather comical. Suggesting that the beard should look fuller was a nice touch, but it reminded Harold of an important lesson when impersonating others - that it is one thing to look the part, but to sell the part really rather requires indulging the persona more than the original themselves might have. He had seen it in some of the vaudeville theatre shows, that the impersonators often exaggerated the traits and quirks of their targets more than their own targets did themselves.

But he said nothing and merely nodded his head approvingly.

[Albus Dumbledore]

Albus's eyes twinkled as the blond man appraised his appearance - apparently the minor deception that he had implied, that he was a new recruit, had landed close enough that it had been taken seriously. The mention of a 'new legend' made it clear that this was a face that was new - Albus had heard rumours of extensive work practising impersonational skills within the Ministry, especially the Unspeakables, as anyone able to change their form would be better placed to learn things they were not otherwise privy to.

He wondered, idly, how many animagi and perhaps even metamorphmagi were on staff and a sudden thought struck him. While practising his most sympathetic smile, he noted drily, 'Yes, well, new to the job, little bit enthusiastic, you know how it is.' Sort of doddering, meandering - just the thing to buy a little time to practice his wandering mind skills, after all it was noted how often people seemed to feel as though Dumbledore 'looked straight through them'. What better way to practice the infamous Dumbledore ruse than on someone who already believes he wasn't the real thing?

But what he saw in his mind's eye confused him. Thoughts, smells, places Albus couldn't imagine, but more confusingly and intriguingly, things being spoken and shouted in languages Albus couldn't even begin to pinpoint. Discordant thoughts, disjointed sentences, sentence fragments... what language was this? Was this even a language? Did all the Ministry people think in an imagined language? It was fanciful, too fanciful for Albus to contemplate, and as his mind stepped away he had a fleeting glimpse of faces, many faces, many places, it reminded him of the first day of term with all the new faces before him.

To cover the moment, he coughed. "Well, uh, you see, I do believe you're right about the beard. But when you see what I had to work with, I'm sure you'll understand." He winked, conspiratorially. "We're all friends together, here, I can show you what I mean." That glimmer in his eye again. He drew out his wand, muttered to himself and wove a complex transfiguration upon his own face. He wouldn't ordinarily dare such a thing but maintaining his cover in this fashion may well prove more useful than not. He fixed an imagine in his mind of himself, some thirty to fourty years ago, when his beard were still dark in colour and he didn't need to wear the glasses, his skin bright and youthful and his hair yet to grow to its current wonderful length.

With a chuckle - as if this were no small feat - he gestured to his face. "You see, my own beard is a little less full than Mr Dumbledore's, but I will work on it in practice."

Then with another mutter under his breath, the spell was undone and the hair changed coloured and grew in a comically long way but a comically short time and it was a matter of moments before the Albus Dumbledore that was famous and well-respected could be observed again in the Ministry building in his proper form. He'd have to check the nose when he got back to a mirror, it didn't feel quite right, but this kind of transfiguration was never something he'd planned on doing. His erstwhile friend Grindlewald had been the master of changing form with transfiguration.

"Well, as you see, I do have practice to be getting on with." And noting Harold's gestures before, "Be seeing you."

Interesting. So little time, so much to learn.

[Harold Prendergast]

He and Dumbledore stood, watching their talking companion return the gesture, and disappear back into the shadows from whence he had come. Very interesting individual - he didn't recognise the face, but of course, it was as he said, a new legend. A new identity.

Harold marvelled as he watched Dumbledore's reaction to the commentary. Of course, he knew this was the real Albus Dumbledore - he had worked with the man and knew what his reactions were, his gestures, his quirks, and he rather flattered himself that he should recognise the real thing.

But the blond fellow was entirely quite right, of course. People often had an idealised image in their minds, especially of a famous person that they were never likely to meet in person.

Harold found it difficult not to react, though, as Albus seemingly casually performed human transfiguration, unscripted, possibly entirely unrehearsed, without a hitch. And, more to the point, performed it in such a natural way as to make a transfiguration appear to be its own counter-spell, and its counter appear to be a re-casting. He'd always known Dumbledore's command of transfiguration was exceptional, having taught it at Hogwarts for many, many years, but that was a feat of skill even he hadn't imagined.

It made him wonder what else Dumbledore might be hiding.

Near the veil at closing time. He never liked the Death Chamber. Of all the facilities of study within the Department, that was the most ominous. The others, especially the Time Room, even the Brain Room, were more preferable, but the Death Chamber had a portent about it.

"Well," he coughed, once they were along, "if you will excuse me..." A wry grin danced across his features. "Professor. It seems I have quite the appointment to keep. I will see you back at the castle - I think we have things, and people, to talk about."

[Harold Prendergast]

Harold left the silence hang in the air and turned to head inwards to the more... unpleasant parts of the Ministry. There was no relish for the destination, only the promise of knowledge - but that had drawn him to the Ministry in the past. He no longer paid attention to what Dumbledore was doing, or whether he was even present - all his concentration was on the journey ahead.

The message from his confidant had specified the Death Chamber. The hour was almost at hand.

Somehow the Death Chamber never got any less uncomfortable to be in. The archway still resembled a portal to another realm - which it both was, and wasn't, in its quaint and curious way. And the curtain carried a faint breath of death about it - just being near it left one with a rather curious chill down the back of the spine.

Sat on one of the stone benches across the room, was E, looking pensive and thoughtful, staring with some focus at the archway.

Harold waved, hoping to gently break the focus without disrupting the room. Something about this place made it uncomfortable to speak in anything other than a soft whisper - in case those on the other side of the curtain should hear.

Privately, Harold believed E spent more time here than was healthy, in case he should hear something useful.

E looked up, and his face broke into a grin. "Charles! You came!"

"Well, of course, old chap." smiled Harold, "How could I not with those letters of yours - and your messenger with the most delightful way with words. You may find you get a message from him in the next day or two but having made it here unscatched I believe I can relay my own thoughts on the matter."

He paused, and the smile grew a rueful edge. "As I said to the messenger: the wagonmaker should be delighted - to pay a visit here, asu such here I am. But that the strongman now cannot find the ringmaster to discuss the lion's cage. As a precaution I also advised that should the ringmaster send word, he should direct his attention to the school in the castle, and in particular the inn by the tree near the water."

[E]

It was ever so reassuring to see Harold - or Charles - walking about these halls again. His mere presence was always somehow reaffirming. He had that 'British bulldog spirit' about him, and his suits always cut a striking figure, but more than that, his personality and capacity for reasoning were quite simply invaluable. He was a loss to the muggle scientists for whom he would have no doubt discovered a great many things, and a loss to us when he left for Hogwarts, but he so desperately needed to find Sylvia.

Fortunately, for all concerned, there was news to be had.

A smile had formed on his face as he noticed Harold in the room - message received and understood! - but the smile faded as Harold's news followed. The ringmaster being missing was a concern - it had been some days and even though Unspeakables are generally above the rules, it was most irregular.

The lion's cage was also a deeply troubling metaphor; there were things loose at the present that ought not to be. Agents provocateur were abroad, and some of the rumours of an individual who was working to cheat death were perhaps less rumours than was healthy. It was long understood how to 'put a stopper in death' but delaying the inevitable was not the same as cheating fate entirely, and there were rules that were not meant to be broken - even in the realm of magic. And Harold would know better than most what that would look like, the rules of the known and bounded were something of his speciality. And his wife's for that matter.

But what was known is that a group of these agents provocateur, carrying out clandestine operations for an unknown purpose. They were too organised to be without purpose, too random to have an obvious pattern - yet it was evident that there was a higher purpose being served. Perhaps internationally. Perhaps even in league with those seeking to bend the rules entirely.

There were connections - an inmate in Azkaban who had heard something and whose family was paid off for his silence, rumours of these agents provocateur reaching deep cover positions. There was someone quite high up - though not sure how high - in St Mungo's. Someone acting as a fixer, making things disappear. Someone with curse breaking skills. And, as it turned out, Sylvia, with some research into the Time Room - and one of Harold's early prototype devices. There were more infiltrators, too. And the Unspeakable that was investigating them - the section chief, as it were - is nowhere to be found.

All of this, and so much more, flashed behind his eyes in the time it took to blink once, and just as much time to weigh up how to tell Harold, and how much. Such was the life of such individuals.

"Listen, Charles." There was a frown, and a sigh. No-one else was here, perhaps some time could be saved by skipping the code for once. "I should by rights not say this so plainly, but there is much to tell, and so little time. I also don't believe I am long for this world, which is why I'm here and not outside somewhere more pleasant than this."

There was a grim laugh. "First things first. Sylvia is very much alive. There was no accident, she fled the scene - her cover was about to be blown - and she took some of your research notes with her, one of your prototypes too. She's working with a group, we believe, and they're connected. Charles, these people have people, here, in the Ministry. More than just Sylvia. They have people in St Mungo's. Probably the Auror's office too. I don't think there's anyone planted in Hogwarts - but watch out for suspicious arrivals. All the time Dumbledore is there I don't think you're in any danger."

Another grim chuckle. "You know we have reason to believe Dumbledore has some latent legilimancy? It would explain a great many things - but every time we try to find out, he remains his usual charming self."

"Anyway. These people are dangerous. There's no telling how deeply or widespread this little syndicate of theirs is, or what their plans are. We have a few ideas, of course, whispers and rumours in the dark places."

A sigh. "Then there is the other matter. We've heard rumours of some exceeding dark magic being used across Europe. Some say it's a few individuals, some say it's a small army massing. What we do know is that it is very actively encouraging the use of dark magic, and some signs of extremely potent dark magic in use. Exactly what it means, we don't know yet, but if this movement should try to stage some kind of coup d'etat - and I wouldn't put it past them if they have the numbers - it might be worse than Grindlewald's lot. They never went entirely quiet, after all."

A much longer, drawn out sigh. "That's everything I have for now, I hope you take some comfort in closure - when I last wrote, things seemed more positive with regards to Sylvia, but things are continually in motion."

There was a sound from outside, a muffled, scuffled sort of sound. "Blast. You should go. I'll send word when I can."