The Gathering Of Vultures.
The Hogwarts staff meetings were, by design, a delicate balance of order and chaos. The long, ancient table in the staff room had borne witness to centuries of whispered grievances, polite venom, and occasional alliances forged in the name of keeping the castle from descending into utter madness.
Tonight was no different.
I took my usual seat at the far end of the table, where the shadows clung a little longer, the candlelight never quite reaching. It was a quiet defiance, an unspoken statement. They still hadn’t figured me out, and I intended to keep it that way.
At the head of the table, Dippet cleared his throat. “Before we begin, I’d like to remind you all that the winter holidays are approaching, and with that comes the Yule Ball. I trust the necessary preparations are well underway?”
Professor Merrythought let out a weary sigh, rubbing her temples. “The prefects have been particularly ambitious this year. More decorations, more enchantments, more reasons for students to inevitably get themselves hexed in dark corners.”
Professor Slughorn chuckled, his round face glowing in the firelight. “Ah, but isn’t that part of the charm? Young love, twinkling lights, and far too much spiked punch?”
“I seem to recall last year’s ‘charm’ ending with three students stuck together by a misfired Sticking Hex,” muttered Herbert Beery, the Herbology professor.
“I’m fairly certain that was their own fault,” Slughorn replied cheerfully.
The conversation drifted, but I could feel eyes on me. Watching. Measuring.
Grindelwald’s war loomed over Europe like a stormcloud, darkening the edges of every conversation. Even in the safety of Hogwarts, whispers found their way through the stone walls.
“Professor Evans.”
I lifted my gaze lazily to meet Dippet’s.
“You’ve been rather quiet.” A polite statement, but laced with expectation.
I tapped my fingers against the table. “I find listening more productive.”
“Do you?” The voice that cut in wasn’t Dippet’s. It was sharp, smooth—curious.
Dumbledore.
He sat with his hands folded neatly before him, blue eyes far too knowing for a man who wasn’t supposed to know anything at all.
I smiled. “Most of the time.”
“And when you do speak,” he mused, “it tends to be rather… enlightening.”
Slughorn chuckled again. “I must say, Professor Evans, your lessons have certainly caused quite the stir. I hear your latest involved something called ‘electricity’?”
A few professors stiffened at the mention, but I merely tilted my head. “A fascinating force. One that wizards have largely ignored.”
Dumbledore’s gaze flickered with interest. “Dangerous, isn’t it?”
“So is magic,” I countered smoothly.
“Indeed,” he said, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
The room shifted, the atmosphere subtly charged. This was the game, then. The dance of words and meaning.
Dippet exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I don’t suppose we can expect the Ministry to leave us alone this year?”
“Unlikely,” Beery muttered. “They’re growing uneasy. Grindelwald’s influence spreads, and they’re looking for enemies in every shadow.”
Dumbledore didn’t speak, but his expression darkened.
I remained silent, watching, listening.
The pieces were shifting.
And the game was only just beginning.