The Cupboard Series 4: The Fourth School

Chapter 26

Albus Dumbledore sat serenely behind his desk. A lemon drop continuously moved from one side of his mouth to the other. It was the one indicator of what he'd rather be doing: pacing. But this wasn't the time. He needed to be seated right where he was, projecting the right image for when his visitor arrived.

Sitting back in his chair, he stroked one hand through his long beard, a small sigh escaping him at the fact that he could run his fingers through its magnificent length once more. A stray blast of fire from that blasted dragon had burnt off more than half of his beard before he'd been able to put the fire out, trapped as he was beneath the wreckage of the judges stands. In the end, he'd been forced to resort to a hair restoral draught to return his beard to its magnificent volume.

A glance at his pocket watch confirmed his suspicions: she was late. A fact which annoyed him to no end. Of late, people had been brushing him off and dictating terms to him; him, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwamp of the ICW. If it wasn't that he needed her help so badly, he's simply FLOO her and tell her that if she wasn't going to be on time for a meeting with him, then to not bother coming at all.

Unfortunately, he did need her. Or, at least, he needed the help that she could give. She had the potential to bolster his flagging reputation.

It was only by the very skin of a flobberworm that he was holding on to his positions. Already the Hogwarts Board of Governors had had the audacity to place him on probation – again! – threatening to sack him if anything else went wrong this year. And then there'd been that motion of no confidence in the Wizengamot. He'd only survived that through the block of ardent supports that he'd gathered over the years preventing the necessary seventy-five percent majority that was needed for the motion to succeed.

And when it came right down to it, Albus Dumbledore needed those positions. With them in hand, it was so much easier to ... guide the wizarding world towards the ultimate goal – his vision of the Greater Good. Already he'd been hampered significantly by the Potter boy's refusal to return to his rightful place as a student of Hogwarts.

He had plans for the boy, plans which may just have to be altered, judging by the fact that the boy's scar had drastically reduced. If his guess was right, and his guesses usually were, then that killing curse that Harry'd taken from Lucius Malfoy, had killed the very thing that Dumbledore had been banking on. But without the boy nice and close and handy, he couldn't confirm anything, and without confirmation, it was hard to know the exact path that needed to be taken.

A sudden whoosh of the fireplace flaming to life brought him from his musings.

He straightened in his chair, making sure to steeple his fingers, place a small, knowledgeable smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. The right image needed to be projected, after all. With a little bit of luck and persuasion, this meeting could not only shore up his flagging reputation, but it could place the boy once more in a position where he could, at the very least, observe him, and at best, begin to guide him once more towards his destiny.

The flames turned green just long enough for his guest to step gracefully from the fireplace.

Minerva McGonagall had changed since she'd last worked at Hogwarts. Gone were the severe black robes that she'd worn in place of a more stylish robe cut from the McGonagall tartan, if he wasn't mistaken. Her dour expression had also faded. She seemed ... happier, content.

"Albus," she greeted.

"Welcome, Minerva," Albus smiled. "Lemon drop?"

"Thank you, no," she replied, taking the seat across from him. "How are the students who were injured?"