POV Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Darkness settled outside the narrow lancet window, casting the deep blue hues of midnight. Heavy snow clouds hid the moon and the stars, depriving the earth of any hope of even a tiny spark of celestial light.
People at this late hour, those who for some reason were not at home, hurried into the cozy and bright warmth. The dark, moonless, starless night frightened everyone with at least a drop of imagination or a healthy paranoia that made the slightest rustle a possible threat.
The study was dark, with only the fire in the fireplace graciously throwing flashes of liquid light that generously grew a multitude of bizarre shadows on the walls. All day long, the puffing, beeping, hissing, gurgling, and so on had quieted down. Or rather, they were silenced by the will of the owner of the director's apartment, which included the director's office. The grey-haired man was sitting in a chair, gazing into the fire with obvious pleasure and maximum comfort.
In his long, dexterous fingers, Albus held a saucer and a cup of fragrant Indian tea, a very expensive product supplied to Europe and the States by the only trading company of which the man was an equal partner. With obvious pleasure, the elderly Hogwarts Headmaster took small sips from the precious porcelain.
He was not afraid that the drink would get cold — magic would not allow it. This enchanted Chinese set had been given to him by a trading partner who had pleased the old man in his time.
The glass of his glasses reflected the petals of the flame, captivating him with their fanciful play, but the man's thoughts were far away now. The last few weeks had been too hectic, too busy, or even overloaded with worries, forcing him to make decisions on the fly, which saddened Albus because it was not his style.
The man was used to taking his time: to consider the situation thoroughly from all sides, to study the problem, to work out a strategy, a multi-level plan, to prepare for possible opposition, and so on. No, he didn't make any rash decisions, but the strain on his mind was enormous, and he even had to take special potions to prevent brain damage due to overload.
Of course, he had to pay a lot of money to the potion-maker he'd hired, including for silence, which was no fun. "Eh, Severus, how could you lose to such a boy?" — The man sighed sadly, shaking his head as he remembered how much he now had to pay for every order of potions and alchemical compounds.
Worst of all, thanks to his own actions, there were no free potion and alchemy masters left in Britain. All wizards currently working on the territory of magical Britain, even if they pretend to be otherwise, are subordinate to the Ministry, and specifically to the DMLE. This means that they are required to report immediately if someone orders a potion above the standard "average" level.
No, if everything was as it used to be, it would be possible to carefully remove someone from the Ministry's power, with the help of Scrimgeour to organize the disappearance of some agreements and contracts from the archives, well, agreements and contracts were not magical, just with a magical signature print. But now, because of recent events, Rufus is angry with Albus, won't listen to his advice... and what good is he now? No one is talking about Scrimgeour's imminent dismissal.
And with Bones, that stubborn girl, there was no dialogue to be had. Albus had thought of using his niece to put pressure on the woman, but the first batch of potion adjustments had been discovered by the red-haired Hufflepuff, and then he and Pomona had a not-so-nice conversation, so the Headmaster decided to abandon that plan... for a while. For a while.
And everything had come together at once: the ICW, Crouch's sudden strength, personal problems. Was it worth it for Barty to interfere in his affairs, resulting in a lengthy communication with the Commission that very day? Which had led to an embarrassment at Malfoy Manor. Albus had barely left the fireplace when one of the tracking artifacts howled, roared and melted into thick clouds of smoke.
He immediately contacted the Ministry to inquire about the Auror Alert Team that had already left and the nearly full complement of Unspeakables. He didn't have time to think, and his communication with his "friends" had exhausted him, so he had gone to the coordinates he had received from the destroyed artifact.
And there he didn't understand the situation and jumped to conclusions that made him look bad. He had already been told that there were quiet whispers among the people, but that was for now, and if they were not stifled, they would soon start laughing at him. And he could not allow that, or he would lose all the authority and respect he had built up.
No, today it is necessary to send letters to the right people and take countermeasures. Eh, what a pity that Arabella died, and in such an ignominious way...
Yes, a difficult and extremely unpleasant situation, and soon, judging by the tracking artifacts, a new round of war will begin. I should be ready, but all these problems and worries distract me from the main issue, and Black has gone somewhere else!
It's time for him to take his place in the game, but no, he disappears somewhere, and the owls don't get there and don't return, which is strange. Too bad there's no Animagus blood to make tracking amulets. Another miscalculation.
Didn't keep track of Potter either, which is frustrating. Good thing young Ronald went with them. He wasn't the smartest boy, but he had the right upbringing, in the right spirit, so he wouldn't allow any wrong thoughts to arise in his friend's head — he just wouldn't give him the time to do so...
The deaths of the Eaters will weaken Tom's strength as he begins to raise an army. There is no doubt that the boy will find replacements, but they will be strangers, who are much harder to calculate than those who have long since had their dossiers filled. One can only hope that this time the confrontation won't go too far....
Still, something had to be done about Black — his money and safe house would be needed soon, but before that, Sirius had to be worked on psychologically, to get the Animagus' thoughts going in the right direction, and he would draw the right conclusions. Yes, it is necessary to put more effort in that direction, because the right conclusions need some time for education.
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POV Sirius Black
At the same time, in the same hut in the forest, Sirius Black slept deeply and peacefully. It was a dwelling he had created himself with magic — it wasn't difficult at all with the wand he had. At first, the fugitive Animagus had built a temporary shelter, but the longer he worked, the more he liked the result of his own labor. Besides, the man could feel his health improving thanks to the potions.
Finally, after finishing the hut, after enchanting it with all kinds of comfort and protection charms, Sirius decided to stay here for a while, and the set of Higher Hiding Barrier that Harry's owl brought after the installation finally calmed the fugitive criminal's worries.
And now, after another dose of healing potions, surprisingly not at all disgusting in taste and smell, Sirius slept like a baby. Even the nightmares had disappeared. The man didn't know that the set of mica plates with hieroglyphics that had been given to him and that had to be placed in the right order around the habitat did not so much protect as conceal.
This barrier surpasses even Fidelius in its effectiveness, as it doesn't even let through spiritual and related magic, so no Director's Patronus ever reached its destination. Neither have the Post Owls, with the exception of Hedwig.
At that moment, an inconspicuous owl with a small mailbox on its paw flew toward the barrier. The bird hovered, thought, turned, and flew away, forgetting that it had once carried letters from mages, and the pouch on its paw became a cloud of blue smoke wafting in the wind. The owl, all magic gone, went in search of simple owl happiness.
Sirius, on the other hand, relived the best scenes of his past in his dreams. He was back in his college days, laughing with friends, joking around, making out with available witch girls. In the dream, the man felt good and light. In reality, however, moisture gathered in the corners of the sleeper's eyes, occasionally rolling down into tears....