Dumbledore,

If Remus Lupin is harmed in any way by whatever it is you've got him off to do, when I am finished with Voldemort, I swear on Merlin's left nut that I will come for you next.

S.O.B.

Mr. Black,

I assure you that I am taking the best of care to assist Mr. Lupin in his current situation. If you will simply reach out and allow me to, I will help you in anyway that I am able to as well.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Dumbledore folded the parchment and slid it into an envelope, turned it over and pressed the wax seal down.

"Can't you help him?"

Across the room, Fawkes sat upon his perch near the glowing armoire that held the pensieve and the impressive collection of memories which Dumbledore had acquired over the years. The bird was grey and tendrils smoke rose up from his wings, gently floating into the air above him. His tail feathers had already gone ashen and were falling like snow to the tray below.

"He is come upon time for a burning," murmured Dumbledore.

Hovering beside the Phoenix, nearly as transparent as the smoke rising from the wings of the great bird, was a ghostly form, vague in his grey appearance, semi-transparent with the slightest green-blue tinge of a specter.

Dumbledore didn't even look up from the envelope on his desk, muttering to himself about the audacity of Sirius Black - to have such harsh words to say to him, the Albus Dumbledore, the man who was giving so much to save the Wizarding World... with no helps from the likes of Sirius, whose escape had seemed only to accelerate rumors, making it harder to find the thin lines between truth and lie. If it were not for Dumbledore's work, the entire Wizarding World might fall apart at the seams, be torn apart, rather, by the work of the hands of Voldemort - or, rather, the powers behind him, which boded far more strong than the Dark Lord himself. And what thanks did he, Dumbledore, get for it? Empty threats hastily sworn on the nether regions of ancient wizards?

"Isn't there something you can do to make it easier for him to start the burning?"

"He will burn when it is time," Dumbledore said.

"It just looks so painful."

"He's quite well, Master Regulus," Dumbledore's voice.

"He doesn't look quite well, sir."

"I assure you that he is," Dumbledore replied, his voice firm, final.

Regulus stared at him with eyes that, even in his semi-transparent state, were dark and filled with emotion. The Headmaster opened his mouth to say something but was cut off when there was a knock on the door. Frowning at the interruption, Dumbledore stood, "Until next time, Mr. Black," he said. Regulus opened his mouth to protest, but with quick roll of the stone between his finger tips and the form of Regulus was gone. "Come in!" Dumbledore called.

It was Sybil Trelawney, wrapped in her myriad of shawls, her hair extra frizzy today as though she'd only just awoken, though Dumbledore knew she must have come from the grounds, where he'd spotted her through the window no less than ten minutes prior, emerging from the edge of the forrest with her sixth year Divination students.

"Professor, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Dumbledore asked the simpering woman whose bony features were sharp and protruding as she stepped wobbily across the room and set herself into the chair opposite of Dumbledore's desk.

She looked around. "Do I sense... a spirit... Albus?" she asked, eyes searching the corners of the room.

"None that I am aware of myself, Sybil," Dumbledore answered, sitting as she sniffed the air.

"I smell the brine of a sea air," she said wistfully, breathing deeply, "And the slightest hint of..." she waved her hand before her nose, as though pushing scent up her nostrils, "Caledonian sandalwood?"

"Most interesting," Dumbledore replied. He smiled benignly, then sat back in his chair and asked, "Sybil? Certainly you didn't come all the way to my office simply to sniff the air?"

Professor Trelawney breathed the scent a moment longer, looking in the direction of Fawkes before she turned to Dumbledore again, her wide eyes blinking behind her thick glasses in an almost bewildered way. She frowned with an open mouth, her jaw slack her lower teeth showing for a moment - an expression of utmost sorrow - and then she said, "Oh Dumbledore... Dumbledore... I lament to inform you that I..." and here her eyes grew wet with unweeped tears, "I have seen the grim in the xylomancy twigs of one of our students!"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and leaned forward. "Oh? And who is it this year, Professor?" he asked with bare minimum concern.

Sybil Trelawney sniffed, "You sound like the students!" she said sulkily, "Who is it this year! I was proved correct, if you recall, that Harry Potter was in grave danger last year! If it hadn't been for Professor Snape saving the lives of those dear children, they might have been eaten by a werewolf, right on the grounds of Hogwarts, remember, and it was only because of my warning that --"

"I apologize, Sybil," Dumbledore cut her off, "I did not mean to sound as though I doubted you." He paused as she pouted and he said, "We owe you a great debt of gratitude for your foresight in the matter of Harry Potter's well being last term, of course."

"The Inner Eye is often doubted by skeptics who are sorrowful that they did not heed the warnings when they were given them," Trelawney said in an other worldy tone.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "Why, I actually am in the depths of regretting not heeding one of your warnings this very moment. I received the chart you created for my week and I sent my things to the house elves who were on duty doing laundry on Tuesday, despite your warnings to refrain, and all of my undergarments were returned to be pink. I'll have to move Winky into the kitchens - she does not seem fit to be a laundry elf, perhaps cooking will suit her better." Dumbledore smiled.

Trelawney stared at him, gape-mouthed, unsure if he was being facetious or serious.

"Who is it that has cast the grim, Sybil?"

"It is one of three!" she said, snapping back to her ethereal demeanor at this.

"One of three?"

"Yes. You see, they all three cast the twigs and we were unsure which of the three had collected the twigs that presented the grim as they'd become mixed up during a bit of a wrestling match."

The fact that Sybil Trelawney was able to say these words in her warbling tone was rather impressive, Dumbledore felt, and he had to hold back from a smile, lest she believe him to be taking her anything less than completely seriously. 

"I see," he nodded. "And who were the three?"

"Roger Davies of Ravenclaw," Trelawney said, pausing dramatically for full effect between each name, "Herbert Fleet of Hufflepuff... and Cedric Diggory, also of Hufflepuff."

Dumbledore nodded, "I see... I see."

"They must be protected, Dumbledore! At all costs!" Trelawney said in a shivering tone.

"I agree, Sybil," he said, still nodding, "And I shall be certain to do what I can to provide them with the utmost care and attention. I thank you for bringing the situation to my attention."

"It is the duty of those who See to bring Sight to those who are Un-see-ers." She paused, her eyes moving as she played back her words in her mind, confirming she'd said the words correctly.

Dumbledore said, "I most definitely appreciate your assistance, Sybil. Thank you. It is for reasons such as these that we insist upon keeping you here on our staff at Hogwarts, my dear. You have proved yourself many times over to be a truly insightful oracle." He stood up and she did, too, shakily, adjusting her scarves and shawls and he led her to the door, opening it for her. When she'd stepped onto the top stair and they began to carry her downward, Dumbledore turned to return to his office.

"Albus!" Trelawney called.

"Sybil?"

"The Spirit in your office... he needs encouragement! Do burn some lavender and sage for him!"

"I shall see to it, Professor," Dumbledore nodded, and he stepped back into the room and closed the door behind him.

 The moment it closed, Fawkes let out a doleful squawk and with a great burst of smoke, fell to ashes in the tray below the perch.

Wally Grant was tying Oliver Kent's bowtie and then slicking his hair back with the tips of his fingers, relishing the feeling of it. It had been so long since he'd helped Oliver dress - as silly as it sounds, it was something that Wally had once truly enjoyed doing for his husband on a regular basis. Being famous, Oliver often had important press conferences and interviews and getting dressed up had been something Oliver had to do for those sorts of appointments. He might've gone in his trousers and number jumper had it not been for Wally. It was their tradition.

Oliver bent forward and kissed Wally gently, smiling against his lips. "Gods you're so good at that," he murmured into the kiss. "You make me feel so confident with the way you do me up."

Wally said, "There's not much that needs doing up, honestly, you'd look great in your training clothes if only they weren't all sweaty."

"And here I thought you liked it when I was all sweaty."

"Only if it's the sort of sweaty that I make you get."

"Godssssssss," murmured Oliver into Wally's mouth. "Are you certain it needs to be today that we go to Fortescue's? Mightn't we have just one more day of just the pair of us?" He grinned, running his fingertip down the front of Wally's jumper, "I've got a bottle of that old merlot you liked in the cellar, we could break it open and then do that thing you like, and --"

There was a commotion in the living room and Wally and Oliver both looked up to see Declan Alectric's bright blue hair as the publicist stood up, dusting off from the floo, and turning about.

"Shit," Oliver muttered as Declan's eyes landed on the pair of them standing in the dining room, Wally's hands still in Oliver's hair, their mouths still close enough that there was nothing else they could possibly have been doing besides kissing.

Declan stared at Oliver for several long beats before his eyes moved to Wally and took him in, head to foot, then back to Oliver. 

Tension so thick it could've been cut clean with a knife filled the room.

"Declan, I --" began Oliver, but Declan held up his hand, stopping him. Oliver fell silent.

Declan lowered his palm, took a deep breath, and said simply, "Is it true, what's going 'round the Prophet this morning?"

"What?" asked Oliver, his stomach sinking, "I - I've been, er, busy the last couple days. I haven't heard anything..."

Declan smirked, "Oh I bet you have been busy," he said snidely, but he moved on quickly, "They're saying that Oskar Krum fired you."

"What?" Oliver looked confused, "What do you mean fired me? No?"

"They say he released a public statement through Krum's publicist - who knew he had a new publicist by the way, certainly not me, though you'd think being his old publicist that I would be the first to know. Maybe Oskar's line is to simply fire his services in news releases rather than in one-on-ones..." He'd walked over to the dining room table beside the pair of them and was moving his hand over a stack of envelopes and scrolls. With a sigh, he held one up, and Oliver flushed as she recognized the Krum signet on the wax seal. "Or perhaps you were so busy you weren't checking your owls properly. May I?"

Wally's hands slid from Oliver's hair and he took two steps back, separating them.

Oliver nodded as Declan broke open the seal and unrolled the scroll. "Yes, well. Guess it's only me he didn't bother to inform."

Oliver reached out and took the scroll from Declan, looking it over. "Bloody fucking hell," he muttered, his face reddening, but this time with frustration or anger, "He really has fired me, that old son of a Bob."

Wally took the note and looked it over, too, with a frown, and handed it back to Oliver.

"So what have you done that's brought it on, then?" Declan demanded. "I've got to get on top of this before that Skeeter woman comes snuffling around here and finds --" he waved a palm at Wally, "-- this. Our agreement only covers what happened at the World Cup and I'm imagining she'll find a way 'round a loophole to work that in as speculation if she's given the chance. So c'mon, out with it and I'll release something immediately."

Oliver shook his head, "I have no idea what I could've done. I haven't even talked to Viktor since the Cup. Well, other than one correspondence he had with me, talking briefly about the Triwizard Tournament at Hogwarts... He seemed confident I would be training him at that point. Of course, he'd mentioned his Father ought to have already been in contact then and he hadn't been, so perhaps this isn't as sudden as it seems..."

Declan sighed, "There must've been something that brought it on."

"Oskar's never particularly liked me," Oliver said honestly. "He thinks I'm too easy on Viktor. That's what he says outloud, at least. I reckon it also is in part my - er - preferences, too."

"Homophobic swine," murmured Declan.

Oliver shrugged.

"Alright, fine, I'll do what I can. Work my magic. Smooth it over. Do the things. Yadda-yadda-yadda." He paused. Then, "And should I be saying anything about..." Again, another sweep of the eyes, a wave of the hand in Wally's direction.

"No," Wally and Oliver both said at once, in unison.

Declan nodded. "Alright." He took a deep breath. "Alright." He turned and headed back to the floo. "I won't linger. It seems your... schedule's quite full today. Among other things."

Oliver felt guilty, watching Declan go. Whatever stoic, businesslike demeanor Declan was keeping on with at the moment, he knew the loud wailing dramatics that his boyfriend-slash-publicist-slash-ex-boyfriend?-slash-friend-slash-fuck-what-the-fuck-was-Declan-now-what-the-fuck-was-Wally-even-now?-slash--- Whatever, he knew what Declan was probably really doing on the inside was more akin to lava melting over the sides of a volcano than it was this smooth, nonchalance that he was displaying on the surface.

Declan paused at the floo, as though he wanted to say something, his mouth opened, then closed, and he simply stared at moment, then he turned, threw powder in the hearth, and disappeared.

Silence rang loud in the house.

"Well," Wally said quietly. "That was..." he didn't know what word to use.

"Awkward and awful?" Oliver said.

Wally nodded.

Silence again.

Then, "So Oskar Krum's an asshole?"

"You have no idea." Oliver picked up the parchment and looked it over again. On the table lay a banking cheque from Gringott's for thrice what he would actually be owed and he wondered for a moment why until he noticed it - the reason, probably, for being fired to begin with - the memo on the cheque read for your discretion. "Bastard," he whispered.

"What?" Wally asked.

Oliver shook his head. After all, he didn't need paying off to respect Viktor's secret.

"Wally?" Oliver said, eyes still trained on the parchment.

"What?"

"Was this enough awkward and awful for one day?" Oliver asked, looking up to meet Wally's eyes.

Wally sighed. "Alright. But tomorrow we go to Fortescue's for sure."

"I'll go fetch the merlot," Oliver said, and he hurried from the room, tugging loose the tie from 'round his neck.