Rating: G

A/N: My god, it happened. A Christmas fic with Dumbledore to boot, and it's in on time. ^.^ This was written as a challenge for the Yahoo group Draco Titillandus. The title is an obscure pun. Any fanatical reader of Discworld should pick it up…

Unity

Muggles must not be allowed to interfere with the Wizarding world. They were strictly forbidden from holding any true knowledge of it whatsoever. Everyone knew that, who knew anything at all about magic. Which meant that no Muggles knew it, but that was beside the point. Everyone who was important knew.

Every once in a while some crackpot tried to change the law, but that never worked. The Muggles didn't want to believe in magic. They believed in science instead, and the two crafts simply did not mix.

Of course, with every law, there are exceptions and anomalies that everyone important ignores and works around. The parents of Muggle-born witches and wizards had to know something, after all.

And then there were the other kind of Muggle, who stumbled into or onto the magical world and, for one reason or another, bypassed all the efforts of the Department for Muggle Protection to Obliviate their memories of what happened...

* * *

There was a rustle of feathers as Professor Dumbledore stepped into his office. He smiled at Fawkes, who blinked sleepily at him from his perch on the Headmaster's chair.

'Merry Christmas,' Dumbledore murmured. 'Another year done—we do last, don't we, Fawkes?'

The magnificent bird squawked with a trace of indignation. The old man laughed. 'Very well, another year almost done. The Yule Ball was a great success, thank you for asking.'

The phoenix fluttered onto the desktop and picked up a red quill, holding it out insistently.

'It was good to see so many happy faces.' Dumbledore took the quill and began to search around for a piece of parchment. 'I can't believe what an oddity happiness has become over the past two years. Almost everyone had a wonderful time.'

A tiny, questioning whistle flew from Fawkes's beak. The Headmaster looked up.

'It's Draco Malfoy. He'll be turning sixteen in a matter of weeks, and you know what that means...'

The phoenix looked up at his master forlornly.

'He still has the choice, of course. I asked Severus to talk to him yesterday, and... It seems that something has got through. But to ask him to betray his father and everything he has grown up knowing...' Dumbledore sighed. 'It would be a tragedy to lose such a brilliant young mind to the Dark Lord. Ah, here we are.'

Dumbledore set the square of parchment flat on his desk and dipped the quill into an open pot of ink. A faint smile crinkled his features as he began to write:

Sofia,

I hope that this finds you in good health. So much has happened in the past year that it would take just as long to tell you all of it...

***

Albus glared up at the street sign a few feet before him, pulling his thick red cloak about him. It shouldn't be where it was. He shouldn't be where it was.

Hogwarts Head Boy, graduate with honours, and here I am lost within a day of entering the Muggle world. He glanced up at the grey London sky. A few snowflakes brushed his cheek, caught on their ponderous descent to earth, or at least to dirty cobbles. You're up there laughing somewhere, aren't you, Father?

The parcels he had tied together with string and tossed over his back were digging into his spine by now. He'd attracted some odd looks by doing that, but it was easier than trying to hang three on each finger.

'The Leaky Cauldron...how on earth do I find it from here? I need—'

A sharp sting and sudden, cool wetness at the back of his head caused Albus to spin around, glaring down the street as he wiped the shattered snowball from the collar of his cloak. A grubby urchin flashed an insolent grin at him several yards away and ran off into an alley.

Something in Albus snapped. Patience was a thing he had yet to learn and he was damned if he was going to learn it from some rascal with patchwork trousers. He ran, as fast as he was able to with the parcels on his back, after the child.

The chase was short, and largely spent stumbling along the slippery alleys and side streets that the boy's laughter lured him through. Albus was nevertheless panting with exertion by the time he caught up...

...And found the rest of the gang. There were about five of them, throwing snowballs at each other in an alley slightly wider than the others Albus had passed through. As the urchin rejoined his friends, he sneered at Albus and opened his mouth wide to shout something. Whatever it was, was drowned out by the yell of another boy:

'Look here, it's little Sweetie!'

A skinny, ragged little thing was scurrying along the way, and to all appearances looked as though she were trying to make herself seem even smaller than she already was. Albus was reminded somehow of a house elf, so subservient.

The group hollered in delight, and in the next second the girl was being pelted with snow and even with cobbles and stones picked up from the ground. She began to cry.

'Hey, Sweetie, where's ya Papa?'

'Come on, give us some liquorice!'

'Whatcha got in them pockets, eh? Give, Sweetie, give!'

'What's wrong, got nothing for the street kids? Charity, kid, it's Christmas!'

'Enough!' Albus himself was transfixed by the violence of his roar. 'Sweetie' cowered against a wall, shaking, and the gang turned to face him as one entity. For a brief moment, they looked as though they might flee.

'What's up, toff? Don't like what you see? Scram, then!' It was the biggest boy who spoke; the leader. The others began to smirk and sneer. One picked up a handful of snow and hefted it.

'Still hanging around, are you?' said the urchin Albus had first confronted. 'Here, lads, I copped this one on the head just before. Reckon he wants some more!'

'Leave that girl alone,' Albus tried to sound dangerous.

'Or you'll what? Call the coppers? We can outrun 'em in a second.'

'Yeah, rich man! Whatcha gonna do? How ya gonna stop us?' The boy hefting the snow hurled the icy ball at the girl's face with as much forced as his small body could muster. She yelped and fell to the ground.

Albus had his wand out before he knew what was happening. The gang was staring at the prone form of the girl, aghast.

'You killed 'er...'

'I did not!'

'Boy, we're gonna get it—'

'Yes,' Albus rasped, trying to see properly through a haze of red. 'You are.'

They stared at him.

'What's that stick?'

Albus whirled his wand in a wide arc and pointed it at the leader. A stream of green light fled from its tip with a sharp crack, and sent the boy reeling back into the filthy snow. The others screamed and scattered, staring wide-eyed at Albus. The leader sat up, looking sick. He opened his mouth to speak, and hiccupped. Three green slugs spilled out of his mouth.

The youngest of the gang wailed. The leader staggered to his feet. He managed a croak this time before the hiccup came.

'He's magic'd 'im!' one of them yelled, pointing at Albus. 'He's a devil man!'

They ran, some so eager to get away that they tripped over their own feet and went sprawling over the ground. The last of their terrified cries echoed over the rooftops as they sped away.

Albus slipped his wand back into the pocket concealed in his cloak, berating himself for his stupidity. He strode over to where Sweetie lay, put the parcels on the ground with a grunt, and knelt down, taking her by the shoulders. She couldn't be more than seven years old.

She was breathing, at least. The air swept in and out of her mouth with a nasty rasping sound, stirring a curl of dark hair that had fallen across her face. Albus moved to brush the lock away, and gasped. She was burning up.

The girl stirred at his touch, her eyes flickering. She coughed, and began to shiver. 'W-who...?' Her pale blue eyes widened and began to focus. 'Y-you're...'

'Hush. Those boys knocked you down. Why are you shivering?' Why, when you feel so hot to touch?

'C-cold.' She began to cough again. Albus reached into another pocket and pulled out a flask, which he unstoppered and pushed into her shaking hands.

'Sip this.'

She did so, and the shivers diminished a little. 'Mm, warm. What is it?'

'It's a drink called Butterbeer. It's a secret recipe, so don't tell anyone.'

'Won't.' She looked up at him. 'You're him, ain't you?

'I'm who?'

'Mister Nick.'

Albus frowned. 'No, I think you mean someone else...'

'You're him,' she repeated, more firmly. 'You've got the red cloak an' the presents an' everything. You got to be him!' Her voice cracked and another fit of coughing ensued.

'All right, calm down. I'm Mister Nick. Who are you?'

'Sarah.'

He helped her up and hefted the bundle of parcels again. 'Where do you live?'

'Just around here, but I-I have to go to find—' Sarah broke off and stared up at him. 'But that's why you're here! You've come early for Papa!'

'I—' Suddenly a small, hot hand was pulling on his and Albus found himself being dragged through a labyrinth of streets. 'Where are you taking me?'

'You got to see him, Mister Nick! You'll know what to do; you've got to see Papa...'

'Child, slow down...'

'Mama wanted me to go to Dr Forsythe, but he's been an' been, and Papa's no better. But you'll know how to fix him!'

Sarah dragged him to the front door of a small shop shunted between a couple of large storehouses. Boiled sweets and candies were arranged in the windows, and Albus suddenly knew where the girl's nickname sprang from, and probably why the boys had been so cruel to her. Some children would do anything for a bit of sugar.

Sarah pushed the door open and he followed her inside, turning back a little at the tinkling of a bell. The room was cramped, with shelf upon shelf of confectionary making it even smaller. In the centre, a tiny bundle of wilting mistletoe hung from the rafters overhead. There was a counter, behind which was a door leading, presumably, to the room in which everything was made.

Said door swung open, and a thin woman who looked as though she'd had little to smile for in her life poked her head into the room. 'Sarah? Oh, thank goodness, you're back. Where's....' The woman's gaze transferred to look Albus over. 'Who is this?'

'Mister Nick, Mama. I found him, and he helped me, and he's going to make everything all better. He came early just for us.'

"Mama" stared at Albus and sighed. 'It's Saint, Sarah. Saint Nicholas, not Mister Nick.'

'Well, he came, din' he? Just like I asked in my letter.'

The woman went to Sarah, who was beginning to look defensive, and knelt before her. 'He has red hair, dear.'

'He has the beard! And the packages, and cloak, and his eyes—'

'I want you to apologise to this man for bringing him here. Right now.'

Sarah's lip trembled as she turned to face Albus. 'But...he said he was Mister Nick...'

Sarah's mother glanced up again at Albus, and he watched her struggle against shattering the belief of her child.

'What can I do?' he asked. She thanked him with her eyes, and stood.

'Do you know anything about medicine?'

'I know...a little about healing, yes.'

'I hope you know more than that, because we need it desperately. Follow me.'

She led the way through the door behind the counter, and up a set of stairs in the room beyond. Sarah followed close behind them.

'This is home,' she said quietly. Her mother hushed her as she pushed aside the skewed door at the top of the stairway, which creaked as it swung around.

"Home" consisted of two small rooms: one that trebled as a kitchen, laundry, and bathroom, and another, which served as a bedroom from which a desperate wheezing sound was issuing. It was into the latter that Albus was now led.

There were two beds and a fireplace; that was all. A row of socks, all patched and thoroughly worn, had been nailed above the fireplace. On the larger of the beds lay a man who Albus knew must be Papa. Sweat beaded on his pale brow and he thrashed in the sheets, breath coming in throaty rasps. He was asleep.

Albus stared at him, then turned back to face Sarah. She was watching her father with tears visible in her eyes, but that wasn't what Albus was thinking of. Hot to touch, but cold inside, and trouble breathing. Dear lord, they both have pneumonia.

Sarah's mother had gone straight to her husband's side, and was sponging a wet rag over his forehead, righting the blankets thrown askew in his delirium. Albus noted that only one blanket had been saved for the bed on the other side of the room. She looked across at him, and paused in her fretting.

'Is there anything you can do?'

He closed his eyes, allowing the bundle of packages to settle on the floorboards. 'I think I may have something.'

Albus sorted through the parcels until he located one smelling rather pungently of herbs—it had been intended as a gift for his mother, but he thought he could make it up to her later. Here and now were far more important. 'Could you get me a pot of boiled water, please?'

The woman didn't say a word but swept past him, hurrying to the kitchen. Albus tore away the wrapping around the box inside. He was dimly aware of Sarah edging closer to him.

'How long has your father been like this?'

'He's been like this for almost a month now, Mama says, but he was sick before.'

Albus grimaced. The potion he was thinking of was simple, but worked best when the illness was fresh, and not settled into the body yet. He glanced around the room while wrestling with the latch of the box, searching for something to say that would keep her mind off things. His gaze fell upon the socks at the fireplace.

'You're looking forward to Christmas, are you?'

'Yes, Mister Nick.'

The automatic nickname caused a half-smile to light Albus's face. 'Why socks, though? Forgive me, but I thought the tradition called for stockings.'

'We have none. Socks are better, too.'

'I see.' The latch finally gave, and Albus surveyed the apothecary contents of the box, selecting ingredients with precision honed from seven years of Herbology classes. Sarah watched him in silence as he ground some leaves together, left others, and muttered about the need for boiling water.

'Will he die?'

Albus stopped what he was doing. He met Sarah's eyes, a soothing reassurance on the tip of his tongue, but something made him pause. She was pale and trembling, but he could see her steeling herself for the truth, and he realised how cheating a lie would be. 'I don't know. I'm going to do everything I can to make him well again, but I am not a god, Sarah.'

The tears that had adorned her eyes for the past ten minutes welled up and began to spill over her cheeks. 'I d-don't want Papa to die...'

'I know. No one ever wants something like that.'

She crawled closer, and he instinctively avoided the soft brush of her breath. 'Do you have a papa?'

'I used to. He died, too. A long time ago.' Albus turned back to sorting his ingredients.

'How?'

'It was an accident.' A lone man on broomstick in the middle of a storm. An accident waiting to happen. Father, how could you be so stupid? I was only a little late...

'Oh.' He felt a warm hand on his wrist. 'Sorry, Mister Nick.'

'It's all right. As I said, it was a long time ago, and can't be helped. Now we just have to make sure your father doesn't go and do the same thing, don't we?'

'Do you want anything?' Sarah said suddenly. 'Anything to eat? We usually leave some pudding and some of Papa's beer, but since you're early...'

'Yes, thank you. That's...that's very kind.'

Sarah smiled shyly and raced off. He heard her feet banging down the stairs and then silence for a few seconds before she raced back up. She can't be that sick yet, then. Good.

Sarah reached into a pocket as she entered the room and turned over a handful of sweets from the shop. Albus thanked her, slipped one into his mouth, and pocketed the rest.

'Water,' Sarah's mother said crisply, carefully carrying a potful of the boiling liquid into the room. She set it down where Albus indicated and surveyed the herbs he'd arranged. 'That isn't how Dr Forsythe works.'

'My expertise is probably somewhat different to that of Dr Forsythe, but it will work at least as well.' Unperturbed by the mildly suspicious gaze of the mother, he began to prepare the potion. Thank goodness it doesn't require anything tricky, like boomslang skin.

The suspicion of the regard deepened when Albus began to mumble under his breath as he stirred the steaming pot. 'What are you saying?'

'Just trying to remember the exact order of ingredients.'

She was silent for a moment as he added, finally, a pinch of powdered roots and began to stir deliberately: thrice clockwise, twice widdershins.

'Will it work?'

'It depends on how much the illness has settled into his body.'

She frowned, disapproving. 'Dr Forsythe would never say something like that.'

'Forgive me, but I am not Dr Forsythe. I can only do what I know may help.' He looked down at the potion and spoke, quickly, two final words that allowed the ingredients to dissolve completely into the hot water. The surface rippled briefly as the fluid turned a murky green. 'This will need to cool, but there is more that must be done before your husband can drink it.'

'What's that, then?'

'One of the symptoms of this kind of disease is a build up of fluids in the lungs. That is why he is having trouble breathing, and we must get rid of as much of the build-up as possible. Would you wake him, please?'

She went to the bedside again and as she shook her husband into wakefulness, Albus turned to Sarah. 'Run and get me a bowl. Make sure it's something you won't need to use again.'

He knelt on the side of the bed opposite the mother, watching lines of worry crease her face as she held the man's hand and spoke to him softly. 'I must warn you that this will not be pretty. It might be an idea for you and Sarah to leave the room.'

'No.' Her hand tightened around his. 'No, I'm staying.'

'What is his name?'

'John,' she whispered. Sarah entered with the bowl, which Albus placed at the head of the bed.

'John, I want you to roll over. You have to be on your stomach for this to work...' He helped John to shift on the mattress, moved the small pillow under his chest, drew a breath. 'Are you sure you don't want to wait outside?'

'Yes.'

Albus cracked his knuckles and placed his hands on John's back, allowing them to rest there a moment. 'Anything you feel coming up into your throat, spit it into the bowl there. Don't try to hold any of it back.'

Then he began to pummel him, working from the lower back upwards. John cried out, and his wife looked faintly shocked, but Albus didn't stop. He felt the body beneath him give a lurch and mucus spilled into the bowl beneath John's lips.

'Good, that's good. Keep going. Don't hold anything...'

From the corner of his eye, he could see Sarah watching, with a little apprehension but also with an unwavering trust that her mother lacked. Treasure of a child.

There was a knock at the door from downstairs. With a final wary glance at Albus, Sarah's mother left to answer it.

It was ten minutes before he allowed himself to stop, and massaged John's back for a moment before transferring his attention back to the now-cold potion. 'Sit up.'

John did so, with a certain amount of help, and watched Albus heft the pot with fever-bright eyes.

'What is this?'

'Hush. Take a handful and drink it down. Take another. That's the way. It will help to take the sickness out of your body.'

A faint greenish tinge remained on John's lips as he sank back. Sarah crept in beside him. 'Hello, Papa.'

'Ah, my girl. How are you?'

'I'm okay. Are you?'

John coughed. 'Of course. I've been a little ill, but I'll be better for Christmas, I promise.'

'Your turn, Sarah,' Albus said.

She stared at him, bewildered. 'My turn? For what?'

'You need to drink this as well, if you don't want to get as sick as your Papa. Take just the same amount as he did. Good girl.'

She winced and grimaced as the liquid slid down her throat, but didn't protest. Well, she probably can't speak, Albus thought. I know how foul that stuff tastes.

He sought in his pocket for a moment, and retrieved one of the sweets she'd given him. 'Here, eat this. It will take some of the taste away.'

She did so, smiling a shade ruefully. 'Do you like our sweets, Mister Nick?'

'Yes.' Albus twiddled the thinning remnant of the sweet in his mouth with his tongue. 'Very much so, in fact. What are the yellow ones called?'

'Lemon drops.'

'Divine. I shall have to visit you again, when I'm not so busy.' She giggled. 'Now, you need to bottle the medicine, as much of it as you can. You should take some of it everyday, and your Papa as well. Will you make sure you do that?' She nodded, and he smiled. 'Thank you.'

Footsteps just outside the room crossed the floor quickly, and the door was booted open. Sarah's mother stood there, her face white and her mouth pulled into a tight line.

'There's a policeman waiting for you downstairs.'

'Is there, indeed?' Albus collected up his fallen packages and swung them over his back, mentally cursing himself. 'I wonder what he wants.'

'Come with me and you might find out. Sarah, stay with your father.'

Any guise of trust or hospitality left the woman's visage as she led Albus back down to the shop; her back was stiff and she walked quickly, without a word to him. As they entered the front room again, she nodded curtly to the officer standing in the centre and waited by the door, arms folded.

The officer was not alone. Cowering behind him were two of the boys from the alleyway. Albus steeled himself and strode forward, letting one arm drop by his side. 'Am I the man you want, sir?'

The policeman's gaze stated quite clearly that it had been a long day and smart comments weren't needed at this junction. He eyed the boys behind him. 'Well, is he the one?'

Albus recognised the boy who stepped forward as the gang leader. The lad glanced fearfully up at him, then back down at the floor, and opened his mouth. There was a small shriek from the door as a slug plopped onto the floorboards.

'It's 'im,' said the other boy, still hiding behind the policeman's back.

'Right. Well then, sir, you'd better come with me to the station.'

'On what charge?' Imperceptibly, Albus's hand strayed closer to his cloak.

'These kids reckon you bewitched 'em.'

Albus laughed. 'Witchery? Isn't that a little old-hat?'

'Not really. Not as many burnings as there once were, but I think you'll find it's as illegal now as it was a century ago.' The man sniffed. 'His partic'lar illness doesn't seem natural to me.'

'You would arrest me on the word of a couple of ruffians like this?'

'You're going to wear a charge for resisting arrest in a minute, young man.'

Albus looked down at the gang leader. 'It's a minor ailment,' he said quietly. 'It would clear up in an hour or two.'

'You admit, then?'

He sighed, and delved finally into the cloak pocket. 'I'd rather not. I am truly sorry about this, sir.'

The wand flashed out, and was directed at the leader. 'Finite incantatem.'

The officer's face went red, and he tried to snatch the wand away, but Albus stepped back, casting Oblivium over the group as he did so. He spoke quickly, ushering them out before their memories could catch up with them.

'Officer, these children have led you on a wild goose chase. Just a bit of Christmas fun, you understand. Boys, you'd better go, quickly. Night's coming and I'm sure you're wanted at home. And remember to leave Sweetie alone from now on. Off you go.' He closed the door on their blinking faces, and sighed with relief.

'They were right!' Albus spun at the cry behind him. Sarah's mother was pressed up against the opposite wall, her eyes wide and burning with a mixture of anger and horror. 'You're a warlock!'

'A wizard, in point of fact, madam.' He began to cross the room to her, but paused when she threw a tin of candies at him. It broke open on hitting the floor, and sweets spilled across the room.

'Keep away! I'll have none of that devilry in this house. What poison have you fed my husband?'

Albus's fist clenched around his wand, and he was about to snap back when a shout from above interrupted them:

'Mama!'

She glared at him once more, and raced away up the stairs, following her daughter's voice. Alone, Albus tried to calm himself. He went to the shelf were the tinned sweets were and took one for his mother, dropping the last of his Muggle money on the counter.

'The Leaky Cauldron,' he muttered to himself, oblivious of the footsteps thudding down the stairs, and turned back towards the door. 'I have to get to—'

The door flew open and he was almost thrown to the floor by the small but extremely concentrated weight that took hold of his legs and refused to let go.

'YoudiditMisterNick I knew you would, an' it's all gonna be okay now an' Mama's crying but I don't think she's sad an' you did it, you did it!'

Albus prised Sarah from him, trying to make sense of her words. The door creaked.

Sarah's mother stood there. Tears glistened in her eyes. 'His first sound sleep for weeks. I don't know whether to thank you or run you out of town.'

A shadow of understanding passed between them.

'I need to use your fireplace, if you'll let me. I won't bother you again.'

She nodded.

'Mister Nick.' It was the hand tugging on his cloak more than the small voice that made him look down at Sarah. 'You've forgotten.'

He bent down, smiling. 'Forgotten what?'

She reached up and, taking his head in her hands, kissed his cheek. 'We can do that tradition right.'

Albus glanced upward, and laughed. The mistletoe was hanging over his head. He crouched so that his eyes were level with Sarah's and spoke to her low enough for her mother not to hear.

'Make sure that you drink that medicine, every day, remember? And—here.' He took a few Galleons from the pouch that contained his wizard money. 'Do you know how to get to Grubbers Lane?' She nodded. 'Find the man there with the green hat and a grey pet cat. He'll give you some real money for them. I'll see you next year, I promise.'

'Goodbye, Mister Nick.'

'Goodbye, Sarah. I'm honoured to have met you.'

A few moments later, the fireplace upstairs was lit, and Albus threw a pinch of Floo Powder into the flames. He ducked under the socks and turned to wave a last farewell to the three of them watching.

'The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley.'

The last thing he saw before being transported away was Sarah's smile.

***

...So we are caught in the midst of dangerous times once more, and any relief is welcome comfort for everyone. I look forward to next year's visit already.

Yours in secrets,

Albus Dumbledore.

Professor Dumbledore laid the quill down and blew on the ink to speed its drying. He folded the letter and sealed it with a drop of red wax, as he always did. Then he reached into the middle drawer of his desk, one that was never opened in the presence of another teacher or student.

'Ah,' he said, winking at Fawkes. 'Young Dobby has been again, I see. At last, another person who knows the value of a good pair of socks...' The Headmaster held up the socks in his hand, and unravelled them from each other. '...And no two the same, bless him.'

He tapped the socks with his wand, uttering a slightly different incantation with each one. There was a sound, almost like a pop which fizzled out halfway through, and Fawkes fled to the less noisome safety of his perch.

'Sorry,' Dumbledore said with little real contrition. This had been a tradition well before Fawkes had come into his keeping, and the phoenix's protests had no grounding beyond a dislike of the sound.

He placed the socks by the letter on his desk, stepping away to fetch his cloak. Both were now filled with all manner of trinkets and treats, some plainly of Muggle origins, but there were a few magical surprises as well.

Dumbledore slipped the letter in his pocket, took the socks in hand, and with a nod to Fawkes and a scattering of Floo Powder, stepped into the fireplace.

* * *

Albus kept his promise to Sarah. He returned to the little sweet shop at Christmas the next year, and the next, and the next. Over time, they created their own tradition.

That, of course, was long ago. Several generations of Sarah's family had passed, and the sweet shop was no more. But the secret was passed down to each grown generation, and every time the family moved, it was made known to Albus one way or another.

By now, he was visiting Sarah's great-grand daughter, Sofia, who had two young grandchildren of her own.

Albus considered that, should he be able to continue the tradition into the next generation, he would be the luckiest man in the world.

* * *

When Albus Dumbledore returned to his office later that night, someone was pounding at the door. Fawkes flew to him, whistling.

He crossed the room at high speed, his hand straying to the pocket concealed in his cloak as he twisted the door handle and allowed it to swing aside. A small, pale boy almost fell through the opening.

'Draco?'

'Professor—' Draco Malfoy looked up at his Headmaster, and swallowed nervously. 'I wanted to talk to you. Professor Snape said I could.'

'Indeed.' Fawkes hopped from Dumbledore's shoulder to that of Draco. Albus watched a spark of amazement flicker in the distant grey of his eyes. He ushered the boy into the room and motioned for him to take a chair. Draco sat, looking around as though observing and analysing every detail of what he saw. 'What, exactly, did you want to tell me?'

Draco licked his lips. 'I wanted to listen, actually. I want to know what Snape was getting at—about what he said yesterday. And...'

'Yes?'

The boy spoke in a rush, as though it was something that had been bothering him for a while but hadn't dared speak about. 'I want to know why the Muggles aren't being told what's happening, when this war will be as much their fight as anyone else's.'

Albus's face cracked into a wide smile. 'A question I have been asking myself more and more often as well, Draco. But not all of them are in the dark. Lemon drop?' Draco took the proffered lolly carefully and tucked it into his mouth. Dumbledore watched the tenseness seep out of him. 'Let me tell you a story...'