Public Opinion, Judgment, and the White Dark Lord (3)

Each time the fire in the fireplace leaped, a red envelope spun out of the hearth, steadied itself in midair, then joined the silent red hill.

The window had not been shut properly. The evening breeze brought in not only a chill, but Howlers flying in from afar, their wings still beaded with dew. They squeezed through the gap in the window frame, circled the room a few times, found somewhere to land, then collapsed like migratory birds too exhausted to move another inch.

Dumbledore pushed open the door and walked in. The light fell across him, coating his silvery-white beard in a soft orange glow.

He stood in the doorway, his shadow stretching in behind him and falling over the red envelopes scattered across the floor like a silent white phoenix. His face still bore traces of the smile he had given the students moments ago, but his blue eyes no longer held that gentle, smiling warmth. Behind his spectacles, they narrowed slightly, more like a swift, imperceptible scrutiny taking stock of something.

McGonagall sat behind her desk, her back ramrod straight. Her glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, and the dark circles beneath her eyes were several shades deeper than they had been that morning. A letter lay open on the desk before her. It was not red, but the dark gray of official Ministry of Magic stationery.

She was not looking at the letter. Her gaze passed through the paper and settled on the only palm-sized patch of desk not covered by correspondence. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and the muscles in her jaw were taut.

The office was stifling, though not from the dry heat of the fireplace. It was the suffocating, viscous heaviness that came from anger, anxiety, and other