The badge glinted beneath the wall lamp, then the Pixie tucked it back inside its collar.
The wooden sign outside the door swayed gently in the wind. The wood had a matte surface, unpainted, its corners worn smooth and bright. Sunlight slanted in from the west, shining upon the sign. Light passed through its edges and cast a long, threadlike shadow across the door.
The shadow was not straight. It bent in the middle, then forked, like a bird spreading its wings. If someone stood at just the right angle, and if his eyes were sharp enough, he would see the light pass through an almost invisible groove at the edge of the sign, projecting the pattern within it. It was a Raven, wings spread wide, with a circular, serpentine curve where its head and tail met.
Yes, this place was also one of the Shadow Society's properties.
In the special prefects' lounge of Slytherin Tower, Madara leaned back in his chair, his right leg crossed over his left. His eyes were closed, but the corners of his lips curled faintly upward. That conversation—every word Dumbledore had said, every word McGonagall had said, every pause, every sigh, every clink of a cup against the table—had been transmitted from the eavesdropping array in the Chamber of Secrets beneath the café. It had been sorted into text, filed away, and placed before him, labeled: "Saturday · Hogsmeade · Summary of Dumbledore and McGonagall's Conversation."
He was in no hurry to read it. He already knew the answer. He merely needed confirmation.
Confirmation that Dumbledore had taken both diaries. Confirmation that Dumbledore would focus his attention on the suspected Horcrux. Confirmation that McGonagall would be busy signing documents, holding meetings, soothing frightened parents—and that no one would investigate how the real diary had