London, Diagon Alley.
A newly completed black marble building stood silently beside the bustling street.
There was no sign, no display window.
Only an elegant, lifelike bronze door knocker shaped like a griffin.
Rufus Scrimgeour stood before the door, his weathered face like a rock eroded by time.
He gave his name.
The heavy door slid inward without a sound.
A house-elf in an impeccably pressed tailcoat bowed deeply to him and led him inside.
He was taken straight to Obsidian Hall on the top floor.
Beyond the enormous one-way floor-to-ceiling windows lay the glittering lights of Diagon Alley.
Inside, Sirius Black had been waiting for quite some time.
He stood with his back to the entrance, composed and in command of the situation.
"Black," Scrimgeour called stiffly.
Sirius turned, a perfectly measured, easy smile on his face, and gestured invitingly.
"Director, welcome to Griffin's Nest."
Scrimgeour looked around, his gaze sweeping over the obsidian tabletop and the Astronomical Tapestry on the wall, and snorted.
"Quite an investment. Still, this doesn't seem like your style. More like Holmes's-a den where foxes can negotiate at ease."
"Clever people always prefer discussing clever things somewhere comfortable."
Sirius shrugged and smiled, personally pouring him a glass of wine. "Sit down. Our time is precious."
Scrimgeour left the wine untouched, sat straight down on the dragon hide sofa, and slapped a roll of parchment onto the table with a smack.
"Since our time is precious, let's dispense with the nonsense."
He unrolled the parchment and read it out clause by clause.
"Under Article Three of the Werewolf Control Act, any gathering of more than ten werewolves requires an application three months in advance, with on-site security provided by a special task force of no fewer than fifty Aurors."
"The application for your so-called werewolf