Hildegarde absentmindedly flicked her wand at the white porcelain teapot. As she did, enchanted images of Grecian sirens fluttering their dangerous eyelashes at doomed sailors sprung into action, gracefully instilling a false sense of security. The rural cottage itself was minute, picturesque even - and completely secluded. Hildegarde wouldn't have it any other way. The cosy orange glow from the rounded windows were the only source of light for miles around; muggles and wizards  had no need (or intention) to visit Hildegarde's secluded little corner of the countryside.

The teapot levitated, pouring itself into a matching cup as the retired Professor pottered around her kitchen, mince pie in hand and perpetual frown. It had been a lonely Christmas. The day itself was uneventful, with a few visitors but Hildegarde was glad to be rid of them after an hour or so. Gabrielle and Archer had paid their respects, but they had families and friends to see - she didn't need to consume all their time on such a coveted day. It wasn't a completely unsociable affair, however. Cards had been owled thick and fast from anyone wanting to get on the scholar's good side - but only a few had managed a golden spot on the mantlepiece. Token gestures had been binned as soon as they'd been opened. There was no real need to celebrate, was there? Christmas was a time for loved ones, and Austerlitz didn't really have any. She was an only child. Parents were long dead.

And so was Bernard. That would never change, and Hildegarde's heart had never softened since.

Sighing, she delicately picked up the teacup from the kitchen worktop, still quick on her feet despite the greying hair. There were a few essays she was excited to skim read before bed. The Yuletide period was well and truly over (it had hardly even begun for Hildegarde). Since leaving Hogwarts, she'd contributed to several quarterlies, all her work greeted with gusto and applause from false fans and those looking for another step on the ladder. It seemed one piece garnered much more attention, however.

'The Problem with Purists: Fascism and Foolish Repetition' were eight words that had divided, inspired and enraged several prominent figures in the wizarding community. Despite universal disgust at the previous exploits of Voldemort, few had publicly targeted several key figures that had been linked to such crimes in the past. Hildegarde did not name and shame these individuals, but made great reference to those "who found forgiveness and pardon through treachery to their own kind; fascism breeds outright hate not only to the opposition, but between those that advocate such hatred." In quiet secluded pubs, plenty had downright detested the manner in which Hildegarde had criticised their team structure. She had never been scared of negative reaction, but there were those who wished to silence the elderly witch.

Taking a seat on a very worn, very comfortable leather armchair, Hildegarde took a bunch of parchments to her lap. A wand tip ignited a long, mahogany pipe. Exhaling a thin stream of lurid purple smoke (Peruvian magical tobacco - for medicinal purposes, of course), she finally relaxed in the comfort of theories and debate. Another toke on the pipe, another frown at this rather far fetched train of thought displayed upon the page.

The fireplace crackled, and for one moment, Hildegarde glanced up. She never did notice the flames momentarily extinguish. She never had time to escape.

An explosion ripped through the cottage, timbers and debris somersaulting across the room. Hildegarde was torn from her chair. The deafening roar ripped through the countryside, alerting all of the local area to the tiny, hidden cottage.

Planks fired into the air and landed on the gravelled drive. A smashed teapot laid outside the splintered front door. The sirens no longer danced.

---

Auror Office, Level Two
11:34 PM

Twenty-six minutes.  Jonas couldn't help glancing at the clock as he carefully took aim over the cubicle wall.  Just under half an hour until he was done for the night and the late shift would take over.  Twenty-six minutes and then he'd be off, off to meet Adon for drinks and drown the rest of this miserable night away, instead of having to sit in this bloody office with Eddie Pratt and make small talk about the weather, and Jonas's new trainers, and the hypothetical yet fair job titles that they'd like to have if Cameron Rosier ever felt generously inclined, so that he didn't spend a minute thinking about what anniversary tonight was or wasn't.

Not that Pratt was all that bad for company.  Jonas wasn't sure what Tamis had been implying by assigning him to the evening shift on this night of all nights -- probably trying to prevent him from making another late-voyage[1] to surprise her in her flat -- but at least it was with a co-worker that he considered a mate.  Ed was even less likely to want to talk about anything of substance, and the other Auror had seemed happy to let Jonas continually divert the subject from what he was really thinking about.

"All right," Jonas murmured, carefully taking aim with the blue-and-white paper ball[2] in the hypothetical direction of Archer's cubicle.  Biting his tongue, he adjusted his grip ever so slightly, and then flipped the ball over the wall.  There was the sound of a crash -- a cue that he'd hit something! -- and then a series of further crashes as the paper ball began to bounce and multiply.  Happy holidays, indeed.

Beaming, Jonas shot a triumphant grin over at Pratt.  "And that's another twenty five for me, innit?" he asked cheerfully, grabbing the quill to note the new score on the ledger with a flourish.  He was still down by nearly a hundred -- damn Pratt and his bloody proficiency at chucking things into Dawlish's cubicle, which they'd both agreed was worth a clean fifty -- but at least he was catching up.

"So."  He paused, leaning back in his chair again to face the other man as he waited for Eddie to take his turn with the next projectile.  Back to small talk.  "Do you really think it's fair if the Welcome Witch only has to work in a bikini?" he asked pensively, his forehead creasing in thought.  "I mean, I think instituting a Ministry-wide dress code might be abusing your hypothetical title a bit, Lord Pratt the Big Boss.  And an outfit like that's not exactly fitting for the weather right now, is it?  I mean, she can hardly come to work if it's bloody well snowi --"

He didn't have a chance to finish laying out the perfectly reasonable argument.  A loud caterwauling -- literally, the sound of what could only be an angry cat getting its tail cranked repeatedly -- sounded suddenly through the office.  Jonas, startled, clapped his hands to his ears, pressing them as tightly as he could to try and shield his ear drums from the deafening sound.

"You'd think they could just walk down the bloody hall and tell us that the sodding alarm went off!" he shouted unhappily over the noise. 

The horrific caterwauling went on and on with no sign of stopping.  Jonas winced, shooting Eddie a frustrated look as he slowly levered himself to his feet.  His knee had gone stiff after sitting for so long, and climbing back to his feet was made slightly more complicated by the fact that he was unwilling to relinquish his death grip on his ears.  Still, part of his stomach sank -- that same ear-piercing siren had probably deafened everyone in this very office on this very same night fifteen years before, when a newly commissioned Auror had been found dead alongside his traumatized young fiancee.

But thinking about that now wouldn't do any good.  Grimacing as he put weight on his bad knee, Jonas kept his hands pressed against his ears and gestured with his elbow for Eddie to go first, so that the other Auror could lead the way down the hallway and over to the small office where the Hitwizards maintained the Night Watch.

1.	Such as in The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger on December 21, 2008
2.	Left over from an ill-timed holiday prank