2300 hours

Ira appraised the portraits.

In her crisp white blouse and ankle-skimming navy skirt, bereft of those adornments so typical of society figures, she was an uncharacteristically softer sight to encounter this evening: petrichor. From the swept back threads of her fine hair to the plain, suede flats that brought those fae features down to a manageable height. Dressing to purpose was an art - opulence would not impress Minerva McGonagall. The Headmistress of Hogwarts was a character beyond that distinct form of trickery.

At least, from what she gathered. A staff member had graciously left Ira in the office to wait for the older witch but the two women had yet to make the acquaintance of one another. So she waited. Ira was good at waiting, and took this brief rejoinder to ruminate on her surroundings; to glean the essential traits of its occupant.

Armando Dippet, locks flowing white from a balding head, scrutinised Ira as indifferently as she did him. Curious tradition. The dead were better off altogether dead. That was their added benefit.

A sound then - the door. Ira turned and allowed her lips to melt into a warm, cordial smile. "Headmistress McGonagall," she greeted with palms faced up. "Privyet. It is my pleasure."

The eyes of the long perished Headmasters and mistresses turned up suddenly as the door to the office opened and the current Head stepped through. Their quietly muttering voices died out in reverence and respect to the one in the post, as was fitting and proper for the high esteem as one who leads a school such as Hogwarts. That is… most of the voices died out… and only some groaned.

“Yes, yes,” said Minerva McGonagall, waving off Ira’s formalities. Minerva had never been one for such idol frivolities. “I trust things have settled after the fiasco at the Opera?” She asked, raising one brow slightly higher than the other. Her robes of emerald green shimmered in the flickering light as the Headmistress made her way across the office floor, before gesturing toward a seat before the stately desk for Ira to sit.

She sat behind the desk, and cleared the clutter with a wave of her wand. Professor McGonagall wasn’t irritable, at least not yet. She was unclear as to why another member of staff would leave anyone unattended in her office, and she was also unclear as to what could be so important that Ira Almasy – relative of the still-grieving Raine Almasy – needed to have a meeting with her at eleven o’clock at night.

Curious about many things, Minerva pushed a tartan tin of ginger newts toward the other witch. It was a subconscious thought, she always seemed to try and soften harsh conversation with a bit of sweet. And it was always a good idea to start any conversation on a good note – biscuits were grand.

She allowed herself a small smile at Ms. Almasy, confident that this would be a normal parent visit and nothing was amiss.

Ira enjoyed decisive people. They went straight to the point. It was a shame that so many of them were not her allies - Zamperia briefly coming to mind there - but fortunately, Headmistress McGonagall was neither friend nor foe. At this point the older and infinitely more sensible witch represented a manner of obstacle.

"Da. The Opera House is open once more." Ira lowered herself into a seat, ankles crossed underneath as she suppressed the self-satisfied smile incited by any mention of her Winter Opera. "For ballets and functions. Sadly." The ROH Governors had lost their appetite for robust dramatics - as a a patron of the arts, she was naturally set against this.

But they weren't here to discuss the trivialities of her less interesting personae.

With a flick of her wrist, Ira produced a roll of parchment; thick, heavy parchment held close by the seal of the clan. "I apologize for the hour, you see, but as I come straight from my niece's parents I supposed it was important to... how do you say? Get this out of the way?" she held a nail to the wax seal and it dissolved into wispy, crimson vapours. "My cousin and his wife, they are not at leisure to appear themselves."

The document unfurled and she made a gesture - it drifted easily towards the desk. On inspection the parchment would be revealed as a formal letter of authorisation, marked at its foot by the convoluted signatures of Roman and Eliza Almasy[1]. Also at the foot were her own initials.

In short: it was a notification for the withdrawal of Ira's niece from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, and a request for the Gryffindor child to be allowed a return to sit for her NEWT examinations in the following year.

"Reinka, she wanted only to leave and not return-" Ira sighed maternally at this naive and impractical nature, interlacing her lean fingers. "- but I tell her, better to do this proper niet?"

1.	Raine's parents.

It had been a difficult year for the Almasy family, to be sure. Life was a precarious privilege – one that the universe could take from you at any given moment, for any given reason. No matter your belief system in this world, all denominations and faiths understand that your very next breath is a gift, rather than a right. For some, our lives span across vast amounts of time – with the ability and skill to help shape the world as one sees fit. For others, our flame is cut much too short – without the pleasure of life’s beauties and rewards. Ira had lost a niece, and Raine a twin. Life was hard – Minerva understood.

Minerva understood – but did not agree with the plan laid before her. The parchment weighed heavily in Minerva’s hand, as if the weight of the missive added pounds to the paper. Her eyes raked over the written words quickly, twice, before placing the page upon the surface of the desk. Her hands, clasped together, followed the parchment, and came to rest directly atop the letter.

Raine was a top student – a true Gryffindor, and a promising witch. School – beyond being a place for great learning, was a place for character development – a place where talents could develop far beyond waving a wand or smoldering over a cauldron. To remove a student, for any reason, during those most crucial years of one’s life was detrimental in the extreme. Especially when that student was as immersed in Hogwarts culture as was Raine Almasy.

However, it was simply not Minerva’s choice – as much as the plan displeased her, she had no rights to supersede the wishes of a parent. A sigh escaped Professor McGonagall’s lips, “Miss Almasy, you place me in a very difficult situation,” A pause.

“Raine will need to stay through the end of term, the sixth year final examinations help determine where we stand for NEWTs. I simply could not authorize a non-student examination without knowing if it’s even worth the bother. She can return home on the Hogwarts Express with her classmates – and holds no obligation to return next year,” she said.

“You should know, however, that there will always be a place for Raine at Hogwarts. Should you ever change your mind,”

She waited placidly, wan eyes on the old woman's hands but mind searching elsewhere.

Somewhere in this castle there was a young witch with a grudge buried deep. Ira wondered if her niece rested: if she tossed and turned - or dreamed, or stared at draped crimson, or slept the sweet still slumber of the dead. Oh, yes. She could wait like stone in a valley but thinking of Reinka brought a touch of impatience to her sentience.

Momentarily.

Headmistress McGonagall sighed and Ira blinked, her polite countenance fading into something more indifferent.

"Should she ever change her mind, I am sure you mean." A smug, complacent pause. "I... Reinka has no intention of withdrawing any earlier," she smiled weakly. "You are most understanding. She will appreciate the alternative of returning if her training is not suitable." Ira doubted that the younger Almasy was having second thoughts, regardless of how charming the British school appeared to be.

At this point it did seem that Hogwarts would prove to be nothing but a distraction. Pressure needed to be applied and she would not find the adequate force in a setting filled with such nurturing mother or father figures. Reinka must be deprived of that; must be offered only one recourse for protection, and that recourse was her.

Ira stood gracefully, sensing that she would receive no resistance from Minerva McGonagall - perhaps feeling vaguely disappointed in spite of the blessing. Her smile widened, teeth barely whiter than skin.

"Thank you for your time," she extended her hand kindly. "I hope to meet you again under pleasanter circumstance."