This was a spacious and beautiful circular room.
One wall was lined with portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, all snoring softly within their frames. A massive table with claw-shaped legs stood in the center, its surface cluttered with oddly shaped silver instruments and a worn, old-fashioned hat.
Albus Dumbledore sat in his office as usual, nibbling on sweets while reading the newspaper. He chuckled softly as he turned to the page titled "Dumbledore's Senile Ramblings" in the Daily Prophet—as if he had found something particularly amusing.
A black-and-gray owl suddenly flew in through the office window.
"Oh?" Dumbledore removed the letter tied to the owl's leg, glanced at it, and exclaimed in surprise, "A letter from Arabella?"
Mrs. Arabella Figg, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, was neither witch nor Muggle but a Squib—born to a wizarding family without magic. Yet through her hybrid Kneazles, she often helped the Order gather valuable information.
After carefully reading the letter, Dumbledore placed it back on his desk, his expression thoughtful.
"Two Dementors attacked Harry and his cousin... then Severus appeared at Number Four, Privet Drive?" he murmured to himself. The first part made some sense, but the second part was rather puzzling, wasn't it?
Just as Dumbledore was trying to make sense of it, a flash of golden light streaked above him.
A brilliant crimson bird swooped into his office, its beak still working as if it had just finished a meal.
"Fawkes, where have you been sneaking off to eat?" Dumbledore said fondly, gently stroking his phoenix's feathers.
Fawkes had grown noticeably larger over the past month, its dull gray feathers now replaced with vibrant red and gold. It no longer looked like the clumsy bird it once was, but rather radiated the aura of a powerful 4X-class magical creature.
Only then did Dumbledore notice the letter tied to Fawkes's right leg. He couldn't help but smile. Aside from himself, there was only one person in the world who would use Fawkes to deliver a message.
He untied the letter and read it carefully. As his eyes moved down the page, an odd expression spread across his face—a mix of amusement and exasperation.
"What's wrong, Albus?" several portraits of former headmasters asked curiously as they stirred awake on the wall.
"Nothing…" Dumbledore replied calmly, stacking the two letters together and tossing them into the fireplace, watching as they turned to ash.
After a moment of quiet thought, he called out, "Phineas…"
"What is it, Albus?" Phineas Black, who had been fast asleep moments before, opened his eyes.
"Go fetch Severus. I need to speak with him," Dumbledore said.
"Yes…" Phineas Black, still half-asleep, began to leave.
"Wait," Dumbledore called again.
"What is it now?"
"Never mind. It's fine," Dumbledore said, shaking his head.
Rising from his seat, he walked over to Fawkes and gently stroked the phoenix's feathers.
"Fawkes, take me to Number 12, Grimmauld Place."
A flash of golden light filled the room, and in the next instant, the office was empty—save for the faint snoring of the portraits that had dozed off once more.
...
Jon Hart had returned to his small room in the inconspicuous East London inn.
The bottles and jars were still piled high on the table. Jon returned the vial of Polyjuice Potion infused with Snape's cells to its place.
In truth, what he had done was simple—just a favor for Snape.
During his years at Hogwarts, Snape had treated him decently. Both by reason and by conscience, Jon felt he owed the man something in return.
And Snape's greatest concern now was undoubtedly Harry Potter—the son of Lily Evans, whom he had silently protected for so long.
But Snape had never been good at showing emotion. Or rather, because of Harry's father, he refused to express it. Meanwhile, Harry, being emotionally naïve, had always assumed Snape simply hated him.
Thus, the two were trapped in a strange cycle of mutual misunderstanding.
Perhaps, by subtly revealing a piece of the truth to Harry, Jon could help ease the tension between them...
That was one of the few things within his power to do.
...
Next, Jon began unpacking items from the bag enchanted with the Extendable Charm—several sets of black wizard robes, a pair of dragon-hide gloves, a pointed wizard hat, and other essentials.
These were all things he had bought in Diagon Alley before going to Privet Drive, and the same ones he would need when returning to Hogwarts next term.
Of course, it was merely a set of clothing.
Jon slipped into the outfit, which would surely look strange to any Muggle who saw him. After organizing the rest of his belongings, he packed them neatly into his suitcase.
Once the case was filled to the brim, everything was ready.
Jon lifted the suitcase and stepped out of the hotel.
...
An hour later, at Charing Cross Road.
A lone wizard in black robes passed by bookshops, record stores, burger joints, and cinemas before stopping at a dingy, narrow pub.
The place was grimy and cluttered. The visitor frowned but walked inside nonetheless.
"Oh, Mr. Patrick!" The balding bartender, whose head resembled a shriveled walnut, looked up in recognition. "You've returned again!"
"Yes, Mr. Abbott," the visitor replied with a nod. "May I stay here?"
"Of course!" Tom Abbott beamed. "Always a pleasure to have you back!"
...
Jon had no intention of staying in that ordinary Muggle inn any longer.
After all, as a foreign wizard lingering in a Muggle neighborhood, his presence could easily draw suspicion if discovered.
So, he now planned to move to Diagon Alley and spend the rest of his summer at the Leaky Cauldron.
With Voldemort resurrected and the Death Eaters regrouping, it was best to be cautious—even if they were operating discreetly for now.
Diagon Alley, being one of the largest wizarding centers in Britain, would likely be the safest place to stay.
And besides, there, he could stay up to date with the latest news from the wizarding world.