Black As He's Painted

They say I am the least popular Headmaster Hogwarts ever had. I am also the only Headmaster ever to have come from Slytherin.

I am not sure which fact gives me greater pleasure.

They file in quietly and sit in the mismatched chairs. Werewolves and paranoiacs. Halfbloods and thieves. Squibs. Paupers. Children. Quite the flower of the wizarding world. For a supposedly clever man, there are times when Dumbledore seems to me to be singularly lacking in common sense.

Beside me, Armando Dippet stirs from his somnolence and opens his rheumy eyes. The tip of his nose is a telltale red. It would not have been my choice to be painted with a tankard of ale, but then the Dippets are not a good family. Not a good family at all. And what can you expect from a Hufflepuff but mediocrity?

Dumbledore coughs gently and they all turn towards him. The traitor is missing. But then he is often late, stalking through the door as if these meetings were an imposition, black robes swirling about him like a gathering storm. A proud and clever man, but not a popular one. He was well placed in Slytherin.

My great-great grandson is also missing. But he will not come again.

Dumbledore is talking, in grave, precise tones. The paranoiac is nodding, his ravaged face attentive as his artificial eye surveys the room. He sees everything, understands nothing. The redheaded children are sharing a private joke, as is their wont. The werewolf's eyes are heavy from lack of sleep.

This is Dumbledore's army, these his ambassadors. And I find in my heart that I prefer them to the alternative. I have no wish to be governed by Malfoys. Or that abominable parvenu, the self-styled Dark Lord, who seeks only to overthrow the established order and replace it with anarchy. But that is not the way we do things here.

And this, then, is the end of the family line. I could wish I had not lived to see it, and yet, in some ways, I am glad. There are so few of the old order left, and those that remain are less than those that came before. Things are not what they were, and I must confess that I am tired of it. I am tired of it all. Let what is coming, come, and let Blacks play no part in it.

'...Phineas?' I lift myself out of my reverie and essay an elegant yawn. For all they know, I may have been asleep. I have certainly been bored.

'I beg your pardon?' I look at Dumbledore through half-lidded eyes. 'I am afraid that I must have dozed off.'

'Scandalous!' Dippet hisses beside me.

I turn and give him an exquisite smile. 'Guttersnipe.' My tone is pleasant, and he flushes and blusters. Really, it is too easy. I turn my attention back to Dumbledore. 'But you were saying something, Headmaster?'

His voice is calm and firm as he makes his request. I feign reluctance. Ever courteous, he repeats the request. Equally courteous, I accede. It is a game we play, he and I. There is nothing else.

Armando Dippet has fallen asleep again.