[h1][center]Hogwarts World Tour[/center][/h1]

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[center][h3]Prologue[/h3][/center]
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The office was small and quiet, with barely enough room to swing a mouse, let alone anything even remotely feline. A short, slightly portly man peered into a fireplace which was crackling merrily despite the height of a June heatwave. The ghostly head of an elderly witch with naturally pursed lips flickered among the flames, both clear and incorporeal simultaneously. The marvels of floo powder were a thing to behold.

“And you’re certain everything is ready?” said she, with a clipped, dry voice and a Scottish accent. Her tone was not unkind, but flashed an infamous steeliness with every consonant - a perfect counterbalance to his softer, rounder tones that deftly marked him for Irish.

“Absolutely, Headmistress. Don’t worry so much.”

“And the portkeys are all arranged?”

“I thought I told you not to worry so much?” said the portly wizard, leaning back in his wingback chair and putting his hands behind his head for effect. Predictably, Minerva McGonagall bristled, to a quiet chortle from him.

“We’ve never had so many students on this programme before.”

“Everything is in hand. Three portkeys to La Place du Fourmilier at twenty-three past four, tomorrow. One’s in Hogsmeade, one’s in Diagon Alley, and the other in Aberdyfi Passage. Double-checked, triple-checked, cross-referenced. Promise.”

“And I presume they all know?”

“They most certainly do. After that eejit got the wrong day last year, I thought I’d send howlers out this time. You know. Just to be sure.”

McGonagall looked cross, but betrayed an almost imperceptible glimpse of approving mirth.

“Do you know where they’re going first?”

“Up to them,” he said, casually.

She sniffed in a way that was not subtle, nor was intended to be; “You really do have a [i]casual[/i] attitude, Mr O’Lustrum.”

“I do, don’t I? We’ve all had quite enough to be serious about for one lifetime, don’t you think?” There was a pause for her to parry, but she said nothing, “Was there anything else, Headmistress? It is rather getting on for my bedtime.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Goodnight, Mr O’Lustrum.”

“Goodnight, Headmistress.”

The spectral head vanished, as though pulled into the back of the fireplace, but, just as O’Lustrum settled down to a fine glass of Dhuabhda Firewhiskey, it suddenly reappeared.

“Oh, there was just one thing.”

“Mmh?”

“If you get the chance, please do encourage the students to consider writing to me. I would quite like to,” - her usual voice cracked for just a split-second before regaining its composure - “Know how they’re getting on.”

“You’re not going soft on us, Headmistress?”

A look of fury entirely in keeping with the flames from the fireplace was his reward, and he felt a pang of regret.

“Of course I will. Goodnight, Headmistress.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Lustrum.”

The head vanished again, this time without returning.

Aaron O’Lustrum extinguished the fire with a laissez-faire flick of his wand and settled back. He still remembered the time the then-Professor McGonagall had given [i]him[/i] a detention, and couldn’t help but wonder if any of the students had themselves also been forced to help restock the potions cupboard by manually and without gloves extracting the various juices from a vat of flobberworms. After a moment’s thought, it occurred to him that, now Headmistress, the old battleaxe had an even greater arsenal of punishments for those students foolish enough to cross her and be caught.