[center][b]1st December, 1999 – Aldenberg Manor
Albert Aldenberg[/b][/center]

“Meeting’s starting at five!”

Aldenberg looked up from The Daily Prophet. It was all propaganda and trash nowadays, of course, but it was always worth knowing what propaganda and trash were being circulated. That, and the crossword. Even in these dark times, the sanctity of a good crossword could not be tarnished.

He folded the newspaper, and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. Dusting himself down, he stood up and walked to the window to survey the grounds. The sun was just beginning to set, and he could just about make out McCarthy on the duelling strip in the lake, and, a little way way, the David muggle was doing his own practice. Well, he wasn’t an actual muggle, of course, but one couldn’t just call him a ‘Mudblood’.

There was no way they had heard Ronan’s call, all the way outside. There was, naturally, a proper way of doing things that had been (as usual) disregarded, and so, with something of a huff, Aldenberg pulled the lever at the top of the stairs on the way to the dining room: a great bell in a very small tower atop the manor began to ring out. Meetings were important - why else have them? Therefore, it was vital that everybody attend, and, ideally, [i]punctually[/i]. It was something of a shame he couldn’t punish the sin of tardiness with detention here, as he was renowned for as a Professor at Hogwarts.

In the dining room, he greeted Ronan with a curt nod, and took a seat next to him. They did not speak: often, there was no need and, presently, there was nothing to discuss. Whatever Ronan’s news was would not be a secret, and therefore it would come out in good time. In the silence, he looked at his pocket-watch. Not late, but not necessarily [i]early[/i] either.

They trundled in, one after another. McCarthy was first, and then the gentlemen stood for Siobahn (with the exception of Ronan, whose condition excused him). More modern communities perhaps didn’t bother with the formalities, but Aldenberg was keen that the manor, his home, upheld them - or, as many of those traditions that he could drag with him. 

One of those traditions, and one that he did not feel should be especially beyond their order, was not traipsing mud into the dining room. Aldenberg’s face, normally stony and unmoving behind a well-kept but thick beard, flashed irritation as David trudged in. The boy’s skin was basically grey from the cold.

“Excuse me,” said Aldenberg to the table, as an apology, and then again, to David, as an instruction. He marched the muggle boy outside.

“It is December.”

“It definitely is,” replied David, in his normal jokey tone, undermined by a slightly weak smile - it did nothing to soften Aldenberg’s gaze.

“Look at your fingers: you are almost frozen.”

“It’s not so-”

“Please go to your chamber, get some dry clothes, light a fire and warm up. Quickly,” a thought occurred to him, “Can you light a fire?”

“Yeah, I can light a fire.” 

“Good man. Don’t worry; we won’t start without you.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Quick, then,” he said, pointing the boy in the direction of the east wing, and, as he scurried off, called after him, “Incendio, remember.”

When Aldenberg retook his seat at the table, those present may have spotted a gentle but irritable shake of his head.