By the time Mr. Rufus Scrimgeour reached Hogsmeade, it was already half past six.
The Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement spent a good ten minutes finding the place he'd agreed upon with Mr Jon Hart: a dingy establishment called the Hog's Head.
If not for his sharp eyes, he might not have recognised it as a pub at all. It sat in an absurdly out-of-the-way corner, its splintered wooden sign swinging on one hinge, a blood-smeared hog's head crudely painted on it. It bore no resemblance to any respectable venue. He had not expected his appointment to favour such appalling taste.
The bar's single public room was small, dark, and filthy, steeped in a heavy reek of goat. Fortunately, Scrimgeour was not one of those cosseted Ministry men.
There were few customers, many with their faces muffled up, all shifty edges and poor disguises. Had it been office hours, he would have strolled over and started asking questions.
"Hello," he said, eyeing the barman—who seemed to be the very source of the goat stink—and reining in his irritation. "Has Headmaster Hart arrived?"
"Upstairs," the barman said without looking up, blunt as a shove.
A surly, slovenly sort, Scrimgeour decided at once. Still, he was a man of position; he would not stoop to quarrel with the underclass.
Upstairs was worse. Grime lay thick on every surface, as if the place hadn't seen a cleaning charm in centuries. What sort of person chose to sit in a hole like this? The question needled him.
"Director!" A warm voice sounded behind him.
"Headmaster Hart." Scrimgeour schooled his features into their usual sternness. "A pleasure to see you."
It was not their first meeting. Nearly a year ago, on the Isle of Man, they'd crossed paths. The boy hadn't made much of an impression then—just another young wizard. That was no longer the case. As Headmaster of Hogwarts, Hart could not be treated lightly.
After the requisite courtesies, they sat facing one another in a private room upstairs.
"Is there anything pressing, Headmaster Hart?" Scrimgeour kept his tone clipped. "My apologies. It's been a busy time."
Watching the performance, Jon smiled inwardly.
"Nothing urgent," he said pleasantly. "I had a free hour and thought we might chat. If you've anything more important, do go ahead—we can always fix another time. I'm sorry to have troubled you."
"No, no," Scrimgeour said, flustered. "No need."
He had spent most of his career in the Auror Office, trading curses with Dark wizards; social manoeuvre had never been his best game.
At that awkward moment, the goat-reeking barman appeared with two tankards of Butterbeer.
"Forgive me, Director," Jon said as he slid one across, "I'm not yet old enough to drink. We'll have to make do with this."
Under Ministry regulations, underage wizards were not permitted alcoholic drinks; and Butterbeer had no alcohol in it. Jon was not so foolish as to flout the rules in front of the DMLE Director.
Scrimgeour made no comment, only glanced with mild distaste at the drink. In a place this squalid, nothing looked fit to swallow.
"To be frank, it's I who have a matter for you, Mr. Hart." Watching Jon sip his Butterbeer in unhurried comfort, Scrimgeour found his patience thinning.
"Oh?" Jon tipped him a curious look. "Do go on."
"It concerns Mrs. Diana Greengrass." Scrimgeour spoke slowly at first, his delivery smoothing as he went. "If I'm not mistaken, at a hearing for a suspected Death Eater, you stood surety for her release. Is that right?"
Jon frowned, surprised he would open with it. After a beat, he nodded. "I did."
"To be honest, I sympathise with Diana." Scrimgeour sighed, then continued, "I believe her decision to throw in her lot with You-Know-Who back then was, in some sense, understandable… but the law is the law."
"I agree with you, Director," Jon said evenly.
"So," Scrimgeour went on, sounding suitably regretful, "I've had word these past few days that her bail is nearly up. Poor woman. It won't be long before she's sent back to Azkaban."
Jon had not expected his own outreach to hand Scrimgeour the first move. He did not believe a word of the man's regrets; at Diana Greengrass's hearing he had been the keenest of adjudicators. If he was raising this now, he wanted something.
Hear him out first.
Jon let the talk run a little over the old hearing and the terms of bail, then, lightly, shifted the subject away.
The two of them, as if they were old friends, drifted onto everything and nothing—from the Weird Sisters' newest set list, to the wizarding civil war in Congo six months ago, to the recent, mysterious death of a Muggle princess.
Jon looked perfectly content with the meander. Scrimgeour grew increasingly impatient.
"Headmaster Hart," he cut in brusquely, just as Jon was animatedly explaining a Muggle device called a mobile phone and why it was better than owls for messages. "There's another thing I nearly forgot."
"Oh?" Jon looked properly surprised.
"Those interviews some members of the Order of the Phoenix have been giving lately," Scrimgeour said with a sigh. "They've put the Ministry in a very awkward position."