While Orion Malfoy was busy navigating the treacherous, champagne-soaked waters of Ministry politics in a villa miles away, a much quieter, though no less significant, gathering was taking place in the high tower of Hogwarts Castle.
The Headmaster's office was warm, the circular room bathed in the soft glow of the fireplace and the rhythmic puffing of silver instruments. Outside, the grounds were silent and snow-covered, the castle largely dormant save for the few students who had remained behind.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his fingers steeple together. Facing him in a semi-circle of mismatched chairs were the four Heads of House.
"It is done," Dumbledore said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "I have personally moved the Mirror of Erised to the final chamber beneath the trapdoor. The Philosopher's Stone has been placed within it."
Professor Snape, seated in the shadowed corner as was his preference, made a noise of distinct skepticism.
"Is this truly necessary, Headmaster?" Snape's voice was low and smooth. "Quirrell is dead. His remains... well, what was left of them... have been dealt with. The Dark Lord's host has been destroyed. We have no evidence that he has managed to possess another. Who, exactly, are we baiting?"
"A valid question, Severus," Dumbledore nodded, though the twinkle in his eyes was dim. "However, Tom has never been one to accept defeat gracefully. Or quickly. A setback, even one as... visceral... as being mauled by a Cerberus, will not deter him permanently."
Dumbledore leaned back, looking at the ceiling. "He is a wraith, yes. But a wraith who desires a body. The Stone remains his best chance. We must assume he is still lurking, perhaps in the forest, perhaps seeking a new agent. To remove the bait now would be to tell him we have lowered our guard. We must keep the protections active at least until the end of the academic year."
"It seems an elaborate setup for a ghost," Snape muttered, though he did not argue further. He suspected, as he often did, that Dumbledore had other motives—perhaps involving a certain Potter boy—but he knew better than to press the point in open council.
Professor McGonagall shifted in her tartan armchair, her expression pinched. "Very well, Albus. If you believe the Stone must remain, then it shall. But that brings us to the more immediate, practical concern."
She adjusted her spectacles. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts position."
A collective sigh went through the room. Even Flitwick looked weary.
"The students are... enjoying the free periods," McGonagall admitted, her lips thinning. "Especially the younger years. However, I have been inundated with owls from concerned parents of Fifth and Seventh years. The O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s are approaching in six months. They have had no practical instruction since Halloween."
"I have had similar inquiries," Professor Sprout chimed in, dusting a bit of soil from her sleeve. "The Hufflepuffs are forming study groups, but they lack direction. I've pointed them toward The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, but a book is not a teacher."
"And I," Flitwick squeaked, "have had to stop several Ravenclaws from attempting to practice Disarming Charms in the corridors without supervision. They are eager, but reckless."
"Have you had any luck finding a replacement, Albus?" McGonagall asked pointedly.
Dumbledore sighed, reaching for a sherbet lemon. "I have sent out inquiries, Minerva. Several, in fact. However... the reputation of the position precedes it."
He popped the sweet into his mouth.
"It is unprecedented," Dumbledore admitted, looking bemused. "Usually, the curse allows for a full academic year before tragedy strikes. A dismissal, an accident, a sudden resignation... we usually make it to June. For the curse to strike in October? To lose a professor two months into the term?"
He shook his head. "It has spooked the potential candidates. They fear the job is becoming... more efficient in its lethality."
"Or perhaps they just don't want to be eaten by a dog, though that wouldn't be known to many, I suppose." Snape drawled.
"There is that," Dumbledore conceded. "I am currently in correspondence with a few retired Aurors, and perhaps an old acquaintance who has a fondness for locking up dark creatures. I hope to have a body in the classroom—a living one—by the end of January."
"Ideally one that doesn't carry the Dark Lord on the back of their head," McGonagall noted dryly.
"One can only hope," Dumbledore smiled.
He clapped his hands together, signaling the end of the grim discussion.
"But come now. It is New Year's Eve. The house-elves have prepared a magnificent dinner in the Great Hall for the staff and the remaining students. Let us not keep the roast goose waiting. We can worry about dark wizards and curriculum gaps tomorrow."
The professors stood up.
"A goose sounds delightful," Sprout smiled.
"I hope they made the cranberry sauce tart this year," Flitwick added, hopping off his cushion.
As they filed out of the office, Snape lingered for a moment, glancing back at the empty perch where Fawkes usually sat.
The Stone was safe. The trap was set. Yet, there was this feeling that the original trap was being covered by a new multilayered one.
"Troubled, Severus?" Dumbledore asked gently.
"Merely thinking, Headmaster," Snape said, his face a mask. "That this year is far from over."
"Indeed," Dumbledore turned off the lamps with a snap of his fingers. "Indeed."