They made it out of the elevator, saying distracted goodbyes to the wizards and witches still inside it, and made their way towards the Apparition point. Dahlia's mouth was twisting every which way and it was only through her considerable will that she refrained from wringing her hands. Dumbledore hadn't spoken since they'd left the Minister's office, and she was fearful that she'd stepped too far over the line this time. She was here to help, but she wasn't here to take over all their lives just because she thought she knew better. Dahlia had the gift of hindsight, but she didn't have foreknowledge. Everything happening now was new to her, and she needed to remember that she wasn't the one in charge anymore, nor did she have the same political power to affect the same changes as she did in her time and world.

Passing the golden fountain on their way to the exit, Dahlia could take it no longer and skipped closer to Dumbledore's side.

"I'm sorry, Professor" she began, glancing up at him contritely, "but I just couldn't let that woman into the school. She's the one Fudge meant to make a teacher. She'll ruin DADA for everyone and put the students through hell."

Dumbledore bobbed his head and turned to look at her through his half-moon spectacles. "You're forgiven if, as you say, you had the students' best interests at heart," he conceded magnanimously. Dahlia felt a great weight lift from her shoulders and realised, for the first time in a decade, just how much this man's opinion meant to her. "This does solve a problem I was having," he suddenly chortled, his eyes lighting up again, "and rather nicely too." He turned to study her properly, but she didn't feel put on the spot, instead she felt warm. "Do you have much experience teaching children, Dahlia?"

Dahlia almost laughed at his question. She had experience drilling new Auror recruits, training them and beating into their heads that dark wizard catching was a serious business. Some witches and wizards came to her under the impression it was a glorified, exciting position, and they'd have the papers singing their praises in no time at all. Then she'd arrive at their training session, force feed them the reality of the job if she had to, and politely inform them that most of their work would be done in the office, and part of a team. Dahlia had no patience for rogue recruits only attempting to achieve fame, but she didn't think that was quite the answer Dumbledore was looking for.

"Er, I once led a rebellious study group in secret during my fifth year and taught them everything I knew," she admitted, smiling hopefully at the professor and feeling fond memories rise to the surface. "They all passed their practical exams with E's and O's. And I sometimes guest lecture at Hogwarts. Does that count?"

He smiled delightedly, his eyes twinkling down at her in barely repressed amusement. "I think it counts enough."

Dahlia smiled and nodded her head contentedly. "Good. Then yeah, I've got some experience. More than Lockhart ever did, anyway," she added, sniggering quietly to herself at the thought of that man. Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows lifted at her comment, and he twinkled at her yet again.

"That's not a very good endorsement, Dahlia, considering he had less than no experience. Give yourself some more credit," he jokingly chided, shoulders shaking lightly in repressed laughter.

Dahlia turned to him, flabbergasted. "You hired him!" she cried, amusement leaking into her shocked tone and shining eyes.

The old professor began to laugh heartily, and nodded his head. "Yes, one of my more playful ideas, I admit. Quite frankly, I just enjoyed the way Minerva's face would turn red whenever he'd come up in conversation. She did her Gryffindor colours proud," he sighed happily, wiping away a tear as his joy subsided.

Lifting a single mirthful brow at him, Dahlia murmured, "Sir, I had no idea you could be so cruel." No one bullied Minerva McGonagall; she'd eat them for breakfast. Dumbledore truly did have an endless source of courage to try her patience again and again. Or, more than likely, Dahlia admitted playfully to herself, Professor McGonagall just humoured the wizened headmaster so as not to hurt his feelings.

Dumbledore leaned slightly towards her and replied in a conspiratorial undertone. "We all have our vices, Miss Potter, and our outlets. And she did fail to gift me with any socks the Christmas before," he justified, affecting a mournful pout. "My poor old feet were rather chilly that winter."

Dahlia nodded like all this made complete sense. "Oh yes," she agreed easily, "cold feet are the worst. Did she get you any socks that Christmas, at least?"

Dumbledore shook his head and stood back up straight. "As a matter of fact, she did not," he exclaimed. "She got me signed copies of all Gilderoy's collected works."

Dahlia burst out laughing, startling the people around them. "I'm so sorry!"

Dumbledore furiously nodded his head. "So am I," he agreed, leading her out of the Ministry. "Gilderoy had already very thoughtfully given me a signed set himself," beamed the headmaster just before they disappeared.

The pair were popping into existence nearby Number Twelve moments later. Dumbledore appeared so quietly that it seemed he might have been there all along, while Dahlia appeared with a crack that startled a nearby cat into hissing and scurrying away. Neither paid the creature any mind. Making their way towards the headquarters for the Order, stepping around the piles of rubbish in front of some of the Muggle households on the street, their conversation continued.

"So what did you do with the extra set, sir?" Dahlia asked, opening the rusty gate and letting the headmaster through before her. He thanked her and replied.

"I thought they'd make a rather fetching addition to the school's library, actually," he commented, taking his turn to open the front door and let his companion through first.

Dahlia was aghast. "You didn't," she hushed, just imagining the stir that would have caused with Hermione if she'd known (this was, of course, a third year Hermione; second year Hermione would have been first in line to borrow the books, even if she already owned a set of her own).

"I did," he countered, following her down the quiet hall, towards the narrow staircase that led down to the kitchen. "Madam Pince was at first disagreeable, but after a conversation over dinner with the former Professor Lockhart, she seemed much more willing to acquire his personally signed set." Dumbledore hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, a thoughtful expression on his face. Dahlia glanced back at him from where she'd begun to make a pot of tea in the otherwise empty room. "I never did see them again," he hummed, then brightened. "Madam Pince was in a much better mood for weeks, though, which was lovely. She never did seem to warm up to Gilderoy, though."

Dahlia suddenly had the insane idea that Madam Pince had desecrated a book as an outlet for her frustration towards Lockhart. Then she dismissed it, because that old librarian wouldn't ever do such a thing. Probably. Then again, Dahlia mused as she boiled the water, Gilderoy Lockhart was always a special case.

A sudden scream from upstairs had the both of them glancing at the ceiling. It was quiet in the kitchen for a moment as the headmaster and new professor looked at each other blankly.

"Should we check that?" Dahlia asked thoughtfully, taking the kettle off the stove.

Dumbledore shrugged. "We wouldn't want to spoil their fun, would we?"

She had the sudden impression that Dumbledore had applied this philosophy to her and many of her (often dangerous) adventures as a student. Then Sirius started yelling profanity through the many floors of Grimmauld Place, and Dahlia hesitated again.

"Why don't you satisfy your curiosity, Dahlia, hm?" Dumbledore suggested, strolling towards her and the kettle. "I'll finish up the tea."

"Good idea," she muttered, listening to the animagus begin ranting rather loudly about pure-blood rot. Flicking her wand in a practiced motion at Walburga Black's portrait as she passed it, silencing her screaming, Dahlia jogged up the staircase until she reached the first landing, following the shouting to the drawing room. Stepping inside, she immediately coughed and tried to wave away the thick dust that almost overwhelmed her. Dahlia waved her wand, opening the long windows facing the street, and allowed some fresh air into the room. She then took note of the ruckus and sighed, then coughed again on the dust she'd inhaled.

Mrs Weasley, Harry, Hermione and the Weasley children, all with white cloths protecting their noses and mouths from the dusty air like smart people, were watching Sirius in a face-off with Kreacher. The Head of House Black was almost spitting as he ripped a rusty dagger and a photo frame from the old elf's arms, ranting at the furious house-elf about his disgust for his family's pure-blood mania. Dahlia could understand his attitude towards it, but not his treatment of the house-elf that had taken care of her for the past ten years as well as Dobby would have, rest his soul (even if, technically, it wasn't this elf that had done it).

"Hey, enough!" she cried, marching forward. "What's going on? Dumbledore and I could hear you down in the kitchen," she griped, stopping in the middle of the two, glancing between them expectantly with her hands on her hips.

"What –?" Sirius gobbed, blinking in shock before he geared himself up to respond. "Just this stupid elf hoarding away the things we're trying to get rid of!"

"Kreacher will not let the disappointment to his former mistress throw away precious Black things, he will not," Kreacher muttered in his deep, hoarse voice, glaring up at an equally irate Sirius.

"They're not precious!" he shouted, waving around the dagger that, if Dahlia wasn't mistaken, had dried blood still on the hilt. "They're junk! Stupid, pure-blood junk, and I won't have it in this house while I'm your master!" To emphasise his point, Sirius threw the dagger across the room. While Kreacher jerked and gasped, it clanked and clattered as it bounced on the ground and hit the wall.

"Hey!" Dahlia cried, not for the disrespect shown to the object, but rather the old house-elf that had scuttled after the weapon and picked it up like it was precious. "Look," she said, turning back to Sirius, "I get that you hate this stuff, but don't take it out on him."

"On him? The elf?" Sirius tilted his head and looked her over incredulously.

"Yes, on Kreacher," she grumbled, emphasising his name to show the height of her opinion for him. "What's the harm in letting him keep a few things if you really must throw so much of it away?" As soon as she'd asked the question, though, Dahlia knew it was the wrong thing to say. Perhaps the years had dimmed the memories of her Sirius, and how much he loathed this place. They had many things in common, had both grown up in households that treated them poorly and showed them no love, but Dahlia had forgiven that, years ago. Sirius had not, and spending so long in Azkaban after losing the people and life he'd grown to love had only made him all the more aggrieved to return to the place that gave him no fond memories. To him, this house represented everything he hated, and everything that had taken the things he loved away. Somewhere in the last decade she'd spent making happy memories in these halls, Dahlia had forgotten that.

Sirius did not take her suggestion kindly.

Thanks for the reviews, everyone. They were great, and some full of inspiration! Honestly, some of you put into words exactly what I've been feeling about the future of this fic and I love that we're on the same page. I'm being lazy and haven't replied to you again, but I wanted to get this chapter up before I forgot again (I have been so disorganised the last two weeks, forgive me). Hope you liked the new chapter. Some Sirius/Dahlia interaction next, maybe some more Harry too. Guess we'll see :)