The house situated at 12 Grimmauld Place in the quiet residential Borough of Islington, London, was a strange affair. For one, it was invisible to the non-magical neighbouring Muggles who had long since accepted the mistake in numbering that had landed number 11 next to number 13.

Unplottable and hidden behind a strong Fidelius Charm, the townhouse was, thus, also invisible to all but a select few wizards and witches. For many years home to the Black family—one of the Wizarding World’s oldest Pureblood families—12 Grimmauld Place had recently been passed on to fifteen-year-old Harry Potter, who’d inherited it two weeks before, after his Godfather Sirius Black’s death.

Shuddering against the cold, which she wasn’t sure came from outside or inside, Nymphadora Tonks heaved a sigh as she closed the front door behind her. Gas lamps lighted the hallway, stretching out ahead of her, while the pale glow of the large overhead chandelier did little to hide the state of the peeling wallpaper and worn-thin carpet.

She had taken all but two steps inside when the voice of her great-aunt Walburga Black greeted her.

“Half-breed, Metamorphmagus freak!” the matriarch screeched at the top of her painted lungs. “Defiling the ancestral home of the House of Black.”

Though this wasn’t the first—nor would it be, she was sure, the last—time the old cow had made her dislike known, Tonks couldn’t help but look up in anger at the enormous painted portrait stuck to the wall with a permanent Sticking Charm.

“Sod it!” she muttered as she hastened her steps. She had every right to be here, and the old witch knew it—just like Sirius had; just like Harry did. Why no one had uncorked a bottle of turpentine yet was a mystery to her.

Thinking of her deceased cousin brought a fresh wave of pain through her, and her auburn hair became a shade or two darker as memories came back to her unbidden. She tried to chase them away and all but stumbled into a nearby umbrella stand made from the severed leg of a troll, so lost in thought she was.

Moving to the far end of the entry hall, Tonks pushed open a door to reveal a set of narrow stone stairs that led to the basement and the house’s kitchen. Familiar voices rose from the depth, the words indistinct but the tones familiar enough to be recognisable. Moody was there, as was Lupin. She sighed in relief; she liked Remus—a lot.

Her pain ebbed out as she made her way down the stairs, and her hair was dark blond by the time she entered the gloomy kitchen with a smile on her face and an encompassing “Wotcher!” falling from her lips.

Sitting at a long wooden table, large enough to fit two dozen people for a meal, were Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. A tea kettle sat prone in the middle of the table, and five matching china teacups had been left out for today’s guests. Realising that more were yet to come, Tonks sat down next to Shacklebolt, while Remus, who sat opposite her, rose to fill her cup.

“Morning, Tonks,” he said with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his green eyes. She nodded her thanks when he handed her the cup, acutely aware that she hadn’t seen a proper smile on that man’s lips since the day he’d lost his best friend in battle.

“’Sup?” she asked the room at large.

“A good question, indeed,” replied Moody, his magical prosthetic left eye squinting her way, while the right one affected a more traditional eye-roll. “Thought one of you might have known more, but we’ve all been left equally in the dark, it would seem.”

“I’m sure Dumbledore had his reasons,” Shacklebolt said, his tone more reasonable than Moody’s had been.

It wasn’t infrequent that an Order of the Phoenix meeting would be called upon without a clearly stated purpose by its leader, Albus Dumbledore. The older, seasoned Transfiguration professor, and now headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was known to get whimsical now and again—and that was a polite way of putting things. In truth, every last member of the Order of the Phoenix was sure of one thing: they didn’t know everything.

Dumbledore knew more than they did, saw more than they did—and that one stung Moody a little to admit—and understood far more than they did, collectively. They’d accepted these facts when they’d accepted their place under his leadership. And they trusted that the older man knew what he was doing, sure that they all stood on the same side and were united in their goal to put an end to You-Know-Who’s reign of terror before it could begin. They were, each of them, soldiers in a war, and they would follow Dumbledore’s orders to their death if that was to be their fate—beyond even, if they had a say in it.

“I don’t like this, though,” Moody grumbled, both eyes turning to look at the staircase on his left. “Bringing in someone new at this stage.”

“We need all the help we can get,” Remus said, his tone neutral.

“Something’s not right about that girl,” Moody continued as if the other man hadn’t said a thing.

“You don’t even know her,” the sandy-haired man continued. “Have you even talked to her once in your life?”

Moody’s right eye settled itself on Remus, while his left remained steadfastly locked on the stairs, as if it were waiting for something to happen or someone to arrive. “Something fishy about her. Mark my words, Lupin.”

Feeling left out, Tonks asked, “Excuse me, but who are we arguing about?”

“Dumbledore’s upstairs having a chat with a witch we don’t know,” Shacklebolt informed her.

“Five-foot nine, long dark-brown hair, early thirties,” Moody added, “Don’t know her name, but I know I’ve seen her in the Ministry before—Major Investigation Department level.”

Tonks hadn’t even noticed that there was someone else on the ground floor, but she wasn’t the seasoned Auror Alastor Moody was. And if he’d met that mysterious witch on the same level of the Ministry where they operated, it could only mean one thing. “She’s one of us?” she asked, feeling foolish for stating the obvious.

“I’d know her name if she were,” Moody said with a downward quirk of his lips. “But I don’t. Never forget a face, though.”

“And now you’re all caught up with our argument,” Shacklebolt waved a hand at the young Metamorphmagus as he smiled into his cup of tea.

“She could be from another department and have come down to you lot to ask for a report or something,” Remus suggested, ever the voice of reason.

“Or she’s one of them,” Moody intoned.

“Or she was bringing some documentation an Auror requested.”

Remus’ counter-argument earned another round of, “Or she’s one of them.”

Before Tonks had the time to request more details, Shacklebolt provided her with an explanation: “Mad-Eye thinks there’s a secret group of Aurors who don’t play by the rules and like to get their hands dirty every chance they get.”

Tonks nodded; she’d heard the rumours, too. And knowing the Ministry as she did, she was sure they were correct. Impossible cases suddenly solved—as if by magic. Witnesses who steadfastly refused to testify suddenly singing like canaries. Even to a green Auror like herself, that looked too much like a pattern to be merely a string of coincidences.

Moody’s prosthetic eye hadn’t moved from where it had been glaring at the stairs, and Tonks felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. That man was the most dedicated, talented Auror she knew—and he hadn’t been asked to join the special branch. What type did they recruit, then? Who was better qualified than someone like him?

The sound of two pairs of feet walking down the staircase put a halt to her musing. It seemed like she would get her answer soon enough.

Dumbledore walked in first, a benevolent smile at the corner of his thin lips, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles as he took in the room. His robe was a garish shade of blue, and it made a strong contrast to his long, white beard.

“Everyone’s here? That’s good,” he said, coming to sit at the head of the table. No teacup awaited him, but presently, the cup that had been resting next to Tonks’ place lifted itself a few inches above the wooden table before gently flying forward to place itself within the headmaster’s reach and settling down with the barest of clinks. The kettle followed an instant later, pouring a generous amount of fuming tea into the goblet before returning to its spot at the centre of the table.

“Sit down, my dear. Would you like some tea?” he asked the woman who’d followed him down the stairs but who had yet to enter the kitchen proper.

She was as Moody had described her: tall, long dark hair, closer to Remus’ age than Tonks’. But what caught everyone’s attention was the expression on her face—or rather the lack thereof. Nothing could be glimpsed of how she felt on her lean features. Her light-blue eyes remained aimed at the headmaster as if he were the only person present in the room; her rosy lips rested in a neutral line that leaned neither towards a smile nor a pout. Her face was the equivalent of a frozen pond on an ice-covered continent where no one lived.

When it became clear that she would not step forward any more than she would accept Dumbledore’s offer of tea, the older man brought his own cup to his lips. “Delicious,” he said, after taking a sip. “Are you sure I cannot tempt you with a cuppa?”

The woman’s lips parted just long enough for a single word to filter through. “Quite,” she replied, in a tone that seemed to drip with boredom. The rest of her remained immobile as she stood half-shrouded in the shadows of the dimly-lit staircase. Underneath simply cut black wizard robes, she wore what looked to be sturdy high-heeled black leather boots and dark-blue denim jeans. Her top was harder to discern—a navy-blue hoodie, perhaps?

The corners of the headmaster’s lips curled up at the reply, a clear sign that something in her laconic answer had amused him. “Miss Leen Nine will be Hogwarts’ new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” he explained after taking another sip of his tea, “and a step up from Dolores Umbridge, I have no doubt.”

“Not a difficult feat,” Shacklebolt agreed, with a knowing smile.

Remus nodded in agreement before adding, “Best of luck, Ms Nine.”

“And what’s Ms Nine’s relevant pedigree?” Moody asked, his magical eye finally leaving the newcomer to pin Dumbledore.

“Relevant enough,” the headmaster assured him with a benevolent smile. “I have every faith in her abilities to teach our students to defend themselves against all aspects of the Dark Arts.”

Remus turned to face the newcomer with one of his ready smiles, which he seemed so at ease at doling out at any given time. “Ever taught children, Ms Nine? They can be quite a handful at times.”

“Ah yes,” Dumbledore said. “Remus here has held the position two years ago. As did Alastor the year after,” he paused for a breath, “in a manner of speaking. Do not hesitate to ask them for pointers, Professor.”

“I believe I made my opinion on the matter quite clear earlier, Headmaster. I have no more the desire to teach children how to play at Aurors and Death Eaters than I have to join your precious Order of the Phoenix.” The words had once again been said with an ironclad control that filtered all emotions, but a tell-tale rise of anger could be perceived in the newcomer’s blue gaze if one were to search hard enough for it. And four curious pairs of eyes were on the lookout for any sign of the woman’s inner thoughts.

“Yes, you will do wonderfully well, I’m sure,” the headmaster continued as if he hadn’t been so brazenly rebuked. “And we’re ever so glad to have you with us, Ms Nine. Please, why don’t you take a seat?” The twinkle in his eyes doubled in intensity. “This tea is truly delightful.”

Remus’ face was a mirror of Tonks’ surprised one when the dark-haired woman obeyed, sitting next to the sandy-haired werewolf.

The meeting started with the proper introduction of everyone present and continued with a sharing of the latest information that their spy within Lord Voldemort’s rank had provided them with. As the evening progressed, it became obvious that Dumbledore would conduct this meeting as he had countless others—never once slowing down to add additional details that might ease in a newcomer, never detouring from the topic at hand to provide contextual information to someone who hadn’t been there for years—and everyone at the table wondered how much the raven-haired witch seated next to them already knew of the situation they were in.

Leen Nine didn’t contribute a single more word to the discussion, though it was obvious she listened intently to every syllable uttered around the table. No further details were given on her background or the reasons why Dumbledore had chosen her to fill in the Defence position and gone as far as introducing her to the Order weeks before the new school term even started. And no one was bold enough to ask the headmaster more questions.