Sirius Black, still reeling from the architectural trauma of his pristine home, turned back to Anduin. "Are you truly unconcerned, Anduin? Dumbledore is requesting your presence. This is not a formal social visit; it's a meeting of a clandestine resistance movement."
Anduin, who had already decided this was an invaluable opportunity to gauge the war effort and observe powerful wizards in action, remained unperturbed. He met Sirius's gaze with calm composure.
"No issue whatsoever, Sirius. I am quite eager to observe the group responsible for safeguarding our world. Knowledge is the foundation of self-preservation."
Dumbledore's shimmering face in the fireplace responded instantly. "Hmm, a young man who prioritizes direct knowledge over abstract fear. That reinforces my trust in the intelligence. I thank you for your forthrightness, Anduin."
Anduin replied with a subtle, respectful deflection. "You are too kind, Professor. I merely acted on instinct. As a Muggle-born wizard, I possess no established safety net, making personal diligence and self-protection paramount."
"A humble and strategically minded young man," Dumbledore mused. "Then the arrangement is set. Sirius, I will send the signal tomorrow at the prearranged time. The location remains our customary safe-house." With a flicker of emerald light, the Headmaster vanished, leaving the hearth quiet.
"Right, Anduin. Get some rest," Sirius instructed, yawning expansively. He stretched dramatically, but winced as he did so. "I'll personally escort you tomorrow."
Anduin simply hummed in acknowledgement. He wasn't focused on the Order or the Death Eaters right now, but on the efficient Floo communication spell Sirius had just used—a localized, private network connection. He was already analyzing its potential magical boundaries and possible limitations. His list of things to subtly learn from Sirius Black was rapidly growing.
Sirius Black, however, had an utterly miserable night.
He had become accustomed over the years to the heavy, familiar clutter of his bedroom—the towering piles of discarded newspapers, the clothes scattered like fallen leaves, the dusty windowpanes. It was a comfortable reflection of his inner anarchy.
Yet, the memory of the pristine, lemon-scented order Anduin had imposed on the downstairs was a jarring contrast, a psychological irritant that prevented true rest.
Every time he shifted in his unmade bed, he felt the heavy presence of dust and disorder, comparing it unfavorably to the surgically clean surfaces of the kitchen. The silence was too acute; the air too thick.
Sirius had been so aggressively comfortable in his chaos, but Anduin's meticulous intervention had subtly rewired his sensory expectations. By the time the first morning light filtered through the dusty curtains, Sirius was restless, irritable, and nursing a stiff neck.
He eventually stumbled down the stairs, supporting his head. The instant he reached the bottom landing, the atmosphere enveloped him—the sweet, clean scent, the bright, orderly light. He was immediately greeted by the powerful aroma of a rich, complex breakfast—scrambled eggs, thick-cut bacon, and freshly baked bread—already laid out on the gleaming dining table.
Sirius looked around, confused by the absence of his young guest. He cautiously opened the back door leading to the small, overgrown garden.
Anduin was there, but he was not lounging or reading. He was engaged in a vigorous, silent physical exercise. He moved with a startling combination of grace and explosive power, leaping, twisting, and striking the air with his fists and palms. His movements, drawn from the Tongbei Fist discipline, were disciplined, precise, and yet completely foreign to Sirius.
Anduin appeared to fly up and down briefly, aided by the ambient Levitation control he was constantly integrating, his movements cutting through the cold morning air with sharp, audible whooshes. Sirius had witnessed duels and physical combat, but never this focused, internal martial discipline. He stared, wide-eyed, transfixed by the alien nature of the young man's training.
Anduin paused a moment later, cooling down and catching his breath, his movements instantly ceasing the magical shimmer they had acquired during the high-intensity phase. He noticed Sirius yawning widely behind him.
"You've woken quite late," Anduin noted, his voice calm despite the exertion. "The optimal window for a metabolic boost has passed. Are you not planning to eat? The food will become lukewarm shortly."
"I rarely bother with breakfast," Sirius muttered, rubbing the tears from his still-sleepy eyes. "But... what in the name of Godric's beard was that impressive display? A highly aggressive Muggle interpretive dance?"
Anduin sighed, already anticipating the confusion. "It is a form of intensive physical and mental discipline, Sirius. Consider it my method of pre-combat conditioning. Forget the visual aesthetics; simply accept that it is necessary exercise."
"And are you going to continue staring at my efforts, or are you planning to consume the truly magnificent breakfast you prepared?" Anduin challenged, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple.
Sirius, smelling the perfectly cooked eggs, immediately capitulated. "Eat, yes, I'm eating! It's only because no one usually bothers to produce such high-quality sustenance that I typically skip it!"
Anduin merely rolled his eyes, utterly resigned to the man's spectacular laziness.
Some time after noon, as Anduin finished reviewing his notes on the Order's structure, the fireplace in the living room flared once with green light—the pre-arranged signal from Dumbledore.
Anduin, who had already changed into a set of perfectly tailored, simple black Muggle trousers and a dark grey woolen jumper—formal, but not ostentatious—looked entirely prepared. Sirius, in contrast, simply threw on his leather jacket.
"Right, hold tight to my shoulder," Sirius instructed.
The Apparition was immediate and violently uncomfortable. To a non-native wizard like Anduin, the sensation of being squeezed and then violently pulled through a tiny tube was deeply jarring. He materialized in a narrow, deserted London alleyway, gasping slightly, forcing himself to remain upright and immediately regain his composure.
Sirius glanced around, his movements sharp and practiced, confirming their privacy before leading Anduin to a seemingly forgotten, broken wooden door at the alley's dead end. Sirius drew his wand, pressing it to the aged wood.
He muttered a quick, complex password and authentication charm. Slowly, a glowing Phoenix design materialized and sank into the timber, and the door clicked open with a muffled sound.
Sirius pushed through, revealing a small, dusty back garden and another, more solid door. He led Anduin inside, through a shadowy entryway, and down a precarious flight of winding wooden stairs that descended into a subterranean space.
Anduin took in the environment instantly. This was no high-tech secret lair. The basement room was spacious but cluttered—rough, exposed brick walls, a low ceiling supported by wooden beams, and a floor of uneven stone flagstones. In the center sat a large, heavy wooden table surrounded by old, mismatched chairs.
Shelves lined the perimeter, stacked high with dusty boxes, forgotten pieces of furniture, and barrels of indeterminate contents. It felt less like a clandestine headquarters and more like the disused storage cellar of a rundown pub—which, Anduin realized, was precisely its genius.
Several people were already gathered around the table. Albus Dumbledore stood at the head, radiating quiet authority. Next to him was Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, his magical eye spinning constantly, taking in every detail of the room and the newcomers.
Anduin recognized Moody instantly. "You've met Moody before," Sirius whispered, leaning in.
Next to Moody stood a witch, younger than the others, with an elegant, watchful demeanor and dark, sleek hair—Emmeline Vance.
On the far side of the table sat two wizards: one, a large man with a thick, neatly trimmed brown beard, a broad jaw, and a serious, dignified bearing—Edgar Bones, a respected former Auror. Beside him was a wizard with short, reddish-brown hair and an open, kindly expression—Gideon Prewett, known for his fierce loyalty.
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling as Sirius and Anduin entered. "Good afternoon, Sirius. And Anduin. I believe we are now complete. Please, gentlemen, take a seat so we may begin."
Anduin was genuinely surprised. Complete? There were only six people here, including Sirius and the Headmaster. He had expected an army, a vast chamber, not this small, intensely focused group. He quickly realized the true, immediate limitations of the Order. He obediently took the seat Sirius pulled out for him.
Sirius quickly and quietly introduced the members: "Anduin, Emmeline Vance, Edgar Bones, and Gideon Prewett. This is Anduin, everyone."
As Anduin gave a respectful nod to each, Moody, his magical eye whirring, offered a characteristic gruff remark. "Ha! I remember you, boy. You showed guts facing those two Death Eaters on the pitch. Now you're here, deep in our assembly. Are all the young witches and wizards these days so keen to get tangled up in death and danger?"
Anduin didn't falter. He understood that Moody's comment was a test—an assessment of his character and motivation.
"On the contrary, Mr. Moody," Anduin replied, his voice calm and steady, drawing the attention of the entire room.
"We embrace confrontation precisely because we fear death. To blindly run or remain willfully ignorant is the most dangerous form of self-delusion. In a climate of rising hostility, the attempt to hide or deny the danger only makes one a simpler target. My presence here is not bravery; it is an act of strategic mitigation—an effort to obtain the necessary knowledge to survive."
A palpable silence fell over the room. Emmeline Vance offered a faint, approving nod. Edgar Bones's severe expression softened slightly with respect.
Dumbledore's eyes beamed. "You see, Alastor?" he said gently. "I never assumed that the youth of today were any less astute—perhaps merely more pragmatic—than many adult wizards who rely on the comfort of denial."
The other members of the Order nodded their agreement. Anduin's cold, logical justification had successfully established him as a serious, credible intelligence source, not merely a nervous schoolboy.
"Let us move past pleasantries," Moody stated, pulling himself back to attention. "Anduin, tell the council, with all the necessary details, precisely what you learned."
Anduin proceeded to articulate the intelligence—the planned coordinated attacks on Order members around the holiday, citing the student Quake Wilkes as the source, who had allegedly overheard the plans from a family elder within the Death Eater ranks.
When Anduin finished, a heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackle of the unlit fireplace and the occasional whir of Moody's eye.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the heavy wooden table. His tone was thoughtful, quiet, and absolutely serious.
"Anduin, you have provided potentially vital intelligence, for which the Order is grateful. Now, I will ask you to apply your evident strategic clarity to our immediate problem. Given the constraints of the Ministry's political inaction, and the potential threat to the named individuals, what proactive strategy would you recommend for the Order of the Phoenix in response to this specific information?"