The Arithmancer's Apprentice

Chapter Four

“I should take off that coat. Don’t you think?”

Tom was shivering hard by now. It had only been a few minutes since he had left the enchanted garden, where he had been able to dry and recover, but already what was left of his robes was thoroughly drenched, and was no longer remotely outlandish in appearance, any more than the clothes he wore beneath them. Still, he was glad to be out of the wind – and the snow. If only he had a wand to heal himself…

But he didn’t, and last thing he needed was pneumonia – especially without any access to a recovery potion. With difficulty, he wriggled out of his tattered robes, and put on the cloak the Muggle handed him.

His benefactor was far from tall, and the cloak was not too bad a fit. The Muggle gentleman was watching him with a worried expression. Perhaps a minute or so later, although he still felt ill, Tom had recovered enough to speak.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “I was staying up at the big house,” he added, “and got caught in the park when I went for a walk. It happened quite suddenly, the snow.” It was as much as he could tell the Muggle, without letting out any hint of magic, and the story might well be plausible. Since the Muggles were killing each other again a lot of their children had been sent away to homes in the countryside, far away from the bombs.

“I didn’t think there’d be a fall like this, and this is the worst winter I’ve seen for a long time.” The Muggle glanced at the snow piling up on the windscreen. “We’ll be buried if we stay in this machine for much longer. Do you think it’s too far to go back to the house?”

Tom shuddered, and stared out through the snow. It was impossible to see anything. “It’s much too far,” he said through chattering teeth. “And there’s too much wind when you cross the ice.” He paused for a moment, trying to remember the map that he’d glanced at last night. “We’re right at the edge of the village, though. The Black Unicorn Inn should be there on the left.” Or is it, he thought, the Dancing Warlock?  The Warlock was where the party from Hogwarts would stay for the night, but he had no wish to answer questions there yet. And he wasn’t even sure it was visible to Muggles.

“Then we’d better go now before it gets worse, wouldn’t you say? Think you can manage it? Here – take this.”

For answer Tom took the scarf the gentleman offered, and nodded as the Muggle opened one of the doors a crack. The snow was piled up against it, but he managed to squeeze out, and Tom followed, resting against the frozen surface of the car while his companion leaned back in through the door, bringing out a large black bag. As an afterthought he stuffed what was left of Tom’s robes inside the bag as well. Then he helped Tom steady himself. Together they made a path through the snow.

It was already beginning to get dark, although that might have been the thickness of the clouds and the blizzard, rather than the approaching dusk. Not that Tom was much aware of it. Already he felt feverish, and without his companion could never have made it to the high stone wall at the side of the road. Even he was soon out of breath. Reluctant to leave the apparent safety of the wall, they waded through the adjoining drift, while the wind whirled about, seeming to hunt them. Then the Muggle raised his hand and gestured to a building on their right. “Here we are!” he said with a smile.

Before them a lantern was swinging madly in the gale, but by magic or miracle it had not yet gone out. On the placard above it a huge long-horned black horse on a white background revealed the door of the Black Unicorn, and Tom heaved a sigh of relief. Unlike the Dancing Warlock, which was a purely magical house, the Unicorn had a mixed clientele. Here they could blend in with relative ease.

Tom's hands were all but numb as he fumbled with the huge door of the inn. Above their heads a great iron bell was weighed down with snow. Suddenly the door gave way before them, and both of them stumbled through, out of the gale at last.

Tom half-saw his Muggle companion shutting the great oak door behind them, scraping his boots on the iron grate. He stooped his head to go under a low arched beam into a smoke-filled room, and a din of noisy voices.

Tom was in a daze, either from approaching fever or the sudden warmth on his frozen skin, and he felt himself led across the crowded chamber to a high-backed chair near the fire, where someone got up to make a place for him. Sundry smells filled his nostrils: ale, tobacco and smoke from the fire, fragrant soups from the kitchen, newly-dried varnish on panelled walls. He could vaguely hear his Muggle companion speaking over his head to a large broad-shouldered man with a black beard and a booming voice; he thought it might be Mundungus, the landlord. Someone put a steaming cup in his hand. Gratefully he began to drink, and slowly his senses began to return.

A fire was blazing in the stone hearth, a pile of coals and faggots nearby to feed it. Overhead, dark beams crossed the plaster ceiling and a series of paintings of hunting scenes hung on the far side of the room. In a corner beyond the grate, a narrow staircase curved up around a thick oak pillar.

The room was so crowded there was hardly room to walk. There were stools and tables in every space, and stuffed birds (the Muggle variety) in glass cases on almost every table, and hanging between the lamps on the walls. People were everywhere, all of them in Muggle dress, although undoubtedly some of them were wizards. It occurred to Tom belatedly that he was probably quite young to be inside a Muggle public house. On the other hand, he was tall for his age, and no one would worry with the weather like this. At least in a place with so many wizards they wouldn’t ask to see ration cards. With shaking fingers, he unbuttoned the coat his companion had given him, which was now as wet and bedraggled as his robes had been.

The voice of the landlord rang in his ears. “You do need to go upstairs, by the look of you – to rest, I’d say, as well as change your clothes. I’m Mundungus, by the way. I’ll see you up to your rooms.” Tom nodded wearily, wondering how he would be pay for the lodging. Not that he was entirely without means – Gryme paid his apprentice for certain “tasks” – but Tom had brought hardly a Sickle with him, and not a farthing of English money.

Something of his worry must have shown on his face, for the landlord added reassuringly, “You needn’t worry if you’re out of tin. The professor here says to look after you.”

Professor? What professor? Tom looked around wildly for Olga Tempera or Abbacus Gryme, until it dawned on him that the innkeeper meant the Muggle gentleman that had brought him in.

Mundungus turned toward the stairs, still speaking. “You can’t go back to the house in this weather. Now, if you’ll follow me.”

Tom rose to his feet unsteadily, and they followed Mundungus up the stair. It was rickety, and the oak steps creaked as they climbed. There were several doors up on the landing, and pictures between them – not one of them magical. The landlord opened a door on the right, and Tom watched silently as the professor stepped inside the room, doffed his coat, and opened the heavy bag he’d been carrying. The innkeeper called across the landing, and a girl came scurrying down the passage. Tom wondered if she was the landlord’s daughter.

“Martha, could you dry these gentlemen’s clothes? Here now, let me see.” He glanced at Tom’s bedraggled state, and opened a cupboard not far from the stair. Inside were piles of clothes and linen. “This should fit you well, for now,” he said, handing the change of clothes to Tom. “Now, if you’ll step this way.” He opened a door to another bedroom, smaller but warmer than the last.

“You’ll be wanting your supper up here, of course.”

Tom almost said he would. He was extremely tired by now, and his injuries hadn’t completely healed. On the other hand, he needed to know what was going on. His position might well be desperate by now, and any delay could mean disaster. He quickly forced himself to refuse.

“No, I’m already feeling better. In a bit I’ll be able to come down myself.”

The landlord stared at him in disbelief, but made no further argument. He nodded his head courteously, and turned to go back down to the common room. Tom heard the stairs creak under his weight, and then his loud voice booming from the floor below.

Tom stepped in and shut the door, blocking out the noise from the guests downstairs, but not the wail of the wind outside. The room was not very large; the huge carved oak bed that took up most of the middle of the chamber almost reached the dark beams of the low ceiling, its curtains drawn aside to frame a brightly coloured counterpane. There was a bookshelf to the left with some old leather bindings, a desk, a pair of small tables and a basin for washing in the far corner. It was rather a nice room to be given to a young and impecunious guest, but there was an explanation, Tom supposed, in the log fire that had already been lit in the hearth. It took up almost the whole of the wall to the left. Perhaps Tom had looked more feverish than he’d guessed. Warm rugs were spread on the floor, all but hiding the bare wooden boards. Opposite the door a single latticed window looked out into the swirl of a violent blizzard. Tom was more grateful than ever to be safely out of the cold at last.

A flash of movement caught his eye. There was a painting above the fireplace, alive like so many magical pictures, which showed a far more vivid view of a blizzard than the genuine snowstorm outside the window. As he gazed at it, he slowly began to make out the shape of dark buildings behind the clouds of falling snow: windows and columns and high pediments. Then he recognised the scene: the vast south front of Mountwarlock Park, in a painting enchanted to show the house as it actually was at that very moment.

Tom shivered, and walked to the fire, removing his boots for the first time that day. He rubbed his toes in the warm rugs as he sat on the bed, drinking in the warmth. His clothes were still damp, but he felt too exhausted to even move >from his spot. There’s no need to change just yet, he thought.

There was a sharp rap against the door, and a moment later, the landlord entered, carrying a steaming goblet full of some sort of drink. “I reckoned you might be wanting this. Recovery potion,” he explained.

Tom was surprised. “But how did you know—”

“I’ve owned the Unicorn too long not to know a wizard when I see one,” he said with a broad grin. He handed the cup to Tom. “I figured from the looks of you, that you’d be wanting a drink like this.”

Tom nodded, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took a deep drink; it wasn’t too distasteful a brew, considering the flavour of most potions, and he wondered if the landlord had added anything to make the drink more palatable. In a minute, every inch of his body was warmed, and already he felt less weary. Mundungus was watching him curiously.

“Your friend mentioned you’d come from the house, but you don’t look like one of the Durmstrang lot.”

Tom shook his head, deciding it best not to mention that he was in fact a member of the Hogwarts party. “I was staying up at the house,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “and got caught outside when the storm began. I couldn’t find my way back, and I even lost my wand in the snow.” He paused for a moment. “And then I found the Muggle. He brought me here.”

Mundungus nodded, staring through the window. “The weather can be dangerous. You know something’s funny when the enchantments here fall apart like this. Though it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen it this bad – back in fifteen, it was. That was before your time, of course.”

Tom’s ears pricked up at the word fifteen. It had certainly been an eventful year, and Tom was dying to know precisely what had occurred to have caused such commotion then, and what on earth could be going on now to make it happen all over again.

“I’ve heard about that,” Tom began, hoping that the landlord might know something, “someone mentioned it over dinner.”

“Did they now?” Mundungus said thoughtfully. “That’s unusual; it’s not something anyone talks about much. They don’t like to speak of it, up at the house. Bit of a scandal, you might say.” He stared through the window, lost in thought.

Tom swallowed, wondering how best to keep the landlord talking, and what question he should pose next, but Mundungus continued of his own accord without any more prompting from Tom. “Yes, it’s been a while since anyone has asked about that. Not sure who knows the truth behind it, though I reckon I have a good idea.”

“Do you, sir? I haven’t heard much…” Tom said.

“Well, it all happened with the death of his young lordship – that’s his lordship’s elder brother. A nasty business, that was.”

“I’d thought he was lost on a quest?”

“Quest!” Mundungus exclaimed. “Lost on a quest? Now, his lordship Zeuxes was an adventurer. He was always off on some silly travel, looking for treasures of Atlantis and what-have-you, while his brother did all the work here at home – and his father wasn’t too happy about that, I can tell you. But he didn’t die on one of his ‘quests’…

“Matter of fact, he was last seen alive was in this very room. He took it one night for some strange reason – and that was the very night he died.”

Tom’s eyes widened, and he shivered involuntarily. Mundungus appeared pleased with Tom’s shocked response. “What… happened?”

Mundungus shook his head. “No one’s quite sure about that, you know. At least, no one I know talks about it. He’d rented out this room that night, and every time I passed the door, I could hear him chanting spells. None of them were familiar spells, mind, but his lordship… he was a bright one. They say he never used the same spell twice. He could figure his way out of anything. That’s why it came as such a shock when he died.”

The innkeeper lowered his voice. “I always thought it was something to do with the old librarian. I never did like him, you know. He was always about here from the day he came, talking to some visitors who came here for the night – and a queer lot they were – foreigners all of them – and he was here as well in this room that very night when his Lordship died and the weather went mad. Not that we saw him come in through the door...” His voice trailed off, contemplatively. “His lordship turned the place upside down, he did. They cleared the librarian in the end, of course.

“But then, the second time the weather went queer, that sudden snow in twenty-four, well, the old librairian left the house AND his job the very next day – so you couldn’t say he had no hand in that!” He finished with some satisfaction.

Tom was speechless. He’s talking about Professor Gryme. How much else does he know? “Do you know what he did?” Tom asked quietly. “The librarian, I mean. What did he do?”

Mundungus stood up straight suddenly; he seemed to realise that he’d said too much. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you? But I won’t talk about what I don’t know,” he said. “You’d best finish off that potion, too. Supper will be ready for you downstairs.”

“Thank you,” Tom said, deciding it was useless to press any further with inquiries into Gryme’s activities here. Mundungus shuffled out of the room, shutting the door loudly behind him.

Tom sat back against the bed pillows and sipped the last of the potion, deep in thought. He knew Dr. Gryme must have delved quite deep in the Forbidden Arts, but he’d never thought that this might extend to the death of another person. For a frightened moment he even entertained the notion of murder, but dismissed the thought almost at once; certainly the Mountwarlocks would not have let Gryme remain in their home for nearly a decade afterward if murder had even been suspected. The young lord’s death must have been an accident.

But what happened? Tom mused, perplexed. It seemed as though every answer he received simply left him with a different question. He would have liked to ask his professor himself, but Tom had no idea where Gryme was any longer, or even how he could be reached. Tom stared at his hands, absently removing the ring whose theft or recovery had somehow brought him to this predicament. He knew it had to be important – but how? It didn’t even feel the slightest bit magical.

And how is it all connected? The house’s enchantments had gone awry on the very same day that he’d come himself, and Tom did not believe in coincidence.

He sighed, and slipped the ring back over his finger as he sat up. There was probably a simple and obvious answer that he had somehow overlooked. He was hungry, too. He’d had no more than a couple of fruits from the enchanted garden (and a cup of tea with Cleopatra) since he’d left the train that morning. In spite of the recovery potion, he was still extremely tired…

With a sudden shock to his mind, Tom remembered Hagrid, turned to stone in the garden. His shoulders slumped with defeat. Their escapades through the house and grounds would undoubtedly have got Tom and Hagrid into trouble, but they could have been explained, perhaps even excused. The disaster that had befallen them now could not be put right in this or any way he could think of. In fact, he presumed it was impossible. Tom had never known anything about gorgons outside the pages the Muggle mythology (which seemed to be disturbingly accurate), but judging from the number of statues in the garden, including those of Muggles or wizards, he guessed that it could not be reversed, not by a normal wizard, at least. Desperately, he wondered if as a Parselmouth, he could in some way speak to the gorgon (he had heard the many voices in her serpentine hair, hadn’t he?) and persuade her to release Hagrid, if she could. But why should Parseltongue make any difference? A gorgon had human lips, after all. Certainly it would be a hazardous undertaking, and would, he guessed, be all but certain to end with him as a statue, too.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. It was an obstacle he would have to contend with later – when he went back to Mountwarlock House. For the moment, he needed to be downstairs and planning how to get back to the house, and (he hoped) to the Hogwarts party as well.

With a new determination he went and stood beside the basin, glancing into the mirror above. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and despite the recovery potion, his complexion was still very pale, which made the cut on his cheek only too obvious. He washed his face quickly, and changed into the dry clothing, wincing a little at the dull pain from his earlier wounds. They were far more evident to him now that he was relaxing indoors instead of wandering aimlessly through the blizzard outside. He slipped his boots back on again, and made his way down to the room below.

A burst of chatter greeted him as he ducked under the low beam at the foot of the stair, and stepped down into the crowded chamber. No one seemed to pay him more than a single glance, and Tom took a chair not far from the fire. There was no sign yet of the Muggle who had rescued him, but as Tom looked around, he caught the eye of a large and well-fed gentleman, sitting in the corner with a glass of brandy and a cigar in his hand. Almost unobserved, he was carefully studying everyone in the room. The unknown gentleman gave him a nod, and with a wave of his hand invited him over, but at that very moment there were footsteps on the stair, and the Muggle professor came into the room.

Tom’s companion recovered well. He had shed his grime-encrusted coat for an ornamental waistcoat with shining buttons, and taking out a long-stemmed wooden pipe he greeted Tom cheerfully with a wave. Stopping for a moment as he passed the bar he took a seat at the narrow table.

“So, you’re already here, I see. I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.”

“It’s extremely good of you, sir. Thanks for arranging the room for me – though I hope I can nip back up to the house… well, as soon as I can.”

“I suppose it depends on when the snow stops. I’ve never known it fall as fast as this – and that wind! Still, it was the least I could do.” He paused as the girl whom Tom remembered as Martha stopped by the table to pass him a tankard of beer.

“I was hoping to have a word with your father,” he said to her. “I don’t suppose he’s gone out, has he?”

“He went to the stables to see to the horses – and maybe to check if the weather’s got less,” said Martha. “If you wait down here he’ll be back in a bit.”

“In that case, I shall wait – and drink my beer.” The girl departed back to the bar, and the gentleman took a deep draught from his tankard, holding Tom’s glance with his piercing eyes.

“That was an extremely fine house you came from, what I could see of it in this snow. I don’t suppose you’ve been staying there long?”

“Oh no, I haven’t been there long.  I don’t even know the village well. It was lucky for me you came by when you did. Thank you very much indeed.” He paused, thinking how to turn the questions. “You haven’t been this way before, sir?”

“No, no, I was staying some miles away, but I’m only in these parts on college business. A living in their gift was vacant, and they sent me up here to choose the incumbent, you see.”

Tom nodded, and began to say more about himself. Pushing his magical identity from his mind, he spoke a little of Mountwarlock Park, suitably editing all his descriptions. The Muggle professor seemed genuinely interested, and Tom almost wished he could explain everything about his dilemma to the gentleman – but of course that would be the height of folly. He’s a Muggle. What am I thinking?

“This is my only first time here,” he said, “I’ve lived in London all my life.” He paused. “I stay in an orphanage there.”

Tom found himself talking about the orphanage, as the only Muggle background he had. Fortunately the gentlemen seemed to assume that Tom had been sent into the country because of the war – and Tom let the explanation stand, almost forgetting his present worries as the Muggle began to hold forth himself, and Tom listened with growing interest, under the spell of his extraordinary conversation.

The discussion turned to less personal matters, but Tom still had to be careful, for they were talking soon of the power of myths, and Tom had to watch his words even more, to prevent himself from saying anything that might cause the professor to question his story. After all, some magical creatures were mentioned in Muggle mythology, and he could not afford to say anything that might reveal too much about them. As they spoke of mythical beasts Tom was reminded of his predicament, as once again he remembered Hagrid.

Suddenly he was struck by a thought. All that he knew of gorgons came from Muggle mythology, and that had proved almost entirely accurate. But the orphanage library was not very large, and Tom was anything but an expert. Might it be possible this Muggle professor knew something about them that wizards did not?

“Do you suppose,” he began slowly, “if there were a gorgon, and it turned you to stone… well, is there anything in the old mythology that suggests being turned to stone can be reversed?”

“Hmm? Now there’s a curious notion. The gorgon’s a very potent symbol. Yes, now that would make an unusual tale.”

“Do you think it might be possible?”

“A gorgon? No, I don’t know about that – at least, not in any of the classical myths. But stories of statues coming to life….” With a sudden striking of a match the Muggle professor lit his pipe. “There is the tale of Pygmalion, of course, but his statue didn’t come back to life. But George MacDonald’s lady in Phantastes was frozen in marble, wasn’t she? – imprisoned, mark you, rather than killed – and she was restored to life by a song…” As he spoke Tom’s memory recalled the countless voices of the gorgon’s serpents, that had sounded so like a spell to his ears. Had it really been an incantation? And was there another unknown enchantment that could reverse that very spell? He turned his attention back to what the professor was saying.

“But no, I can’t think it’s implied of the gorgon. If death from a gorgon’s glance could be cured, then Perseus could have captured, not killed his enemies – and the story could have been quite different. Even the dragon now, wouldn’t you say?”

“So a story like that wouldn’t carry conviction? Within the frame of a story, of course.”

“Well, it depends how far you can go with creative suspension of disbelief – which is what you must do, in all sorts of stories – not only in faery tales. If you take it a little too far, you break the spell of the story itself.” He was speaking so quickly now that for a moment Tom hardly noticed the professor’s next words: “Unless it’s an elvish play, of course.”

Tom started. Surely this man was a Muggle, wasn’t he? What could he possibly know about elves? “What exactly are elvish plays?” he asked, failing to hide his perplexity.

“Well, of course, in folklore, and our old tradition, they’re just like a normal play, but not with suspension of disbelief, but actual delusion instead on the mind. If you see a play, or read a book,” the Muggle pointed to a shelf on the wall, “you have to suspend your disbelief. You know it’s not Caesar up there on the stage, but you pretend it’s him for the sake of the play – and it’s just the same when you read a book. Of course a play takes it one stage further, as it’s there in front of you, not just in your mind. A faery story goes further still: you have to pretend that magic exists – which is why it doesn’t mix with theatre…”

So he is a Muggle, Tom thought to himself.

“…but if you see an elvish play – or so it’s said – you don’t think you’re watching a play at all: you don’t even think you’re acting in it. You’ll think it’s real, that it’s really happening. It’s not a creative spell; it’s delusion. And if you can manage to break the spell, why, you don’t see anything at all. But the spell is one of direct delusion.”

“So you see the play happen all about you?” He wondered about the books he’d seen in the libraries, especially those written in unfamiliar languages; if those sort of books were anywhere, they would surely be found in Mountwarlock House.

“It’s more than that. You not only see it, but you actually think it’s real, that it’s true. Going back to MacDonald again, I don’t know if you read the tale, but it’s like the books that Anodos found in the library of the faery palace: he really believed he was in each tale, that he was the hero, with his past, and his character. It sounds quite wonderful in a story, but it’s rather disturbing, when you think of it.”

To tell the truth, the idea intrigued Tom as well as disturbed him, in spite of his horror of being controlled. For a moment he allowed his mind to wonder what a challenge it would be to create a book like that, a book whose enchantments would blend so subtly with the reader’s mind that for a while he would be what the author asked him to. He forced his mind to come back to the present, and the problems at hand.

It was then that inspiration came to him, as his thoughts were drawn once more to the Hydra, and he wondered how on earth the Mountwarlocks had ever captured such dangerous beasts. It was a strange theory, and he might have dismissed it from his mind were it not for the glimmer of hope it gave him for an end to his troubles and Hagrid’s predicament. If a gorgon’s glance could really be cured, then the second earl might have captured his monsters by using the gorgon to turn them to stone! But only if the spell were reversible. Can Lord Mountwarlock help perhaps?

But a grimmer thought just then crossed his mind, as he recalled the grey stone statues, scattered across the enchanted garden. Oh no! Some of them were human!

He shuddered. If one could indeed restore a statue, then he supposed there must also be a high risk of failure – especially, no doubt, if it was long delayed and the stone figures had begun to crumble – all the more reason to get Hagrid back quickly…

Unless…

Unless of course, the earl kept that garden as his own personal Azkaban – just as secure as the wizard prison, even without Dementors to guard it. A deep shiver ran down Tom’s spine as he thought through the implications of what that meant. Suddenly the room felt cold. If true, it must be a very deep secret, and perhaps not safe for a stranger to know. He wondered if merely to be aware of the gorgon could actually put him in danger.

He shook his head. This was speculation. As for the victims in the garden, they could well have been Dark Wizards who had vainly attempted to attack the estate. They might even be the gorgon’s ancient victims, from the days when she had lived in Greece, which the second earl might have brought back with their nemesis. But the reversibility of the gorgon’s spell was the only persuasive theory he’d thought of that could explain the menagerie, and how the earl had captured such beasts. And somehow, he couldn’t let go of that hope, as he listened to the Muggle’s words on mythology, on language and spells, and being enchanted. It was an extremely unusual perspective – especially to a wizard like Tom.

The clock on the mantelpiece suddenly chimed, and the Muggle professor set down his empty tankard of beer. “I suppose I should go back upstairs. Anyway, there’s no call to worry. I arranged a supper and a bed for the night if the weather won’t let you go back to the house.”

He took out a match and relit his pipe, looking round at the kitchen door with a certain eager anticipation. Tom himself was very hungry. “It smells rather good, don’t you think?” the professor asked, with appreciation.

“It’s certainly better than we got in London.” Tom was thinking of Hogwarts meals, but of course there was nothing he could say about that. “There’s a good French chef at the house, though,” he added, remembering what they’d said about Anatole.

The professor blew a deep puff of smoke. “Well, that makes me rather glad I’m here instead then. I positively detest French cooking. I always liked good plain English food. And there’s a good deal more of that in the country than any town in these dull days, with ration books and all the rest. They really don’t seem to bother with that here. And it’s true of the beer as well, in spite of the inspectors. My word! That fellow over there even seems to have brandy.” He stopped for a moment and stared at the kitchen, suddenly recognising the smell: “Where did they get those wonderful mushrooms? And they’re out of season too! Is there poaching from the hothouses up at the house?”

Tom wondered what to say. “I would think that ministry officials can’t do much in the countryside. After all, they’re producing the food, so you can’t keep track of it too closely.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad if it’s so, though I wouldn’t be too sure about it. It isn’t just for the sake of the war, you know. There’s a kind of person that just likes to interfere with the rest of us, and those people somehow are made inspectors.”

He looked up suddenly as the door creaked open behind him, and there was a gust of wind. “Now there’s someone that almost looks the type. No, perhaps I shouldn’t be too harsh. A friend of mine’s now with the Inland Revenue! Anyway, I’ll be going now, if you don’t mind. There’s a book I very much want to read.”

Tom looked round and almost gaped in horror. The man who had come in indeed looked the type – the very archetype of the government inspector. There, by the door, removing his cloak, was the unsmiling figure of Newt Scamander.

The Muggle professor rose to his feet. He was about to go to the stair, when suddenly he turned to Tom. “The landlord doesn’t appear to be back. If he returns while you’re still down here, just let him know I’d like to speak with him.” He paused as if wondering what to say, and then added: “I found quite a very strange book in my bedroom. It’s in a rather archaic script in which I’m, well, professionally interested. I was going to ask the landlord if it was left by a previous guest.”

Tom said that of course he would, and bid the professor good-bye until supper; but he barely took note of what he had said. He was deeply disturbed by Scamander’s appearance. The Ministry’s famous magizoologist had not, it seemed, put much effort into his search for the children. Considering the horrid weather, he had reached the pub with remarkable speed. After all, that disastrous path through the garden might well have been a short cut, of sorts. Scamander glared as he scanned the room, and Tom lowered his face so as not to be recognised. Not that recognition was certain: Scamander had only glimpsed his back, and had been preoccupied with the Hydra.

He watched the wizard from the corner of his eye, and held his breath as Scamander headed towards a small, red-faced man in a dark coat sitting at a table nearby – uncomfortably close to Tom’s own chair, in fact – and took a chair with his back to Tom. Tom breathed a sigh of relief. As long as Scamander couldn’t see him, the proximity could be an advantage, if he could hear what Scamander might say…

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pinch,” Scamander said sharply. He was obviously in a foul mood, and Tom was not at all surprised.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Pinch answered nervously. “Any news at the house?”

Newt Scamander lowered his voice. “I’d think by now you would know better than to pose such an inquiry without taking proper precautions, Zaccharus,” he said scathingly, drawing his wand, and before Tom had figured out what it was about Pinch’s question that had earned such a reply, the wizard had muttered a Privacy Ward, and both of their voices were suddenly gone.

Tom could see the two men were still speaking, but the ward was evidently a strong one, as he could not hear even the faintest trace of their voices among the songs and shouts over by the barrel of Mundungus’ beer. He leaned in slightly, hoping not to appear an eavesdropper (although, he reflected, that was just what he was), and strained his ears to try and hear, as though he could break the ward with sheer effort.

To his surprise, a few moments later, the two voices slowly returned to his ears.

Is all the magic starting to slip? Maybe it’s not just Mountwarlock’s magic that’s sliding out of control, he thought, and listened attentively to what Scamander was saying.

“…yes, the Hogwarts children. They’re running amok through those conservatories, and that isn’t safe under any circumstances – let alone at a time like this. Mountwarlock, it now appears, without any thought to the safety of his guests, keeps his beasts without the required restraint and security spells to prevent any accidents.”

“Accidents? Have there been any accidents?”

Scamander scowled. “Close calls are more than enough to warrant intervention,” he said, “and it’s almost certainly worse by now. I witnessed two of the Hogwarts children being attacked by a full-grown Hydra! I was barely in time to rescue them – if they are safe even now – but the whole affair could have been prevented had Mountwarlock actually ensured that his menagerie of man-eating creatures is kept properly secure – or, even better, not kept at all. You know he isn’t licensed to own them.”

“Technically, he doesn’t need any licences,” Pinch pointed out. “Considering the status of the park—”

“I am well aware of the legal status of Mountwarlock Park, thank you,” Scamander snapped. “The Ministry should have intervened long ago, instead of perpetuating this ‘magical immunity’ foolishness. Of course, now we actually have a legitimate reason to do something about it... those students have to be kept safe.”

“You mean to call in the Ministry, sir?” Pinch asked uncertainly. “There are plenty of guests there who’d be willing to help, apart from the keepers and local Aurors—”

“They aren’t aware of what’s happening, Zaccharus; I doubt if even Mountwarlock himself is aware that the students are in such danger, and I left the gamekeeper, Kray, with that mad Hydra to ensure it didn’t attack any others. He won’t have had time to alert anyone, especially since he’s so concerned with the ‘moods’ of his nine – no, ten-headed pet.”

“You didn’t alert anyone else, either, sir.”

Scamander frowned deeply and glanced over his shoulder. Tom ducked his head, more worried than ever of being recognised, but his curiosity was piqued, and he carefully leaned in further to catch the rest of the conversation. “I simply didn’t get the chance. I thought I saw someone go into the snow, and I tried to follow, for it might well have been a student – I meant to ask where the rest had gone – and then I was caught in a raging storm. I’ve never seen snow fall like that, and the wind was terrible. I thought I saw a dark shape ahead, and shouted he should go back inside but the wind practically blew the words back into my mouth. I couldn’t see anyone after that – or even the way to the house to get help. Instead I tried to carry on to where whoever it was had been going – and nearly got lost myself for my pains... Then I came to a door in the wall, and the village was there, just across the bridge.”

“And so you decided to make your way here, instead of going back to the house?” The younger wizard’s voice showed surprise.

“Yes, I did. For one thing, it was a great deal nearer – and in case you have not noticed, Zaccharus, there is a blizzard outside these walls, the likes of which I’ve not seen for years. It’s highly disturbing for at least two reasons. For one thing, the sudden snow made it nearly impossible for me to turn back to the house, once I had worked out where I was, and it very much slowed my arrival here. I admit that I do regret not going straight back through the conservatories the very moment I first left Kray, to warn Mountwarlock what was wrong, but I thought I’d better follow the students…”

“And after that it was far too late.”

“Yes. When I finally learned where I was, to make my way here was a great deal quicker than half a mile’s walk by the frozen river – I wouldn’t have made it as far as the house – and so I resolved to alert the Ministry. If the last time this happened is anything to go by, the house will have been cut off by now. We won’t get a message there through the fireplace.”

“Then it’s actually easier to contact the Ministry?”

“It certainly is. We’ll only get a message through to the house when we make a way ourselves through the snow.”

“That is unusual, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes, and there’s another worry.” Scamander paused for a moment as if in thought, before he continued.

“Snowstorms of any kind are not part of the natural pattern of weather here – as you at least should already know. Mountwarlock has generations-old charms and protective spells to prevent weather like this from invading the gardens of his little ‘immunity’. He’s impervious even to the elements, you know... but those supposedly infallible precautions have now gone astray. Disastrously so.”

Pinch nodded. “You’re saying his immunity is no longer really immune.”

“In one sense, anyway. The magic here is completely out of control – highly perilous, considering the creatures he keeps – and there are more than a hundred children wandering around, some of them completely unsupervised.”

“Why on earth has it happened, though?” Pinch inquired, biting his lip anxiously. “An attack from the outside? Is it possible – could it be Dark Wizards, an attack from Grindelwald? I know he really hasn’t posed a great threat to England yet, but—”

“I think not. It’s almost certainly an internal failure of some sort,” Scamander said. “It has happened before, you see. There have been incidences in the past of a similar nature,” he added, as Tom’s thoughts flicked back to what Mundungus had said told him upstairs of the former occasions they’d had such weather. “They always occurred with an internal crisis.”

“In any case, I am quite certain that we are in desperate need of Ministry intervention at this point – immunity or no immunity.” He paused thoughtfully. “And every moment we delay increases the risk of another disaster. I would go and collect my colleagues myself, or send you, but… Do you know, has anyone been able to Disapparate from here tonight?”

“I was just about to mention that, sir. No one has been able to Disapparate for the past two hours at least.”

Scamander did not look surprised. “I feared as much. Has anyone been able to Apparate in, then?”

Pinch shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Your powers of observation seem to require serious improvement,” Scamander replied disdainfully. He muttered a charm under his breath, then turned to a nearby table of what appeared to be Unicorn regulars, who were telling loud and boisterous jokes.

“Tell me, do you know if anyone has been able to Apparate in to the village tonight?” Scamander asked.

A few of the men shrugged and shook their heads; one turned and answered, “Yeah, we had one Apparate in no more’n hour ago, I think, though I think it took him a good few minutes. Not that he could get back, of course.”

Scamander nodded, and turned back to Pinch, restoring the Privacy Ward as he did so, yet when he spoke, Tom heard no difference in the volume or clarity of his voice.

“Good, so if we can make contact, Ministry officials can at least Apparate into the village, and help to direct some of this madness.”

“Are you sure the Ministry will be willing to, sir? They’re unlikely to agree with something so drastic – or not in time to do any good.”

“The children have to be kept safe, Zaccharus,” Scamander replied after a moment. “The Ministry won’t argue with that – and communications with the house have almost certainly collapsed by now. Mind you, I am actually at least as concerned with the degeneration of the house’s magic – calamities like this don’t occur merely by chance. It has to do with his immunity, I’m certain. The creatures – and the people there – are hardly secure at all at the moment. In fact, the whole place is a dangerous hazard. It’s time it were brought under strict Ministry control.”

“Are you sure that will work out according to plan, sir? I’ve been staying here for some days now, and I must say this was quite a surprise to me, but they seem to be remarkably loyal to the earl in the village – and if the war with Grindelwald comes home, well, they look to his magic for protection. There are a couple of hundred wizards here in Steeple Warlock, and more in the other villages too. If the Ministry tries to destroy the immunity… I don’t think anyone here would like it.”

“In which case they must be feeling quite shaken right now, now that it seems to be falling apart. But that’s precisely my point, Zaccharus. If the magic’s now a danger and not a protection, then this is the one and only time they’ll ready to accept that they need our help.”

Zaccharus Pinch nodded in agreement, although he still looked apprehensive.

“Lord Mountwarlock is in a precarious position now, you realise. If the Ministry can intervene and rescue the Hogwarts children from their plight… well, the next logical step would be to finally acknowledge the danger of this place, and put everything – including his miscellaneous beasts – safely into the Ministry’s hands. Which is precisely what needs to be done – or the whole thing could happen again.”

Shocked by the information he’d heard, Tom sat back in his chair, considering what Scamander had said. Just as when he’d stepped off the train that morning (had it really been just that morning?), Tom could feel the odd difference in the magic around him – even more so than before, he thought, although that was probably due to the loss of control, and he wondered if Scamander was wise to scorn it. Even more, he had acquired a sort of awe concerning Mountwarlock Park, and the power the earl commanded there, and was surprised to find that a man like Scamander could be so wholly against a place so unique, and waiting patiently for a slip of some kind in order to pounce. It was even more unnerving to find that the Ministry wizard had (it appeared) obtained his chance.

And the man must have had highly-placed allies. He didn’t seem to fear repercussions.

The two wizards were still speaking, in hushed tones despite the Privacy Ward, and Tom began to listen again.

“Who will you speak to?” Pinch was asking.

“It would be especially advantageous to get a school governor here to intervene – not Jode, of course – he’s unreliable, and I think too absorbed in this mess with Grindelwald – but I suspect that Harker would be a good choice, given that his son is at school at Hogwarts: a second year now, I believe. It would make an impression on him to learn what danger his own son could be exposed to next year, if this excursion’s allowed to go on.”

“Well, the fireplace appears to be working, at least,” said Pinch. “Mundungus used it an hour ago – not that the image was very clear. You were right that they have lost touch with the house.”

“So the whole thing could go at any moment. Well, in that case there’s no time to lose.”

“There is the Muggle telephone, sir,” Zaccharus Pinch added helpfully. “Didn’t they put one in at the Department?”

“Really? They have a phone in the village? I’d have thought there’d be too much interference – there’s far too much magic around the estate.”

“There’s one in the house – and another two hundred yards down the high street. Mountwarlock paid for it last year, sir. Manticore skin round the wires, I think.”

Scamander snorted. “Such extravagance. But I would be more hopeful about that, Zaccharus, if I knew anyone at work who knows how to use it. Let’s hope the fire is still in order.”

He paused thoughtfully. “These children have parents and close relations. I wonder how many of them work for the Ministry – they’d be willing to volunteer at once, whatever the legal complications...” He stood up. “Well. If I can, I should like to get in touch with Harker sooner rather then later – we don’t have time to waste.” Scamander strode purposefully toward the fire, muttering a charm to keep Muggles from noticing anything odd. Taking a bit of glittering powder from a jar on the mantle, he tossed it into the hearth and called out over the noise around him, “Lancelot Harker, Ministry of Magic!”

The flame crackled strangely, and flickered for a moment before changing colour completely. Scamander stared at it suspiciously, and leaned down to place his head in the fire, as was customary with Floo communication, but he seemed to think twice as the flame shifted colour again, and opted just to speak through the fire.

“Mr. Harker! Are you there? This is Newt Scamander speaking, >from the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Scamander was nearly yelling to be heard, which made it considerably easier for Tom to overhear; however, Harker’s replies were muffled and difficult to make out.

“What …do you have a problem?”

“I’m currently at Mountwarlock Park, sir. I’ve witnessed some highly disturbing events here – a definite crisis, I would say. It is my professional opinion that Ministry officials must come here at once, and I thought I should contact you first.”

“Contact me? I don’t quite follow you… We have nothing to do with Mountwarlock Park...”

“The magic here is spinning drastically out of control. Unsupervised schoolchildren >from the Hogwarts party are wandering loose, in constant danger… as a school governor I thought you should know, and might be able to intervene.

“Not sure about that … magical immunity … haven’t heard from Lord Mountwarlock.”

“I witnessed two children, alone and unprotected, almost eaten alive by a Laernian Hydra as they wandered loose in the Lotus House. They won’t survive if they’re wandering there. There simply isn’t time to lose. You won’t hear anything from Lord Mountwarlock because communications are all breaking down. By all means alert him if you can – but you almost certainly won’t get through. I’m calling you from the village. Young Arthur will be going on this trip next year, won’t he? You ought to be concerned! We must do something.”

“You’re serious?…for the children’s safety… do what I can… but the legal position. I don’t think I could get very many to come ...”

“Thank you, sir. You might want to come yourself, since it’s directly involved with the welfare of the students… If you find yourself short of numbers, you might ask the parents of the third-year students. In fact, it would be best to tell them all anyway – there are at least a dozen or so at the Ministry, and one of them, I think, is an Auror. If he could bring a few of his colleagues… We need professionals, you see.”

“What is his name?”

“Jeremy Quayle, as I recall. I intended to send my assistant, Mr. Pinch, for reinforcements, but the crisis here has escalated to the point where Disapparition is now impossible.”

“We’ll be as quick as we can… Where? ... know we can’t Apparate near the house.”

“Tell them all to come to the inn. It’s safest – though you’ll have to wrap up very well. The snow is absolutely terrible: as bad as I’ve ever seen even this winter. I’m at the Black Unicorn for the moment. Bring as many as you can—”

“…right away… if it’s so urgent.”

“Thank you, sir,” Scamander said, and the flame crackled loudly. Glancing over his shoulder, he tossed another handful of powder into the fire, and called for Peter Jorkins at the Daily Prophet. A grey-haired wizard answered promptly.

“Peter, you’ve got to be here right away; I need someone at once to cover the disaster at Mountwarlock Park. The magic is sliding out of control.”

There was a crackling sound now in the flame, and Tom had to strain his ears again, but unlike Harker, Peter Jorkins did not seem disturbed. “I’m sorry, Scamander, there’s no way I can get to you now. I simply can’t be spared—”

“Get me Clinch, then!”

“—no one at all can be spared just now. We’re all too busy with this blasted Muggle war, and then there was Grindelwald’s assault this morning. Besides, we’ve already got someone out there with you; it’s Lunchington, to be precise. He’s been there an hour and can’t get back – quite unable to Disapparate.”

Scamander clenched his teeth and glanced over to the corner, where the man whom Tom had first noticed upon coming downstairs gave a smug grin and a little bow, as he took an expensive-looking cigar from his mouth. A puff of smoke sailed across the room. “Lunchington? You mean Harvey Lunchington?”

“Yes, Lunchington. You’ll have to deal with him yourself. I’m swamped with work just now. Best of luck… No, tell you what—”

Tom bent as far as possible, trying to catch the last elusive words, but abruptly, Jorkins’ voice vanished.

Scamander swore under his breath, and hurled some more powder at the fire. It sputtered, but didn’t spring to life. Scowling, he turned back towards his table, when the man with the cigar called him over with a wave, pouring out another tumblerful of brandy. Reluctantly, Scamander went.

Tom watched them surreptitiously, absorbing everything he’d just learned. Was it true that the rest of the Hogwarts party were in danger? Could he even save himself by betraying his story, especially the existence of the gorgon’s garden, thereby supporting Scamander’s case? He quickly decided against it – the risk of doing that was appalling, and he wasn’t so desperate as to take it yet. To betray the earl within the bounds of his own immunity was a dangerous business indeed, especially when it was impossible to leave his estate – and Tom could still feel the strange magic about him, reminding him of its terrible power. Moreover, he didn’t yet know the truth – only Scamander’s edited version, and Scamander, he was sure, knew less than he did. The magizoologist had assumed that where Tom and Hagrid were, the rest of the party must be nearby. He didn’t know anything about the ring, or Hagrid’s obsession with magical creatures. And there was a further consideration: Scamander had hidden his aims from the earl very cleverly – Tom wasn’t sure he could trust him at all.

On the other hand, he was almost desperate enough to confess his involvement to Mountwarlock himself, and he pondered whether the earl would be grateful or forgiving if he also could reveal Scamander’s conspiracy. It might well be worth a try – if he could get back to the house in time.

Suddenly, the front door opened, and with a sudden flurry of snow, a group of men in dark robes came inside. Scamander looked up from his discussion with Lunchington, and excused himself quickly, threading his way to them through the crowd of chairs. Tom caught part of his greeting to a tall, strong-featured man: “Ah, Mr. Harker, I’m glad to see you’ve made it so quickly…”

The whole company headed through the door to an adjacent parlour; Tom heard only a few vague snatches of conversation as they crossed the room, all concerning the seriousness of flouting Mountwarlock – especially in his own domain. Scamander had been wise to ask for the parents: they at least would have no such qualms. Zaccharus Pinch remained outside for some minutes, directing the other witches and wizards to the parlour next door as they came, until even he joined the crowd inside. Beyond the window near Tom’s chair, the wind seemed to be blowing now even more fiercely.

Tom sat silently, staring through the window, until a shadow fell above him, and a large hand set down a glass of brandy on the table.

“Do you mind if I join you?” asked Harvey Lunchington.

Tom shook his head, wondering what the stranger could want. The man sat down across the table, and leisurely lit another cigar. “Never forget your trademark,” he said with a grin, indicating the long cigar. “I’m Lunchington, of the Daily Prophet. And you are…?”

Tom briefly considered making up a different name, but reluctantly dismissed that idea. He didn’t want to tell unnecessary lies, knowing the trouble they could later cause, but he couldn’t say anything either that differed from what he’d said to the landlord. Which meant that he had to go on pretending that he was a guest of Lord Mountwarlock.

“Tom,” he said, as he made up his mind. “I’ve just come across from the house.”

The journalist looked at him in surprise. “I thought I saw you come downstairs, and was wondering why you were staying here.”

 “I’ve only been here an hour or so. I went for a walk after lunch, you see, and was caught outside when the storm blew up. The whole thing was so … unexpected. I ran into a Muggle when I’d crossed the stream – which was lucky for me, since he helped me here.” He grimaced. “I even lost my wand in the snow.”

The gentleman eyed Tom thoughtfully. “So you were up at the house this morning? That’s interesting.” He leaned across the table. “Was Scamander’s account substantially correct? He informed me the enchantments here are out of control. Is that really true of the house as well? Or had you left before anything happened?”

Tom looked at the man curiously. What does he think I know? Tom knew the bones of Scamander’s conspiracy, but far too little of the background. He wondered what Lunchington could tell him, if he played his cards correctly. “I heard something of what Mr. Scamander was saying,” he began, “His privacy wards weren’t as good as he’d hoped. There’s a great deal that I don’t understand, but I noticed he didn’t look happy to see you. He seemed to be hoping for Jorkins – or Clinch.”

Lunchington eyed him with appreciative interest. “You mean you could hear what he said? I did rather hope you might have been able to...”

Tom had the wisdom to look embarrassed. “It wasn’t very well-mannered of me, but it was intriguing, and almost frightening.”

“Just how serious is it up there at the house?”

Tom took a deep breath. “Inside, the house was fine when I left, although snow had settled in nearly all the gardens. Now…” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s in drifts all over the place outside – though from what I heard Scamander say the conservatories are as warm as ever. Lord Mountwarlock’s aware that the beasts are restive, though – a message came through about that at lunch, and he even asked certain guests to help. He sent Scamander to the conservatory.”

“And what of the incident with the Hydra? Scamander was sure that the boys were from Hogwarts, but no third year I knew could do Incendio. Could he have been one of your lot from Durmstrang? I’m told that you’re mostly up at the house now, with the war delaying the start of your term.”

“You may be right.” Tom thought fast and furiously. “Scamander might have made a mistake. Phantomsby went to check on the Hogwarts crowd, and I think they were back in the house by then; so it might have been a couple from Durmstrang, or possibly some older guests. But it might well be hard to be sure who it was: we were going to play Polyjuice Poker, you see. But Scamander told Pinch he did not tell Mountwarlock. He didn’t even send a message – he just came straight here to contact the Ministry.”

Tom could sense the eagerness with which Lunchington posed his very next question.

“I don’t suppose you heard him say why?”

It was the moment that Tom had been waiting for.

“I did, and that’s just what I don’t understand. Scamander is determined to force an intervention by the Ministry of Magic’s officials to bring the Hogwarts children to safety…”

“Which is a laudable motive,” said Lunchington, “on the face of it.”

“…and use it to end the whole immunity, which is what he blames for what’s going wrong. I suppose this weather here is very serious. Pinch wondered if Grindelwald might have attacked, but Scamander ruled that out at once – although” – a sudden thought came to Tom, as he remembered what Jorkins had recently said – “I gather he has attacked somewhere today. But Scamander was here when it went wrong before.” He paused, considering his own question. “That’s what I’d like to know about – what happened before, in 1915. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”

Lunchington was silent for a moment. “He was quick, you say, to rule out Grindelwald?”

“Yes, he was certain it was just the house itself.”

“But Grindelwald did make an assault this morning – you’re right about that – and, well, it could be coincidence, but if I look back now at fourteen and fifteen, I must say the first person I think of is Grindelwald.”

Tom looked startled. “He was active, then, early as that?”

“Oh yes. Back in 1914 the European Muggles began their war – the one before the one they’ve got now. Long before you were born, of course. Our troubles now go back to those ones, you see – just as this war the Muggles have now is really a resumption of their last one.”

“How could a Muggle war affect Grindelwald?”

“That’s just the point. It did. In those days some of us identified quite strongly with our Muggle compatriots, and the first Muggle war when it began all but tore the wizarding communities apart. You might find this quite hard to believe, but there were even those in every nation that wanted the wizards to join in the fight! Especially those with Muggle relatives. Some of them did fight, and then we had to put them down: in the end we had civil war in Russia – just as the Muggles did, for that matter… That’s partly why we’re so careful now to have as little to do with their wars as we can. But it led to a very real crisis in our world. Durmstrang was closed for almost a term – almost a bit like now in a way. There was tension between Russian and German wizards, the masters and governors all were at odds – well, you’ll know all about that. And it reopened the whole Mudblood versus pure-blood debate. If our ties to the Muggle world were tearing us apart, the old die-hards who’d maintained that we should never have had any ties with Muggles at all – that we shouldn’t have let in the Muggle-borns… well, it suddenly seemed they’d been talking sense. And while we were all at each other’s throats, shortly before the end of 1914, Grindelwald, increasingly openly, began to rebuild the Dark Order.”

A small silence hovered between them, oblivious to the babble from the rest of the room. Lunchington extinguished his cigar, and poured yet another tumbler of brandy. Then he poured another for Tom. “I suppose you’re much too young to have it, at least by Muggle standards, but still, this is more or less a magical village.”

Tom shook his head. He was no longer feverish, but did not feel well. His mind once again was on Professor Gryme, who had come here from Durmstrang at the end of the year 1914, and had met here a string of strange foreign visitors, in the months before Zeuxes had died. He turned his attention back to Lunchington, who had continued to speak about Grindelwald.

“His chief adherents at this time were a gang from old German wizarding families, a group who had studied in Durmstrang together, back in the early 1890’s – although since you go there you’ll know about that. And Scamander himself may know more than I do – after all, he was here quite a lot in fifteen, including when the disaster happened, but even so I can’t help feeling he was rather too quick to rule out Grindelwald, in the last case too, as well as in the present one.”

“Do you think he’ll succeed? Newt Scamander, I mean.” He couldn’t help feeling deep in his bones that Scamander had seriously underestimated the power of this strange enchanted immunity – even if it had begun to unravel.

“Well, now that’s an interesting story. I suppose if the children are really in danger, and his friends from the Ministry rescue a hundred and fifty, it would look quite bad for the Earl of Mountwarlock – and he’d lose his reputation here. But if the Ministry makes up its mind – well, I suppose it depends if the earl resists. Of course, if the magic doesn’t recover, the whole question’s moot, isn’t it? But if it does… I wonder how far the Ministry’d go.”

Tom sat back in his chair. “Scamander thought they could insist on eliminating everything dangerous. The whole immunity, he said, including all the magical creatures.”

A light seemed to shine in Lunchington’s eyes. “Now that’s illuminating. Did he really say that? The earl would certainly fight that provision.” He eyed Tom thoughtfully. “Do you have any idea what the creatures are worth?”

“I know that they’re priceless and unique.”

“Nobody knows quite how much they’re worth. They aren’t just a menagerie. They’re quite a commercial operation – and so are the farms that provide what they need. It’s the only place in the whole of Europe that produces wool for invisibility cloaks, and the only place anywhere for manticore skin – and a cloak of that can stop pretty well any curse, or slow it down enough for you to Apparate away. And there are all kinds of workshops here in the village. Mountwarlock Park isn’t just an expensive appendage to the Earl of Mountwarlock. It’s by far the major source of his wealth.”

Tom shivered again, as a new thought came to him. If the beasts were really so valuable, and if they escaped, or had to be killed, the earl would not be in a forgiving mood. He watched the Prophet reporter attentively.

“If the earl were to fight, what exactly would happen? I suppose it would be hard to attack the estate – assuming the magic’s recovered, that is.”

Lunchington frowned. “That’s difficult to say. He’d be outnumbered, almost certainly, but he would be fighting on his own ground – and other magic doesn’t work so well round here. It really depends if his people are loyal, and just how outraged they’d be at the take-over. Would they be willing to fight the Ministry? There’s a lot of community spirit here – but they do have relatives outside, and wouldn’t want to be cut off from them…” He looked thoughtful. “On the other hand that could work for Mountwarlock: if the Ministry really attacked this place, there’d be opposition elsewhere.”

“Their relatives outside would be annoyed.”

“And also lots of other old wizarding families. They might feel threatened if Mountwarlock went. It would certainly split the magical world – unless he looked very much in the wrong – in which case he might make concessions. I suppose it depends on how it’s presented, which, I suppose, depends partly on me.” He gave a mock bow.

Tom was intrigued as well as alarmed. “Do you think then it might go on for years?”

“It might, you know, although I doubt if Scamander sees it that way. Too short-sighted. Rescuing all the third year children would be a terrific propaganda coup, but if Mountwarlock chose to defy the Ministry…” Lunchington paused thoughtfully, “He’d lose his properties elsewhere, especially in Muggle London – but if he could just hole up in here, he might be able to last indefinitely. He’d lose his influence at the Ministry, too, but that must be a good deal less than I’d thought. Newt Scamander believes in what he’s doing, but he’s not impetuous, and nobody ever said he was a fool. He must have allies in very high places. He wouldn’t be able to try this on his own – whatever the danger to the Hogwarts children. On one hand the immunity’s surrounded – so you’d think the Ministry would have him against their wands – but Portkeys have made geography irrelevant, at least with regard to fairly short distances.”

And magical paintings, Tom thought suddenly, that can take you anywhere in the world…

“So you don’t really think that the Ministry could defeat him?” If things really got as bad as this, Tom was desperate to know who would win.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that. Maybe they could, but they’d have to play very dirty. They could utilise the house-elves, even arm them with wands, perhaps, if they could manage to Apparate into the place. Of course, they could send in Dementors as well – all of them, if they really had to – and hope to simply swamp with numbers whatever defence can be made against them.”

Tom was shocked. “The Ministry would never do that, surely!”

“Well, it would be hard for the Ministry to back down, once they’d committed themselves. The Ministry of Magic won’t disown its own people, and they simply can’t be seen to lose… But no, I don’t think they could do all of that either.” Lunchington frowned again at the thought. “At least, not in the foreseeable future. Training house-elves to fight with wands would bring us back to the Bad Old Days, and fighting their kin would begin to strain even their simple loyalty” He glanced around the room. The gathering was still quite boisterous, but already some of the crowd were bored and uneasy, wondering how long the snow would last. “No, I am being gloomy, aren’t I? Of course, Mountwarlock has lots of house-elves himself, and monsters, djinn, and heaven knows what… But I really don’t think it would come to that. The Ministry couldn’t use all their resources either, or they’d never be able to hide it all from Muggles. No, much more likely would be chaos, and increasing exposure of our existence to Muggles. Then the International Confederation of Warlocks would intervene. And absolutely no one would want to see that.”

And Grindelwald wouldn’t believe his luck. Or is it luck? Tom suddenly wondered. How many strings can Grindelwald pull?

The clock chimed once again, and Harvey Lunchington rose to his feet. “I suppose I’d better see what they’re up to, and report back to London if the fire’s still working. How I detest this wretched snow.” He smiled as he lit his cigar again. “Never forget your trademark,” he said once more, and with a nod he left the table.

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stood up, suddenly desperate to leave the noisy room. It was much closer to supper, yet he didn’t feel hungry at all any more. He knew now he had underestimated the ramifications of the events of that day, and now he had learned of the likely results… to tell the truth, they greatly disturbed him, and he was increasingly aware of how much he needed to find Dr. Gryme. He wondered what time it was by now, and when the Hogwarts party would go back to the school, and how intense the search for Hagrid and himself had become. He was sure that all magical means of locating them must be unreliable now that the magic was unravelling. He had to get back and join the others, regardless of any and all the consequences. He was even prepared to face Mountwarlock (though he preferred to avoid that if he could) – but at least he now had information which he could provide for Mountwarlock’s benefit. He would even hand over the ring, if he had to.

Another thought struck him as he ascended the creaking stair to his room: what if he could speak to Cleopatra first, and explain what had happened to her? She was much less intimidating than the earl himself, and she might be a good intermediary. After all, with so many other things going wrong, his own misdemeanours could seem minor in comparison.

He reached his bedroom and pushed open the door to see Mundungus’s daughter Martha arranging his folded clothes on the bed. She smiled as she looked up from her work.

“Just returning your clothes, you know,” she said. “Frightful weather, isn’t it? It’s lucky that Muggle professor found you.”

“Yes, it was,” Tom said. It was obvious her father had explained the situation.

“My father says he hasn’t seen it like this for years, since 1924, in fact, and before that, in 1915. He’s actually a bit worried, you know, because… well, the last time it was this bad, he says, was when his lordship disappeared.”

Tom’s ears perked up. “Disappeared? I thought he died.”

“Well, that’s what they all think. I’ve only heard about it. They heard screams up here in this room, and when my father opened the door, there was no one left but the old librarian, shouting, and an enchanted painting…” She trailed off.

Tom pointed to the painting on the wall. “Was it that painting?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, no, not at all. My father said it was one of the most amazing things he’d ever seen in his whole life.  Not like our usual moving pictures – nor even like that.” She pointed to the picture of Mountwarlock Park. “There was a city and an island, and a brilliant sun, so real you truly thought it was there; temples and palaces… And there were blue-green waves, he told me, high as a mountain, rolling over the whole landscape.” Martha lowered her voice dramatically, “And, Father said he could see his lordship, crying out as he tried to tear through the frame from the other side, and the water came and swept him away.”

She straightened up and smoothed her skirt, suddenly looking a little worried. “I’m not supposed to talk about it, you know, so please don’t tell I said this much. But you have to admit, it is a fantastic story.”

Tom, however, wasn’t nearly so sure; he was silent – not that she seemed to notice. When she had finished folding the clothes she bid him good-night and flounced >from the room.

All his old clothes were there. Even his robes were nicely mended, but Tom barely noticed this. He was much too absorbed in what Martha had said.

“I wonder how they got such a painting here without anyone knowing about it,” he thought aloud as he changed his clothes. In fact, he wondered how Dr. Gryme had got here at all without being noticed; he doubted if the magic around the house would have permitted Gryme to Apparate. He would have required a Portkey at least, or… Tom stared at the brilliant painting of Mountwarlock Park on the wall, at the pillars and chimneys and glittering windows he could glimpse between the flurries of snow.

Or a painting.

His mind was racing as he remembered Olga Tempera’s lecture from earlier on in the day. This painting was certainly grander than any magical picture he’d seen, and it would make perfect sense if this was one of those special doorways she had spoken of – one that returned to Mountwarlock House. It would explain how Gryme and Zeuxes had been able to come to this room so easily – where their project had gone so horribly wrong.

And if it was a door, Tom could use it now, to return to the house. With luck, he could begin to solve the most pressing of the troubles that plagued him. It was a risk, to be sure, but he was certain enough that his guess was right, and desperate enough to take the chance.

With a deep breath, he held his hands out and placed his palms flat against the painting, and fervently wished to be back at the house.

The very next moment, a strange sensation came over him. He suddenly felt as if he was falling. There was a sudden flash like lightning behind him, and everything went utterly black.

To be continued...

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Authors’ Note: Please feel free to send any questions, thoughts, or comments to [email protected] and [email protected]. Feedback is very much appreciated.

ETA on Chapter Five is Friday, June 14.