The Phoenix and the Serpent

The Phoenix and the Serpent

Chapter VIII: The Broken Angels

He leaned towards the mirror and whispered, "Harry James Potter."

Again that tingling sensation, as if someone had drawn a feather over his skin. The image before him swam and shifted; his auburn hair turned dark once more, his blue eyes shimmered to green, and the lightning scar traced down the side of his forehead. He was Harry Potter again, at least for a few moments.

Harry was not fond of disobeying Dumbledore, but he had already spent four whole days in disguise. It felt too odd to wear a strange face, while staying in a strange town, in the company of strange men. Perhaps some part of him wanted to make sure he could still be himself after all this time.

But now he was beginning to regret looking at all. As Harry Potter he could belong nowhere else but in Hogwarts. He could not escape thinking about his true home, and what could be happening there now if he were not here at the Everglade Inn, Hillsdale, Who-Knows-Where-In-Britain. Could not help wondering if anyone had noticed any changes. If Ron and Hermione were doing all right. If they were keeping the homunculus out of trouble.

If Ginny still thought of him sometimes.

He pushed that last thought away to the corner of his mind. It would be back again later, as usual. But for now, he had things to do.

Harry turned away from the mirror and started to change out of his pajamas. Their mission today was simple: he and Danny had to look for information in the local archives, located near the town center. It hadn't been necessary to do this, but unforeseen complications, as he had discovered yesterday, could pile up very quickly.

---

The Portkey took them to a little meadow surrounded by a thin copse of trees, and Harry quickly noticed how much different this place was from the forest Danny where lived. No ducks flew across the sky, no animals scurried among the branches overhead. The wind had long bent the trees into odd shapes, and the air around them was colder, closer to winter.

"Well, what're you waiting for?" Moody said to Danny. "Hide the Portkey and make sure it stays hidden."

"No problem," replied the young man. He then hefted the hatchet over his shoulder, took aim, and hurled it up at the tree. His aim had been perfect; the hatchet struck one of the higher branches. Unfortunately, his throw had also been too strong; instead of simply attaching to the wood, the axe lopped off the branch, falling directly onto Moody's foot. The old man yelled curses so loudly that Harry thought it likely that everyone within ten miles had been alerted to their presence.

After they all calmed down, Danny led them out of the forest and towards a nearby hill. Moody started giving instructions.

"You two'll be heading into town now. Don't do anything suspicious or call too much attention to yourselves. But keep your eyes open. I'll be camping out here in the outskirts of town. This mug of mine catches too much attention, especially among Muggles." Harry recalled Moody's first appearance in Hogwarts and had to agree.

"You'll be doing most of the legwork," Moody went on, "so find a place to stay, like an inn. I'll keep an eye on the surroundings. If you have anything to report, meet me at the meadow after sunset. If anything goes wrong or if you get into trouble, send a signal with your wand and I'll Apparate to where you are. Do this only during emergencies, mind."

They made it up the hill and Danny pointed to the town some distance away. "Well, there she is. Thing of beauty."

They all stared at it for some moments. The wind whispered to itself amongst the tall grass on the hill, and far above them, a crow gave a half-starved cry at an empty sky.

Moody asked, "It was like this when you got here?"

"Absolutely," Danny replied, "and I swear I am not responsible for whatever happened here."

"You meet anyone?"

"One or two old timers. Skittered away when they saw a stranger."

To Harry, the entire town seemed to be teetering on the brink of winter. The windows of every house were closed, every door shut and probably bolted. Harry counted less than a dozen chimneys that had a thin ribbon of smoke rising out of them. Even the trees had apparently long abandoned hope and left their branches barren. This was his mother's hometown?

"I've change my mind," Moody said. "I'm coming along to have a look around." He pulled something out of his pocket. Harry turned to see him putting a black patch over his magical eye.

"Let's get moving." Moody pulled the brim of his hat lower over his face and lurched forward, Danny and Harry close behind him.

Things did not improve as they entered the town. The only things they met as they walked down the main avenue were a cold wind and a bustling line of dead leaves. One would expect to see someone tending their garden, or jogging down the sidewalk, or heading to market, but they saw not a soul. No children playing in the yard. No pets leashed to the porches.

More, it seemed as if the residents didn't want to come out. Broken fences were left untended, windows were dusty and unwashed. Many houses had chipped paint on their walls and loose shingles on their roof. Several houses, in fact, were vacant--boards were hammered onto the windows and doors and the front gates were under lock and chain.

Moody took out his small Foe-Glass and stared at it intently.

"Nothing," he muttered, "no sign of trouble at all."

But where is everybody? Harry wondered as he gazed up and down the street.

Danny soon led them to the town cemetery. It was located atop a flat hill, surrounded by a low stone wall with a rusty, unlocked gate. The churchyard itself looked a mess. Dried vines had overrun the tombs and grasses grew tall amongst the grey headstones and ornate crypts, turning the whole area into a papery brown jungle. To his right Harry saw something he found both comical and morbid: the white outstretched hand of a fallen statue poked out from a long tangle of vines, looking as if it were calling for help. Evidently the groundskeeper did not care at all about doing his job. If there was a groundskeeper, that is.

The three of them spent half an hour picking their way up and down the rows of tombstones, pulling aside grass and scraping off the moss and lichen that obscured the names.

"Place looks completely abandoned," said Moody, as he stared around with his magical eye. "For a year, maybe more."

"Moody," Danny called. "I think you better get a look at this."

Danny stood at the other side of the path, holding a clump of crushed vines in his hands and staring at the statue he had just uncovered. It was obviously that of an angel, its rain-stained wings folded behind its back and its weathered hands clasped together in prayer. It would have been serenely beautiful, except it had no head.

"What's this?" breathed Moody. He poked his staff on the grass next to the tomb and pushed some bits of stone--all that was left of the angel's head--onto the gravel path.

"There's more." Danny sidestepped to a nearby grave and yanked the vines off the angel above it. It, too, was missing its head. The statue beside it was similarly disfigured. As was the next. And the next.

"Someone's desecrated this place," whispered Harry. He didn't know why he whispered; he surely didn't mean to, but raising his voice in a place like this made him uncomfortable. He pushed away some grass near his feet and uncovered a stone cross lying on its side, broken into three pieces. A sudden chill crept into his skin. "Who'd do such a thing?"

Moody's eye whipped watchfully from one spot to another. After a time, he said, "We'll investigate that later. Right now, let's find what we're looking for. Stay close to me."

Trying to ignore the broken sculptures around them, they kept on searching the gravestones. Some of the inscriptions were more than a hundred years old, faded almost to nothing by constant weathering. Harry wondered if they would even find what they were looking for underneath this mess.

But they did. His grandmother's grave stood at the very center of one of the rows, hard to miss as it was strangely cleaner than most of its neighbors. To Harry's relief, no statue stood guard over it. Etched on the stone were these words:

Leah Wellington Evans

1925 - 1986

May she rest eternally

in the gardens of Paradise

They all stared down at it for a moment. Danny said, "So you reckon what you're looking for's in there?"

"That's what Dumbledore said," Harry replied. For a while now since they entered the churchyard, he had felt as if a little bird was hopping nervously about in his chest. Now it was frantically beating its wings against his ribcage. They were close, so close. Could they possibly find the Crystal right now, and end this quest just as quickly as they had begun it? Was it possible that in a day's time he would be standing in Gryffindor Tower again?

He knelt and put his hand on the stone, tracing each carefully cut letter. He wondered what sort of person she had been. And how she would have thought of him if they had ever met, if she would have doted on him the way he had often seen elderly people spoil their grandchildren.

Already, he was shrinking from the thought of robbing his grandmother's grave, especially of the thing she loved so much she had tried to take it with her. For a moment, he imagined her vengeful spirit swooping down from heaven to throttle her ungrateful grandson.

"Okay," said Danny slowly, "You want to start digging now or do we wait for sundown?"

"I don't know," Harry said. "This would be easier if only Nap were with us."

"Forget it! I'm not involving Nap in any sort of grave-robbery! We're in enough trouble as it is."

Harry shrugged. "I don't suppose any of you know any digging spells?"

No one answered. Finally, Danny sighed and said, "I'll go look for some shovels."

"Don't bother," Moody muttered

Danny turned to look at him. "What?"

"I said don't bother. We won't have to dig for anything." Moody's words were for Danny, but his gaze had been turned to Harry.

"It's not there."

---

The sound of footsteps near the door startled Harry out of his reverie. He quickly whispered, "Robert Jerome Smith." His appearance changed even as he turned on his heel to face the entrance.

The door cracked open and Danny popped his head in. The elder boy never bothered to knock; his tramping footsteps worked just as well.

"Hullo," he said, "anything exciting happen while I was away?"

"Nothing at all," said Harry, returning his smile. "It's been pretty quiet."

"Well, don't get too complacent. Remember: constant vigilance!" He wagged a warning finger. "By the way, I'm ravenous. You ready for some breakfast, Robbie?"

"Sure." 'That name takes a little getting used to,' thought Harry.

They took breakfast quickly, then strolled out of the Everglade Inn into the deserted, wind-swept streets of Hillsdale. When they had left the graveyard the day before, Moody had given Danny strict instructions not to let Harry out of his sight. The elder boy, however, was not the type to stay in one place for long. Whenever they weren't with Moody, Danny was usually off somewhere, examining pictures on the walls, opening locked doors and poking around in the other rooms. Mr. Morrow, the old, long-faced innkeeper, never knew a thing of course. But even if he did, Harry thought he would not have done much protesting. One thing Harry had found out about Danny, he was the kind of person people had a hard time saying no to. The night they had arrived at the inn (a large, ornate place two blocks away from the cemetery) Mr. Morrow had met them at the door and said, with much apologies, that he could not accommodate guests that night.

"Hold on now," Danny had said, "before we knocked I looked up at your second floor and didn't see a single lit window. Which means you've got at least one vacant room, right?"

"Sir," Mr. Morrow had replied, fidgeting, "I regret to say that my inn has recently shut down. I've not seen guests in nearly a year."

"Then you should re-open, don't you think, now that two have turned up on your doorstep?"

"But sir...I'm truly sorry, but it's just not possible. You simply cannot stay..."

"What? An inn that turns down paying customers? Completely unheard of!"

The innkeeper was perhaps thrice as old as Danny, but he had flushed at these words like a schoolboy caught without his homework. Harry had thought of staying elsewhere, maybe even camping out on the outskirts of town, but Danny said, "What's your name, sir?"

"...Morrow, Richard Morrow, sir."

"Good. Now Mr. Morrow, my name is Daniel Oaks and this is my assistant Robert. We are herbologists and are here on the behest of the Ministry of Agriculture to look for a suitable area to grow experimental fast-growing jungolubes." Danny had whipped out his wallet and flashed a strange-looking badge at Mr. Morrow's face. Before the elder man could take a good look, Danny had stuffed it back in his pocket. "You can aid us in this important and terribly stressful task by providing us lodging for, say, two weeks or less--depending on how fast we work--and of course you will be more than compensated for your troubles. Cash, up front. Plus the gratitude and commendation of the British government."

"Sir," the innkeeper had mumbled, "this town...this town is no place for visitors." His voiced had dropped even more as he added. "It's dangerous here, sir. Strange things have happened. I really think it best if you go to the next one--"

"That's simply not possible," Danny had replied. "It's night, the next town's miles away and our transportation will be back for us two weeks hence. Whatever danger it is you're talking about, you need not worry for our sakes. We do a good job taking care of ourselves. Now, why don't you show us in and we can talk about this 'danger' over a cup of hot tea while sitting near a good-sized fire."

Mr. Morrow looked right about out of protests. "I really cannot...I have no chambermaids...no room's ready...the sheets have not been turned..."

"Mr. Morrow, do we look like royalty? We work for the government. Whatever you have's got to be better than what we usually get." Harry had caught Danny's sidelong wink as he had handed their bags over to the bewildered man. "Besides, a dirty bed's a deal better than a dirty sidewalk, as my grandpa used to say. I assure you that my companion and I will require minimal assistance straightening up our own rooms."

Harry thought back on all this with a smile. He turned to Danny as they walked and asked him what in the world jungolubes were.

"Haven't the foggiest," chuckled Danny. "But if you can think of a better excuse for poking around town, I'd like to hear it."

"But how are we going to pay for our rooms?"

"No worries: I've got some Muggle pounds right here. I provide a supply of eggs for a local grocery back in Evensdale. The owner thinks I have a huge poultry business somewhere out of town. He doesn't know that they're from a dozen enchanted chickens!" Danny gave another laugh.

"You enchanted your chickens?"

"Yeah. Makes them lay eggs twice as fast."

"Won't the Ministry--"

"They don't know a thing. And let's keep it that way, shall we?"

"All right," replied Harry, grinning. "But Moody probably doesn't like that at all, does he?"

"Are you kidding? He once threatened to turn me in, the old badger. Never did though. I dunno, he must've known what it's like to go hungry. See, even if I have a job as a private detective, I have to find a way to put food on the table when the workload's light." He gave a wide grin. "And Nap's a hungry bugger, let me tell you."

Harry laughed as he remembered the niffler. "Yeah, it must be tough living on your own. And I thought going through Hogwarts is hard enough for anyone."

Silence followed the remark. Harry gave his companion a sidelong glance and was surprised to see the humor drain out of Danny's grey eyes. He blinked, belatedly remembering Moody's warning not to mention Hogwarts to Danny. He was about to ask if there was something wrong when the other boy nodded at something directly ahead of them.

"I reckon that's the place we're looking for."

The archive stood by itself east of the town center. Compared to the others beside it, the building was squat and squalid, and had seemingly been closed for months. The two of them made their way up its stone steps to the entrance, it's wide double doors under lock and chain.

"Well," said Danny as he rubbed his hands, "breaking and entering, one of my favorite activities." He turned to Harry and said, "You want to do the honors, or shall I?"

"I can do it, thanks."

Harry pointed his wand at the lock and said, "Alohamora" It fell open and he caught it before it fell onto the ground.

Dead silence greeted their entrance into the archives. Harry looked around in despair. The archives looked small on the outside, but it actually housed twelve long bookshelves, each six levels tall. Cobwebs were strung between them like silken nets, swaying with the breeze blowing in from the smashed windows. A thick layer of dust covered the study tables. Hermione would throw a fit if she ever saw this place. Madam Pince would have a nervous breakdown.

"Your move, Robbie," Danny said, pinching his nose shut.

Harry sighed and said, "We can start by looking for compilations of the local newspaper. That way we can find out what happened here." He started rolling up his sleeves. "Let's get to work."

When they finally left the building, the dull orange sun had slid behind the darkening western hills. All around them, lampposts woke up blinking, barely discernable halos forming around their heads as a thin evening mist crept through the streets. They started back; Moody had instructed them to be at the inn before sunset.

It was just as well. The newspaper section had been almost completely destroyed by age and moisture, but what little information Harry had found was enough to chill his blood. He hoped his recent discoveries were worth the trouble. If it helped them find where the Crystal was...

Rubbing his eyes, he took the steps down to the main street of Hillsdale. Beside him, Danny stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Let's not do that again, okay? If I had asthma I'd be dead by now--"

"Shhh!" Harry grabbed his shoulder, pointing at the bench across the street.

An old man slouched there, head bowed and chin touching his chest. By his uniform, badge and the tall oval hat beside him on the bench, Harry could tell he was one of the local policemen.

Danny eased his hand off of his wand. "Looks like he's asleep. Come on, we'd better make a break for it."

"No, just a minute," said Harry, and began descending the stairs.

"What're you doing? Hey-- !" cried Danny, leaping down after him.

Harry crossed the street and approached the old man. He wish he'd thought of this before, asking a policeman.

"Sir?" he said. "Excuse me, sir?"

The policeman did not move at first, then he wearily opened his eyes and raised his head; it was devoid of hair, even of eyebrows. A befuddled expression crossed his face as he saw the Harry and Danny standing before him.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," Harry went on, "but we're visitors here and we need some help. We're doing some research for the Ministry and we would like to ask you a few ques--"

"This town is cursed," rasped the old man.

Harry blinked.

"What did you say?" asked Danny.

"Cursed," he repeated in that ancient, toneless drone. "You shouldn't be here. Finish your business and leave as soon as you can. I say this not for my sake but for yours--leave." With an effort, he got to his feet and put on his hat.

"What do you mean this place is cursed?" Harry asked. "What happened here?"

The old man would not look at them again. He had his hat low over his eyes. "Because we let him get away with it. We let him get away and she cursed us for it."

"She?"

His grey hands reached into his pocket and took out his wallet, and for one wild moment Harry thought he was going to bribe them to get out. But the old man only took out a tattered piece of folded paper and handed it to them.

"You must leave," the old man repeated. "As soon as you can." He turned and started walking away.

Danny watched him go. "I had a theory once," he said, "that only loonies choose to become cops. I think there's a book in here somewhere. Well, what's that he gave you?"

Harry unfolded the paper and read it silently. After a minute he said, "I think it's time we go see Mad-Eye about this."

---

While Harry and Danny took up residence in the Everglade, Moody set up camp in the abandoned house just across the street. He stayed on the second floor, in a room directly facing the inn. Harry supposed he slept during the day and kept watch on them at night. Doing so would not be a problem, given the power of Moody's eye.

They found him in his room, sitting on a stool with his pipe in hand and his Dark Detectors scattered around him like encircling wagons. "This isn't a camp," muttered Danny, "it's a bloody circus." They carefully picked their way through the devices, which spun and hummed and glowed at their feet.

Moody was listening to a radio beside him, but turned it off and got up as Harry and Danny approached. "Well," he said, "did you find anything in that rat-hole of a library?"

"We did," Danny replied, "but how'd you know it was a rat-hole?"

"I scouted the place out before you even woke up. Proper procedure." Moody picked up a bucket and held it up to Danny. "Now take this and get me some water from the inn. Faucets here don't work anymore."

Danny scowled at him. "Why didn't you get any yourself?"

"Because I'd give your innkeeper a bleeding heart attack--any more stupid questions?"

"I wasn't hired to be a serving boy," grumbled Danny, but he took the bucket and stalked out of the room.

"Have a seat, laddie," Moody said to Harry. "There's something I think you should hear. Didn't want that big lug around asking questions." As Harry sat on another stool, he saw that Moody hadn't even lit his pipe. There was a hiss of static as the old man twisted the dial of his radio, then the announcer's voice came on.

"...details have been sparse as of now, but by all appearances some kind of a battle had been fought in the city of Portsmouth early this morning. Muggle citizens have reported hearing strange noises at around 6:00 AM and lasting for some forty minutes. To quote one Muggle woman--'we heard shouting, then loud explosions, and we saw some men dressed in black robes and hoods running down the street, and there were these terrible growling sounds, like we were surrounded by tigers or something, but we saw nothing at all.'"

Harry felt his heart race at these words. His thoughts immediately turned to Sirius and Remus--were they both all right?

"Even more disturbing reports state that members of Portsmouth's wizarding community--some one hundred civilians--seemed to have disappeared, including WWN's media people based there. The Ministry of Magic is not giving out details and denies that this is some sort of attack, but have appealed for calm and assured everyone that a Law Enforcement team has already been sent to Portsmouth to investigate this occurrence. In the meantime, we shall await further details--"

Moody shut of the radio and faced Harry. The firelight drew odd shadows onto his mutilated face.

"The Ministry won't even be able to get into Portsmouth. By now the Death Eaters would've blocked all attempts to enter through magical means. I've seen it before.

"The Order has an outpost guarding Portsmouth. About two dozen men, based in a small pub in the Southsea area. I knew them. Young, brave, battle-ready. Now I don't even know if any of them are still alive." He shook his head, grey hair falling over his eyes. "By the news I've heard, we lost. Badly."

"Was...was either Sirius or Remus..." Harry found he couldn't finish the question.

"Don't worry," said Moody, getting up. "They were stationed miles away from there. Up north. A place we call The Front."

Harry felt relief flood into him, but Moody began pacing about the room. "Dumbledore knew something like this would happen. Damn that Fudge! Couldn't find his own arse if he didn't have an aide pointing it out for him." He lit his pipe, fixed both his eyes on Harry. "This only means we've got to work faster. Well, what've you got? Anything on this mystery disease we heard about from your innkeeper?"

"I--Yes, I did," said Harry, pulling out his notes. "According to the records and newspaper clippings in the archive, the disease broke out in mid-June, 1994."

"Hrn. Any clue to what sort of sickness it was?"

"No one knows for sure," replied Harry as he checked another page. "It first came to the Hudson family--the youngest of three children caught it. At first the parents thought it was just hay fever, but as the week passed she became weaker and weaker until she finally died. Then the other two children caught it, and later Mr. and Mrs. Hudson as well.

"The entire family died weeks later, and when symptoms appeared on more residents, people panicked and called in a group of doctors from London. They couldn't agree on what the disease was--some said it was cholera, others tuberculosis. When one of them fell ill, they all fled back to the city, calling for a quarantine of the town.

"While that was happening, people were leaving Hillsdale in droves. Then they found something startling. Those who had gotten sick and left town for treatment recovered in just a few days. Only those who stayed worsened until they died."

Moody stopped walking, his forehead creased in concentration. "Only those who stayed?"

"Yes." Harry stared at Moody, hoping the old man would come up with a quick answer to the riddle. But after several moments the old man merely said, "Anything else?"

"Well...we met someone on the way back here, an elderly policeman. We found him sitting by himself on a park bench." He detailed the encounter to Moody, then reached into his pocket and handed over the piece of paper he had been given.

It was a newspaper clipping, tattered and yellow with age. Moody read it out loud.

---

Grave Robbery in Hillsdale

Residents walking to church yesterday morning were aghast to find the grave of Leah Wellington Evans completely unearthed and her coffin thrown open. This shocking display of barbarism has ignited a manhunt for the perpetrators of the crime.

"It was horrible, horrible!" wept Ms. Clarice Moulding, a family friend. "How could they, those monsters! It was all she had left after her husband passed on, and they had the gall, the audacity to steal it from her!"

Further investigation reveals what 'it' was: Mrs. Evans's ruby brooch, a family heirloom that had been dear to her in life. Mrs. Moulding, who had been a frequent visitor of the Evans household, is currently being questioned further on this matter.

Mrs. Evans's husband William passed away in 1980. Of three children, Petunia and Warren survives her. Lily, the youngest, died in 1981.

Inspectors say that "the marble headstone had been smashed, the dirt shoveled aside to expose the coffin, which was then forced open with a sharp implement. The perpetrators have not left physical evidence of themselves." Police are still combing the area for additional clues.

As if disturbing the dead and robbery were not enough, the criminals added insult to injury by committing unbridled acts of vandalism at the churchyard. Additional police reports state that the

---

Moody eyed the end of the article, which looked as if it had been gnawed on by rats. "Can you describe the man who gave this to you?" he asked.

"He wasn't very tall," replied Harry, "about an inch shorter than me. He was bald, didn't even have eyebrows. And he looked pale and very drained, like he was...he was..."

"Waiting to die?"

Though taken aback by the expression, Harry nodded.

"Yeah, that's the feeling I got from the other residents here." Moody sat down on the stool again. Smoke fled from his nostrils. "I've been watching them all day today. Some just stand about looking like all the life's been sucked out of them." His real eye narrowed. "And they're all old folk, no young ones. Disease must've scared most everyone away, leaving only those who're brave, stupid or too old to leave."

"There's something else," said Harry, pointing at the article. "It's written on the back."

Moody turned it around in his hand. The Hillsdale Gazette, June 12, 1994, was scribbled on the other side.

"The grave was robbed in the middle of June," said Harry, "that was around the same time the disease broke out."

"You never heard about any of this while you were living with your aunt?"

"No. I don't think she kept contact with my grandmother. She never even mentioned her to me."

Moody eyed the article, quietly thinking, then said, "Let me keep this for now." He slipped it into his pocket.

Harry thought hard. Was this town really cursed? And if it was, was it the Evans's means of seeking revenge? But they were all Muggles except for my mother and she had died before all this had happened. My grandmother couldn't have done it by herself. But if not them, then who?

Moody puffed on his pipe for a while, then said, "Looks like our next lead's this Mrs. Moulding."

"Could she have done it?" asked Harry. "She knew what was in that grave in the first place..."

"It's possible, but not likely," replied Moody.

"Why not?"

"Because, lad, this isn't an ordinary case of thievery! Why go through all the trouble just to steal a piddling little brooch? And why just one grave? Why not search a few more for heftier scores? No, the thief knew what he was looking for. He wanted that particular brooch for a reason good enough to rob it from the dead. And that would be..."

"...He knew about the Crystal," finished Harry, his spirits plummeting even as he spoke. "It must've been a wizard, someone who knew the Crystal's powers!"

"That's likely," Moody agreed, "but why would he want it?"

"I don't know," said Harry. This time he got up to pace. "The Crystal can only work with someone from my bloodline, right? But Dumbledore said that the Evans were the last of Volarius's descendants. And Aunt Petunia said my Mum was the only witch in the family...unless..." He came to a halt. "Unless they were all wrong."

Moody raised a scraggy brow.

"What if there's another wizard from Volarius's line?" Harry whispered, realizing his worst fear. "And what if he's in league with Voldemort! Then...then...Voldemort's behind what's happened to this town. He might have the Crystal. He might be planning to use it on me!"

Moody pointed at Harry's forehead. "First of all, has your scar been hurting lately?"

Surprised, Harry touched his fingers to his scar. "No...it hasn't. Not since before we came here."

"You had any nightmares yet?"

Harry shook his head.

"That's our best indicator that the Dark Lord's not here," said Moody. "Second, my Dark Detectors have been getting nothing but static. Third, while we're not infallible, there've been no reports from the Order of any Death Eater activity around these parts. Fourth, the Crystal was stolen nearly two years ago. From what I've heard Voldemort couldn't even feed himself then, let alone dig up a grave and wreck a whole cemetery."

Harry thought it over, and it made sense. Maybe the Dark Lord wasn't on to them, at least not yet. "But if not Voldemort, then who?"

"That," said Moody, tapping the ashes from his pipe, "is what we've to find out.

"I'll need you to find out if our Mrs. Moulding's still lives here. Get her address, or get a clue where she went. Possibly you can find it in the archives. Otherwise, try looking through some of the abandoned houses for a phonebook. Meanwhile, I'll keep track of the Dark Army's movements. You never can tell with these things. Something tells me our position's gotten worse rather than better."

"Okay," said Harry.

"One more thing," said Moody, "that old cop you spoke to..."

"Yes?"

"If you meet him, don't talk to him again."

Harry gaped at him. "What? But why not? He already helped us..."

Moody shook his head. "We can't take chances, boy. The closer we get to the truth, the higher the stakes we play. Tread lightly, and stay vigilant." He paused, then added, "And keep that milksop with you at all times. At the very least, he's a good distraction."

"I heard that, Cue-Ball!" someone shouted from below. "If you're so concerned about his safety, why don't you get off your butt and start following us around?"

"Just get that bucket up here, and be quick about it!" Moody yelled back.

"Right, right, I'm hurrying...Whoops, tripped on the stairs and spilled a quarter of it! Too bad...Whoopsie-daises, there goes another quarter!"

Harry turned away to hide a grin. Moody was gritting his teeth. "See the things I have to put up with?" he said to Harry. "You go on to the inn and to bed. We'll see about our leads tomorrow."

---

When he was finally alone, Moody reached into his trunk and pulled out a device that resembled a small gas lamp. He lit the device with his wand, and the nozzle blossomed into a bright blue flame.

"You there, Albus?" he said.

The fire crackled and shifted, and the face of the Hogwarts headmaster appeared. Dumbledore's face was placid, but the deepening lines on his face showed his fatigue.

"Yes, Alastor, I'm here. What news?"

The old Auror did not answer he immediately. He bowed his head for a while, as if to come up with the right words, then he said, "I just heard about what happened at Portsmouth..."

At this, Dumbledore's eyes turned sad. "...Ah."

"Were there...any survivors from our side?"

"We have one, just one. Ferris Perkinson. He was not at The Watchtower at the time, having gone to visit his mother in another part of the city. He arrived there just as the Death Eaters commenced their attack. From his account, we know they used Disillusionment Charms to hide themselves from Muggle eyes. Remus and Arabella are with him at the moment, asking more questions." He paused, then said, "His news about what attacked his comrades were...disturbing. I will let you know the full details once Remus and Arabella have finished with their reports."

"I see. Perkinson, eh? I remember him, I think. Short fellow. Rather pimply. He was...the only one?"

"...I'm afraid so."

"Those men...I trained most of them myself."

"I am sorry, Alastor."

"'Course, we all knew what we were getting into. 'Live with death in your heart,' that's what we Aurors say. I told them that once. They knew what they had to do." He paused. "If only they weren't so young..."

"The godland shall remember them, my friend, as will we. I shall do what we can. I've asked Lyle to send letters to their families."

"The right thing to do, of course, yes," said Moody distractedly. He took another drag from his pipe before putting it out. For a time, the two old men sat silently at either end of the line.

Then Dumbledore abruptly said, "I've not mentioned this to you yet, but I've managed to change the leadership of the Order."

Moody quickly latched onto the new topic. "Did you? And here I was thinking you were all talk about that. Well, who's the unlucky bugger?"

"Lyle, of course."

"Lionel Bishop! Isn't that something!" Moody cackled and slapped his knee. "Knew that boy had it in him! How's he handling things now?"

"He's quick, Alastor. He's had our units occupy outlying towns and villages near Portsmouth and tried to evacuate as many wizards as possible out of Southhampton."

"Good. That's the next logical target. War's in good hands at least. We need to strike back as soon as possible. I wish I could be helping out at the frontlines right now..."

"You'll get your chance, Alastor, as soon as this mission is done."

"Right then," Moody rubbed his hands, then proceeded to report his discussion with Harry. On the other end, Dumbledore listened intently, asking questions every now and then.

When he finished, Dumbledore asked, "Well, what's our next step, in your opinion?"

"Think we're going to have to pull out soon, that's what," said Moody. "The Crystal's trail is already more than a year old, and now that the Dark Army's on the move we've got ourselves a shorter time limit. Portsmouth's some fifty miles southwest of here, and those Death Eaters are as slippery as leeches. I'd rather not risk the boy out of Hogwarts. We should clear out of here as soon as our leads our exhausted."

There was another moment's silence.

"Well, what do you say?"

"I believe you should stay for now. The two weeks we agreed upon is sufficient."

"You certain about that?"

"I am. Without Apparating, it will take the Dark Army at least three days to march there on foot, assuming they decide to. Now with the Order in the immediate vicinity we can hold them off even longer. Also, I trust the boy. If there's something worthwhile there, he'll find it. Keep looking. Should you find a lead, follow it."

"Alright then. Two weeks. Then I bring him back." Moody paused, then said, "I need to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"What about the girl? You talked to her yet?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid, as I've just returned from the Summit."

"She's a breach in security. Can't have her walking around knowing our secrets. Perhaps a Memory Charm..."

"Let me worry about Ginevra Weasley, Alastor. I will speak with her shortly. She will not risk Harry's safety, I assure you."

"Fine then. I hope you know what you're doing."

"I do. Take care, my friend."

After their goodbyes, then Moody sat alone in the dark, deep in thought.

"Clarice Moulding," he murmured. "Guess we'll be paying you a visit very soon."

---

Harry spent the next day at the archives, looking for something--anything--remotely resembling a list of residents. But the archives had yielded all it could for them, and once again Harry trudged back to the inn with bleary eyes and dusty hands.

The next day he walked the whole length of town, looking for people he could question. This time he also went to the police station, asking about the case of the grave robbery and if they had a directory of addresses. None of these did any good. The townsfolk would look at him suspiciously, then turn away when he mentioned the incident. The police were even less useful, guardedly asking him what he would want such information for. The old policeman who had helped them was not there.

Again, Harry trudged back to the inn defeated. He was starting to lose hope. If I fail here, he thought, it means Voldemort gets to do whatever he wants. It means I lose my one chance at stopping him. It means I would be failing everyone.

But what can I do? What else can I do?

"Danny?" Harry said, stopping in his tracks.

"Yep?" Danny came to a halt, surprised at the gleam in the other boy's eyes.

"Could you teach me to duel?"

"Eh? Teach you?"

"Yeah. All I know are some basic curses and a Shielding spell. I'd like to learn how to duel properly. My last teacher, erm, didn't do too good a job with teaching me."

"He was lousy at dueling?"

"He was lousy in general."

Danny scratched his ear. "What do you need it for?"

"That dark wizard I was telling you about. He might come after me, you know. I may have to know how to...to defend myself. Can you help me?"

Danny hesitated, then said, "I don't know, Robbie."

"What do you mean, you don't know? You not saying I can't do it...?"

"I don't know if you're ready for serious dueling, is what I mean. You're what, sixteen?"

"I'm old enough! How old were you when you leaned how to duel?"

Danny shook his head, smiling. "Let's not use me as a standard, it's not very fair." He took Harry by the shoulders and began walking him back to town. "Look, just leave the trouble-makers to Moody and me. You keep your mind on the business at hand."

Harry angrily shook off Danny's hands. "Listen," he said, staring the taller boy in the eye, "that wizard doesn't want to just kill me. He wants to hurt my friends and anyone I care about. I don't want to stand by as the same thing that's happened to my parents happens to them. I want to do something about it. I want to know how to fight. Can't you teach me how if you're as good as you say you are?"

Danny had his arms crossed, looking around at his feet, the trees, the night sky overhead, anywhere but Harry. But finally, his eyes lit up.

"All right, then."

The frown left Harry's face. "You will?"

"Sure, Robbie. We can start now, in fact."

"Now?"

"It's simple, really." Danny held out both hands, palms up. "Put your hands on mine."

Nodding, Harry did so. He quickly regretted it.

WHACK!

Harry drew back with a cry, cradling the back of his right hand. Danny had slapped it so hard his skin burned red. "What was that for?"

"This is the first thing you learn," said Danny, bringing his palms up again. "Improving hand-eye coordination."

"You call THIS training!" Harry cried. "Are you serious!"

"I'm absolutely serious. I thought you wanted to learn." Danny's face was straight. Too straight.

"This is stupid!"

"No it isn't."

"It's a bloody game!"

"It's training."

"Never mind, forget I said anything!" Harry heaved a disgusted sigh and walked past him.

Mr. Morrow greeted them as they walked into the inn. Unlike all the other townsfolk, he had warmed up to them and actually started enjoy their company. Harry pitied him; it must've been terribly lonely, living alone for months on end.

"How was your trip today?" he asked them. "Did you plant any of your experimental crops?"

"Unfortunately, we haven't found any suitable place just yet, but thanks for asking," Danny replied. "I wish we could find one, so we can get off your back already." He took off his scarf and coat. Harry did the same.

"Oh, don't you worry about it. It's no bother for me at all." He took their coats and hung them by the door. "You know," he went on, "after two decades of running this inn, I've gotten quite used to having people around. When everyone left, it was difficult for me to get by...I don't mind saying so..."

The idea suddenly came to Harry. "You've been working here for twenty years, sir?"

"That's what I said, yes," said Mr. Morrow, a hint of pride in his voice.

"You must know a lot of people in town then."

"That I do."

"Well, maybe you can help us. Do you know someone named Clarice Moulding?"

The innkeeper's brows furrowed. "Clarice...Clarice Moulding...Yes, by Jove, I do know her! Used to see her in the grocery shop every now and then. That is, before all the trouble with the contagion started." His face darkened a moment.

Harry's heart gave a hopeful leap. "Does she still live here?"

"She does. Don't see her very often, though."

"I don't suppose you have her address? She's a distant cousin of my mother and I'd love to visit her."

"Is she? Well, hang on a bit. I think I have a directory here somewhere." He walked off into an adjoining room.

"Well, gut me like a fish," said Danny, dropping into a chair. "Now why didn't we ask him first before we went traipsing around town like a couple of damned fools?" He collapsed onto a chair and stretched his legs. Harry didn't answer. He felt his heart beating in his throat as they waited.

Five minutes later, Mr. Morrow came back, a small notebook in hand. "Here we go," he said, handing it to Harry. "She's in there all right. No phone number though. Must've had it disconnected some time ago. There's also a map on the inner side of the cover. You'll find her easy enough, I wager."

Harry opened the notebook and scanned the names under 'M'. He found what he was looking for.

Moulding, Clarice ............................................. # 22 Winter Solstice

"Yes, here she is. Thank you. Thank you so much, sir!"

"Now, now," said the innkeeper, concern in his voice. "I wouldn't hurry off to meet her just yet, you know. She's not too keen on visitors lately. Because, well, you know... there'd been some trouble some time back..."

He started explaining Ms. Moulding's connection with the grave robbery, but Harry barely listened. His eyes were scanning then names under 'E'. His luck held; there was only one entry of such a name.

Evans, Mr. and Mrs. William .............................. # 12 Strawberry Spring

Harry looked up and gave Danny a meaningful look. The elder boy took his cue. He got up and put a hand on Mr. Morrow's arm, interrupting the innkeeper's story.

"I'd like to hear more of this tale of yours, sir, but my throat's a bit parched. I don't suppose we could take a look at your wine cellar? An established place such as this must sport a number of good brands, eh?"

"Hah, I'm glad you asked!" cried Mr. Morrow. "I have just the sauce to wet your beak, my boy. This way..."

He chatted on as they walked out of the room. They had barely left when Harry barreled out the front door, neglecting to even put on his coat. He sprinted all the way to the house across the street, up its rickety stairs, and into Moody's room, forgetting to knock. The old Auror was sitting in a chair, and raised his head as Harry entered.

"I've been watching from here," said Moody. "I take it that's the directory we're looking for."

Harry handed him the notebook. "Now we can go talk to her about the Crystal. I hope she's--"

"Hang on," Moody said, studying the map. "Let's not rush this. First, let's wait until tomorrow. No point bothering an old lady at so late an hour."

Harry nodded reluctantly.

"Second, you and Danny stay at the inn. I'll go ahead and check this place out."

This time, Harry gaped at the old man. "What? You won't let me go there? But... why?"

Moody scratched his chin, staring down at the address book. "Like I said, laddie, the closer we get to the truth, the higher the stakes."

'He's taking this bodyguard thing a bit too far,' thought Harry. "You don't suppose it's going to be dangerous..."

"It's a hunch, nothing more," replied Moody, "but my life had sometimes hung on just a hunch."

Harry thought it over. He had wanted to go visit Clarice Moulding straight away, but he realized there was something else he coulddo in the meantime.

"Fine then," he said. "I'll stay in tomorrow."

"There's a good lad." Moody handed the notebook back to him.

"Won't you be needing this?"

"Nope. Got it all in here." Moody tapped his forehead. "You go get some sleep. I'll take care of everything from here."

---

There was a reason Harry readily agreed with Moody's plan, and he acted on it as soon as he saw the old Auror leave the house across the street. With Danny in tow, they made their way east of town, to Number 12 Strawberry Spring. Harry found the place easily enough, but did not at all like what he saw there.

The Evans's small, four-roomed home, perhaps once a cozy, charming place, now stood empty, damp and decrepit. In fact, it looked worse than all the other houses. Not a single window remained intact, and from the way the holes looked it was evident that they had been stoned. The shingles had been scattered on the weed-infested lawn, the rotting fence battered like broken teeth. A dented mailbox lay on its side like a beaten dog.

Even though he knew how scared these people were, Harry could not help feeling angry at how they had mistreated his mother's house.

"Robbie?"

Harry shook himself from his reverie.

"I'm alright," Harry said as he faced Danny. "I was just thinking."

Danny nodded, then looked at the house. "Shall we go inside then?"

They searched from room to room, cellar to attic. The entire place was picked clean of furniture and other belongings; only dirt and cobwebs decorated the walls, and rust lined the hinges and knobs of every door. The shelves were empty of books. Water stains traced odd shapes on the peeling wallpaper. In the bedroom the found a rusty metal frame but no mattress. As the hours passed, the entire floor became covered with the dusty tracks of their feet. It was mid-afternoon when they finally emerged into the open air again.

As Harry stood on the sidewalk, staring at abandoned house, he found it hard to imagine that anyone had once lived in this place, that his mother had once lived and laughed here for ten years before she left for Hogwarts. In the end, he realized he didn't really come to her old house to look for a clue to the Crystal's whereabouts. He came to find something that once belonged to her. Something he could take and safely keep with him, just so he could prove that her life here had not been a dream so easily broken by time. But there was nothing. This house was bereft of memories.

"Don't let it get you down, Robbie," Danny said, patting his shoulder. "Even if we don't find what we're looking for, so what? There're a hundred other ways to stop evil uncles, aren't there?"

"I suppose," said Harry, not really paying attention.

"Absolutely. Now tell you what. I found some really good wines down in Mr. Morrow's cellar last night. Let's go for some drinks when we get back, okay?"

"I don't drink. Thanks anyway." Harry gave the Evans house one last look, then started walking back to the inn.

---

"Damn," muttered Moody. "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

He had been standing for nearly two hours in a shadowy alley, cautiously watching for movement from the house across the street. Number 22 Winter Solstice lay in the western part of town, some hours' walk from The Everglade Inn. Getting there was the easy part. It was the waiting that was driving him crazy.

He had planned on taking no more than an hour staking out the place, perhaps even take a look inside the house itself. But the yard was too open and there were people in the neighboring houses. One man even went out and spent hours on end staring up at the dead tree in his yard. Not wanting to risk exposing himself, Moody waited.

Now the evening was rolling down from the eastern hills, bringing with it its pale mists and its chilly wind. The house across from him looked utterly empty. No lights on, no smoke from the chimney, no movement in the windows. It did look inhabited though: the garden was free of weeds and a pile of dead leaves had been raked together in one corner. The house's white walls still stood upright, its windowpanes free of dust, the navy blue shingles on its roof intact. Yes, someone still lived in Number 22. Maybe the owner was simply out on business. Maybe she was taking a long afternoon nap.

Maybe.

It seemed so easy. A cop waiting on a bench outside the library, carrying some handy information in his wallet. An article guiding them to the one person who knew about the Evans, and even about the Crystal. Who, coincidentally, was still hanging around town. Not in his fifty-odd years with the Aurors did he meet such blind luck on a case. It was too convenient, too dazzlingly simple.

And that was the reason he made Harry and Danny stay behind at the inn, and he was alone here in the slowly darkening afternoon, freezing his arse off in the bare streets of this god-forsaken town. Every five minutes or so he would steal a glance at the Foe-Glass in his palm, but the mirror remained stubbornly hazy. Still, the alarms in his head did not cease their clanging. The longer the silence stretched, the louder they rang. Damn, damn, damn.

'A trap,' he thought, 'someone set a trap.' Someone was trying to lead them here. But who? Why?

The sun had completely set behind the western hills at quarter past seven. By then, Moody had had enough. If it was a trap, then let them spring it. They'd find him a very rough customer indeed.

He took out his wand, bent down, and cast a simple Silencing spell on the clawed foot of his leg. After a quick look around, he hurried across the street. He ignored the gate leading into the garden, skirting instead to the rear where the back door was. Near the edge of the garden he stopped and watched for movement. When nothing happened, he Disapparated, reappearing in the house's shadow, beside the back door. He froze again, listening. Still nothing. His hands touched the edge of the wooden wall.

He had investigated hundreds of buildings back in his heyday as an Auror. Not all of those activities had been Ministry-sanctioned, nor had they all included back-ups; some he had done for his own purposes. There was a little trick he sometimes employed when he went solo, a kind of mind game. He imagined he was being followed by an apprentice Auror--a tyro--in a form of on-the-job-training. These mental lectures helped him keep calm and focused. At the very least, pretending he wasn't alone kept his courage up.

'The first rule you should know about breaking into a house,' he silently told this apprentice, 'is that you never use to phrase breaking into a house. We Aurors pay visits. Use the other phrase and you'll have your badge revoked faster than you can say 'Abracadabra'. Got that?'

A nod from his imaginary partner.

'Good. Second rule is, look before you leap.'

The pupil of Moody's magical eye dilated, and the wall he was facing dissolved into a milky, translucent screen. The room beyond was both kitchen and dining room. Everything looked clean and well maintained. A small electric stove stood beside the sink, and against the wall was one of those refrigerator things. A ragged apron hung from a nearby chair. The small table at the center of the room had been set for one, and beyond it, another door that led into the hall.

His eye inched up and down the walls and the doorframe, looking for alarms, Muggle or otherwise. Finding none, he laid his hand on the cool metal doorknob and gave it a slight twist. Locked, of course, but he had no problem with that.

He pointed his wand at the knob, but suddenly froze. Something moved in the far corner of the room beyond.

A rat ran across the kitchen floor, the long coil of its tail snaking behind it. It stopped beneath the table and stood on its hind legs, nose twitching and sniffing the air. Moody grimaced. He hated rats, and instantly he thought of doing Mrs. Moulding a favor by getting rid of this unwelcome guest.

As if hearing this thought, the rat scuttled away from the table and vanished beneath the stove. Moody shrugged and cast Alohomora on the knob. The door quietly clicked open and he slipped inside.

The moon had risen above the eastern hills, giving him just enough light to see around the dark house. 'Now,' he told his student, 'let's get to the bottom of this. Keep quiet, and keep your eyes open.'

Silent as a shadow, Moody moved from one room to the next, searching for anything of interest. Everything seemed to be in order. Doors were shut, books neatly arranged on shelves. A grandfather clock kept time in the hall near the stairs to the second floor. Pictures lined the mantlepiece. Moody stopped and studied one.

'Look here. That's probably her to the right. And the family she's posing with...notice the red hair and the green eyes on the young daughters, and how one of them resembles the Potter boy. It's the Evans, all right. Our girl's more sentimental than superstitious, seeing she kept this picture.'

He moved on, and the more he looked, the more he disliked what he saw.

'Pay attention now,' he instructed. 'What do you see? Not a light on in any room, and someone had pulled down the blinds and closed the curtains. In the den there's some cold ash in the hearth and a half-finished cup of coffee on the table. Picture box's off, but see the little red light there? It's still plugged. Someone had been using it not too long ago. No, don't touch it, fool! Never touch anything 'less you have to. Leaves marks. Now follow me, and mind that table near you.'

In the hall near the front door, Moody found a little yellow slipper, lying by itself on the carpeted floor.

'Well, tyro, here's our first real clue. Think our quarry's the type to leave her slipper lying about? It's on its side, so she either kicked it off or dropped it. My guess is the latter, because...'

He dropped to one knee, examining the carpet on the floor. His eyes narrowed into slits.

'...Because she was grabbed and lifted. Here's another print on the carpet, too deep for an old woman to make. And there, near your foot..."

Moody picked up a tiny bit of crushed grass, less than an inch long, and held it to his nose.

'Dried up already. Could be a day old, maybe more. It smells strange...rotten. And he picked her up all right. High enough for her feet to dangle, then her slipper fell. May have strangled her...'

He got up and turned to the door, eyes wide and roaming.

'Look here. What do you see? What, give up already? There's nothing, nothing at all. No sign of forced entry, magical or otherwise. Her visitor may've been someone she trusted, else she wouldn't have the mind to open the door.'

The old Auror descended upon the carpet again, this time with his wand out. "Lumos," he whispered, and shone the light upon the floor.

'What do you make of these grooves on the carpet, eh? Bastard strangled her, then dragged her body this way...'

He followed the tracks, which were almost too slight to be seen by the naked eye, down the hall to the foot of the stairs.

'The Muggle--we can assume he's a Muggle since he didn't use magic--dragged her by the shoulders. These twin grooves on the carpet must be her heels, see? Looks like we've to go upstairs next. Come along. Tread light and slow now. The stairs don't have carpeting, and they may creak.'

Still keeping the beam of his light low, he quietly gained the steps, face turned up to watch the second floor. To his own ears, even his soft footfalls seemed to echo in the empty, silent house.

On the landing he found the second slipper, and bent to examine it.

'He didn't bother to hide anything, did he? Careless type, but efficient. No struggles from his victim. She didn't suffer long--'

Moody started at a whisper of movement from the floor above. He got up and whirled about at the same time, wandlight aimed high.

Two huge rats were perched on the second floor railing, watching him with glittering red eyes. Moody had to stop himself from shooting them down like ducks in a firing range. 'Blasted filthy little vermin! So you came back with your brother, eh? Get down here...'

The rats scampered back into the shadows when reached the next flight of stairs. Then a question came to him, one that had been in the back of his mind the moment he entered the house.

'What would rats be doing in a home as clean as this?'

He had not seen one warm-blooded animal in the entire town. There had not even been any rats in the abandoned house he was occupying (and he'd fully expected to do some extermination when he first moved in). Yet here they were, in this particular house.

'Passing strange, yes. We'd better find out once we're done here. For now we've got to get our bearings straight. No doubt we won't be getting any help from Mrs. Moulding, thanks to her unwelcome guest. The question now is...is he still here?'

His imaginary apprentice seemed very uncomfortable with this idea. But there was only one way to be sure.

Moody gained the steps all the way to the top, and flashed the light up and down the hall. All quiet. His magical eye scanned the three rooms about him. One was bathroom, the other two were bedrooms.

All of which seemed empty!

'Now what?' grated Moody.

His gaze fell upon the floor. The hall here was carpeted and the grooves were there again. They lead to a room to his right. Moody crept forward and stood before it.

'Right. Get your wand on guard. Pick your fastest spell; we're in close quarters here. Again, look before you leap. You ready?'

Behind him, his phantom student gave a nervous nod.

Moody put his hand on the knob and eased the door open. He entered what seemed to be a small guest bedroom. A single feather bed lay beside the opposite wall, flanked by two windows. The lack of pillows and quilts on the bed, and absence of items on the boudoir suggested it was not in use. Moody searched the entire room, but found nothing of interest.

Just as he was about to leave and examine the room across the hall, he heard it. Rustling sounds, from directly overhead. He stopped and looked up. The attic.

He tried seeing through the paneling with his eye, but found it too dark too perceive much. A second later he spotted the trap door on the ceiling, near the corner of the room. 'No ladder,' he thought. 'Killer must've taken it up with him. If he's still hanging around, he's probably hiding up there. Now then...'

He traced several patterns into the air with his wand. Moments later a silvery ladder stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Moody stepped on it, testing it stability. Then he climbed all the way to the top.

Right before he opened the trap door, he silently told his student, 'You'd better stay here and keep me covered. I'll call if I need you.'

No dissenting votes there.

Moody pressed his palm against the door, took a deep breath, then pushed upwards. He expected resistance, something--maybe someone--blocking his way into the attic. But it gave way easily. Moody lifted it just enough to peer inside and his nose was immediately attacked by the smell of dust and age. Looking about, he saw only one small window on the wall to his right, letting in a little shaft of moonlight which fell upon a stack of cardboard boxes on the floor before him.

Moody eased the trap door open. Very cautiously, he made his way up, turning his wandlight this way and that. He saw more cardboard boxes, filled with musty old books and discarded photo albums. An unused candelabra lay on the floor. Moody started at what he looked like a human figure, but it was only a naked mannequin propped up against the wall. No one was here.

But there was a tall closet on the far wall of the attic.

Once he noticed it, Moody did not immediately turn to face it. Instead he made his way to the nearby window as if to look out onto the street. But before he did, he passed the light of his wand upon closet's wooden double doors.

The inside of the closet was completely dark. But when his beam of light passed it, for a split-second it shone through the crack between the doors. And in that slit of light his magical eye glimpsed another eye--pale, staring, and wide open!

Moody faced the window, but he was not looking at anything, not anymore. His magical eye was turned over and watching his back, ready for any sudden movement from the closet. His heartbeat sounded awfully loud in his ears. He focused, willing himself to be calm. 'Now', he thought, 'now I have to catch my quarry off guard.'

With a cry he whirled about and leaped towards the closet doors. He yanked them open and immediately stood aside, wand at the ready, mouth twisted into a snarl.

There was someone in there all right. Someone he had been meaning to find all along.

The body of Mrs. Moulding tilted forward, then collapsed face down onto the floor. For a moment, Moody stood there stunned. Then he got down on his knees and faced her up.

She was pale, haggard and very dead. Cobwebs were tangled in her mousy grey hair. Her sallow skin was ice cold and wrinkly, like the flesh of a rotting fruit. Her face was a mask of shock; mouth open in a silenced scream, sunken blue eyes wide and staring.

He had been right about her death, but wrong about her murder. There were no bruises on her throat. No marks at all on her skin.

Wait a minute.

Moody's magical eye dilated as he peered closer. There was something, very slight, right there on her throat. It was some kind of illusion, but Moody saw right through it. And when he did, a cold tremor ran down his back. Now he knew who--or what--their adversary was.

He passed his hand over the poor woman's eyes to close them, and got to his feet. He had to get out of here and get back to the boys. Right now they may be in very grave danger.

The way back, however, was blocked.

At first, he didn't know what he was looking at. It seemed like several glowing cigarettes butts lying in the dark. Then he turned his light upon it and saw they were the glowing red eyes of huge rats. Dozens of them had quietly climbed up the trap door and surrounded it, with many more coming out of holes in the walls and the floor. Now they chorused in hungry squeaks, tails twitching like a forest of worms.

Moody stepped back with his wand held at the ready. With his other hand he reached into his pocket, drew out his miniature trunk and tossed it down between him and the rodents. It slammed full-size onto the floor.

The rat army was advancing, not seven feet away. Their chittering was a high-pitched hurricane.

"I've no time for you right now!" bellowed Moody over the din. "Get you gone!"

The rats reared back on their little legs, then charged.

"Six!" roared the old man. He bent over his trunk, even as the vermin fell upon him.

---

Harry jerked awake.

'I must've dozed off,' he thought, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. His last memory had been lying down with his fingers laced behind his head, thinking about Hogwarts. One glance out the window told him it was full dark outside. He had been asleep for a couple of hours.

'I wonder if Moody's back yet.'

He got up, walked to the window and glanced at the house across the street. Not that he could actually see much; Moody probably had the windows blocked with those magic picture frames. 'I'm going to have to go there,' thought Harry, 'if I want any information.'

The faint sound of drunken laughter drifted up from the floor below. Danny had said he'd be investigating Mr. Morrow's wine cellar, and it sounded like he found what he was looking for. He must have convinced the old innkeeper to join him by now.

Harry's gaze drifted from the street to the cemetery on the hill. It was an ugly shapeless lump breaking the dark horizon, with only the tallest tombs visible above the web of vines and grass. Harry shivered at the memory of those smashed, defeated crosses, those headless angels in their robes of vine.

He was about to go back to bed when he noticed something.

He had been wrong after all--not all the statues had been harmed. Far off, atop a huge crypt, dimly lit by the moon but unmistakable, stood one angel with its head still intact. Its silhouette towered over the ornate marble grave at its feet.

Harry paused to stare at it. How could the vandal have missed that one? It stood in plain view from the graveyard path, not concealed by neighboring statues or obelisks, not even covered in vines. How odd.

Then the gibbous moon slipped free of the clouds and spilled its pale, ghostly light on the cemetery grounds.

A cold tremor ran down Harry's back, and every single follicle of hair it passed stood on its end. His eyes widened, his jaw fell slack, and he took an involuntary step backwards.

The moonlight fell on the silhouetted figure. Instead of feathered wings, a pair of huge, outstretched bat wings protruded from its back. And they were slowly moving, flapping and catching the night breeze. The figure turned its head towards him, and Harry could see the two glowing pinpricks of green it had for eyes. It was no angel. It was no statue.

Harry stood rooted to the spot, staring at the hideous apparition. It was crouching now on the roof of the crypt, still staring with those lit matches of jade. Then it leaped into the air. It was flying straight towards the inn. Towards his window.

Harry groped for his wand, even as his feet backpedaled to the door.

But the air was filled by the beating of great wings, and before a scream could rise from his throat his window was smashed open. Shards of glass pelted everywhere. Harry covered his face with an arm. Something dark and heavy descended upon him, its clawed hands reaching around his chest and across his face. A foul stench assaulted his nostrils and filled his head. He gagged, even as the creature, with its hideous strength, bore him bodily into the air and towards the window. Harry struggled, but it caught his neck in the crook of its arm, cutting off blood and breath. His last memory was that of his wand slipping from his grasp and clattering on the wooden floor. Then darkness consumed him.

To be continued