It was eight o'clock in the evening when Tom Ramsay had a moment of clarity. He sat up in his recliner. Yes. Something to do with the old Tansley House. He turned his head to look out of the living room window. In the distance, upon the sloping hills that sheltered the little town of Shefford, the Tansley House sat alone, dark and dignified. A narrow, dirt path could be traced winding through the grounds that started on Orchard Lane, by the Wilshere's house. The little village that had once nestled at its foot long since bulldozed. It was an old family that inhabited that place, but the last member had passed; it was abandoned. What was it he wanted to remember? Think. Ramsay felt himself slipping back into murky confusion again. It was no secret among the neighborhood that he was beginning to lose his mind, what with waking the entire neighborhood in the middle of the night, rambling and wandering about the darkened streets. The constables had been rather embarrassed to deliver him back to Mrs. Ramsay because Tom Ramsay had been a fine police Chief, still remembered fondly by the older members of the force.

The Tansley House. The Tansley House. The Tansley House, he repeated to himself in his head. I mustn't forget. He fumbled about in his pockets for a pen with which to write this down, but raised his hands in disgust when he found them empty. The television was going, the evening news. Insufferable, he thought, it was a wonder anybody could remain coherent with that thing on. He would turn it off. Rising from his recliner, he ambled across the carpet in his socks. The town of Shefford continues in mourning as days later the whereabouts of the Ashby twins remains unknown. Chief of Police Edward Jones held a press conference earlier today detailing the progress of the investigation. The Ashby twins. Yes, that was it! The Ashby twins and the Tansley House. He knew there was a link. But how? Mr. Ramsay balled his fists in frustration as he groped about in the fog of his mind for the answer.

"Tommy!" Mrs. Ramsay was standing in the living room entrance now, holding a tray in her hands. "What are you doing?"

Ramsay turned in surprise and mumbled an answer. His wife had become his jailer, confining him inside the house which had become his prison.

"Whatever are you standing for?" she said, "Come and sit down. I've brought your dinner."

Ramsay was led by the arm and helped back into his recliner. His eyes glossed over as he searched his mind for the answers. Mrs. Ramsay placed a small folding table in front of him, set the tray down upon it, and left the room. The aroma of her excellent cooking drew him away from his thinking, and he soon began cutting away at his potatoes. After a moment, she rejoined him with an identical folding table and tray of her own.

"Oh my dear, let me help you with that," she said as she snatched his utensils from his hands and began to chop up everything on his plate. That was quite enough. He was perfectly capable of helping himself thank you, and though he couldn't for the life of him remember whatever it was about the Ashby twins and the Tansley House, the idea was beginning to dawn on him that perhaps he should investigate himself. Yes. That was it. Ramsay peeked at his wife, now busy with her own dinner in front of her. He would have to be patient, wait for her to let down her guard.

"I had a chance to visit the Ashbys earlier today while you were napping," she said, "Devastated, they are. All of their hopes are now placed on little Cynthia."

Ramsay mumbled another half-hearted response. Of course of all the neighborhood children it would be those two to go poking around the old Tansley House. But he would investigate on principle. It was principle that guided him. He imagined himself triumphant before the astonished faces of the people that had thought him an old, senile, fool. It was decided. He would go this very night.

As Ramsay lay in bed that night, he kept his eyes shut, breathing slowly to pretend to be asleep. He listened to the rustling of his wife beside him, waiting for his opportunity. After an indeterminable and agonizing amount of time, he felt Mrs. Ramsay go still, her breathing becoming slower, deeper. Ramsay slid sideways out of the bed like a card being plucked from the deck, and glided silently towards the bedroom door, deliberately left ajar when he came in for the night. It squeaked when he opened it. He paused, holding his breath. His wife did not stir. From there it was easy, down the stairs, shoes on, and out the door. The autumn air left him shivering in his pajamas.

If any of the neighbors had looked out of their bedroom windows, they would have seen an odd sight: Tom Ramsay, shuffling from shadow to shadow, his arms crossed against the cold. But they were all asleep. In the distance, Ramsay could see the outline of the Tansley House against the darkened brush of the hill. He reached the foot of the old dirt path and began the ascent. It grew steeper the further he went, and he nearly lost his balance in middle, muttering curses to himself as he stumbled about. Then the ground leveled out, and he stood before it. Four spires rose upwards at the four corners of the looming structure, its interior guarded by a set of massive wooden doors. The remains of a garden were scattered about the perimeter; ornamental stones lay disorganized among the weeds. A small statue, some kind of winged creature, stood moldering and crooked in the dirt. Ramsay climbed the stone steps to reach the doors and pushed and pulled against them. It was no use; the entrance was barred. How then did the Ashby twins go about it? He went around the house several times. A tall window on the side of the house, almost as tall as the structure itself, looked into what appeared to be the dining room. There was no other way, he told himself. Ramsay picked up one of the stones from the garden and hurled it at the glass. He winced as it shattered, the sound echoing throughout the hills.

Inside, the moon illuminated the outlines of the interior of the house in its faint glow. the long slab of wood that was the dining table and the fading cushioned chairs were covered in a thick layer of dust. The place had not been occupied in some time. Ramsay gingerly stepped over the shards of glass and walked into the living room. On its western side was an enormous fireplace, uncovered. Snakes undulated over and over in the dim light, carved into the marble mantelpiece. Above this was the portrait of a haughty looking man in emerald green robes. Long gray hair flowed to his shoulders, and his dark eyes appeared to stare down menacingly at the intruder. Ramsay studied closer the encased figurine of some creature in dusty glass upon the mantel. He jumped. Did the painted man just shift in the picture? He held his breath and looked carefully at the portrait again. No. It was just a trick of the light.

The Ashby twins. What had they gotten into here? He looked up the staircase, but a strange instinct told him to search further on the ground floor. Then he saw it, the first clue. The cover had been raised from the keys of a black, upright piano that stood against the southern wall. He walked over to it. Its keys had turned yellow with age, and the paint had chipped off in places. Ramsay ran his hand over these and felt a chill come over his entire body. He pressed down.

The discordant notes echoed throughout the house, and suddenly, as if triggered, there was a loud bang and crash from the fireplace. Ramsay jumped backwards against the eastern wall of the house and hastily grabbed a dusty lamp stand and raised it before him.

"Who's there!?" he said.

In the darkness, Ramsay could see the form of a man rising up in front of him. It coughed several times before producing a long object, giving it a wave. Instantly, the room was lit by hundreds of candles perched upon a high shelf that wound around the house. Though strange was the fading robe that flowed outwards from the man, what struck Ramsay most was the mop of fiery red hair that graced the man's head, graying at the tips. The newcomer coughed one last time before straightening himself and smiling at Ramsay.

"Well...Sorry about that," he said, "Good to see you again Tom. Arthur Weasley" His aged face broke into a grin, and he held out a hand.

"Who...Who are you? What have you done with the Ashby twins?" Ramsay said.

"That's no matter," said Mr. Weasley. He paced about the room a bit while Ramsay continued to stare at him, lamp stand still in hand. He stopped abruptly and turned again to Ramsay. "Did you touch the piano?"

"What difference does that—"

Mr. Weasley suddenly turned very serious and shouted: "Did you touch the piano!?" His wand was now out.

Ramsay jumped at this sudden outburst, but then slowly nodded his head. Suddenly there was another crash from the fireplace, and a second man emerged from it, dusting his black robes with his hands as he stood up. This man was considerably younger than his counterpart, his ruddy cheeks and closely cropped hair giving off a sense of vigorous health. A brown leather bag was slung over his shoulder.

"Seamus! Just in time. Did you bring the potion?" Mr. Weasley said.

"Yeah, I've got it here," Seamus said. He opened the bag and produced a small, stoppered vial, within which was a lustrous, teal liquid.

Mr. Weasley took the vial and removed the cork. "Alright Tom, that's enough skittishness for tonight. Put down that poor lamp and drink this." He held out the vial.

Ramsay hesitated again, unsure of the motives of these strange men.

"Come on now Tom," Mr. Weasley said, "If we had wanted to harm you, it would have happened already. You've touched the cursed piano, and you've got to drink this for your own good." He walked towards Ramsay and began loosening the man's grip on the lamp stand. Ramsay reluctantly took the vial and drank its contents. He grimaced at the strong metallic taste, and then felt a warmth beginning at his fingertips. Mr. Weasley took the empty vial, stoppered it, and handed it back to Seamus. He then clapped a hand on the shoulder of Mr. Ramsay and smiled grimly. "Forgive me old friend," he said. Then swiftly, he raised his wand, pointing it Ramsay's chest, and muttered, "Obliviate". Darkness suddenly came over Ramsay, and Seamus stepped forward quickly to catch him before he crumpled to the floor.

Arthur and Seamus supported the still unconscious Ramsay on their shoulders as they carried him back to his house. Two hours had passed since Ramsay had stepped past his front door. The whisper of tires on asphalt in the distance had stopped; not a thing made a sound. The two wizards had walked most of the way in silence, but when Arthur glanced up at the moon, full and bright and all alone in the black canvas of the night sky, he sighed.

"Molly is going to kill me when she finds out that I've been working late again," he said.

"You've been out this late often?"

"Yeah. Most of the department is away assisting the Estonian Ministry with something. Shanks just had a baby, and Turner's been out sick," he said, "You know, I'm really getting too old to be handling department emergencies anymore."

"Then why don't you just stop?"

"Can't. I'm too far into this case. Those two muggle children are still in St. Mungo's and won't be released for sometime," Arthur said, "This one here, the memory charm isn't working so well with him. Some are just better at resisting it."

"And why haven't any spells been placed on the house?" Seamus asked, "Surely such an old house would have something to keep muggles away."

"Any enchantments placed by George Tansley have worn off since his death," Arthur said, "A simple concealment charm won't work either; the muggles have known about this place for too long. It's on all the local maps; people would notice it missing. We'll need the rest of the department for something more powerful. The house is filled with dark magic, and it will take a while to go through." They had reached the front yard of Ramsay's house. "Let me do all the talking," Arthur said. They came to the front door, and Arthur rang the doorbell. There was no sign of movement in the house. He rang it again, and then several more times. Finally there was the sound of shuffling on the other side, and Mrs. Ramsay opened it, blinking sleepily at them.

"Hello Mrs. Ramsay, we've found Mr. Ramsay wandering about the neighborhood again. We've brought him back," Arthur said.

The old woman frowned and looked at the unconscious face of her husband. "Oh dear, Tommy, what are we going to do with you?" Ramsay began to stir a little. After a few moments, he had opened his eyes and was able to support himself.

"Well, there you are," said Arthur, coaxing Ramsay back into his house, "Sorry to bother you, we'll be going now."

When they had got back onto the street, Arthur and Seamus turned to look at each other. Arthur Weasley nodded at him in acknowledgement. "Right then," he said. There was a loud crack, not loud enough to wake any of the neighbors, and the street was empty again.

-X-X-X-

Tom Ramsay was at breakfast when he had another moment of clarity. Something about the old Tansley House. He tried to remember. He looked at his wife, who was busy cooking sausages on the stove. Outside, the world had started up again after a night's rest. Ramsay closed his eyes and balled his hands in to fists, trying to think, but it was no use. He gave up when his breakfast was placed in front him. I suppose I'll think of it eventually, he thought. It'll come to me.