Introductions

Albus Dumbledore stroked his beard as he inspected the yellow parchment of the envelope. It had been addressed to him in a harsh hand, the quill digging into the vellum. Satisfied that he was not about to be cursed by it he drew his wand along the seal and slid out the short letter.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

When you visited us yesterday you requested that, if possible, I should inform you about anyone who came to ask questions on the topic we discussed.

A gentleman, calling himself Thomas Pilgrim came to enquire after the text later in the afternoon. At the time I found myself convinced that he was a member of the DMLE, but I cannot now recall why that seemed the case. I have since then contacted the DMLE about him. However, I have received the answer that there is not, nor ever was, such a man in their department. Going through the records I cannot find any mention of such a person in the archives. I can only conclude that he has either only just arrived within the country (illegally), or that he was using a pseudonym. His proficiency with English suggests the latter to me, though I leave such judgements in your capable hands.

Why this personage, whoever he is, wished to discover more about the missing book I do not know. The only point I can think that might interest you is that he asked after potential collectors.

He struck me as a reserved man and little more than the average wizard. However, I spoke to Thorn (our intern) after Pilgrim had left the department. He was deeply shaken and questioning him has led me to believe that without a wand or any incantation this wizard nullified the pull of the department, at least in so far as it cast its spell upon him.

I cannot think what to make of this and so I leave it in your capable hands.

Deepest Regards,

Lenneke Ravenhill

Dumbledore tapped the page with a long finger and turned it over slowly. He winced as the movement pulled on his other arm. It was withering, slowly but surely. The flesh was blackened, corrupted by the curse which had lain dormant in the ring he now wore as a memento of his own foolishness. A warning to himself: do not be hasty. For a moment, his fingers twitched towards it. He wrenched them back with an effort. 'Oh Ariana, forgive me,' he murmured.

This letter then was yet another mystery to add to his already prodigious collection. Another strange coincidence, if such things existed. There were too many unrelated events occurring: a break out at Azkaban; a copy of The Matrix Aeternitatis vanishing; an explosion of magic in Southern England, which had scattered several of his recently repaired silver instruments around his office; and now there was someone looking for the very book which had so mysteriously vanished. The third might have appeared unrelated to the first, had the same instruments that the explosion had suffered not been the ones which had warned him the book had been taken. Instruments which measured matter from beyond this dimension.

Who was to blame then? No normal thief would have chosen to steal The Matrix. There were too few buyers for the dangers it entailed. There was the possibility that Voldemort had taken it. Dumbledore would have to pick the brains of his potion-master and spy, Severus Snape, to unravel that possibility. The timing of the theft had been disturbingly in tune with the assault on Azkaban, though the prison seemed less and less secure nowadays. If Voldemort had indeed decided to follow in Gellert Grindelwald's footsteps Hogwarts and the Ministry would need to prepare immediately.

'Yet, that possibility lacks a certain je ne sais quoi, I think Fawkes,' he said, addressing the phoenix which sat, preening its red and gold plumage on a perch. 'Voldemort has never enjoyed bargaining with anyone, let alone those of us who are not human. He would have to be desperate to resort to such measures. I can't think what might have led him to feel it would be necessary. Unfortunately.'

Dumbledore stood and siphoned a copy of the memory of the letter, and his visit to the Department of Archives into his pensieve. Stirring the silvery mass with a raven's feather he stared down as the memories flocked together in chains of possibility. Fawkes crooned softly, his song easing his old friend's exhaustion.

'What are we to do?' Dumbledore asked out loud. 'We need more facts, more clues. There are so many things that must be managed, not least amongst them a visit to Gellert. The possibility is remote, you know, but if he were to be behind this ...' he shook himself. 'In any case, if anyone would know that book's secrets it would be him.'

Then there was this 'Pilgrim' character. Why had he been asking after the book? It seemed highly improbable that he was the thief. Perhaps a foreign antiquarian? A rare book dealer who wished to remain anonymous? It seemed rather fantastical, but then again what other motivations could he have had? Dumbledore sighed again and plucked a pinch of floo powder from a small teapot beside the mantelpiece.

'I shall be back before suppertime, Fawkes, do not worry for me if you wish to hunt.'

Fawkes gave a slow nod and with a lazy flap of his wings, managed to drift over to Dumbledore's shoulder. He gently nipped his companion's ear and after gentle rub from Dumbledore the phoenix leapt back across the room and onto his perch. Dumbledore threw the pinch of powder into the fireplace and cold green flames roared upwards, licking over the mantelpiece.

'The Ministry of Magic,' he said and stepped into the fire. The tall wizard vanished and the flames curled inwards upon themselves until there was only a single bright spark of light hanging in the centre of fireplace. Then that too was gone.

Dumbledore hummed quietly to himself as he ambled through the Ministry towards Minister Scrimgeour's office. Ministry officials quietly avoided his gaze as he passed by, changing their stride to give him a wary berth. He smiled and gave a cheery nod to one of the few Ministry workers who managed to bring themselves to look at him.

An aide, dressed in brown robes, stepped in front of him as he approached the centre of the complex.

'Can I help you, Professor?' The wizard asked.

'Ah, Griffiths, how are you?' Dumbledore asked. 'Would you like a sweet? I have always thought it must be rather dull to stand around in corridors. A good toffee can go a long way to alleviating boredom though.' He proffered a white paper bag.

'Professor Dumbledore, sir, I'm afraid the Minister has given orders that he is not be disturbed.'

'Naturally, naturally. Which is why I expect you to let me in, are you sure you wouldn't like a sweet? Or a chair perhaps? I hope you don't mind if I do.' A wave of his hand and a plush armchair appeared in the corridor. 'Of course, I'm willing to wait for the Minister, so please don't trouble yourself.'

Griffiths shifted awkwardly, looking up and down the corridor for help. No-one stopped for him. A flick of Dumbledore's wand and a pot plant and reading lamp appeared beside his chair. Griffiths coughed. 'Sir …'

'Excuse me, would you mind asking someone for a cup of tea?' Dumbledore asked. 'I always think that a good book is best combined with a pot of tea, Earl Grey, if you have any. No milk. Thank you.'

'Sir, I'll ask the Minister,' Griffiths said with a sigh.

'You will? Are you sure? He did say not to be disturbed,' Dumbledore said mildly as he pulled a book from his pocket. 'I honestly don't mind waiting, I've been meaning to read this for years,' he said, waving a copy of Little Grey Rabbit's Pancake Day. 'Personally my favourite was always the birthday story, but where is the fun in life if you refuse to challenge your opinions?'

Griffiths gave a curt nod and with a knock opened the door to the Minister's office. A few moments later he came out and ushered Dumbledore in. 'The Minister will see you now.'

'Thank you Griffiths,' Dumbledore said. As he stood the conjured objects vanished, and he swept past Griffiths into the office. The aide closed the door behind him.

'I hope you realise that you've cost that young man his job,' Rufus Scrimgeour growled.

'That would be a great pity, Rufus,' Dumbledore said, 'he was very dedicated to his job. It seems a poor reward for his loyalty.'

Scrimgeour glowered at Dumbledore. 'You know I won't do that. Let's get down to business Dumbledore. I'm a busy man: I'm fighting a war, and I'm still trying to sort out Fudge's mess. What do you want?'

'Rufus,' Dumbledore said gravely, 'we need not be at one another's throats. I have no desire to quarrel with you …'

'Then get the boy to support us! We need him Dumbledore!'

'Harry will, and should, do as he wishes Minister. I will not rob him of his free will. If we take the ability to choose from others how can we claim the right to determine our own lives? Now my desires are very simple on the other hand, I would be most grateful if you would arrange with the German High Council for permission for me to visit Grindelwald.'

Scrimgeour regarded him for a long moment. 'Fine. Why though?'

'Recently a book was taken from your own archives, it is one Grindelwald knew intimately. It would be advantageous if we were to ensure it did not slip into the wrong hands. I myself will look into those who might have … accidentally come across it.'

Pilgrim knocked at the door and waited. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the ache which the long bus journey had set into them. The house was a pleasant country cottage, set well back from the road. Red brick and dark timber seemed to alleviate the November gloom. The lawn grew in slightly uneven patches and outside the gate the tarmac of the rad glistened. Pilgrim knocked again. There was a noise from inside the house, or so he thought. He peered through a window, but there was no light on in the room and all he could make out was the edge of a sofa. He stood waiting. A thin drizzle had begun to gall and he turned up his collar against the rain. He cocked his head, there had definitely been a noise this time. It was a wet sound, like bloody meat sliding over stone.

He put his hand to the doorknob and twisted. The door was locked fast. He hammered on the door. 'Ms Carrow!'

There was no reply and with a shrug he picked up a likely looking rock. Black mud rubbed off onto his fingertips. He was about to hurl it at the living room window before he noticed the slim brass key it had been covering.

He let the rock fall and with a satisfied hiss he picked up the key. It turned in the lock easily. There was a click and the door swung open silently.

The hall was cold and damp. Beads of moisture glistened on the wallpaper and the carpet bubbled with water as Pilgrim stepped onto it. Grey fungi grew from the rotten water and bloomed over the wainscoting. He put his hand to his mouth, fighting back the desire to retch as he crept into the house. He drew his wand and held it tight and close.

He tip-toed forwards, sleek black shoes almost gliding over the carpet. He nudged the door to the living room open with a toe, the door swung easily. The wood was spongey to the touch and the paint rolled like cloth under the pressure. There was no-one in the room. The lights were old, enchanted oil lamps, but when he tried to turn one on by turning the small dial at its base nothing happened. He tried another and when that failed to work he lifted the lid. It was empty. He went back to the first, it too was empty. They had burnt out completely. He flicked the etchings around the rim, they flickered with blue light and then died.

He moved around the room slowly. There was no sign that anything untoward had happened, at least nothing he could see. Everything was neat and orderly. The walls were dry, although a creeping tendril of something dark had begun to spread from the hall across the wallpaper. A half-drunk cup of cold tea lay beside an open book on a coffee table. Pilgrim glanced at it. The open page was covered in an archaic script, an odd mixture between Arabic and ancient Sumerian, he thought, though he was not fluent enough in either to be certain. The mirror glinted in the corner of his eye, silver in the reflected light from the grey sky. He twitched as his reflection moved and then he gathered himself and left the room.

The door opposite was ajar, a dining room by the look of it. The door stuck as he tried to push it further open. With an effort he pushed it far enough to slip in. The room was choked with fine dust. It lay everywhere, a centimetre thick in places like fallen snow, and behind the door it was in a deep pile. Pilgrim inched across the room, every step sending eddies of dust spiralling around him. He ran a finger over the surface of the large oblong table which dominated the room. Dark mahogany gleamed beneath the dust, except for a slim line of white chalk which marred it, half way down the table.

Pilgrim paused, rubbing his fingers together, inspecting the chalk. He bent down and blew on the table. The dust flew into the air. Slowly he uncovered a glyph drawn in chalk upon the table's surface. It was a twisted thing, long lines snaked out from the centre. They curled, searching blindly for something just out of reach. It hurt the eye to look at it for long. Yet, it drew attention like a picture puzzle drawing the eye there seemed something to grasp if one were to look for long enough.

Dust drifted in the air above the table. Pilgrim drew a notebook and pencil from his pocket. He quickly sketched the glyph, his hand wavered as he came to the last line and then, purposefully, he drew it in reverse. He made a small note at the bottom of the page and stepped away from the table. He glanced about, there were two other doorways out of the room, one was veiled by a curtain, but the step protruding from under it suggested that it might be the way upstairs. Pilgrim flicked a coin into the air.

'Heads for the stairs,' he muttered as he tossed it. He caught the coin smoothly and slapped it down on the table. Heads. He nodded to himself, pocketed the coin and made for the other door.

It opened onto a study. Sheets of paper and books lay everywhere. There was no sign of magic here. A gramophone sat on a small table in the corner, needle scratching endlessly over a finished record in a grinding hiss. Pilgrim brought it to a stop, lifting the needle away. He picked up the record, turning it over in his hands.

'I was never fond of Don Giovanni, personally,' he murmured as he slid it back into its paper sleeve and set it beside the gramophone. 'A pity that anyone should go out on such a depressing note.'

He rifled through the papers. They seemed to be the usual accretions of everyday life. Bank statements, a handful of love letters, notes on property, a set of eye tests suggesting increasingly short sight, all in all nothing out of the ordinary. He set down the stack of correspondence and pursed his lips. His long fingers ran over the covers of the books and the desk. They were a collection of dictionaries and book catalogues. He turned over one of them to reveal a pad of letter paper. Pilgrim's eyes lit up and taking out the pencil again he lightly rubbed it over the thick yellow paper. Nothing came up though, except for a few letters where the writer had pressed particularly hard. He stroked his chin slowly. There should have been more, letters had been written on the paper before. Although it was thick the handwriting he'd seen had been harsh, the quill used had dug into the paper on other documents. It should have been obvious.

The next room was a library. It was surprisingly plain. Fine bookshelves of waxed yellow pine lined the walls. The floor was made from plain oak and uncarpeted. The books on the other hand were anything but unassuming. Asmodea Carrow's apparently middle-class house belied the wealth that the library contained. Although there were a small section dedicated to more modern texts the majority were old, or ancient texts bound between wooden covers. Pigeon holes filled with cracked scrolls filled a corner. In pride of place there was a glass case with a single page of papyrus. Faded brown ink flowed over the page in a curling script. Pilgrim was halfway across the room to it before he managed to stop himself. He blinked slowly, licked his lips steeled himself with an effort before turning instead to the body which lay sprawled beside the cabinet.

He bent down and turned it over. It had been a woman in her late middle age. The silvered black hair was slightly tangled and in part matted with blood. Her skin was pale. There were marks on the woman's neck. Round contusions dotted her neck. Pinprick sized wounds oozed green ichor. He lifted her hair away from her neck to get a better look and as he did so his fingers brushed the skin. She was still warm. Pilgrim froze and looked around him, his wand held ready. There was no-one else in the room.

There was a wriggling thump from upstairs, and then he heard the front door click to. Pilgrim leapt to his feet and ran through the study and dining room, barely skidding to a stop in the slick hallway. The front door hung open, rain pattering down over the threshold.

He spun around, kicking his way into the living room. The book was gone from the coffee table. Pilgrim snarled and lashed out, sending the table flying. It cracked against the wall. His fingers flexed around his wand's grip as he took a deep, steadying breath. The mirror was misting over, water droplets running down it. He was about to turn back to the rest of the house when he noticed the faint letters on the mirror.

'D … T-R-U … T,' he read, picking out the words slowly, 'S … E-S.' He frowned. 'How extremely unhelpful. Why can't people be clearer about these things?' There was a slithering from the dining room. 'Possibly that would be why.' He kicked the door to and rammed a chair against it. The wood of the door shook as something heavy thumped against it. The doorknob twisted and then the chair began to slide back. Pilgrim put his weight against it, but the chair continued to move.

His eyes raked the room and he threw himself towards the fallen coffee table. He hefted it and hurled it at the bay window. The glass shattered. He surged forwards, leaping through the gap. Behind him the chair crashed against the wall. He landed in a crouch on the lawn and pushed himself forwards, sprinting for the gate. Vaulting it he hit the surface of the road hard.

'My, my, I have to say, I did not expect a display of athletics when I came to visit Asmodea,' said a voice filled with amusement.

Pilgrim looked up into the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. 'The late Asmodea, I'm afraid, and we have to go. Now,' he said. 'Please, apparate us out of here.'

'My dear boy, I think …'

'Yes, yes, finish that thought later. I promise I'll explain. We need to go.'

'I was about to say that in that case I think you ought to take my arm,' Dumbledore finished mildly, holding out his withered arm.