A/N: (sheepish smile) if I go down on hands and knees, will you forgive me for taking so ruddy long to update? I'm so sorry! Life has been hectic and full of illness, family events and adventure in equal proportions. Ok, there was probably a tad more adventuring.

Anyways, I was hoping to wrap this casebook up with this chapter, but it got way too long (as usual), so I'm splitting it into two chapters. The second part is written and I'll post it in a week's time. I'm also halfway through the first chapter of the next casebook, so you can't say I've not been working on this haha!

Notes & thanks: The Frog Prince Chap Stick was dreamt up by one of my dear mates, Leaviel – thanks for lending it to me mate! Also, this chapter is dedicated to LilAngelMamim on Deviantart for surprising me with two stonkingly awesome pictures of Nox. Can't thank you enough!

Reviews: Almost at 500 reviews, I can hardly believe it! I cannot thank everyone enough who has taken the time to read, review, draw fanart and plug the fic. I don't even have the words to explain how much it means to me guys, you make me so happy. Which reminds me, FFNet's gone and sodded the review reply system so that I don't know who I've replied to and who I haven't (I have a terrible memory, so sorry!!). Let me know if I haven't replied to you to say thanks, especially if there's questions you want answered.

Ring around the Rosy,

A pocket full of posies;

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down!

Twin Vice Paranormal Detectives

Casebook 04: The Black Death

'I first encountered Name Magic when I was but a young pubescent student on my gap year observing the Azandi, a Hunter/Gatherer tribe out in Zambia. When I first arrived I introduced myself as any well brought up British civilian is taught from childhood. Well blow me, the poor shaman nearly choked on his beard! They found the idea that I should hand over my name to them all willy nilly to be completely absurd. When I requested the Chief's name, it was quite obvious the title he had given me was a fake. Truth be told, I was quite flabbergasted.

Later that night, they all sat around the fire observing me. About thirty Azandi all observing me. And I sat there in the middle, observing them back. This to and fro went on for some time. Rather outnumbered I was, but I like to think that I gave as good as I got in the observation department. We had reached something of an impasse, but nevertheless I was undeterred.

"Look here Chief," I said, "I am most humbled by your outstanding hospitality and your quality pipe weed, but frankly I find it hard to believe that Elvis is your name. Don't get me wrong, it's a lovely name, very unusual in this part of the world, but I was expecting something a little closer to home, see. In addition to that, I feel you and your people may have gotten the wrong end of the stick. I am here to observe you. You are to take no notice of me. I am a mere fly on the wall; an impassive observer of human goings about."

The chief laughed, puffed on his pipe and told me I'd spent far too long with my head stuck in a book (rightfully so!). He went onto explain a branch of Word Magic I had not yet come upon, though now it seems absurd that it had never occurred to me: that was our Two Names. There is a belief amongst many that each of us may lay claim to possessing two names - our Given Name and our True Name. To one who holds knowledge of the Dark Arts, learning a person's Given or True Name is a very powerful thing indeed and to give it away to non-kin is nothing short of criminal among the Azandi. At the very least, the Azandi told me, they must get in another two years of observing strangers before they would even think of handing over their names.

This belief in the power of names is not merely native to African Hunter/Gatherer tribes. It is widely believed amongst sorcerers the world over, such as in Japan, China, Morocco, Southern Ireland and, indeed, Great Britain, that our three names are strongly linked to our souls, particularly our True Names, which are hidden even from our own knowledge.

'You see,' said the Azandi Chief, 'names are words and words form speech, and speech has terrific power. It enables us to communicate on a higher level. Kind words are full of positive energy; hurtful words are full of negative energy. To hear either too often can have a detrimental effect on our souls. The correct set of words can work very much like a mathematical equation. Discover the right phrase and you have your answer. The challenge is finding the right words.'

It saddens me to say the Azandi never did have the chance to observe me long enough, for I was obliged to return home. Fortunately for me, two nights after I had arrived in Zambia the Chief and I got very high on some pipe weed from the village. We forged a bond the like of which two men can only forge when one holds the other's beard back while he vomits into a bush. Needless to say I learned his name thereafter.'

Edward Balthazar McRozen, Wilful Words, 1995

oOo

She tried to twist away from him, but Merlin's fingers held fast in an iron grip. His eyes burned white in his grimy wolfish face and he grinned as though amused at some private joke that she was not privy to.

"You've got five seconds to let go of my arm," Nox warned, hoping that she hadn't heard the tramp right and wondering how on earth the old Faerie witch in Scrum had ever had the gall to call her lucky.

Her stern warning went unacknowledged and his grip tightened painfully around her wrist. "That was very silly of you handing me your given name – Gertrude." And as he spoke her name, Nox felt as though thousands of tiny strings had tied themselves in knots all around her legs and arms, fastening her will to his. His words were swimming around her head; golden things flitting through the air like fish with wings. Her limbs were frozen. She struggled to form coherent thoughts.

Merlin's wild gaze fixed on her as he whispered, "To a witch or wizard who knows how, learning a person's given name can earn them influence over that person's free will. I thought you would've known that, seeing as your daddy was a Wordsmith."

She looked at him hard. "A what?"

"Your lack of wits astonishes even me and I am a hard man to surprise," he remarked indignantly. "You've used your daddy's tricks plenty of times getting rid of dead wee beasties all over the Great Isles. Remarkable trickery, particularly for a Muggle, who are far too often remarkable in their unremarkability."

Nox hesitated. "You mean Word Magic… The power of suggestion?" she muttered, sliding away from him as his grip finally loosened. "Like a hypnotist uses."

The tramp nodded and smiled greasily. "Never underestimate the power of speech, particularly names. There are two names for everyone. Our Given Name," he began, while golden letters poured out of his mouth like smoke, spelling 'Gertrude' in the air, "is the name our parents give us at birth. But it is our True Name that is the most powerful and unique to us and us alone."

"How do you know what your True Name is?" she asked, praying that Merlin would not utter her given name ever again. Every time he did it felt as though she lost a little piece of herself.

"You don't," he chuckled. "Plain and simple. Better it remains a mystery. You see, little fish, handing someone your True Name is about as sensible as handing over your soul on a silver platter. A True Name gives people absolute power over you and your soul – forever." He licked his lips. "Far more powerful than any Imperius Curse." Then Merlin clicked his grimy fingers together and suddenly the hold he had had over her vanished completely. The tiny knotted strings around her limbs disappeared; her legs felt weak and her head felt light. Nox let out a relieved sigh, then glowered at him.

"Don't do that again. Merlin."

The tramp merely smiled again, baring his yellow pointed teeth. "You think I'm mad."

Nox frowned. "Either you are or I am. Am I?"

"Perhaps."

"Are you?"

"Unlikely."

"There's still a chance, though."

"A slim chance." His eyes sparked. "Very slim. I am a brilliant wizard after all – probably the best. I am rarely wrong about anything. Though stranger things have happened, admittedly with alarming regularity."

"If you say so." She put her hands into her pockets, safely out of his reach, and cocked her head.

The old tramp's eyes quickly flicked nervously to the door above the stone steps. The black and white collie by his side was twitching its ears tentatively back and forward and growling softly.

"He's close. The Plague Doctor."

Nox froze instinctively. In the confusion she had almost forgotten all about the tall beaked creature barely resembling a man, who walked the empty halls of the Angel Hotel.

"I thought you said he wouldn't find us here," she whispered.

"Ah." Merlin began to back into the shadows. "Well. Piss me a river. He's a little more stubborn than I'd thought." Like a pile of raggedy clothes unfolding and expanding, he straightened his back and whistled to the dog, who obediently padded to his side. "Follow me. My help rarely comes cheaply and I never give freebies, but as it happens I need you as much as you need me. Pick up your feet."

Nox quickly found anger replacing her nervousness. "You want me to follow you? You're up a gum tree."

A crash like the sound of a fist connecting against flimsy wood almost made her jump out of her skin. Her hands were shaking as she spun towards the door at the top of the steps. She could imagine that dark shape behind it. She did not want to see that face again with its cruel beak and black goggled face, the outstretched hand that promised death…

Nox backed towards the tramp and his dog by the far wall, her heart pounding in her chest. "Is there any way out of here?"

Merlin stopped and turned towards her, a wicked leer on his haggard face. "If you know how." He tapped his temple and grinned wolfishly. "Use your head, little knight. For here the real quest begins. Here begin the terrors. Here begin the marvels." And then he lifted a corner of wall as though he were lifting up a curtain and beckoned to her with his crooked fingers.

Nox took a step forward, then paused. "How do I know I can trust you?"

He looked offended. "You don't. I certainly don't have time to go about giving people reason to trust me. No fun in that. Either you come with me and have a chance at surviving or you stay here and die a horrible death. And it will be horrible. Messy, too. Likely lots of flailing around."

Nox did not need to be told twice. She knew what staying in the room would bring her. Percy needed her too. She would not leave him to the Plague Doctor.

As though reading her mind, Merlin nodded and crept underneath the wall with Nox in tow.

oOo

In a street that sold everything from owls, wands, pointed hats and bewitched ice-cream that never melted, not even in the hottest weather, it was quite a feat that Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was renowned as being the most eccentric shop in Diagon Alley. This came as no surprise, not even to the casual observer, for the display windows were so eye-wateringly dazzling that they would catch the eye of a blind man. Crimson red and violently pink bottles of love potions and Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher labelled 'New Improved Formula for the Excessively and Grotesquely Spotty!' adorned the shelves for the Wonder Witch Valentine's range.

Inside, the shop was packed with customers both young and old. George had arranged a special on Valentine's products: the boxes of Bat's Breath and Frog Prince Chap Stick (lip balm that claimed to turn the first person you kissed into a frog) were proving particularly popular with the giggling hordes of girls.

George was squatting on the floor trying his best to clean up a bottle of spilled Vanishing ink with an enchanted mop that kept disappearing. He muttered a swear. He hated this stuff. The previous week Fred had drawn on Nox's face with a permanent ink quill and she had attempted to remove with Vanishing ink. George had quickly stopped her, explaining the stuff was far too temperamental to use directly on skin. The last time someone had tried, their entire face had disappeared and reappeared two days later on a piece of toast in Brazil. The Muggle media had claimed it was the Messiah returned.

When he looked up he saw his friend Lee Jordan moping against the till with his chin cupped in one hand while the other traced a pink love heart in the air with his wand, forlornly.

"Oi! Get to work you lazy bugger," said George. "I'm not paying you in Knuts, you know."

Lee glowered. "You're not paying me at all."

"Ah, but friendship is priceless."

Lee looked unimpressed. "Always got an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I have nothing to declare except my own genius," said George modestly as he casually plucked Teddy, who was still stubbornly wearing Zogbob as a scarf, out of a joke cauldron where the young wizard had been secretly scoffing down an entire box of Egg Heads (for all the 'Perfect Prefect Pinheads' out there). After depositing Teddy and a hissing Zogbob on the shop floor, he leaned a hand against the counter and cast a winning smile at a couple of witches who were passing.

"Discounts on Crooning Custards, available only to the exceptionally pretty witches!" he called after them, tipping his top hat at a jaunty angle. The two girls tittered and gossiped amongst themselves.

Lee, meanwhile, merely grunted and shifted his chin to his other hand, looking utterly miserable.

"Alright, spit it out," George relented. "What's jolted your jinx?"

"Well just look around you! Look at all these gorgeous girls-"

"I am," George replied honestly.

Lee pouted. "You're not listening."

"Well I've only got one ear to spare."

"I'm serious, man!" Lee exclaimed, leaning over the counter towards him. "This is desperate! This is critical! This is life or death! It's bleeding Valentine's Day and we're practically the only two singletons left from our year, did you know that?" He sighed. "What's wrong with us? I mean, we're eligible bachelors, right?"

"Bachelors, yes. Eligible-" George stopped with a yelp as the trick wand he'd picked up in place of his own promptly beat him about the head. "That's debateable."

Lee ignored his friend's winces and gave another long, lugubrious sigh. He began tracing little circles on the counter with one finger, looking quite pitiful.

George rolled his eyes. "Oh, blimey. Alright, that's it. Go home. Your miserable mug is beginning to put off my potential customers."

"Oh, fine! Fine! Don't worry about me," Lee lamented, pressing a hand against his forehead in a dramatic gesture. "Just nursing a broken heart and swimming the deep dark depths of angst and depression because your brother has gone and nicked my one true love on Valentine's Day. Again."

"Lee, you've never been depressed in your entire bleeding life," George pointed out matter-of-factly. "You wouldn't know depression if it loped through this shop right now singing 'I am Depression!' while humming the funeral march and accompanying itself on the kazoo."

"You mock my sorrow," Lee snorted. His stomach grumbled loudly. He looked at his friend hopefully. "You got anything to eat around here that won't turn me into a canary?"

George shook his head. "No food. Only sarcasm."

"That'll do. One order of sarcasm and a pint of irony, please." Lee cocked his dark head at the shop's open door and suddenly brightened. "Hey, isn't that Loony Lovegood out there?" He pointed through the glass.

George turned. Standing near one Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes window was a slight witch with long blonde hair and the oddest contraption he had ever seen atop her head. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a toilet roll holder with toilet roll in place, the dangling tissue hanging just above her forehead. He took a moment to watch her through the busy, fizzing, popping display window and as he did he couldn't help the soft, if bemused, smile from spreading across his face. He began to raise his hand to wave her in when someone else stepped into view through the window. Luna was chatting to someone on the street. His expression changed. The wizard in sight was tall, much taller than him, and dwarfed Luna's slight frame. Two curtains of wavy dirty blonde hair hung above his bright eyes which, George noted with no small amount of irritation, were complete fixed on Luna.

"That's Rolf Scamander," said Lee, answering his unspoken question. "He's the grandson of Newt Scamander. Y'know, that famous Magizoologist? Rolf's a pretty decent unnaturalist too now – dead popular in Magizoologist circles. Yes, they actually exist. I interviewed him a couple of months back on the Wizard Wireless. Pretty nice bloke. He likes the sound of his own voice, mind."

"Looks a bit of a tit," George retorted, surprised at his own scathing tone of voice.

Lee raised his eyebrows at him. "Thought you weren't interested in her?"

"I'm not."

"Said she was just a family friend."

"I did."

"And that she's crazier than a tango-dancing coconut."

"She is."

Lee paused a moment, weighing his luck, then prodded, "So why do you look like you want to punch that poor unsuspecting sod in the nads?"

"Dunno what you're on about," said George, and thrust a Puking Pastille into Lee's mouth before his friend could say another word. Then he turned back to the door and promptly let out a high-pitched shriek that was not at all endearing. Luna was mere inches from his face, her wide-eyed owlish gaze staring up at him intently.

"Hello, George." She flashed a smile, then peered closely at the expression on his face. "Did I give you a fright?"

George smiled hastily. "Not a chance, Luna." He laughed, taking his hand away from his thumping chest and tried to ignore Lee whose eyes he could feel smirking at the back of his head. "Here, I thought you were off chasing Worchester Wombats or something."

"Worchester Woozles," she corrected with a light smile. "Unfortunately our trip was cancelled owing to some rather peculiar weather."

"Oh yeah? Raining cats and dogs was it?"

Luna pulled a thoughtful look and then nodded her head. "Quite possibly."

"Sarcasm's lost on those who have a crush on you, mate," Lee whispered in George's ear, then turned to Luna brightly. "Hello, Luna. You can keep Holey here company for a bit while I look after the shop. Teddy's got his sticky hands all over the stuff again – OI! You little bugger, you're going to get your fingers hexed off if you pinch one more thing!" Lee hollered at the guilty looking blue-haired boy, marching off in his direction across the shop floor.

George glared at his friend's back, then turned to look at Luna who was looking at him looking at her. It was quite a conundrum. His eyes wandered up to her unusual headdress.

"That's an interesting…hat?" he chanced.

Luna beamed. "Oh, thank you. It's a portable nose-blower," she explained, tapping the toilet-roll in its hat-like fixture on top of her head. "With all the cold weather and snow we've had lately I've caught a bit of a cold, so Daddy fixed this up for me. It's quite clever. Though I expect you're embarrassed to be seen with me wearing it."

George looked genuinely puzzled. "Why?"

"Oh, because there's a group of girls in the corner who seem to like you very much," she said serenely, pointing to the window where the Valentine's WonderWitch display was laid out without looking. "They were talking about you when I came into the shop. They seem quite fond of you."

"Well I'm fond of you," George said firmly.

A look that might have been surprise etched along Luna's pale features. She held his gaze evenly until eventually he could bare her owlish gaze no longer and looked away. It was there again, that heavy awkwardness in the air between them. It had kept rearing its great ugly head over the past couple of months, ever since that eventful New Year's Eve. George did not know what it was, but he knew there was no awkward air between Luna and Fred.

And then, she said quite simply, "Thank you George."

"For what?"

"Just thank you."

George looked mildly perplexed at Luna's vagueness, but before he could speak, Rolf Scamander reappeared suddenly by her side, like a very large and unwelcome daisy sprouting out of the ground. He rather resembled one too, George thought, glaring. Rolf was indeed much taller than George, though a little on the lanky side in his long tweed jacket and looked the sort who had probably attended Charmbridge College of Further Education for Gifted (and George had always taken 'Gifted' to mean obscenely wealthy) Witches and Wizards.

"Good day there!" Rolf greeted in a very high-born tone, sticking his hand out towards George. "Rolf Scamander, wonderful to meet you. Heard so many fantastic things about you from my dear Luna here."

George bristled at the word 'my' and his attention was so fixed on the arm around Luna's shoulders that he completely ignored the offered handshake. Rolf, however, did not seem to notice and continued cheerily on.

"It's truly a treat to finally meet you, Mr Weasley. I do so admire your very fine work here. I was hoping you would indulge me with some of your creative wisdom at the wedding. You are coming, of course."

George blinked. "Wedding?"

Rolf squeezed Luna's shoulder, beaming from ear to ear. "Why Luna's and my wedding, naturally. No doubt you will have heard all about it. Shan't bore you with the details, but it should be a lovely event. Thinking about having it at the mouth of the Hydra's cave in Crete. You know. Where the Golden Fleece is? Meant to bring a newly wedded couple terrific luck! That is, so long as they don't get consumed, what. Ha ha!"

There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence between George's ears. Rolf had not stopped talking, but he didn't hear a single word the man said. He felt strangely blank and said nothing as the wizard prattled on relentlessly, his eyes fixed on the hand grasping Luna's right shoulder. George barely batted an eye when Rolf mentioned something about hurrying off to finish a most important dissertation on the optical systems of the northern basilisk for his grandfather and only heard himself mutter a goodbye as Rolf exited the shop.

As the shop door swung closed behind Rolf, suddenly, as though someone had just ignited cursed fire in his gut, George wanted very much to run after the man and demonstrate just where he could shove his grandfather's dissertation. His eyes swivelled towards Luna. The sight of her stung him like a Billywig; he felt lightheaded and disorientated, as if someone had just told him that something he'd always taken for granted was completely wrong, like the sky was actually purple and grass really grows out of your ears.

'She's getting married?' his mind repeated, as though stuck on a loop. 'To that twat?'

He realised then that it was just the two of them now. The shop seemed strangely empty.

Luna looked concerned. "Are you okay, George? You look quite ill, like you've swallowed something that's trying to swallow you back."

George gave a start and shook his head numbly. Abruptly, he turned his back to her and walked behind one of the tills, greeting a customer with a less than friendly face. "That's four Galleons, two Sickles and a Knut," he snapped so suddenly that the customer could not pack their belongings and exit the shop fast enough. After they were gone, he continued to fiddle around with packages of Worry Warts and Nosebleed Nougats, anything to distract him from her, but Luna had not moved from her spot, waiting patiently for him to speak. Her head tilted to the side like an animal's and her misty protuberant eyes studied him intensely as they had done so often in the past few months they had spent together.

"Don't you have stuff to do, Luna," he said finally, with the faintest sneer. She might have looked surprised if it wasn't for the fact that her pale eyes were so round and her eyebrows so fair that she always looked somewhat surprised.

"Oh. Yes, I do." She stepped closer, looking a tad self-conscious for the first time since he had known her. "I was wondering if you might know where Nox is today."

She had that vague, misty tone in her voice and George suddenly hated it.

"She's working at the Angel Hotel," he said crisply, thumbing through papers. "Investigating some case with Percy." There was a slight tremor in his voice as he said it. Luna picked it up.

"You're worried," she stated lightly, demonstrating her usual knack for seeing what no one else could see or wanted to see. "Is it an important case?"

"No," he lied. He knew what she meant by important, but he did not want to share his thoughts with Luna now.

Again, he could feel her watching him with a considering sort of gaze, could almost feel her misty eyes trying to read him and knowing that she was trying to find the right words to explain. Luna had never bothered with finding the right words before, so why was she bothering now? She had nothing to feel guilty about, George thought darkly. After all, they obviously weren't close friends if she hadn't bothered to tell him about her engagement.

He heard her take another step towards him and place something on the till close to his hand. Then she said, softly, "Happy Valentine's Day, George."

Without another word, she left the shop. A second or two after the bells above the door tingled announcing her exit, George turned to the doorway. Something in his chest tightened and constricted uncomfortably as he watched her hurry down the street with her head bowed against the cold wind, her face tinged slightly pink.

He pulled the brown paper off the package she had left him. Inside was a photo in a golden frame of twisted ivy. The photo had been taken during Fred and George's final year at Hogwarts inside the Room of Requirement. He counted the members of Dumbledore's Army, stared into the grinning faces of those who'd died in the battle two years later, minus Colin Creevey who had taken the photo. Fred was leering at the camera, one arm thrust over George's shoulders while he saluted enthusiastically with his free hand. Luna stood a little ways off to the left. She was a pale solitary figure, but the smile on her face was genuine. He realised with a jolt that he had never seen her look so happy before.

George knew then that Rolf might have been an irritating toff with a bad haircut and the inability to shut his big posh trap, but he was much, much worse.

oOo

The tunnel they emerged into was low and narrow, and evil seeming. Vines and creepers crawled up the damp crumbling walls. A rich smell of rot and soil filled her nostrils. Ahead, she could hear Merlin as he breathed in the damp air. At that moment, Nox knew she was nuts. Perhaps not as nuts as Merlin or Garth or whatever the tramp wanted to call himself was, but nuts all the same. She wished she had a weapon. A big stick perhaps. Still, she knew from the tight grip Merlin had had on her arm that despite his scruffy appearance he was quick and agile, and far stronger than she was. Hitting the man with a big stick would probably be like kicking a lion and expecting it to keel over and die. She rubbed her bruised wrist and glared at his bony back.

A terrible stench wafted off of the old tramp, like whiskey mixed with wet seaweed and earthiness; an ancient smell and nothing like the waft of dust and hard-boiled sweets you got when stepping onto the Old Age Pensioner's morning bus service.

Merlin looked over his shoulder, grinning wolfishly. "You look faintly disgusted. Do I scare you, little knight?"

"No," she answered, and wished she believed it, "but you smell like a cushion an old woman's left out in the back garden for cats to piss on."

"It's Old Spice," he snapped his jaws defensively.

She ignored him. "Where are we?"

"Tunnels. Isn't that obvious?" He grunted and spat at the floor. "Slytherin made them. Liked tunnels, that wizard. Unhealthy fixation for them. Tunnels for brains, he had. They run underneath half the city, but we're just sticking to the ones underneath the Angel. I have something to show you." Merlin stopped and sniffed, his nose twitching in the air like a rat's. He was always moving; even when he was standing perfectly still his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. "And we'd better be quick about it too. He's following us."

"You can smell him?"

"I can always smell death coming."

Nox shivered uneasily. "Look, can I ask a question?"

"Certainly not."

She ignored him. "What is it that you have to show me down here?"

"Patience."

"That's a pity."

"Oh. Why's that?"

"When it comes to mysteries I am emphatically anti-patient," she replied, untangling herself from a veil of cobwebs she had unwittingly stumbled through.

"You're in the right occupation then," Merlin remarked with a mirthless laugh. He paused for a minute at a spot where the tunnel forked. "If I remember correctly, which of course I unfailingly do, it's this way."

Nox eyed him suspiciously as they set off down the left tunnel. Questions were tripping over themselves in her head, each one demanding to be voiced first. Finally she said, in the most casual voice she could muster, "You mentioned something about a Grail quest before assaulting me."

"I did, didn't I?"

She bristled. There was a distinct smirk in his tone.

"Well?" she urged.

"The little knight grows more impatient. I had better explain before she glares my head off, eh?" Merlin told the dog with an ugly sneer. The dog made no reaction. "Don't expect your wretched doom to make much conversation," he grunted. "The Grail was long before Hogwarts time. Not that time is much of a thing in itself, as I should know."

"The Grail's just an old myth, right? Crusades, Knights Templar, everlasting life and all that…" she said. "I don't know much about it other than the usual legends. Wasn't a subject that ever interested my dad much."

"Oh aye, I remember your dad. Bit padded round the stomach him," Merlin said gruffly, gnawing on his broken fingernails.

"You knew my dad?" Nox exclaimed.

"Barely a soul on earth who didn't know Edward. Nosy fella, your dad. Always sticking his nose in. Used to hang around old Elphuna's house in Dorset with Arthur Weasley and some other kid. The three of them fancied themselves as mystery solvers." He let out a triumphant bark-like laugh. "Not that they ever figured me out."

Nox stopped in her tracks. "Arthur Weasley?"

"Aye, and that skinny wee runt. Forget his name. Xeno-something. Bit of a mismatched team they were. Xeno and Arthur were bullied at Hogwarts a lot you see, 'cos of them being a bit addled in the brains." Merlin tapped his skull, looking quite addled himself. "Arthur loved his Muggle junk and Xeno…well… think he stayed out in the sun too long if you know what I mean. Being a Squib your dad was a bit of a cast-out too, not that he ever saw himself as such, mind. Anyway, it was no surprise that the three of them came together." Merlin scratched his scabby chin thoughtfully. "Last I saw Edward we were in a pub in Hungary. He was drunk. And he threw up on my shoes. Technically you owe me a new pair."

He stopped abruptly, waving a crooked hand at the crumbling stone wall they had come to and muttered a few words that must have been a spell, but did not sound like Latin – they barely sounded human. Nevertheless, he had certainly done something for the wall began to ripple and Merlin stepped through as if it were made of water.

After a tentative moment, Nox followed him. She did not know if he would say anything more about her father. She wasn't sure if she could bear it if he did.

They emerged into a large room with a furnace at the back and tall shelves lining the walls. It was too dark and musty to see what the shelves held, and for some reason Nox was glad of it. Her heel skidded on a patch of what she took to be water or the unidentifiable dark gunk you always found in basement rooms and she grasped the collie's scruff to keep balanced.

Alarm was in the tramp's eyes as he looked around the dark shelves.

"Keep your back to the forest and your front to me, little knight," he whispered darkly.

Nox waited, but that seemed to be all. "So…" she started tentatively, looking anywhere but at the walls, "will you tell me about the Grail?"

Merlin looked at her sharply. "Do you want to find it?"

Nox thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Not particularly. Immortality sounds a bit dull to be honest."

Merlin bared his teeth in what might have been his real smile. "Right answer. Then I'll tell you." He stuck a hand inside the layers of soiled patchwork jackets he wore, procuring from an inner pocket a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in silver foil. He took some of the meat filling out of his sandwich and tossed it to the dog, grumbling, "Why a man feels obliged to feed his own doom is beyond me."

With another snap of his fingers a small fire burst into life in the middle of the floor.

"Sit there," he instructed. "We're safe for now."

"Why don't you use a wand like other wizards?" she asked, squatting down on the opposite side of the fire from the tramp and his loyal collie.

He smirked. "If I'd relied on a wand all my life I wouldn't have gotten far from the Grawny man. But now's not the time for that. It's the Founders' Tale you want to hear." With a small twig he stirred the fire slowly, an inhuman smile tugging at his lips. "The Grail has many forms and its power is as dreadful as it is good. Once it belonged to Bran, the giant King of Briton, and it was his dearest treasure. When the King of Ireland came over the sea to claim Bran's sister, a feast was thrown and during the merriment Bran let his treasure slip into the hands of the Irish King. In that age the Grail was a black cauldron that could restore the dead to life."

"Long years passed and indeed the Grail came to play a role in my life too, but that is a story that pales into significance against lovely Helga's tale, for the Grail indeed came into her possession and long may it stay there. During those dark ages a terrible plague struck this island – the Unseelie Court returned who flew the night, plucking up children and lonely travellers off the roads. The four Founders of Hogwarts trapped the Court inside the Grail, sealing them inside the cup with the One Word. Only Helga and her closest friend, the Lady Ravenclaw, knew of the Word and this knowledge became a source of contention and the beginning of the Founders' Wars." Merlin leaned over the fire towards her. "That is the power of the Grail, little knight. That is why you cannot let Her have it. That is what the Winter Queen seeks above all else."

The fire began to sputter and as it did Nox became aware that there had been voices drifting in the air as Merlin had talked. At first she had simply thought they were whispered cries of the Angel, but as the smoke from the fire cleared and the room returned to normal she knew they had somehow been woven from Merlin's words. While the tramp had talked there had been laughing somewhere far off and a clatter of plates and glasses, like a banquet; Bran's banquet perhaps. And then a sound like wind rushing, of great leathery wings beating the air; the Unseelie Court, she knew instinctively, and an image of Helga had filled her mind, just like the painting Viktor had hung in hall of Blackwater Hall; the one that Salazar Slytherin had painted. And Nox had thought she had heard the One Word, seen Helga's lips form each golden letter…

Merlin tapped the tips of his bony fingers together and stared hard at the fire while the collie rested its head on his thigh, whimpering.

"You see, with Helga's cup in her hands Gudrun would return the world back to a time when night was really a thing to fear, oh so much more so than death."

"But she's dead. She died a thousand years ago. How on earth can she come back?" asked Nox in frustration. "I thought death was the end."

"It is. Or it should be," he answered grimly. "But with strange aeons even Death may die." His eyes darted towards her. "But you must remember that most important law of nature, little knight. Your friend, George Weasley, will try to break that law. You cannot let that happen."

The Angel shuddered into life above them. The walls bled voices from the cracks and shadowy spaces. She may have been a Muggle, but Nox had been around Fred, George and Luna long enough to know what their magic felt like. But the magic here was different and overwhelmed her like the blackness over the moon. It darkened her mind.

A handful of kindling, bits of oose and rubbish from Merlin's pockets, was thrown on the fire. She edged closer. Something in her chest felt frozen, like a lump of ice that had to be thawed by the small dancing flames. How could George ever rewind death? He wasn't a powerful enough wizard. And was there even such a spell? The very idea left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. There were people she had lost in her life and would gladly give anything to see again, but something at the root of her told her that kind of power, if indeed it existed, was not to be used lightly, if at all.

She felt a weight settle by her side and thick course fur brushing her leg. Merlin's dog. She gripped the collie's coat, feeling a little better, as though she had a firmer grip on reality between her fingers now. Then she looked up at the fire and saw Merlin's eyes glinting red in the firelight. He watched the space over her shoulder like an animal, silent and unmoving. The cocky smile was gone from his face. Instinct made her rise to her feet.

Her boots slipped in the unidentifiable gunk. Only now she knew it was blood; now she knew what the strange shadowy lumps on the surrounding shelves were. There were bones in the furnace.

"He is here," he said. "Run."

oOo

After finally admitting to himself that he had completely and utterly lost all trace of Nox, Percy had wandered the upper floors of the Angel Hotel for close to two hours before surrendering to his grumbling empty stomach. After getting lost one final time, he headed back to the board room Angus Postlethwaite, the bank manager, had earlier rented out to his host of hired psychics and ghost hunters. To his surprise, almost everyone had gathered there, looking ashen faced and concerned. His heart sank when he realised Nox was not amongst them.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Did you find something?"

To his surprise, the young assistant from Psychic Mystique, Ariadne, collapsed into a chair, covered her face with her beringed hands and burst into tears. Miss Whittle patted her shoulders gently, looking haggard-faced and troubled herself.

"Mr. Darkwood's technical assistant has disappeared," Postlethwaite explained, dabbing his enormous forehead with a handkerchief.

Percy frowned. "But that's impossible. I only saw him a little over an hour ago. He was accompanying my partner," he said. "How can you be so sure that he has disappeared?"

Ariadne shuddered and hiccupped through her fingers. "I-I feel that his spirit has been…consumed…lost to the dark…" Her beaded necklaces and silver bracelets clanked and jangled as she choked back another sob. "There are so many trapped spirits here… So many…"

Percy fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead silently muttered, "Good grief." He never had possessed much patience for self-proclaimed psychics. Divination had been his least favourite subject at Hogwarts. Professor Trelawney's mumbo jumbo inner eye nonsense had nearly driven him spare. He liked facts. Cold, hard, facts. Things he could see with his own two eyes. There was always a rational answer for everything, even in the wizarding world.

"Look here, let's not get overly dramatic. It's only been an hour. He's probably wandering around with my partner," he posed. "Or perhaps he got a bit of a fright and left?"

The ghost hunter, Israel Darkwood, shook his dark head grimly. "There is a slim chance of my assistant fleeing, Mr Weasley. Aidan never finishes a job halfway through and he does not scare easily. Not unless there is something to be scared of. We also discovered one of his cameras smashed on the fifth floor-"

Percy waved him off in a graciously posturing manner. "That could have been an accident."

Israel Darkwood shot him a cat-like unimpressed glance, and continued on as though Percy had never said a thing. "In addition, we were able to check CCTV recordings for footage of Aidan leaving the building, which proved fruitless. I am not a theosophist, Mr Weasley, but neither am I a cynic. I merely deal with what is in front of me." Israel Darkwood picked up a laptop that had been sitting on the table and turned the screen towards Percy. There were scrolls upon scrolls of information detailing temperature changes and EMF readings throughout the Angel Hotel. "Previous studies have shown that places considered to be 'haunted' typically have more environmental field variance, most commonly in the local magnetic fields. Normally those things that we perceive as ghostly encounters are often natural shifts in static magnetic fields. But how do you explain thermal sensor readings calculating sudden temperature drops of fourteen degrees in isolated areas? The computers have also been logging continual tremors."

Percy's voice went up one chord with annoyance. "I haven't felt any tremors and I've been all over this building."

"Neither have we," Postlethwaite confessed, "but when I went upstairs to check the bedrooms, the furniture in every room had been moved around. That's heavy stuff. Victorian, most of it. No one could have moved that furniture on their own and in so little time. And what's worse, this is the first time we've had any trouble during the day." He groaned in misery, looking at his hands as if he were imagining money slipping through his fingers.

Darkwood turned towards Miss Whittle who was still comforting her sobbing assistant. "What is your take on this, Methuselah?"

She hesitated, then said primly, "We may have some cause for concern. Spirits of the undead usually dislike the daylight. If we are getting such strong reactions now it may be that the spirit or spirits we are dealing with are growing in strength and reacting negatively to our presence," she admitted. Ariadne whimpered at this and Miss Whittle closed her beringed fingers tighter around the girl's shoulders. "My belief is that we are dealing with a malicious poltergeist. However, before I make any solid conclusions I would like to conduct a séance."

"That can be extremely dangerous if you don't know what you're doing," Percy said sharply, earning himself another scowl from the elderly psychic.

"Then it is a good thing that I do know what I am doing, young man."

Percy bristled at being spoken down to once again. He drew himself up importantly in a vain effort to gather his dented pride. He had no doubt that the Angel Hotel was haunted, for the smell of blood still hung thickly in the air, now and again threatening to overwhelm his senses, but he felt it was his duty to dissuade these people from their mission. They were Muggles after all and very likely over their heads. He would have to call in the proper authorities once he had located Nox.

"Well, in any case," he started, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, "it would be unwise to travel in groups of less than two people. Mr Postlethwaite, I would advise your workers here to do the same. And perhaps you should close the bank for the remainder of the afternoon." Percy ignored the bank manager, who let out another miserable wail, and continued. "I shall contact my co-worker-"

"Your co-worker has very likely disappeared too, Mr Weasley. We agreed to check in regularly and she has not been sighted or heard from within the last two hours," said Darkwood, grimly. "And if you are correct in saying she was with Aidan the last time you saw her, then I'm afraid she has disappeared like the others. I'm sorry."

Percy was almost trembling with rage. "Well your apology just makes up for everything now, doesn't it?"

"You hardly sound sincere, Mr Darkwood," Miss Whittle said critically. "All this nonsense machinery didn't stop your assistant from vanishing. And we have no proof that those missing are dead. Can we trust anything that comes out of your mouth?"

Israel Darkwood drew them both a very measured stare, then said simply, "Aidan knew the risks. As I'm sure Miss Wolfe did." His tone carried regret, but something about the acceptance of the possible death of his assistant struck a nasty chord in Percy.

"Christ. That's it! I'm calling the bloody police again," Postlethwaite declared, slapping his thighs and getting to his feet. "One more disappearance under this roof and the entire bloody building will be condemned. What am I supposed to tell authorities? 'Sorry, they just up and disappeared like magic, only with more disappearing. Much more. And then, you know what's next? Do you? I'll be out of a bloody job, that's bloody what!"

Then suddenly, the door flung open and the power cut out, plunging them into darkness much too absolute for the middle of the afternoon. Percy automatically drew his wand. Downstairs, the screams of frightened bank clerks and customers rose through the floors. Something pounded against the walls. Thin dark shapes flitted like fingers of shadow against the walls; the cries of the living mixed with those of the dead and the singing began once more:

Be bold, be bold

But not too bold…

Postlethwaite had crawled underneath the large board-meeting table in the centre of the room and was crouching with one arm over his head, with the knuckles of his free hand in his mouth. The pounding grew so heavy that the doors and windows rattled under the blows. Letters began to scrawl themselves across every surface: abracadabra, abracadabra, abracadabra. And then five words printed themselves across the screen of Darkwood's laptop:

'Danse Macabre.'

The pounding stopped immediately. Lights flickered on as the power returned.

The young assistant from Psychic Mystique was trembling uncontrollably. "I'm calling the police!" she exclaimed in a panic. "I'm calling them right now!"

She was reaching for the phone when there came a dull tap from the window behind her. Ariadne cried out and stumbled back. The blinds were up. It was broad daylight. And every one of them saw the listless body hanging from the cord outside the window. The sight made Percy's stomach contract horribly and he raised a hand to his mouth, feeling instantly squeamish. The skin visible beneath the thin night-robe the corpse wore was greyish and covered in sores, like something that had been dead and hanging there for many years.

With a strangled cry, Ariadne leapt to her feet and fled from the room, throwing the door closed behind her.

"Stop! Come back!" Percy hollered and began to chase after the young woman, but his heroic attempts were hindered as he tripped over the bank manager, who was again huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth and chewing on his knuckles. He struggled out of the tangle of limbs, finally reaching for the wand tucked into his sleeve. "Alohomora!" he shouted, flicking his wand at the closed door, and stumbling through it, but it was too late. By the time he had reached the outer hall, there was no sight of Ariadne. All was quiet as the grave.

oOo

Hope you enjoyed that! Sorry there's no Fred, but he'll be in the next chapter, never you fear.

Notes: There is indeed an African Hunter/Gatherer tribe called the and a very famous book was written about their beliefs in magic. I should know, I've written a paper on it lol! Also, there has been several spectral encounters at High Gate Cemetery in London and no freaking wonder, it is TERRIFYING (I can't wait to go see it!).

In a random piece of folklore related information, did you know in Hungary, instead of the Bogeyman, parents tell their children the copper penis owl will carry them off if they misbehave? God I love Europe.