"Oh, you men," sighed Ella Dursley, pushing the leaves out of her whitish hair. "My great grandson has been kidnapped by magicians or worse, and you won't even ask for directions."

"Considering anyone we could ask is probably more dangerous than the magicians, I'd say we should probably use a map," Barnaby Dursley retorted. Every Dursley over the age of sixteen had turned out to search for Paul's son (and fifteen-year-old Brenda wasn't wild about looking after all her younger cousins, either). Like all of the Dursleys, the child had been implanted with a homemade tracking device at birth, but once they'd traced him all around London and finally to a place called Ottery St. Catchpole, it had started beeping at top speed, though the young Dursley was nowhere to be seen. The clan was hot, tired, and utterly lost.

"Well, you're getting us nowhere," snapped Rilla Dursley. "I'm asking someone who appears to know what he's doing."

"How would you know?" her older brother asked.

Rilla fixed him with a death glare. "Think logically. No one ever notices magicians. They must walk among us dressed as mortals. But they don't usually dress as mortals. Therefore, any person who looks like a badly dressed mortal is a magician."

Her brother was not impressed. "You think you know everything, Rilla, but one day I'm going to be the first one to figure something out, and I'll never tell."

A man tapped him on the shoulder. "You lot must be muggles. I swear I'll never understand that Arthur Weasley's taste in houseguests… Well, it's a good thing I found you; his house is charmed not to let you know it's there—he must have forgotten. Knows all about screwdrivers, that one, but wouldn't last a minute on a muggle street. I'm Amos Diggory, by the way. Come along, just take hold of my hand and you'll be able to see his house."

Rilla looked up at him. "What did you just call us?"

"Muggles. Not magical," he answered briskly. "Oh, I'm sorry, it's not an insult or anything," he added, catching a glimpse of Barnaby's face.

Ella stepped forward. "What do you lot care if you insult us?"

Amos looked her up and down. "I beg your pardon?"

She sized up the odd-looking man before her. "You heard me. Magicians have never thought much of mortals before now. What did Grindelwald care, after he'd slaughtered a thousand muggles with a flick of his devilish wand, if he insulted the ones left?"

The wizard frowned. "Grindelwald? That was ages ago. And not all wizards are dark, or even prejudiced towards muggles. Mr. Weasley, for example—you were invited here by him, were you not? Where have you gotten your information?" Mr. Diggory's suspicions had been peaked.

Barnaby was livid. "Don't play games. This Mr. Weasley, or whoever lives in this house, has my nephew. I've no idea what they're doing to him. You will let us in NOW!"

"Certainly," he answered taking a step back. "As I had intended. Maybe Arthur can sort this out. With that, Amos grabbed hold of Rilla's wary hand, and she began joining hands with her family. In a moment, all present could make out the shape of a precariously balanced and highly amusing looking house.

It certainly wasn't the barbed-wire-covered fortress they'd been expecting. "Why, it's nice!" exclaimed Rilla's cousin Courtney. "Are you… are you sure all magicians are awful? Maybe it's just some, like the Whigs in our world."

Barnaby grabbed her arm. "Careful, dear, they have all sorts of ways of deceiving us." He strode forward purposefully. "I'm not afraid. Come and get me, you freaks of nature!"

Petunia happened to answer the door. "Oh, hello," she greeted them in an offhand manner. "We've been expecting you."