- Chapter Fifteen -

The Dark Lord's Most Loyal Servants

Harry, Ginny and Fleur had already packed their things by six in the morning, and when the students, teachers and other guests, exhausted from the fun until dawn, were still sleeping, they left the high tower of Durmstrang, accompanied by Krum. They walked back through the woodland path to the lonely lantern where they had arrived the day before, and where two sleepily blinking wizards now waited, with a large basket full of all sorts of things for a portkey beside them. Apart from Harry and the girls, only an Afro-French wizard and his wife were waiting for the journey.

'I only asked for a one portkey, is that all right?' Krum asked them, after discussing the destination with the two sleepy wizards, who must have been employees of the Wizarding Chancellorship. Their robes were adorned with two-headed red eagles, each with a tongue of flame emerging from its beak.

Harry was almost oblivious to what was happening around him, the night vision was constantly on his mind. He hadn't told Ginny about what he'd seen yet, saving that for when they got back to the Burrow. Now Hermione finally had proof that the hooded figure was not just in his dreams, he had seen him in the trees of the forest, and now he was sure that the hooded figure and the blue-skinned man were not the same person.

One of the official sorcerers took out a football with a hole in it, pointed his wand at it, and it glowed blue. The travellers gathered around it and said goodbye to Viktor Krum, who, he said, would be travelling back to Bulgaria to visit his parents later in the morning.

Harry looked back towards Durmstrang, where all he could see were the tall trees of the forest. More than anything, he wanted to know who had won that duel among the ruins and where that desolate landscape was. He was no longer so much interested in the whys – why he was seeing distant events again, why he was following another dark wizard in his sleep, and why again him – but rather how he could use it to end the blue-skinned man's rampage. Just like he used to.

Harry sighed heavily. If only Dumbledore were here...

' 'Arry, are you well?' Fleur leaned over the football. 'You look so funny...'

Harry blinked a few times.

'Of course, I'm fine,' he lied.

Fleur left it at that, but Ginny looked at him strangely.

The journey back was as long and uncomfortable as the first, but after five minutes they arrived safely in the Burrow's living room, exactly where they had started.

'Everyone is still asleep,' Ginny said, looking around the dark, deserted room.

Here it was an even darker night, and a thick fog spread over the landscape; the whole house was silent, except for the beat of the wall clock.

Fleur gave a big yawn.

'Are you apparating home or will you stay over?' Ginny turned to her as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

'I think I'll be going'ome,' she said, and gave Ginny and Harry a kiss, 'We might come over for lunch with Bill and the little one.'

Fleur walked out into the back garden and disapparated. Ginny set to unpack her bag, while Harry stood leaning against the banister, arms crossed, until she finished packing – with a wave of her wand, she made the laundry fly to the bathroom. They then went up to the smallest room and promptly fell asleep, as if they had been hit on the backs of their heads by a troll with his club, and slept through the entire morning.

Harry lay down on the bed almost certain that he was about to see the rest of the dream and find out if Marius had got the golden shield, but when his eyes popped open at Ron's banging ("Lunchtime, wake up!"), he just sighed in disappointment that he hadn't had any vision this time.

During lunch all of the Burrow's inhabitants were together, and when Harry and Ginny came downstairs, Bill, Fleur and their daughter were already there, and Andromeda Tonks and Teddy had dropped in for a visit as well. Harry, as soon as he saw him, without wasting a 'good day' on the foster mother, took his godson in his arms and played airplane with him round the sitting-room, which was greeted with an enthusiastic shriek from the little boy, and a jealous look from Victoire, who was snuggling in her blankets.

The main topic at the table was, of course, the Durmstrang Ball – strictly focused on fun and pleasantries, as the official report had to wait until they could be within four walls with Kingsley and Mr Weasley. The girls talked a lot about the ball, but they didn't say anything particularly heartwarming, rather just ranted endlessly about Durmstrang. Ginny, who had barely eaten the day before, was now double dipping into her mother's cooking, while Harry was just rummaging through his plate with his fork and pondering about the vision.

He remembered the little furry creature with the strange, French-sounding name. And the boy who came in a flash of lightning she called his uncle. But unlike the boy, Harry felt he didn't know the hairy creature.

'Ginny, what's around your neck?' came Mrs Weasley's curious voice, bringing Harry back to reality.

She pointed to the small red jeweled necklace Ginny hadn't taken off since Harry had given it to her.

'Oh, I just found it,' she replied evasively, glancing at Harry, who suppressed a smile.

Charlie cleared his throat and Bill chuckled to himself, but Andromeda, sitting next to Harry, frowned and said:

'Don't lie, Ginevra!' the woman shook her head sternly. 'You got that necklace from someone!'

They all stopped eating and looked at Andromeda, except Harry, who stared stubbornly at his plate.

There was silence for a few moments, then:

'And what if I did?' Ginny asked back defiantly. 'So what?'

Andromeda didn't like the tone of her voice.

'Then say so, and don't lie to your mother!' she said in a slightly commanding tone, which Harry's ears didn't appreciate at all. For a mad moment he thought he was sitting next to Bellatrix Lestrange.

Ginny looked at her as if she had added insult to injury, and her siblings and parents looked from one to the other uncertainly.

'I don't think it's any of our business who Ginny gets presents from, Mrs Tonks,' Hermione raised her voice a little, and Andromeda defiantly raised her head, but didn't press the issue.

Harry sent her a grateful smile. Andromeda Tonks, however, must have been offended, because she took little Teddy after lunch and, after a quick Christmas greeting, apparated home with him.

The Christmas holiday period passed quickly, much faster than before, as they had to get back to work on the third. Mr Weasley had already handed in Harry's report on the events at Durmstrang and taken it to the office after Christmas, but Harry felt he had made a report about nothing, for apart from the dream he felt of his visit to the Yule Ball as a complete failure, he could only report hazy guesses and suspects.

He found the conversation between him, Ginny, Ron and Hermione in the smallest room immediately after Christmas lunch much more useful. Harry had told them about his dream, but the expected effect had not come: Hermione was a little more uncertain in her stubborn defiance, and after her Pensieve theory turned out to be false, she was inclined to think that there might be a similar connection between the young wizard's mind and Harry's as there had once been with Voldemort.

'Wasn't it the case that you saw Voldemort's memories because he accidentally made you a horcrux?' Ron asked.

'Yes, that was so,' Hermione answered hastily for Harry.

'So what are the chances of this happening to you again?' the boy asked the logical question. 'On top of that, without you knowing about it...'

Harry thought it possible that his memories of a previous encounter with the boy had been completely erased, and that would explain why he found him so familiar. He had to admit, however, that if he had indeed become a Horcrux again, he would not easily find proof – only the visions would remain.

Later, when Hermione had worried enough and Ron had shrugged his shoulders enough, they gave a brief account of their visit to Hogwarts, which Harry and Ginny listened to attentively:

'Professor Eakle was quite surprised when we came in,' Hermione explained, 'Now that McGonagall is at Durmstrang, he's taken over running Hogwarts. We asked him to let us into the Headmaster's office because we wanted to talk to Dumbledore's painting.'

'And he let you in? Just like that?' Ginny wondered. Ron shrugged.

'Eakle's always liked us, you know,' he said, 'And since we've saved the school who knows how many times, we've got some credit with the stairwell gargoyle that guards the office.'

Harry nodded and waved at them to continue.

'So we asked the Professor's painting what exactly the Fourth Tower's circle is,' Hermione took over again, and Ron nodded along with his hand folded. 'He said it was just a simple scientific society that he had organised when he was young. He gave money to young, talented sorcerers and organised meetings between wizards and witches from all over the world.'

'We asked him if there were any black sorcerers among them, even by accident... But Dumbledore said no, that was something the members always looked out for. He said they were all good people.'

'That's it?' said Ginny. Hermione shook her head.

'Well... Dumbledore didn't pay too much attention to the circle of the Fourth Tower after Voldemort came on the scene,' she continued, a little uncertainly. 'In fact, he didn't need to, the wizards and witches he'd brought together didn't need his help anymore. He mentioned Scamander, who had written Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and the Diggory family, who were Scamander's associates... But he didn't really say anything of substance.'

'And you didn't ask him what this has to do with the inner circle?' Harry asked.

Now Ron replied.

'Of course we did, but he said he didn't know much about it.'

Harry and Ginny looked at each other; they both found the statement peculiar.

'He doesn't? Then who else would?'

'He said,' Hermione said, 'that if we want to know more about the inner circle of black sorcerers, we should ask his brother.'

'Aberforth?' Harry was surprised.

'Yes, him,' Hermione continued, 'Dumbledore said that his brother was abroad most of the time during the First Wizarding War, trying to prevent Voldemort from finding allies in other black sorcerers. The professor said Aberforth had done an excellent job...'

Harry and Ginny digested what they had heard for a few minutes.

'And did you go see him?' the girl asked. Ron nodded.

'We went to his house right afterwards, but he wasn't home. Who knows where he went.'

'Great...' Harry grumbled.

After Christmas, they went together to Aberforth's house in Godric's Hollow, but with similar results as before: the house was empty.

They wouldn't give up trying to talk to him, calling him several times through the fireplace, but no one ever answered. Harry was beginning to think that something has happened to Aberforth, because the former members of the Order of the Phoenix had no knowledge of his whereabouts – George Weasley thought he was just visiting one of his drinking buddies. The boy said he had done this often before, leaving the Hog's Head to a trusted friend. Harry and his friends went to look for him at the burnt pub and in Hogsmeade, but even there they could only say that they had seen Aberforth walking in the village a few days ago.

It was two weeks into the New Year when, on a sleepy Tuesday, Harry saw the startling sight of a wizard with greasy hair being escorted into the interrogation room by Proudfoot and two other Aurors, in full view of many onlookers, as the lift doors opened at the office. Harry recognised the man from a distance: it was Borgin, and he was clearly showing a look of unease that Harry could only be pleased about. Already in a much better mood, he went over to Ron, who was also among the onlookers.

'Why was Borgin brought in?' he asked Ron, who was looking on with satisfaction.

'Some shopkeeper at Knockturn Alley confessed this morning that the old man had sold him a lot of stuff.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. After all those futile attempts to put the old bastard behind bars they would finally succeed? Harry didn't have his hopes up, though he was glad that someone had finally taken the trouble to look into what was going on at Borgin & Burkes. Despite the shopkeeper's assurances that everything had been cleared out in accordance with the law, Harry was sure that there were still unanswered questions about the notorious business – including the all-too-confusing Fourth Tower case.

'So where have you been?' Ron asked him.

'Down at the mystery department,' said Harry, lightly, 'I was told I can go down tomorrow for the head. Your dad had sent it in for an examination before Christmas,' he added, seeing Ron's puzzled face.

'Does it really belong to a dementor?'

'I don't know yet, but we'll find out tomorrow, won't we?' Harry said, and they went back to what they had been doing: studying and practising.

This time Dawlish paid more attention to the training of the boys, attending almost all the exercises and giving instructions to his students. Harry found these more or less useful, though he had no idea why their instructor considered the bubblehead charm essential for stealth and tracking. He maliciously attributed the more frequent encounters with Dawlish to the fact that the Auror had got nowhere in his pursuit of Marius, which Kingsley certainly knew about, but had 'forgotten' to tell them.

Harry had not given up on finding the solution to the puzzle, and was certain that the boy in his dreams, the Fourth Tower, Draco's disappearance, and the blue-skinned man were somehow connected. One of the most obvious ways to do this would have been to try to find the place where Marius and the young wizard had fought in his dream, but that wasn't so easy. His knowledge of geography was rather incomplete, but he tried to narrow down the search by studying the surroundings of the eight schools on the map he saw at Voldemort's house – without much success. The burnt-out hill and dirt landscape he had visited in his dream did not seem to be anywhere near any of the schools.

After practice, they went back to Headquarters, accompanied by Dawlish, who said he was rushing down to the tenth for a meeting. He grabbed some papers from his own office and was about to leave, but the Auror, who had stepped out of the cubicle next to them, bumped into him and knocked the papers out of his hands.

Harry immediately went over and helped to collect the papers with a collection spell.

'Thank you,' muttered Dawlish as he took the pile of papers.

'What's this?' said Harry, looking at the top document.

The card was a validated arrest warrant and the photograph was of the old shopkeeper from whom Harry had bought the dementor head.

'The person in question was selling large quantities of illegal black magic paraphernalia and cursed items in his shop.'

'And how did you find out about this?' Harry asked in a slightly sharper tone than he intended.

Dawlish furrowed his brows.

'From Kingsley Shacklebolt, of course,' was the answer. For a moment Harry didn't know what to think, but Dawlish continued in his usual formal tone. 'Under Law XXIII of 1796 on interdepartmental cooperation, the Minister would have committed an offence if he had not reported that he had become aware of a person who had broken the law.'

Harry just gaped like a fish. Kingsley did know about the old shopkeeper, he had told him himself when he told him about the dementor head. However, he had not said a word to Kingsley about arresting the old man or telling anyone about him, as he would have done that himself if he had wanted to.

Dawlish, meanwhile, turned his back on him and headed for the door.

'I didn't... not like that... I didn't say a word...'

'For your own sake, I warn you not to continue with the next sentence, Mr Potter, or you could be in very serious trouble,' Dawlish said back over his shoulder with cold indifference. 'The Minister informed me that you were too busy to report it to the Auror Office because of your preoccupation with the Yule Ball, so he told Commander Robards himself.'

Dawlish was on his way, but Harry snorted furiously.

'And what will they do with him?'

'He'll be convicted,' Dawlish shouted back, 'multiple possession and sale of prohibited items, disobedience to authority: minimum fifty years.'

The Auror went out through the big oak door, leaving Harry alone with his dark thoughts in front of the screen. He couldn't understand why he was so upset about Kingsley's arrest of the shopkeeper in Knockturn Alley. He himself had considered taking him in and closing the shop, but then he remembered Dumbledore.

He wouldn't have done it, he knew for sure, he wouldn't have sent him to court. No, he would have understood the old man's situation, he would have known that he was being sent to prison for a crime he didn't even know he had committed. Under Fudge, everyone was free to sell and hold inferior cursed goods as long as they didn't use them. And if it wasn't for that tiny black magic shop, he would never have found the black head.

It wasn't long before Hermione emerged, her face flushed with excitement, holding that day's issue of the Daily Prophet, as Ron was getting ready for lunch and trying to get Harry to go to the nearby wizarding restaurant, Dionusos, where half the Ministry was spending their break – which was why Harry didn't want to go.

'Hello,' she said hurriedly, and slapped the paper down in front of Harry.

Harry stopped what he was doing (rocking in his chair, watching a spider weave a web between the filing cabinet and the screen) and glanced at the page.

'What about it?' he asked with a complete lack of interest.

'Check out this article!' Hermione ordered.

On the third page of the newspaper was a short article entitled: Grand Master Tiu Sunma has been assassinated.

Harry looked up at Hermione's face, but she was looking at him so meaningfully that he began to think he had missed something.

'What about it?' he finally asked.

'Do you know who this Tiu Sunma was?'

'How would I know?' shrugged Harry carelessly. Hermione wasn't going to let herself get upset.

'He was the Grand Master, or headmaster, of the Mó-Shù-Shī Xiào, the Great Eastern School of Magic,' she said. 'And it says in the article – if you'd bothered to read it – that he was found dead in his room, probably executed by the Death Curse. And that's not all...'

Harry had quickly skimmed through the article, but now he looked up at Hermione again.

'The forensic Aurors searched his room and found several cursed objects on him.'

Ron looked at her with open mouth, but Harry frowned doubtfully. He understood what she was getting at, but...

'Are you implying that he was killed by the blue-skinned... I mean Marius?' Ron asked. Hermione nodded slightly and sat down on the corner of the desk.

'I looked in the Pensieve to see which eight schools were marked, and the eastern one was one of them,' she answered. 'It was him who Marius was hunting and him you saw in your dream!' she turned to Harry again.

But he just pursed his lips and looked at the newspaper, scowling.

'I don't know...' he muttered. 'Do you have a picture of this Summa somewhere?'

'Tiu Sunma,' Hermione corrected him, flipping open the spine book she had brought with her, as if she was waiting for Harry to ask.

The book was written in Asian characters, so Harry couldn't understand a word of it, but one page was taken up by a large photograph of a slightly blind-looking old man with a goatee and round glasses.

'It's not him,' Harry declared.

'What?' snapped Hermione. 'Of course it's him, I had Percy translate it, this is Grandmaster Tiu Sunma...'

'My brother speaks Chinese?' Ron interrupted, but neither of them paid him any attention.

'This man has been the head of the Chinese school of magic for a hundred years. And what's more...', Hermione raised her voice when Harry tried to interrupt, 'he's on the list we got from the Viking. I checked.'

Harry sighed and stared at the picture of the completely unfamiliar Chinese old man, shaking his head slowly.

'I don't know this man,' he said firmly, 'and he doesn't look anything like the boy I saw in my dreams.'

Hermione glared at him with her hands on her hips.

'I thought you didn't remember his face!' she raised her eyebrows.

'But I always knew I knew him. And not just me, Ginny too,' he was sticking to his guns, looking at his watch.

Hermione looked at Ron with an "I don't believe it" expression, but he shrugged and, disappointed that lunch time was about to expire, unwrapped a sandwich that Mrs Weasley had made that morning.

'Harry...' said Hermione patiently, taking a deep breath, 'I think you're deliberately overcomplicating things with these dreams.'

'I am overcomplicating them?' Harry echoed; for help he glanced at Ron, who shrugged again and stuffed his sandwich into his mouth.

'What do you mean by overcomplicating?'

Hermione's reply was interrupted by an incoming paper airplane, which flew over the screen and landed gracefully in her lap.

'I'm sorry, but I have to go now,' she announced, as she skimmed the message and stood up. 'I'm expected at the office; I hope it's Mr Cattermole at last – he's been promising to come in and see the Selwyn-elf for a month...'

After Hermione left, Harry sat back in his chair again and closed his eyes. He was sure Hermione was wrong. That Tiu Sunma must have been killed by a rival wizard. He could see with his own eyes who Marius was hunting, and it wasn't an old Chinese man.

The rest of the day passed quietly, Harry even fell asleep once, and when he woke up he felt a little ashamed of it. Ron was nowhere to be found, the remnants of his sandwich resting on the sports page of the Daily Prophet.

Harry blinked sleepily as he stared at the remains of the lunch, thinking about everything he had experienced since he had started working at the Ministry. He hadn't felt the pleasant excitement he'd felt when he'd first walked in, and he was beginning to realise why: he didn't like it here. He didn't like working here at all...

Ron entered the booth.

'Are you awake? Come on, you need to see this,' he called to Harry, who got up from his chair and followed his friend out into the corridor, right in front of the interrogation room.

'What do you think?' Ron's voice sounded rather indignant and angry, and Harry immediately understood why.

It was at this moment that Borgin was released from the interrogation room, and to Harry's annoyance he noticed that the wizard's hands were not glittering with handcuffs. Behind him, Proudfoot emerged from the interrogation room, and Harry and Ron approached him.

'What happened? Are you letting him go?' Ron asked when Borgin was out of earshot.

'For the time being,' said Proudfoot, no less grumpy than the boys, 'The bastard's playing well... He sold all his goods to that other shopkeeper before the new laws came into force.'

Harry raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

'Yes, I know,' the old Auror looked at him. 'But he could verify it all...' he sighed, shaking his head in annoyance. 'I'll bet my neck that Mundungus Fletcher got him the false sales records...'

Harry watched fuming as Borgin got in line for the lifts. The shopkeeper didn't notice him, but Harry could clearly see the superior grin on his face.

All day long, he was up and down, his fingers drumming nonstop on the desk to relieve the tension and try to sort out his thoughts. The whole injustice was right in front of him: Borgin had served Voldemort all his life, and he could get away with not even a day in jail for being clever enough to escape the law. And Kingsley would rather send a poor old man to Azkaban, who was too senile to even realise what he was doing. Dumbledore wouldn't have done it that way. Dumbledore would have saved the old man from prison, got him out of the mess he got himself into, and somehow made Borgin pay. Kingsley, on the other hand...

'Hey, lads!' Aberforth Dumbledore greeted them, peering in at the screen, and Harry could tell that the old ex-pub owner was not in a good mood this time either. Come to think of it, he had never seen him in a good mood.

'Good afternoon, Mr Dumbledore,' they said back, but Aberforth just waved his head and was gone.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then followed the old man into the corridor. Aberforth was carrying a bag-like satchel, swinging it in his hand as he whistled and marched towards the lifts.

'What happened?' asked Ron in a whisper, when they caught up with him, and now they were loitering beside him. 'We were looking for you at Christmas, but couldn't find you...'

'I was looking for my goat,' the man shrugged.

'And did you find it?' Ron asked casually, and the old man nodded, then suddenly stopped in the corridor and turned towards them.

'I have to talk to you about your little visit to my brother's painting,' he whispered hoarsely, and then he croaked loudly, which the witch who passed by listened to with a scowl. 'We'd better go down to Granger's office, it's a bit quieter,' Aberforth said, when he didn't find the corridor a very good place to talk either.

Harry agreed, and didn't ask any more questions, just got into one of the lifts with Ron and went down to the Magical Creatures Regulation Department, where they were greeted by the usual animal noises and a slight smell of stables, which couldn't be overpowered by the refreshing spells of perfume that – as Harry and Ron knew from Charlie – were sprayed into the air by the glass orbs that provided the lighting.

Aberforth, stepping out of the lift, let Ron lead the way to the House-elf Assistance Bureau, looking around the main department with undisguised curiosity.

'I've never been here before,' he explained his interest, after he stopped to have a good laugh at an MCR employee who was trying to herd a disgusting, slimy, orange snail back into its cage. Harry had the feeling that the department was at chaos twenty-four hours a day.

The door of Hermione's office was, as usual, slightly open, and pleasant music was blaring out – but also the sound of a conversation. When Ron knocked and they went in, they were surprised to find Ginny there. The two girls had been deep in conversation about something when they entered, and now they too wondered at the crowd of guests.

'What a busy place,' Aberforth grumbled, glancing around the office as they all crowded in.

'I'll be going now, I won't disturb you at work,' Ginny rose from her chair, clutching a letter with a broken seal, but Aberforth interrupted.

'It's better if the little redhead stays here,' he put his hand out in front of her.

Although Harry didn't like the term "little redhead", and from the look on Ginny's face, neither did she, neither of them spoke out against it.

'I hear you've been to my bloody brother's,' Aberforth started, once everyone was seated except him, so he towered over them with his hands on his hips, the cramped space accentuating his lean stature.

'How do you know?' Hermione asked in a chatty voice, clearing the papers from her desk.

'From my bloody brother,' was the reply, 'He told me what you were asking him about, and he told me to help you!'

The four good friends did not dare to squeak; Aberforth said this in a not very kind tone.

'Well,' he said again, after clearing his throat. 'Albus thinks I haven't helped enough. What do you think of that? Eh? Haven't I helped enough?'

'We know you've been very helpful, Mr Dumbledore...', Hermione said in a high voice. 'And we appreciate it, but...'

'But what?' sighed Aberforth.

'But if you know something, please tell us.'

'Tell you, eh? Hah!' growled Aberforth again, and then spat one out on the floor in anger.

A muscle twitched in Hermione's face, but she remained silent. Harry just smiled in the corner, knowing full well that Aberforth had already agreed, he just liked playing the grumpy old man. In fact, it was the only thing he was so different from his brother. Harry didn't care what they said about him being a mediocre wizard, that he was never able to equal his brother's genius – Harry knew both Dumbledore's well, and knew that in more ways than one, it was the Professor who hadn't equalled his younger brother.

'Dumbledore... I mean, according to your brother,' Hermione corrected herself quickly, 'you were investigating foreign black wizards in the First Wizarding War.'

'Yes, that's right,' said Aberforth. 'I know quite a lot about that gang. But there's someone who knows even more about them than I do.'

'Who?' Harry's interest spiked.

'Balthasar Borgin.'

The four good friends exchanged meaningful glances, and finally Ron spoke.

'Well, we're too late, because Borgin was just released from the interrogation room an hour ago.'

Aberforth just gave an impatient wave with his hand.

'Don't be ridiculous, Weasley!' he said. 'Even if you questioned him for a month without pause, he wouldn't tell you anything.'

'Why?' asked Ginny.

'For two reasons,' replied Aberforth at once. 'One: he fears for his life. Two: he has nothing to fear from you.'

That's exactly the problem, Harry thought. As Ginny had mentioned once before, now they had bosses, they had to act legally. Only problem is, the law couldn't catch people like Borgin.

'Then I guess we'll have to do the same as we did with Zabini,' Ron said, and then everyone looked towards him, and Ginny suddenly sighed.

'You can forget about that! You won't get me to...'

'No, I didn't mean that!' he said hastily. 'I meant...'

'We should kidnap him?' Hermione asked, not indignantly or mockingly, but seriously considering the possibility. 'Then we must be very careful not to be noticed, because if we get caught, we'll...'

'Calm down, Granger,' said Aberforth, 'Old Ab's got everything we need!'

He slammed his bag on the desk and opened it.

'A little gift from the Order of the Phoenix,' said the old man, as the four of them leaned closer in amazement. 'From the good old times...'

Harry had to realise that he was learning to like Aberforth Dumbledore more and more.

When Mr Borgin returned to his shop after his interrogation with the Ministry, the first thing he did was to put the closed sign in the window, which he had forgotten to put up when the Aurors came to collect him in the morning. On the way home, he also stopped at two other shops and a smoky pub to explain what had happened, if only because he had customers booked in for that day, who were probably standing bewildered outside the closed shop with the open sign hanging in the empty window.

He said that the Aurors had taken him away from his home, handcuffed and without his presence, and had carried out a search for the fourth time since the defeat of the Dark Lord.

'That's all these Weasleys know how to do!' remarked Taurus Baddock, who used to be a regular customer in his shop – a very well-paying regular customer.

'House search after house search! They confiscate and seize anything that could threaten their power. They're so scared of us that they'd lock us up in Azkaban if we sneezed on the streets.'

'Well said!' said Borgin, raising his glass to him.

'Without their laws, they would be nothing...' fumed another pub guest, a hook-nosed old hag. 'If the Dark Lord came back, they'd be the first to hide in their rat hole!'

'Shh!' the barkeeper shouted in horror. 'Be careful! Such things you should better discuss outside!'

After having released enough anger and filling his diary with appointments for the next two weeks, Mr Borgin went home and locked himself in, lit the candle-glasses and started tidying up the disastrous mess left by the Auror's search of the house.

He was just trying to magically put the dragged-out shelves back into their place when the candles suddenly went out. Borgin furrowed his brows and raised his wand again to light them. Then there was a soft rustle and the wand flew from his hand.

'Who goes there?!' cried the old shopkeeper, frightened, for he knew at once that he was not alone. In answer, shadows emerged from the darkness, from behind the display cases and cupboards, as if they were ghosts, waving black shrouds – there were four of them, and they were moving towards him.

'Death Eaters...' the old man whispered, his hands clenched into fists.

'Hello Borgin!' the tallest one said sharply, and pointed his glowing wand straight at the old shopkeeper's head.

'What... what do you want from me?' the wizard stuttered with his mouth shaking from fear, then shook his head wildly. 'I know nothing! I don't know anything!'

'You will answer when we ask you!' another, female voice snapped.

'Where have the antiques gone?' the third Death Eater waved his wand at him, emerging from a dusty cart and wearing a shiny, deep green metal mask. Their fourth companion stood guard at the door, casting a spell to obscure the glass so that no one could see in.

'What... what antiques?' Borgin stammered.

'The dark objects! Where have the dark objects gone? What did you do with them? SPEAK!'

Borgin almost cried out in fear. He was shaking like a leaf, and would surely have collapsed if one of the masked men had not held him by the robe.

'I had to get them away from the raids on the ministry,' he confessed. 'They turned everything upside down, but all they found was a cursed key. I was even fined for that. I was fined a thousand galleons, I thought I could close the shop! Do you have any idea what they would have done to me if they had found everything here?'

The tall Death Eater leaned menacingly close to Borgin's face, his eyes narrowed to slits behind his metallic mask.

'Do we look like we care?' he hissed. 'The Dark Lord doesn't care about your fine, old man!'

Borgin looked at the Death Eaters as if they were at least a bunch of lunatics.

'What are you talking about?' sputtered the old man. 'What do you mean with the "Dark Lord"?! What dark lord?'

In reply, the woman seized him by the robe and pushed him hard against the counter.

'Show more respect, you halfblood mutt!' the Death Eater shrieked in a crazed voice. 'Yes, the Dark Lord! He is back, and he is very angry that you have turned your back on him again.'

'The Da-dark Lo-lord is de-dead...' Borgin stammered. 'Dead! He is dead! Potter killed him!'

There was a mocking snort in reply.

'Like eighteen years ago, right?' the masked man laughed, and then continued contemptuously, 'Borgin, the Dark Lord cannot be killed. He is the lord of life and death, armed against mortality. He has gone further than you, you pathetic halfblood, could ever imagine!'

Borgin gasped for minutes.

'He is... alive?'

'He's alive, and as I said, he's angry at the traitorous scum,' the Death Eater spat. 'You will tell me where that mangy Malfoy is, or I will tear you to pieces!'

The menacing power that radiated from the masked man terrified Borgin.

'M-Malfoy? Lucius Malfoy has gone away with his family. They went abroad to escape the Ministry. He couldn't find a job anymore... I understand Potter managed to keep him, his wife and son out of prison.'

'Hah! Typical for Potter...' the tallest Death Eater remarked wistfully.

'The boy worked for the Ministry for a while,' the old shopkeeper continued, his voice still trembling, 'but then he quit.'

'Where is he now? Where did he escape to?' came another question. Borgin swallowed hard before answering.

'To Durmstrang,' he groaned.

The three Death Eaters looked at each other, and their fourth companion at the door raised her head.

'He... he had to go there,' Borgin continued. 'It was commanded by the Tower. I only did what I did eighteen years ago, and the Dark Lord had no objection then! Even then I was defending the interests of his men, helping them...'

'You were a great help!' said one of the masked men, and gave him a big shove that sent Borgin crashing against the counter again.

'What are you talking about?' gasped the wizard when he regained his composure. 'What exactly are you accusing me of? I sold you out Karkaroff! If I hadn't told you where the Tower hid him, you would never have caught him! My loyalty is undiminished! For me, the Dark Lord comes first and the Tower only second. It has always been like that...'

'You can be proud of yourself...' the tall Death Eater muttered.

'Who gave you the orders, Borgin?' asked the female voice behind the metal mask. 'Who is your contact?'

'What do you mean, who? I told you: the Fourth Tower! I don't know who I'm talking to. They're not fools to give themselves away. I only keep in touch with them by mail... If there's someone or something they want, I'll get it for them. They wanted the Malfoy's... and the Bulstrodes. The Zabinis didn't go. And there was this kid... Diggory something... he came alone. He brought a cursed music box. He said he wanted to learn black magic... I sent him to Durmstrang as well.'

He could clearly see the eyes of the tallest Death Eater in front of him widen round behind the mask. Before he could wonder at this, another question came from the man in the green mask:

'The Fourth Tower's circle? What do they have to do with Durmstrang?'

Borgin licked the edge of his lips nervously.

'T-they have someone there...'

'Who?' the Death Eater thundered in a deep voice.

'I told you I don't know any names,' he replied desperately.

The Death Eater waiting at the door then approached and spoke.

'What is the Fourth Tower?' hers was also a woman's voice, and she addressed her question to Borgin.

The old shopkeeper dropped his jaw and looked at her like a fool. The three Death Eaters in front of him looked at each other, then the other woman spoke again:

'She's new,' she said to Borgin, nodding her head towards their fourth partner. 'Now come on, Borgin, answer her! What's the Fourth Tower?' she mimicked her companion's voice in mockery.

The two men laughed loudly under their masks, and Borgin just gasped in shock for a while.

'Come on, you old fool! Are you going to say something or not?' urged the Death Eater.

'The... the Fo-Fourth Tower...' began Borgin, wiping the sweat from his brow, 'is a soc-society, a... a secret alliance between the representatives of the da-dark arts.'

'The inner circle?' asked the fourth Death Eater again, and she could not hide her astonishment.

Borgin frowned in confusion.

'Only in the newspapers it is called an inner circle,' he corrected. 'Its real name is the Circle of the Fourth Tower. It's always been that since it was founded.'

The tall Death Eater snorted like an enraged animal, and Borgin couldn't understand why he was so upset.

'When was it founded?' the woman asked.

'I-I-I-I don't know...!' said Borgin, opening his arms, and it was obvious that he was now very tired of being interrogated. 'Sometime at the beginning of the century.'

The three Death Eaters in front of him looked at each other again, but they never took their wands away from Borgin's face.

'And what about Dumbledore?' came another question from the green-masked Death Eater standing to the left of Borgin.

'What about him?'

'What does he have to do with the Tower?'

The tone with which the masked man asked the question was very strange to Borgin. It was as if the Death Eater didn't know Albus Dumbledore's connection to black magic as a young man. Yet, anyone who knew the Tower knew all about Dumbledore, knew why the Dark Lord had feared him...

'He was one of the founders. He and Gellert Grindelwald,' said Borgin. 'But... but you didn't know this?'

For a while, there was no response from behind the expressionless metal masks, only the nervous – or angry – breathing of the Death Eaters and the frightened gasp of the old man.

'Of course we did!' sputtered the tall Death Eater, but his words didn't sound very convincing to Borgin.

A few minutes ago he thought the very idea was ridiculous, but for a moment the fear left him and he said:

'You are not... you are not Death Eaters!'

The masked people froze and said nothing for a moment.

'Who are you?' asked the old man in a disbelieving tone, as he gathered courage. 'If you are Shacklebolt's men...'

At that moment, the wand of the Death Eater woman in the middle of the room made a loud crack, sending Borgin flying by his ankles.

'We are not Death Eaters?!' thundered the green-masked wizard, as the woman giggled in a creepy voice at the shopkeeper spinning in the air.

'We are the most loyal servants of the Dark Lord!' the tallest one now shouted.

'I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!' Borgin sobbed.

The three Death Eaters in front laughed at him, only their fourth, youngest companion standing silently behind them, staring petrified at the helpless old man.

'How dare you accuse us of such a thing, halfblood?!'

One of the wands flashed, and Borgin found himself on the ground.

'Perhaps you have forgotten what the true followers of the Dark Lord look like?' one of them asked. 'You're about to get a little reminder!'

'NO! SORRY! I'M SORRY!', Borgin cried for his life.

'Morsmordre!'

A beam of light burst from the green-masked Death Eater's wand as he flicked it, and Borgin screamed as the spell exploded with a maddening thunder...

But he did not die, he was not cursed, instead a horrific image unfolded beneath the high ceiling of his shop, casting an emerald glow across the store. The glittering sparks formed a huge skull with a snake coiled out of its mouth.

'Listen to me carefully, Borgin,' the tall Death Eater hissed at him, but he was only looking at the Dark Mark. 'You'd better not have any more dealings with the Tower, do you understand? The Dark Lord no longer looks kindly on the treachery of those vile worms.'

Borgin just nodded, in such a hurry that his head almost fell off his neck. The Death Eaters exchanged another quick glance, then released the old man, who collapsed on the spot in front of the counter, and they turned their backs on him, walked out of the dimly lit shop into the dark street and disapparated.

Neither Borgin nor anyone else could see them as they reappeared on a moonlit hilltop many hundreds of kilometres from Knockturn Alley. Slowly, a fifth figure emerged from the darkness beside the four Death Eaters, as if to fold the curtain of night.

'Well, boys and girls...' said Aberforth, pocketing the invisibility cloak, 'I think my brother will have some explaining to do!'

A gloating grin spread across the old man's face as Harry followed his friends in removing the heavy, shimmering green mask.