Chapter Fifteen

Death and Glory

When Harry walked into the dank little cottage, he was feeling disappointed. A tip-off had finally led them to the place where Tyrell had been hiding out, but he'd gotten word of their impending arrival and fled by the time they showed up. The cottage was a forgotten bit of property owned by a wizard who Harry had already suspected was tied to Tyrell. He'd obviously given it over to the boy for however long he needed it, Harry realized as he stepped in and saw that Tyrell had decorated. He wasn't very creative, Harry thought sourly, it was the same decorating scheme he'd used at home. Newspaper clippings and photographs.

Harry sent most of his team back as soon as he determined there was no ambush waiting. He kept back Dan Waverly and Colin Creevey. Colin normally worked in Muggle Relations, but he was a trained combat wizard, and Harry had been relying on his experience quite a bit the last few weeks. Colin was not the cheery and excitable boy Harry had known in school. The death of his younger brother had made him much more serious, and Harry hadn't seen a camera in Colin's hand in years. He still beat himself up for not being there when Dennis had been killed by Millicent Bulstrode, but no one blamed him for that. He'd been busy fighting back-to-back with Zacharias Smith against Lucius Malfoy, whom they'd been tailing to gather information. The Weasleys had killed Malfoy only weeks later.

Harry held his wand up for light, and saw the other two doing the same. He found a lantern and lit it, but the light was still a bit dim. He wasn't the best at Transfiguration, so he had Dan make them another lantern from a cauldron hanging over a dead fireplace. It was still an ugly dank place, but there was enough light to go by, at least. Colin didn't say a word after he agreed to stay with Harry and Dan, simply watching them set up the lanterns with his deep-set, haunted eyes. He didn't put away his wand, either, though he let the light fade from the tip. He simply kept it in his hand, close by his side. Harry didn't blame him. Just a few years ago, ambushes had been all too common. Harry himself kept his wand in a little sheath on his belt, in easy reach.

The three of them scoured the cottage for clues as to where Tyrell might have run to. There weren't any. There was, however, a dead dog, little more than a puppy, that bore all the signs of having been tortured to death. Harry studied the glazed eyes and the frozen lips lifted in an eternal snarl of pain and rage.

"Lovely," he sighed.

He set down the lantern on the dusty table so he could drag the blanket from the bed against the wall over the animal's carcass. He looked up to see Colin staring at the blanket-covered lump with an expression of near-rage. He saw Harry looking at him, and turned away, his jaw set. He got down on his knees to look under the bed.

Harry had already shuffled through the items on the table for any information on other possible locations Tyrell might have gone to, but now he sat down in a chair to take a little more time. Any information on Tyrell was good, he supposed, even if it wasn't a location. Dan came to sit down at the table to help, while Colin looked over the newspaper articles Tyrell had chosen for wallpaper. The number of chairs here, six to be exact, told Harry that Tyrell did indeed have supporters, followers, friends, whatever one wanted to call them. He wondered briefly what Tyrell called them.

There was another book like the journal he'd found in Tyrell's house, hidden under a couple of maps of the area. Harry quelled his excitement and flipped it open. He was disappointed. It was a book of poetry. Poetry about death, to be exact. It was very amateurish and silly poetry, he thought with disgust. The beautiful surrender to eternity's clutching arms, indeed! Eternity was not like an insane lover taking you down to hell, Harry didn't think, nor did he think Tyrell had ever had any kind of lover to compare it with. He choked with something resembling laughter when he found a poem calling Cruciatus torture a sweet pleasure like the sucking cold bite of a vampire. Tyrell had apparently never been bitten by a vampire, either. From all accounts, it was not very pleasurable. But if one found Crucio so nice, well . . . He shared his find with Dan, who was frowning over what looked like a shopping list that was unfortunately full of items found in just about any wizarding shop in the world. Dan grimaced, but with a slight smirk on his lips.

Harry looked over at Colin. Colin was simply staring at a moving photograph. Harry squinted and saw it was a photograph taken while Tyrell had been torturing the now-deceased dog. He got up to lead Colin away from the picture, but Colin had snatched the picture off the wall and was tearing it to shreds with his face turning red. He looked up at Harry with fury in his eyes.

"How does this happen?" he demanded. "How do people like this slip through the cracks for so long?"

Harry was helpless to answer. Colin turned away in disgust and pulled out a little notebook to jot down the titles and dates of the articles on the walls. Harry went back to Tyrell's little book, still hoping he'd written something slightly more useful than ghastly poetry somewhere in it.

"'Ode to the Dark One Fallen'?" he said aloud when he turned a page. "God, why on earth would you glorify a murderer like this?" He read a few lines and threw the book down. "Ugh."

"More bad poetry?" Dan asked.

Harry put his head in his hands. "Not to mention more Harry hate." He glared at the book. "So I killed the bastard," he informed the leather cover. "What's it to you?"

Oddly, that made Colin let out a short, sharp laugh. Harry looked up in surprise.

"Talking to books, Harry, really."

"Yes, well, sometimes diaries talk back you know," Harry replied. Then he felt his eyes widen. "You don't suppose . . ." He cast a spell at the book of poetry, then shook his head. "Never mind. Just a book. But I think I'm going to try it on that journal we found a few months ago. You never now what we might turn up. I think everybody knew about that diary of Tom Riddle's, I can see Tyrell wanting to copy him." Just as long as he's not making it into a Horcrux, he thought to himself with a shudder.

"Harry, you lived as a Muggle for a long time," Colin said, sounding like he was having some sort of epiphany.

"Er, yes."

"You ever meet any of those kids who thought they were Nazis? You know, Hitler worship?"

Dan scowled. "We all know who Hitler was."

"Yeah, but you don't meet many magical kids trying to be like him," Colin pointed out.

"What are you getting at, Colin?"

"Well, they're always going on about restarting the Third Reich or something."

"Right . . ."

"What if that's what Tyrell is doing? Not trying to start something new, just trying to, er, keep Voldemort's spirit alive."

"You think?" Harry said, and he felt a small measure of hope for the first time. Dan's face suddenly cleared of it's frown, but Harry got there a moment before he did. "He'll be tracing Voldemort's steps, then. We need to start searching through Voldemort's old haunts, not looking for places Tyrell is connected to."

"Exactly," Colin nodded. "They're perfect locations to hide in. Nobody comes near them."

Harry stood up. "I'll send a couple of guys in to collect this stuff as evidence. Let's go regroup at the office and get to work."

A loud crack sounded just outside the door, and they all three instantly had their wands out and pointing. It was Kingsley Shacklebolt, who gave their wands only cursory attention before he waved a beckoning hand.

"Come with me," he said in his booming voice. "There's been another murder, and it's a big one."