Ten minutes later we were making the trek back to 221B. It was late in the evening.
"We should send these to Mycroft," I said, holding out the sheaf of encrypted notes we'd found in Dexter's makeshift office. "See what he can make of them."
"No need," Sherlock said. "I'll take a stab at them first."
"They're magically encrypted. How can you possibly decode them?"
"I have my methods."
"Is this about pride?"
"It's about practicality, John. We have no means of communication with Mycroft. Our cell phones have no reception."
"Owls!" I said. "That's how wizards communicate apparently. They send letters by owl."
"By all means, indulge yourself, if you have a spare owl lying around somewhere. I have my own methods of cracking these codes."
"What methods? What are you talking about?"
Sherlock gave a thin smile. "I need to conduct some research."
I took pictures of each of Dexter's letters, and then I roamed around Hogwarts trying to find a cell phone connection.
It was a fool's errand — as I should have suspected. Why would telecom companies build towers in the remote Scottish highlands or near wizard castles? I was holding my phone up close to a window in a fifth floor corridor when a familiar voice spoke.
"Oh, Watson! Are you using your telly-phone?" It was Professor Hinkiepink, Professor of Muggle Studies.
"Trying to, anyway."
"That won't work here, too much magical interference. Try Hogsmeade. I usually go to the Three Broomsticks when I want to read your blog. Connection is a bit spotty, but it should do in a pinch."
"Hogsmeade? Where's that?"
She came over to the window and pointed down. A little village of shops and restaurants was positioned on the edge of Hogwarts' grounds, columns of black smoke billowing from their snowy chimneys.
I thanked the Professor and returned to the Room of Requirement for my coat and gloves. Sherlock was absent — apparently away doing his "research." I bundled up in my winter wear and made the trek down to the Hogwarts grounds.
It was a chilly and windy but snowless night. Frosty gales nipped at my face as I strolled along the winding road leading to Hogsmeade village, checking my phone periodically for reception. Hogsmeade itself was rather quaint and inviting, but the shops were all closed up at this late hour, save for one grubby-looking tavern named the Hog's Head, whose paltry light revealed only a handful of grubby-looking patrons.
I kept going, past Hogsmeade and into the very outskirts of Hogwarts' grounds. I checked my phone again and my heart leapt. I was on an edge network — a single bar of reception was flickering in and out. The Forbidden Forest lay ahead, and whilst I was not a student and thus not bound to Hogwarts' code of conduct, and the forest was not forbidden to me, it was a nonetheless daunting sight. The moon was a bright silver crescent in the night's sky, but the space between the trees was pitch black.
Why were students forbidden from entering the forest? I wondered. I had not yet reached that chapter in Hogwarts: a History. A part of me suspected that terrible monsters lurked within. It was a thought that I was not eager to entertain.
I had a dozen pictures to send to Mycroft. A single bar of reception would not suffice. So perhaps against better judgment, I entered the forest, advancing about a dozen paces. I kept my eyes and ears peeled for any signs of danger, but all was still and silent in the forest, save for leaves crunching underfoot. It was eerie. It was like a scene from the Blair Witch Project.
The connection grew more stable as I advanced further into the Forbidden Forest.
A wolf howled. It was not so terribly distant. Hadn't I read something about werewolves being real? Hagrid had already confirmed the existence of dragons, and I'd run into a boggart. And I had seen firsthand the effects of carnivorous flesh-eating plants. It occurred to me belatedly that I had been tromping somewhat recklessly through the forest, brushing up against all manner of plants and insects.
This is a terrible mistake, I thought. I ought to turn back, learn how to send letters by owl. How hard can it be?
I looked down at my phone. My cell reception had reached two bars.
"Alright, good enough," I muttered to myself. "I'll just send these pictures and turn back." It took a while to upload the photographs. I kept glancing around me — searching for signs of danger — and then back at my phone, waiting for confirmation that the message had been sent. The phone's battery was dying. If it died I wouldn't be able to use its flashlight or call someone if I got lost.
It didn't matter. I was certain which way I'd come from. Or was I? I had been turning around so much, searching for possible peril, that now I wasn't so sure.
I started searching for my footprints, but it was dark and hard to see. It took me a while to find them. But then I was gripped by a cold sensation as I realized something.
These are not my footprints.
Moreover, there were multiple sets of footprints caked in the mud.
They didn't look fresh per se, and the sight of them gave me the creeps. Knowing it was a bad idea, I followed them to a cave. Fear and dread coiled in my stomach like snakes. I knew deep in my bones that I ought to flee, but I was compelled by morbid curiosity. Using the flashlight on my phone, I entered the cave…
It was presently unoccupied, but people had been here. At its center was a pewter cauldron. Peering into it I was greeted by a foul odor, like putrid flesh. An orange-black magma bubbled slowly. Mixed into the potion was a human hand.
Beads of sweat rolled down my back.
I glanced around. A few logs were arrayed around the cauldron like benches. On one of them I discovered a book: Necromancy - Magicks Moste Evil. And that's when I noticed the symbols etched crudely into the dirt. No, not symbols — letters. They spelled a name. Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord Hagrid had told us about.
Lifting the flashlight, I found the same name scratched onto the cave's walls in black chalk. Lord Voldemort. The sight of the Dark Lord's name amidst the strange cauldron was surreal and terrifying. Someone, I surmised, was trying to raise the Dark Lord from the dead.
A rock dropped. The sound of scuffling feet. I turned in alarm to face my assailant, but before I could —
"Obliviate!"
