"From all the evidence we've gathered," Hermione said, laying out the papers across the table,
"Our next move should be the editorial office of The Quibbler, which means Xenophilius Lovegood's house."
"The mark in The Tales of Beedle the Bard, the same one on the tomb in Godric's Hollow, and again in that photo of Dumbledore's letter to Grindelwald, it keeps appearing. We have to find out what that symbol really means. And the best person to ask," she concluded, "is Xenophilius Lovegood."
"Harry's old Snitch finally opened," she went on. "It had words engraved by Dumbledore, 'I open at the close.' Ron's Deluminator is helping with perimeter alerts. But I think Beedle the Bard and that symbol are the real key here!"
She straightened, eyes bright with conviction.
Harry nodded. "Yeah, I agree. Whatever that sign means, it links Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Godric's Hollow. That's no coincidence."
"I'm in," said Ron. "His place is just on the other side of the hill behind my family's house. I can take you there."
"Sounds good. You go ahead," Anne murmured from her armchair, sounding lazy but approving. "We've had enough rest anyway, this'll make a good next lead."
"Anne, are you sure you don't want to lie down a bit longer?" Hermione asked, worried.
Anne's cheeks were flushed a little too red. She was the most heavily dressed of the four, even though it was late September, edging into October, the temperature had dropped sharply across Britain, and Anne was bundled up more than usual.
She rubbed her nose, propped her head on one hand, and mumbled, "No, I've already slept twelve hours. I'm not sleepy. You three keep talking."
But before long, her cold made her head swim. She listened for a while to their discussion of possible Horcrux locations, then her eyelids began to droop.
"Anne?"
"Mm?" She blinked awake, Hermione's face was suddenly close to hers.
Hermione pressed a palm to Anne's forehead. The heat beneath her hand confirmed it, the fever was back. She lowered her hand, her voice full of gentle worry. "Anne, how about we go back to bed for a bit?"
Anne blinked and looked around. The documents had been cleared away; Harry and Ron were gone, no doubt outside, practicing dueling and spellwork. Ever since that skirmish with the Snatchers in September, they'd been training hard to coordinate better.
Sniffling, Anne nodded. She let Hermione half-guide, half-support her into the bedroom. Anne obediently kicked off her shoes, crawled into bed, pulled the blanket up, and leaned against the pillow, watching Hermione.
Hermione uncorked a small vial of potion she'd prepared earlier and held it to Anne's lips.
Anne drained it in one gulp and gave her a playful wink.
"Good girl," Hermione said with a smile. "Now lie down. I'll get you a cold compress."
"Mm." Anne adjusted the pillow and settled back under the covers.
Hermione returned from the washroom and laid the chilled towel across Anne's forehead. Her voice softened. "Anne, how about you go back to Rowan Castle tonight?"
Anne pouted, eyes watery. "You're trying to get rid of me?"
"Of course not," Hermione said patiently. "But if you stay with us while you're sick, it's risky. What if we run into Snatchers again? We have to move camp tomorrow, and you were the one who set the seventy-two-hour rule. Remember? No exceptions. Besides, Rowan Castle is far safer, and there's that Mr. Orlens you mentioned?"
"Orlens," Anne muttered, "our family's old private healer. He retired to India, but Aunt Diana rehired him recently."
Hermione gave her a look that clearly said see, that's even better.
"But I brought all the potions he made…" Anne's voice trailed off as guilt crept in. She shrank a little under the blanket. "I just miss you more when I'm sick…"
Hermione sighed. "And I worry more when you're sick." She replaced the now-warm towel with a fresh one.
"Fine, fine. I'll go back tonight," Anne mumbled, tugging the blanket up to her chin, only her eyes peeking out.
Those amber eyes, framed by long lashes, shimmered faintly in the dim light. When Anne went quiet like this, sick and subdued, she looked soft and languid, almost fragile.
Hermione nearly gave in. But the thought of Anne getting caught in a fight like this terrified her. She turned her face away, forcing herself not to meet those pleading eyes.
When she checked again a few minutes later, Anne was already asleep, clutching the blanket.
Hermione laid a hand on her forehead, still warm, but cooler than before. Relief softened her shoulders. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Anne's brow, then placed a fresh cold towel over it.
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A cool breeze rustled the hillside grass. From the slope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked down at the picturesque village of Ottery St. Catchpole. From up here, it looked like a scatter of toy cottages caught in the golden shafts of light breaking through the clouds.
They shaded their eyes and gazed toward the Burrow, but all they could see were high hedgerows and orchards hiding the crooked little house. No Muggle would ever notice it.
"It feels weird," Ron said quietly. "So close, and we can't go home."
Harry held out the Invisibility Cloak. "You could sneak back, just for a bit?"
"Better not," Hermione warned quickly. "Your house is one of the Ministry's high-surveillance sites."
"I was only saying," Ron muttered. "Come on, it's this way."
He led them down the path, Harry under the cloak, Hermione following behind.
"Aha, there it is!" Ron pointed to a hilltop ahead. A bizarre black cylindrical house stood against the blue sky, with a ghost-pale moon hanging faintly above it.
"That must be Luna's place," Harry said. "Who else would live somewhere like that?"
"Looks like a giant rook!" Ron added.
"It looks nothing like a car," Hermione frowned.
"I meant the chess piece," Ron said with a grin. "To you it's a castle."
He had the longest legs and reached the top first. By the time Harry and Hermione caught up, breathless and clutching their sides, Ron was beaming.
"Knew it! Look."
Three hand-painted signs were nailed to the broken gate.
Editor-in-Chief, The Quibbler: X. Lovegood
Please Pick Your Own Mistletoe
Do Not Touch the Dirigible Plums
The gate creaked open. A winding path led through a jungle of peculiar plants. One bush was laden with tiny orange radish-shaped fruits, the kind Luna sometimes wore as earrings. Harry thought he even spotted some Snargaluff stumps and gave them a wide berth.
Two wind-bent crab-apple trees flanked the front door, their branches bare except for clusters of red fruit and mistletoe wreaths hung with white berries. A squat owl with a flattened, hawk-like head watched them from a branch.
Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and knocked. The door was studded with iron nails and fitted with an eagle-shaped knocker.
In less than ten seconds, it opened.
Xenophilius Lovegood stood there barefoot, wearing what looked like a long, grimy nightgown. His fluffy white hair stuck out in every direction. Compared with how he'd looked at Bill and Fleur's wedding, he was downright disheveled.
"What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?" he snapped, his voice high-pitched and fretful. His eyes darted from Hermione to Ron, then to Harry, and his mouth dropped into a comical O-shape.
"Hello, Mr. Lovegood," said Harry, holding out his hand. "I'm Harry, Harry Potter."
Xenophilius didn't take his hand, but his unfocused eye darted straight to Harry's scar.
"May we come in?" Harry asked. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"I–I—" Lovegood stammered, then seemed to think better of it. "Of course! Yes, yes, come in, quickly!"
The moment they stepped inside, he slammed the door shut behind them.
They found themselves in the strangest kitchen Harry had ever seen, a perfect circle, as though they'd stepped inside a giant pepperpot. Everything was curved to fit the walls, stove, sink, cupboards, all painted in bright primary colors, covered with flowers, insects, and birds. A wrought-iron spiral staircase led upward, from which came a series of bangs and clatters.
"Best come upstairs," said Lovegood, looking uneasy as ever.
The room above served as both living room and workspace, and was even messier than the kitchen. It reminded Harry of the Room of Requirement that time it became a labyrinth of forgotten junk. Piles of books and papers covered every surface. Delicate models of strange animals dangled from the ceiling, their wings fluttering or jaws snapping.
The noises came from a wooden contraption with spinning gears, half desk, half heap of shelves, which Harry eventually realized was an old printing press, steadily spitting out copies of The Quibbler.
"Oh! A new issue already!" Lovegood exclaimed, hurrying to the machine. He tapped it with his wand, and it stilled. "Wonderful timing, Harry! I can feature you in this one, an exclusive! Unprecedented!"
He tucked his wand behind his ear, rubbed his hands nervously, and bustled downstairs. "I'll fetch some tea, sit, sit!"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a look, then turned to examine the room.
"This place is mental," Ron muttered.
"Typical Luna family style," Harry said.
Hermione didn't answer. Her eyes swept the room, then widened. "Oh my God."
"What?" said both boys at once.
She pointed to a huge spiral horn mounted on the wall, jutting several feet into the room.
Lovegood reappeared, balancing a tray of tea.
"Mr. Lovegood, what is that?"
"That," he said proudly, "is the horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."
"It is not," Hermione said sharply.
"Hermione," Harry muttered, "not now—"
"But Harry, that's a Erumpent horn! It's a Class B Tradeable Material, extremely dangerous!"
"How do you know it's an Erumpent horn?" Ron asked, edging as far away from it as possible.
"It's in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them! Mr. Lovegood, you have to get rid of it, do you know it can explode at the slightest touch?"
"Crumple-Horned Snorkack," Lovegood repeated stubbornly, his face set. "A shy, very magical creature. Its horn—"
"I recognized the ridges at the base," Hermione insisted. "It's definitely an Erumpent horn! It's far too dangerous, where on earth did you get it?"
"Bought it," Lovegood said curtly. "Two weeks ago, from a delightful young wizard. Now—" he set the teapot and cups on a teetering pile of books, "Harry Potter, what is it you've come for?"
"We need some help," said Harry, glancing at Hermione.
She crossed her arms and sat on a square chest, carefully distant from the horn.
"Ah, help! Of course!" Lovegood poured the tea with a flick of his wand and handed them each a cup before perching atop a stack of papers himself. "May I interview you afterward?"
"Oh, sure," said Harry.
"Er, Mr. Lovegood," Ron asked, staring into his cup. "What kind of tea is this?" The liquid was a pale violet, like watered beet juice.
"Gurdyroot tea!" Lovegood said proudly. "Homemade."
Before Hermione could ask what on earth a Gurdyroot was, Harry quickly cut in, "It's lovely, sir. Actually, we wanted to ask about that symbol you wore at Bill and Fleur's wedding, what does it mean?"
Lovegood raised his eyebrows.
"You mean the sign of the Deathly Hallows?"
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