For the next few days, Hermione didn't speak a single word to Harry. None of the three brought up the Deathly Hallows again; it was as if the very phrase had been deliberately erased from their minds.
Ron, to his surprise, became the "messenger" between Harry and Hermione. Far from finding the role frustrating, he was oddly excited by it, until one afternoon he accidentally dropped and cracked the case holding the Sword of Gryffindor. After that, his enthusiasm deflated considerably.
The tent grew quiet again. Hermione spent her time in the sitting area, reading through every book she had on Horcruxes. Outside, Ron and Harry practiced spells in the cold wind. The only time the three of them gathered together was to listen to the Order of the Phoenix broadcast at dawn and dusk.
Along with Fred and George, Xenophilius had recently become a regular guest on the program.
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London, North District
A narrow, deserted alley lay hidden between two rows of old brick buildings. The passage was so tight that the large metal rubbish bins lining the walls left barely enough space for a person to pass. One bin had lost its lid; the stench of rot drifted from within.
A bloated dead rat lay nearby, flies buzzing lazily above its matted fur. The late-October sun was weak and cold, barely rising above the horizon, and the alley remained soaked in chill shadow.
Suddenly, the air beside the rubbish bins shimmered and twisted. Two hooded figures Apparated into the alley. One was completely cloaked in grey; the other leaned heavily on a walking stick, his limp obvious even through the folds of his robe.
At the far end of the alley, a rust-eaten iron gate stood before a wooden door set in a stone wall.
The grey-robed figure stepped forward and knocked in a measured pattern: two knocks, one, two.
A small viewing hatch slid open in the door, but no face appeared behind it.
"Who is it?" a voice asked.
"The Grey Cottage," the grey-robed man replied. It was Skoll.
"Password?"
"Hogwarts."
"Ravenclaw blue."
The door opened. A short, portly man stood behind the iron gate, fumbling with a set of keys. "Good morning, Mr. Skoll."
"Good morning, Tom," Skoll said. He turned toward the hooded man beside him. "Moody, you've been shadowing me for days. You can stand down now, go back to Post Seven. I just need to collect a few documents upstairs. Nothing else today."
Moody nodded and Disapparated.
Skoll lowered his hood once inside. "Any news these last two days, Tom?" His tone was weary; he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"None, sir," Tom answered.
"Is that so?" Skoll murmured, nodding. "All right then, go and rest. I'll head up by myself and leave shortly."
Tom acknowledged him with a brief nod and disappeared down the corridor toward his room on the first floor.
Something about the man's silence struck Skoll as odd, but he dismissed it as fatigue. Tom had been organizing the chaos that now filled the second floor, a makeshift storage space that used to be a bright, spacious meeting hall. Now it was crowded with displaced objects: stone statues twice a man's height, several wardrobes, and bewitched broomsticks that drifted about like restless ghosts.
Three days earlier, a Manchester branch of the Order had been destroyed, and the remnants of their possessions had been hurriedly moved to headquarters. Thanks to a timely warning, at least part of their belongings had been saved.
No wonder Tom seemed drained, Skoll thought. The headquarters had since upgraded its security and sealed off the Floo Network entirely.
"Good thing it'll all be moved out tomorrow," he muttered to himself, taking the stairs two at a time. A faint smile tugged at his lips, soon he would see Hermione again, and breakfast would be waiting.
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At the top step of the third-floor landing, he stopped dead.
Every time he left the building, he slid a thin white slip of paper beneath his office door, an inconspicuous but reliable way to tell if anyone had entered by magical means. The room itself was protected by enchantments, but there were always wizards whose power exceeded his own.
The paper was gone.
His wand slipped silently from his sleeve into his hand. He tightened his grip, whispering a mirror shield charm; a translucent barrier shimmered briefly behind him before fading from sight. Moving soundlessly, he descended the stairs again.
But as he reached the second floor, he came face-to-face with an intruder.
A masked wizard in black robes was coming up from the first floor. The two men froze for a split second, then both raised their wands.
A crimson bolt shot from the intruder's wand, slamming into the shimmering half-dome of energy before Skoll. The clash rang out like an explosion.
Boom!
The impact scorched a deep groove into the stone floor; fragments of rock burst into the air, filling the corridor with a white haze of dust.
The shockwave shattered every window in the conference room. Glass cascaded onto the floor in a shower of glittering shards.
From the third-floor staircase came the sound of boots, two, maybe three sets.
Skoll's eyes narrowed. A decoy bomb rolled across the floor, and thick smoke billowed instantly, flooding the hall. He knew at once that he couldn't go up or down, the only way out was through the windows. And with the Order's defensive wards surrounding the building, Apparition was impossible inside.
"Again with this trick?" a voice drawled irritably from the stairwell.
"Smoke, disperse!" two voices incanted in unison. The dense white fog cleared in an instant.
A streak of blue light shot past Skoll, striking a wardrobe. It exploded, splintering into hundreds of flying shards of wood.
"You got that Squib downstairs, Rodolphus?" someone called.
"Hmph, of course I did!" came the arrogant reply.
Skoll barely dodged another blast. A white spell struck his robes, tearing through the fabric, but the armor beneath held firm.
"Huh?" one of the attackers exclaimed in surprise.
Skoll ducked behind a stone statue as two more flashes of light scorched the air above his head.
Four opponents. The window was only five meters away, but between him and it lay debris, overturned furniture, and no cover worth the name.
If he didn't want to die here, he would have to use Vacuum.
Apparently Voldemort thought highly of him, sending four Death Eaters for one man.
That thought flickered through his mind in an instant. Skoll yanked open his pack, and with a flick of his wand summoned a prism-shaped device that gleamed like cut glass.