Chapter 626: A Darker Time Has Arrived
Heavy rain pelted Scotland.
London was equally drenched. A fine, persistent, bone-chilling drizzle had begun
before dawn and showed no signs of relenting by breakfast. The rain sliced
through the mist hanging over the McGonagall farm, flattening the wheat fields
into a grey, undulating sea. The corrugated iron roof of the barn drummed with
the frantic rhythm of a thousand pecking sparrows.
Sean sat by the kitchen window, clutching a book. Rain tracked down the glass in
jagged, silver veins.
Inside the parlor, everyone's Magic Hand Mirror was chiming.
Hermione was on a link with Percy Weasley; the two had maintained a surprisingly
steady academic correspondence.
"It's a right old mess, Hermione," Percy told her, his voice projecting a weary
sort of self-importance. "I've been acting like a one-man fire brigade for a
week. People won't stop sending Howlers. If you don't open them immediately,
they explode. My desk is covered in scorch marks, and my favorite eagle-feather
quill has been reduced to a pile of charcoal."
"How many Howlers?" Hermione asked.
"Five hundred and sixty-nine," Percy sighed.
"At least people are finally believing the news," Hermione noted, a flicker of
grim satisfaction crossing her face. "It's better than being in the dark."
Meanwhile, Justin was talking to Ron. Ron was currently in the middle of a
wardrobe-induced breakdown.
"Mum has to be joking, Justin! I'm not wearing this! I won't!"
Ron held an object up to the mirror for Justin to see. It appeared to be a set
of maroon velvet dress robes with a neck frill that looked distinctly like it
was covered in mold. Matching lace adorned the cuffs.
"I'd rather go starkers than wear this to the ball," Ron hissed. "And Mum just
laughed! She said, 'Merlin as my witness, I could use a good laugh today!'"
"That... is unfortunate. Mrs. Weasley's aesthetic is perhaps a bit more
'classic' than modern trends allow," Justin said, his blue eyes twinkling as he
examined the lace. "I happen to know a very discreet tailor in London. My mother
might be able to convince your mum to let his handiwork 'upgrade' the robes.
Leave it to me."
Ron's face lit up with a manic hope. "Blimey... really?"
"I'll do my best," Justin smiled.
"Wicked!" Harry's voice rang out from beside Ron. "Can I get a set too? My
current ones feel a bit like a shroud."
"We could get a coordinated set for the whole group," Justin mused. "Consider
it... a Society uniform."
Cheers erupted from the other side of the mirror. Justin turned back to Sean,
but his smile faded as he noticed the boy was no longer reading a book, but a
copy of the Daily Prophet.
AUROR OUTPOST IN NORTHERN SCOTLAND ATTACKED: TWO CRITICALLY ILL; NORTHERN
RESIDENTS WARNED AGAINST NIGHT TRAVEL.
The heat from the frying eggs on the table blurred the ink on the page as Justin
leaned in. The front-page photo showed a ward at St. Mungo's. Two young men lay
in identical beds. Their eyes were open, their pupils reactive, and their chests
rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Their lips were moving, whispering silently.
The caption read: Owen Hawkins (left, 23) and Norman Fletcher (right, 25), the
only survivors of the Northern Outpost strike. At the time of publication, both
men remain unresponsive, repeating a single phrase over and over.
Sean remembered them. Owen Hawkins had attended a barbecue at the McGonagall
farm last summer. He had just graduated from the Auror Academy and, after a few
too many Butterbeers, had stood on a chair to demonstrate a bubble-blowing charm
that had promptly exploded in his face. Sean remembered Norman, too; he
remembered the man's owl was a distinctive mottled grey.
He put down his toast.
"They're alive, but it's likely permanent psychological trauma," Grandpa Marcus
said. He was standing with his back to Sean at the cast-iron stove, the butter
sizzling and popping in the pan. He plated his own eggs and sat opposite Sean,
his voice flat. "Lester Fernando, their partner... he died before they even
reached the hospital. No physical marks. No poisons. He just... stopped."
The only sound in the room was the butter slowly congealing on the iron.
"A new edition?" Hermione asked, closing her mirror and sitting down with
Justin.
"Does it say what did it?" Justin asked. It wasn't really a question.
"No one officially knows, but everyone has guessed," Marcus said, taking a sip
of his tea. He didn't treat them like children anymore. He knew they were past
the point where a "falsified peace" could protect them. "Fudge sent three Auror
squads to investigate. One found nothing. One came back missing a member. The
third... hasn't reported in."
Sean folded the paper and tucked it into a drawer beneath the table. A
grey-striped barn cat was perched on the windowsill, its tail lazily swatting at
the raindrops. It looked remarkably like Norman's owl.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
It was a jarring sound. The McGonagall manor was under heavy Muggle-Repelling
Charms. Aside from a few specific delivery Muggles, no one should have been able
to find the estate.
"Take hands. Sean, dear boy, you have your Portkey? Your safe house?" Marcus
whispered, his hand going to his wand. He looked confident, but Sean could see
the fine beads of sweat on the old man's brow. After witnessing the duel a week
ago, Marcus was on a hair-trigger.
The door didn't open; it was blasted off its hinges by a pulse of magic.
Old Andy, a local Muggle farmer, stood in the doorway, his smile frozen in a
mask of shock. He quickly ducked behind a pillar until he spotted Marcus.
"OLD MARCUS! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"
"ANDY! BLAST IT ALL!"
The two men exchanged a rapid-fire sequence of insults before Marcus ushered
Andy inside, though he kept the students shielded in the parlor. Andy was
Marcus's oldest neighbor—a man with skin the color of a walnut from sixty years
of sun. He'd never touched a wand, but he'd known Marcus for twenty years. He
knew the farm held secrets he wasn't allowed to ask about, but he also knew the
smell of fear.
"Something's wrong in the North," Andy said, his voice a low, terrified rasp.
"My son drove down from Carlisle last night. Said half a dozen people in his
town went 'quiet' last night.
"They aren't talking. Just sitting there with their eyes open. Won't respond to
anyone. The doctors can't find a thing, and the police are baffled. They've
boarded up the houses, put up quarantine tape. My son says everyone in Carlisle
locks their doors at sunset now. The streetlights stay on all night; no one
dares turn them off. Do you know what's doing it, Marcus?"
"Carlisle... that's England," Marcus murmured, his eyes turning deep and dark.
"From the Highlands to Cumbria... that's over two hundred miles."
"What are you saying?" Andy asked, his panic rising.
Marcus stared at him, his lip trembling slightly before he let out a long sigh.
"Don't go out after dark, you old goat," he said finally.
"It's like then, isn't it? That era... Him..." Andy whispered. Marcus gave a
slow, solemn nod.
Andy left a moment later, looking broken. He held his umbrella at a tilted,
useless angle. In the garden nearby, the dirt Marcus had turned yesterday was
soaked through, becoming a soup of dark brown mud. The tomato trellises had
collapsed into the muck, and no one moved to fix them.
In the barn, the cows began to low—louder and more agitated than usual. They
were two hours overdue for milking.
Inside the house, no one spoke.
To lighten the mood, Marcus took them into the local village that afternoon. He
claimed they needed flour and syrup for an apple pie. It was a transparent
distraction, but neither Hermione nor Justin refused. The village had a small
wizarding population, and there was a legendary ice-cream parlor next to the
grocery store.
But when they arrived, the ice-cream shop was shuttered.
On the village's only commercial street, three shops had their rolling shutters
pulled down. One window had a handwritten "Closed Until Further Notice" sign
taped to the glass; the ink wasn't even dry.
The grocery store was open, but the shopkeeper was standing behind the counter,
obsessively polishing the same glass for five minutes straight. She didn't snap
out of it until Sean set a bag of flour on the counter.
"Oh. It's you," she said, forcing a brittle smile. "Marcus's boy, Sean, right?
Flour and syrup. Yes. Of course."
As she gathered the items, Hermione's gaze drifted to the radio on the corner of
the counter. It was a Wizarding Wireless, modified to look like a teapot. A
small green light on the spout was flickering—a signal was being received.
The volume was turned down so low it was almost drowned out by the hum of the
store's ceiling fan, but Hermione's sharp ears caught the fragments.
"...missing persons... Ministry announcement... any wizard witnessing 'irregular
weather patterns' should contact the local Auror office immediately.
Reiteration: Apparition into the Highlands, Cumbria, and Northumberland is
prohibited after dark. I repeat: NO APPARITION..."
"...third case of 'Soul-Loss' discovered in Yorkshire. The victim has been
identified as Winston Bard, Class of '78, former Gringotts Curse-Breaker. Mr.
Bard is currently at St. Mungo's. Symptoms match all previous victims:
biological functions intact, soul apparently present, yet capable of only one
phrase: 'He is coming.'"
"...Minister Cornelius Fudge will address the nation at six o'clock tonight.
Sources suggest he will formally declare a State of Total Emergency. This is the
first such declaration since the 1970s—"
The shopkeeper returned. She set the flour and syrup on the counter and
immediately picked up the glass to start polishing it again.
"Everyone's scared," she said suddenly. She didn't look at them; she looked out
at the empty street. "Old Peggy moved out yesterday. To her daughter's place in
New York. Said the country wasn't safe. I asked her if she thought New York
would be any better. She didn't answer. This morning, I looked through her
window. The parlor chair was knocked over, and there was a pot of cold tea on
the table. She left without even finishing her tea. Peggy hadn't missed a drop
of tea in eighty years."
No one spoke. They paid and carried their supplies out into the street.
The rain had stopped, and a weak sun was struggling to pierce the clouds. In the
late August afternoon, the wheat fields were rolling in golden waves, and the
distant sound of a Muggle radio could be heard playing music. Everything looked
peaceful—as if the headlines were typos, as if the radio broadcasts were just a
dress rehearsal for a play.
But the shops were closed. The shutters were down. The "Closed" signs were
everywhere.
"Cheer up, would you?" Marcus said, his voice straining for a lightness he
didn't feel. "The world has changed. Perhaps this era is destined for tears."
The students looked at him.
"But do not let the tears of an era stain your cheeks," Marcus said firmly. "If
the world wants us to weep, then we shall laugh all the louder."
The next morning, Sean woke to the sound of rain drumming against the window
once more. Ting-ting-ting.
He was up before the sun, as usual. But as he stepped out of his room, he walked
straight into a pair of waiting arms.
Minerva McGonagall knelt down to look him in the eye, a faint smile touching her
lips. "This year, Sean... you will need to prepare a set of Dress Robes."
Diagon Alley.
Most of the shops had closed early. The window displays were dark, and only a
few scattered magical lanterns swayed in the rain, casting a sickly yellow glow
on the wet cobblestones.
But Twilfitt and Tattings was still open.
A permanent, violet-colored magical flame flickered in the window, illuminating
two sets of display robes—one in a deep, forest-green; the other in a crisp navy
blue.
As Sean followed Professor McGonagall into the shop, the bell above the door let
out a clear, sharp ring. The interior was warm—a different world from the storm
outside. The air smelled of steam and a hint of lavender.
Several measuring tapes were floating lazily through the air. One was currently
winding itself around a witch in pink robes who was scowling into a mirror and
complaining about the tightness of her sleeves.
"My dear little Green... perhaps you know that long ago... your mother used to
wonder about this," Minerva said, taking Sean's hand. The way she referred to
herself as "mother" caught Sean's breath.
"The future is important, but what of the now?"
Her voice was soft, carrying him back to the stories Marcus had told him about
Minerva's past. He remembered the young Minerva—a girl full of hope and talent
she had tried to hide. He remembered how she had fallen in love with a Muggle
named Dougal Gregor, and how she had left him to protect him, only for him to
die in the crossfire of the first war.
Minerva's eyes were full of tenderness, but also a deep, quiet worry.
"The now..." she whispered, kneeling down so her hair brushed his cheek. "Now, I
am holding your hand."