- CHAPTER ONE -

Spies on the Bridge


The dark, icy cold sky started to fade into shades of purple and crimson, as the first hint of morning light crept across the horizon. High up, barely visible against the darkened heavens, a solitary crow circled ominously.
The bleak bird, with its chipped and scarred beak, completed its slow decent and slipped unseen into the concealing branches of a tall tree, which overlooked a solitary house with a large garden.
Here, hidden in the branches, the scarred bird stared intently at the house, its gaze fixed, like a gargoyle.
The house, at which the beady eyed bird stared so intently, was not unusual by Muggle standards; it was encased in flowers and bushy vines, which climbed timber lattices that hugged almost all of the white painted walls, whilst beneath a snug thatched roof, sleepy windows peeped out cautiously through frilly white curtains, onto a sprawling garden, where in the trees dimly lit lanterns cast long shadows in the fading night air.
Assailed by the unnatural gloom and chill, which had plagued the valley since the Dark Lord’s return, the house now looked most out of place. In happier times, the cozy home could easily have been mistaken for one of those idyllic houses you often saw in oil paintings, or on snowy white Christmas cards, yet since word of the Dark Lord’s return had spread, life in this part of the world had felt increasingly less idyllic.

As the ragged bird continued to watch from its sheltered perch, the sudden sound of a faint pop, cause it to tilt its scarred head.
Just outside the garden, in a small clearing surrounded by pale white stones, a man had just appeared. He was crouched close to one of the stones and wore a cloak whose entire surface was covered in leaves. No sooner had the man appeared than he rose to his feet and strode purposefully across a tiny foot bridge and into the long garden of the house beyond, a snow white dog jogging at his heels, matching his pace and stride with almost military precisions.
Pausing, the man cast back his hood and glanced around furtively. His features were momentarily illuminated by the dull glow of the lanterns hanging in the trees; fierce, piercing blue eyes darted around, inspecting every suspect shadow as he brushed back his dirty blonde hair, revealing a long unshaven face.

*

Inside the house, the owner of Lavender Cottage, Roderek Dobson, was leaning casually against one of the kitchen cupboards, warming himself next to the warm stove which lit the room with an eerie yet pleasant glow. The vague scent of pumpkin and primrose wafted pleasantly on the air, as he stirred his large pumpkin-shaped mug, and stifled a yawn with his thickset hand before ruffling it through his short, dark, unkempt hair.

‘Where was Rodney?’ mused Roderek,

‘He wasn’t normally this late.’

Roderek stretched, the muscles of his powerful arms and shoulders creaking in protest at having to been woken so early yet again. Letting out one last powerful yawn, he turned, lifting the large iron kettle from the stove to refill his mug.

A moment later the door of the kitchen creaked open behind him, and an icy chill spilled into the room, as the man in the leaf scaled cloak, accompanied by his snow white dog, swept inside the warm glow of the kitchen kitchen.

“Have you seen it yet?”

Roderek, his back still turned, finished pouring hot scented tea into his large pumpkin shaped mug, and then casually turned to face the visitor.

“Have I seen what yet? And before you answer that question, Rodney, I’ll thank you to close the door behind you. I’m not trying to heat the entire village you know.”

Roderek watched as Rodney’s face flushed with impatient frustration, as he turned hurried and closed the door.

“Well?” snapped Rodney insistently,
“Have you seen it yet?”

“I’m not skilled in Legilimency, Rodney,” yawned Roderek,
“So at least give me a clue what you’re taking about.”

“The Daily Prophet,” blurted Rodney, hurriedly drawing his copy from his robes.

He strode across the room and laid the paper out on the long kitchen table, as Roderek, carefully nursing his mug, slipped into one of the chairs.

“There,” said Rodney, pointing to a picture on the front page.

The picture at which Rodney was pointing was something of a rarity for the Daily Prophet, as it was not a picture taken from a wizard’s camera. Instead of tiny black and white moving figures, the image was made from the countless grainy dots of a Muggle photograph.
At first glance the picture appeared absurdly strange; the Muggle photograph seemed to show an exact moment frozen in time, as if locked there by some spell. The picture itself was of an everyday bridge, teaming with noisy Muggle motor cars, motionless clouds of dirty grey smoke pluming from their exhausts, whilst Muggles, in their outlandish clothes, were similarly frozen, locked in strange poses as they hurried along the pavements.
Yet it was not this particular part of the image that Rodney had gestured to.
In the farthest corner of the photograph, almost obscured by the darkness of the alleyway, stood two ominous figures; unlike the Muggles, each was dressed in long, dark, hooded cloaks, their faces obscured from view as they gazed between the bridge and a stained piece of parchment.

Above the picture a single line of text was written in bold: “Mass Murderers Caught on Muggle Camera?”

The next few pages of the Daily Prophet contained nothing new; numerous pictures of a twisted mass of metal and concrete, littered with the wreckage of Muggle motor vehicles, glared up from the page. Had a person not been paying careful attention, or following recent events, they could have been easily forgiven for not noticing that the twisted mass of metal and rubble was in fact the same bridge as that shown in the Muggle photograph.

Skipping from page to page, Roderek finally found a new article entitled: “Wizard and Muggle Communities Real in the Aftermath of the Brockdale Bridge Collapse. Hand of the Dark Lord Strongly Suspected.”

“Strongly suspected,” scoffed Rodney scornfully, pacing back and forth,
“I swear Fudge is still manipulating the Daily Prophet,” he grumbled, his face cloudy,
“I mean, who else does he think he can blame it on, Babbity Rabbit or the Fizz Pop Fairy?”
“The ruddy, unless, great oaf,”
Rodney’s pacing picked up speed, like a train departing a station, and just like the train Rodney looked as if he were building up a head of stream, which would run on into another of his tirades about the Ministry.

In the corner of the room, where it was warming itself by the stove, the snow white dog lifted its head from its paws alertly, its ears pricked.

Rodney halted his pacing, his head tilted, listening instinctively for what his companion had already heard.

Sure enough, moments later Roderek too heard the noise of footsteps marching down the gravel path, which lead from the front of the house.
A familiar somewhat squat figure trumped past the blind covered windows at the far end of the kitchen, and Rodney let out an audible groan.

“Oh no. What does he want at this time of the morning?”

The footsteps halted outside the kitchen door and were followed, a few seconds later, by the slightest of knocks, then, without a moments pause for an answer, the stable like door of the kitchen opened, to admit a most unusually dressed visitor.

The new comer to the room was a slightly plump middle aged man, he had long brown hair, almost to his shoulders, yet the top of his head was almost completely bald - bar for a few stray hairs that had been painstakingly teased over, in an attempt to hide the shinny bald scalp beneath. His eyebrows were immensely bushy and well groomed, as was his neatly trimmed mustache, which bore such a remarkable resemblance to his eyebrows that it looked as if one of them had wandered down his nose to take a drink. There was a pompous, almost military air about the man, as if he considered himself to be someone of extreme importance, which any stranger might have believed, had it not been for the man’s unusual choice of clothing. He was wearing giant fluffy white slippers and a bright blue smock with shimmering yellow stars, which twinkled in the firelight of the kitchen stove; all in all, his choice of clothing would have been far better suited to a young child.

“Good morning neighbour,” crooned the man in a high pitched nasal tone.

“Don’t you knock?” grumbled Rodney, glaring at the newcomer with a look of obvious dislike.

“Of course I knocked,” replied the man curtly, yet pointedly refusing to even look at Rodney,

“Yes well,” continued Rodney loudly,
“Normally civilised people wait until they’re asked to enter,”

Roderek raised a thick bushy eyebrow, and shot a side ways glance a Rodney.

In all the years they had known each other Rodney had never knocked, or waited to enter the Dobson’s home. Furthermore, Rodney had never knocked when they were boys and Roderek skill lived with his parents. But then again, in either case, Rodney didn’t need to knock as he had always been treated as part of the family.

The balding man cocked his nose, obvious stung by Rodney’s comment but continued to gaze at Roderek as if Rodney simply wasn’t there.

“I just popped in to see if there were any new developments, as a result of today’s news.” droned the man again in his nasal tone; nodding his head in the direction of the Daily Prophet, which was still spread open on the kitchen table, in front of Roderek.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re talking about Pitchford?” replied Roderek, feeling a little confused.

“Yes, what are you talking about, Farty?” jibbed Rodney,

“My name is, Folarty. As well you know,” growled Pitchford Folarty angrily through gritted teeth, as he fixed Rodney with a particularly contemptuous glare.

“Oh yes,” replied Rodney, with a falsely apologetic air,
“Sorry about that, never was any good with those foreign sounding names,”

“It’s not foreign,” growled Folarty, frowning so hard his bushy eyebrows looked like they were trying to be reunited with his mustache.
“My family has been in these parts since before Merlin’s time,”

“Whatever,” replied Rodney nonchalantly as he turned and selected a large mug shaped like a candle, and then helped himself to tea,
“Never was any good at history of magic, so I’ll just have to take your word for it,”

Folarty continued to fire a particularly vicious glare at Rodney’s back for a few more moments, before taking a deep composing breath and re-gathering his overly pompous air of dignity.
“So, Roderek, have you seen today’s Daily Prophet yet?” continued Folarty, straining to sound light and conversational,

“What, this one right here, in plain view on the table?” asked Rodney gleefully, as he turned around stirring his tea,

Again Folarty’s jaw muscles clenched, as he attempted to pretend he had not heard Rodney’s wisecracking quip.
“And have you had a chance to read it yet?” Folarty asked Roderek, trying to remain composed,

“No Pitchford,” replied Rodney, before Roderek could utter a word,
“The paper just naturally fell open like that. Of course we’ve read it,”

“Really?” snapped Folarty, a smug and triumphant light replacing the agitation gleam in his eyes.
“Then you shouldn’t have too much trouble telling me what further precautions and defenses the Harpers will be implementing as a result of what’s been reported in today’s Daily Prophet.”
Folarty’s bushy mustache quivered, as it attempted to hide a thoroughly self satisfied grin.
“I only ask,” he added loftily,
“As being a well respected member of this community, people naturally ask me about these things.”

Struggling up from his chair, as swiftly as possible, Roderek moved between the two men and placed a restraining hand on Rondney’s chest. A full scale argument was the last thing Roderek wanted this early in the morning.
“I’m sorry Pitchford,” he replied Roderek trying to sound polite and calm,
“But this news about the bridge, it’s nothing new. The bridge was destroyed days ago. Why would we alter the defenses just because of this new Muggle photograph?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” cut in Rodney, pushing away Roderek’s hand and making an accusing gesture at Folarty,
“Were already patrolling the area night and day, plus we’ve been rushed off our feet without hardly a moments rest, putting Dwoomer charms and a hurling hex barrier over the whole Vale, not mention the alarm charms on peoples houses and the restricting of the floos. What more do you want, a personal bodyguard? Just because of some Muggle picture of a bridge a hundred miles away.”

“Oh,” replied Folarty, his bushy eyebrows raised in an overly dramatic false air of surprise,
“I wasn’t referring to the bridge.”
Again his mustache twitched, fighting to conceal a broad, self-satisfied grin.

Roderek’s brain felt fuzzy for a moment like it had been confounded,
“Er, so what exactly are you talking about?”

“Page twenty seven,” replied Folarty in a particularly smug voice, as he rocked back and forth on his heels, gazing around the room.

Rodney stormed across the room, his nostrils flaring, clearly agitated by Folarty’s snooty behaviour, and started flicking through the pages so aggressively, that the turning pages made a loud, crisp noise.

“Oh no,” muttered Rodney, gazing down at page twenty seven,
“I see what you mean,” he gasped,
“Old witch in Kent discovers ancient recipe for world’s thickest gravy,” read Rodney, smirking heavily,
“Better call the Auror’s in on that one, can’t run the risk of that falling into the wrong hands,”

“It’s further down the page,” growled Folarty, who had stopped grinning self-importantly and was now glowering at Rodney once more,

“Two for one sale on cat hats?” asked Rodney silkily,
“The hottest headwear for fashionable felines,”
“Planning on giving Mr. Tibbles a treat are you?” Folarty, whose face was now glowing as red as the fire in the stove, trumped angrily across the room and gestured sternly at a small article in the bottom corner of the page.
“There!” he barked defiantly,

Roderek watched expectantly as Rodney scanned the page. Slowly, Rodney’s stare seemed to come to a halt and his eyes widened slightly in a momentary look of shock. His jaw sagged open and a single, barely audible word escaped.

“Eviscerated?”

To Roderek, time in room seemed to stop for a moment, as if that solitary word had been a spell, a spell that had somehow stunned the room itself momentarily.
Rodney glanced up with a slowness reminiscent of bad dreams.
For one horrible moment, as Rodney’s piercing blue eyes gazed at him, a sinking feeling hit Roderek’s stomach, as if he expected Rodney to utter the name of person they both knew; a constant fear that surfaced these days, whenever they heard bad news. But Rodney’s gaze, although panicked, was not lined with the tell tale signs of sadness, only concern.

“Listen to this,” he hissed, lifting the paper and reading aloud in a tense, horse tone,

“Final member of the wealthy Tyler family, Nigellus Tyler, was found dead at his family’s mansion late yesterday evening, when security alarms on the family’s in house vault were set off.
Local Auror’s, from the Ministry’s facilities in Salop town, who were first to arrive on the scene, discovered Tyler’s eviscerated body.
Ministry officials have refused, at this time, to make any further comments relating to the crime and have not even confirmed if Death Eaters were involved.”

A long hushed silence filled in the room.

Rodney flickered back and forth between the adjoining page, his brow furrowing with a look of frustration,
“Is that it?” he growled, scowling heavily,
“A man gets eviscerated in his own home and the paper only gives it a few poxy lines on page twenty seven?”

Rodney’s complaint had however fallen on deaf ears, as Roderek’s mind could not focus on such comments right now, for Tyler manor lay only ten miles away from where the men presently stood, on the outer most border of the lands they protected, and called home.

“And why won’t they comment on it being Death Eaters? I mean it must have been them,” protested Rodney, now scouring the Daily Prophet again from front to back.

Roderek’s mind snapped back to the present moment. Rodney had a point.

In the initial shock certain things had slipped by him, like leafs down a road as you stood waiting for the night bus, but now, his mind was sharpening, coming back to focus.

Something definitely seemed out of place.

Several more long moments past, and were then only broken by the sound of Folarty clearing his throat,
“So then,” he asked matter-of-factly, grinning with an expectant look on his face,
“Any comments or news for me to pass to other concerned citizens of the Vale?”

“No,” replied Roderek quickly,

Folarty’s bushy eyebrows arched, in momentary shocked surprise at Roderek’s blunt retort, by now was not a time for explanations, especially not to someone like Pitchford Folarty.
Folarty, aside from being the Vale’s biggest gossip, was also a close personnel friend of Rita Skeeter, a loose lipped friendship that caused more that its fair share of trouble over the years, in fact Skeeter had wrote several scathing articles about many people in the Vale, including Roderek’s own mother; this friendship, was in fact the main reason why many people, like Rodney, had little or no time for Folarty.

Roderek, with an effort, forced his thoughts into focus, and an urgent sense of what he had to do stole swiftly over him.

“I’m sorry Pitchford,” said Roderek, his mind now set,
“But it’s not our place to make any such comments, only the Harper Elders have the authority to make those kinds of decisions,”

Glancing around the room, filling with a growing sense of urgency, Roderek sought out his boots and fastened a leaf scale cloak, similar to Rodney’s, around his neck.
Roderek gave a low shrill whistle and a few seconds later a brown, shaggy, thick set dog trotted into the room. It paused as it neared Folarty and started sniffing vigorously around his legs and crotch. Folarty, scowling uncomfortable, gathered his robes tightly around him and retreated towards the wall, trying to hold the persistently sniffing dog at bay, with his free hand.

“Quick, tuck this into your robes,” muttered Roderek quietly, handing the Daily Prophet surreptitiously to Rodney, whilst Folarty was temporarily distracted by the cold wet nose of Roderek’s dog.
Without a word Rodney tucked the paper swiftly inside his robes and joined Roderek at the door, his own snowy white dog close behind.

“Er, we’d best be off to Harpers Haven,” replied Roderek to Folarty’s questioning stare,
He opened the rough, wooden, stable like door and indicated, as politely as possible, that it was also time for Folarty to leave.

“But…” stammered Folarty, still trying to fend off the cold, inquiring nose of the Roderek’s dog.

“Don’t worry, Pitchford,” added Roderek, hustling Folarty out the door,
“I assure you that if any extra precautions need to be taken, then Harpers will do whatever is necessary and you’ll find out about them soon enough, alright?”

Clearly it wasn’t alright, Folarty’s jaw sagged up and down uselessly, like a Grindlow out of water. Obviously this wasn’t the way he’d expected the conversation to end, but he appeared to be at a loss for words �“ which Roderek noted, was something of a first.

Hastening with Rodney and their dogs,towards the stone circle, a sudden powerful thought halted Roderek dead in his tracks, he turned swiftly, and took several paces back towards Folarty,
“Pitchford, I need you to do me a small favour,” he said quietly,
“I don’t want you to mention anything about Nigellus Tyler to Annie,”

“I think your wife has a right to know,” replied Folarty stiffly,

Roderek’s thick, rocky, brow contorted, and his fists balled instinctively without him realising it,
“Don’t you think she’s been through enough this past week?” he growled softly,

Roderek’s comment seemed to strike a cord with Folarty, for his stern expression softened, and his cheeks flushed a light pink, as if slightly embraced. He looked away, avoiding Roderek’s gaze uncomfortably.

After a moment, he nodded slightly, and then added in a quiet, muffled voice “I’m sorry, you’re quite right. You have my word,”
With that he nodded solemnly to Roderek once more, and turning, shuffled off in his giant, fluffy, white slippers, back up the gravel path towards the front gate.

Relaxing slightly Roderek turned to face his friend, and with a nod the two men, plus their dogs, sped off up the garden, towards the white stoned groove beyond.


*

Back in the kitchen by a warm stove, a tiny baby swathed in blankets stirred and murmured. No sooner had the baby’s first sounds left his lips than his mother, Annie Dobson, swept into the kitchen.
She quieted the tiny woken infant almost instantly, as Annie clad in long velvet robes, stooped to pick up the baby and nurse him, a long stray hair from her pony tail tickling the child’s face as she slowly rose and bore him off, deeper into the interior of house.