Dusk had already fallen, the purple sky still glowing with dying sunlight, as George, with Fred, Apparated only a few yards from Angelina Johnson's home. He looked around, and saw himself in a small, quiet street, which he knew to be the only all-Wizarding Street for miles around, in a town somewhere just outside London. A dented tin road sign planted in the first house's garden read Picket Birch Lane - Resident Access Only.
He walked a little further up the road until the house numbers were in their hundreds. A Victorian-style terrace lined one side of the street, each house split up into neat, comfortable apartments. The second-floor flat at number 107 was Angelina's.
There was a light on in Angelina's sitting room, and George could see shadows moving around behind the thin curtains. He approached the door, a chunky, old-fashioned affair smothered in dark-green paint, and rapped the knocker three times.
"Which floor?" asked a brisk voice out of nowhere.
"Um, second," George replied, staring straight at the door. "Angelina Johnson's flat."
There was a pause. Then, "One moment, please," said the voice.
George leant against the sandy-coloured wall and waited. Fred had joined him, and was mimicking his position on the other side of the door. He had a strange, far-away look in his eyes as he gazed around the street, and George noticed that he kept glancing up to Angelina's window.
Suddenly, there was a click! from behind them and the door swung open. The brisk voice said, "Go in, please. Up the stairs, first door on the right."
The hall inside was dimly-lit and quiet, but not as old-fashioned as the house's exterior suggested. Beneath his feet were clean wooden floorboards, occasionally hidden by a colourful rug, while modern-style furniture lined the white walls. A tall lamp in the shape of a tree stood in one corner, its branches lit by glowing leaves. The whole effect was homely and inviting, and quite unlike some of the grander, more antiquated, Wizarding homes that George had visited.
"Looks like they've redecorated," Fred remarked quietly. "I'm sure the walls used to be green…"
"So, you can't recall our childhood memories, but you do remember the colour of Angelina's walls," muttered George. "Ok, upstairs, first door on the right."
He climbed up the carpeted stairs, Fred right behind him, and found himself in front of a plain, blue door marked with the number '107 b' in silver. He knocked.
"Come in, come in, it's open," called a voice from inside. After a moment's hesitation, George pushed open the door and walked in to Angelina's home.
The flat had not changed much since the last time he had visited. The living room was crowded with clean, comfortable furniture, centred around a wooden table with a dark-coloured throw hanging over it. A used cup and plate sat waiting to be taken back into the kitchen, next to an open magazine where the pages' pictures showed people in brightly-coloured sporting robes whizzing in and out of the frames on their broomsticks. A row of candles lined the middle of the table, and the windowsill at the far end of the room as well, the window that Fred had been staring at so solemnly from outside.
As George moved further into the room, dodging the edge of a dark red, squashy-looking sofa, he noticed a collection of photographs standing on the mantlepiece, some showing Angelina with her family, some with her friends, and one of an elderly couple that George guessed must be her grandparents. All of them were waving and smiling out at him, a couple pointing curiously and whispering to each other. At the back (the photograph containing someone who was waving and smiling the most vigorously) stood a picture of Angelina and Fred. George remembered taking that picture. It had been just after Angelina had left school, as both of them were stood outside the front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Fred had one arm wrapped tightly around Angelina's shoulders, the other one lifted high in the air and swinging back and forth as he waved a hearty greeting. He was grinning, and the expression looked rather mischievous. George was reminded why only a few seconds later, as the Fred in the photo suddenly turned his head towards Angelina and planted a kiss on her cheek. Angelina blushed crimson and smiled rather abashedly out at George. George smiled back.
"George, great to see you," said Angelina, as George swung round away from the photos. She was smiling broadly, but her eyes looked a little anxious. "I got your message from Lee - I just can't believe it." The worry in her eyes now spread to her whole face. "Thank Merlin you weren't there! Oh, if you'd ended up like Bandersnatch I don't know what I would have -" She stopped herself, taking in a deep breath. "Sit down, I'll only be a second."
She bustled through a door to the left, which George thought must lead to her bedroom. There was a soft, amber light coming through the gap in the doorway, and George could just see the dark wood posts at the end of a bed. He settled himself into one of Angelina's armchairs, and noticed Fred still lingering by the front door.
"I suppose Lee told you what we think the burglar was looking for?" George called through to Angelina.
She stuck her head round the door. "Yeah," she said, and disappeared again. Her next words were muffled slightly through the wall. "He said he thought it was the book. Do you really think he recognised you, then?"
"Must've done," George said. "Which means," he took in a deep breath, "he saw you too. I've told Lee to stay at his parents for a bit; we're not going to open the shop for a couple of days - make it look like we've got the message. And, just for extra precaution… I don't think I want you staying here on your own, now."
Angelina looked round the door again, smiling slightly. "I thought you'd say that," she told him. "Which is why I'm currently packing my stuff to stay with my aunt for a bit." She held up a hand, dangling from which was a weighty red suitcase.
George gave her a very reassured smile. He had been certain that she would put up a fight and refuse to leave, but then, he thought, she had been pretty shaken about Bandersnatch's death and the events of Friday night. Perhaps those things had changed her attitude.
"Good," he said. "Good. I - um… well, that's all I really came for." He stood up to leave. "Thought you might take a bit more persuading."
Angelina came out of the bedroom, a frown on her face. "Don't you want to stick around for a bit? Have a drink or something?"
"Er -" George was sure that her suggestion had been perfectly innocent, but he still felt his face flush. He glanced, unwillingly, at Fred, but his twin was not looking at either of them. He was staring fixedly at the floor. "Er - I - no," George stammered. "No, I don't think so. I - um - got something else to do. Could only stay for a bit…"
He trailed off, and Angelina nodded. "Alright," she said, shrugging. "Some other time, then."
"Yeah," George said, before he could stop himself. His face turned an even deeper shade of crimson. He coughed. "Yes, I mean - maybe when we're not on the run from some madman with a Snitch fixation." He grinned, feeling a little more relaxed. "Um… I'll see you, then."
He pulled open the door to the apartment, and took a step out into the corridor. Fred followed him, avoiding his brother's gaze and speeding towards the staircase. But as George went to close the door behind him, he heard Angelina shout him back. Turning round, he saw her standing in the doorway.
"Here," she said, pressing a piece of paper into his palm. "It's my aunt's address, in case you need anything." She smiled, and the soft light of the hall seemed to make her dark skin glow. "See you," she breathed, so quietly it was almost a whisper. "And George - be careful, won't you?"
As George left number 107 on Picket Birch Lane, he was sure he had said something like "Of course" or "You know I will be" in response to Angelina's whispered warning, but it was hard to recall. He remembered suddenly feeling as though his insides had melted, and that it had been very difficult to move his feet. He remembered muttering something, and watching her close the door to her apartment. And, he thought with a horrible surge of guilt, he remembered not wanting to walk away, not wanting her to close the door…
Fred had remained unbearably silent since they had left the apartment, had not said a word as they had Apparated home, and had simply laid down on his bed, his head buried in a book, the minute they had arrived back at the flat. George could not think of anything to say to him, and had resigned himself to standing in the kitchen, pretending to make a cup of tea.
After about an hour of staring at a chipped mug, his mind a million miles away, he decided it might be safe to return to his bedroom. Fred was still lying on his bed.
"Um…" George began feebly. Fred did not look up from his book. "Fred, for Merlin's sake -"
"What?" Fred shut the book and looked over at his brother. "I don't… I mean, she's… I'm dead, what does it matter?"
George closed his eyes, wishing that Fred had not just said that. He opened his mouth, prepared to spout any length of apology, but Fred interrupted him.
"Do you remember those Veela girls we got off with at Bill and Fleur's wedding?" he said abruptly.
"Er -" George was a little taken-aback by the statement, but the memory meant that he couldn't help smiling. "Yeah…"
"I only just did," Fred continued. "At Angelina's flat. I remember - Angelina wasn't there, but she heard about it from someone else. And I… I never had time to apologise. I never properly said sorry, told her that I was drunk and not thinking and upset about your bleeding ear and it didn't mean anything. And that was all I could think about the whole time I was there." He bit his lip, staring into space. "I bet she remembers."
George shook his head. "I'm sure she doesn't," he said. "That was such a long time ago. And so many other things happened, I mean - we were in the middle of a war!"
Fred nodded slowly, but he did not look as though he really agreed. A rather awkward silence fell over the room, before Fred reached over for his scrapbook, sat up a little straighter and said, "By the way, I found this." He flipped open the scrapbook and pulled out a small slip of newspaper, which he held out for George to see. "It was the summer before the wedding - we kept it because it was an article about how well we'd done in our first year."
George took the paper and quickly scanned the article. "Oh yeah," he said. "The Prophet did a thing about businesses still striving despite the war, or something. But what has this got to do with -?"
"Look on the back," Fred told him and George turned the piece of paper over.
He frowned. "It's only half an article, you can't even read most of the lines."
"I know," Fred took it back and ran a finger down the column. His forlorn expression was fading as his tone became more excited. "But look at what you can read. This is all about what happened to some of Dumbledore's possessions after his death - don't you remember? In his will he kept most of his stuff at Hogwarts, but left a bunch of random things to different people. I mean, this article doesn't say exactly what went where, but look here -" He pointed to a paragraph near the end of an article, and read out loud, "A few prize pieces of the late headmaster's furniture and knickknacks were left to Rustin and Splinter's Antique Shop, Diagon Alley, previously owned by the infamous Jasper Rustin, a great friend of Dumbledore's from his earlier life." He looked up at George, his eyes wide. "Dumbledore again."
George stared at the article, hardly able to believe what he had just read. "Dumbledore knew them… Dumbledore left something to them in his will… and they've just been burgled." He handed the slip of newspaper back to Fred, who replaced it in his scrapbook. "Ok, ok," he said. "So - a Quidditch Supplies shop is burgled, the owner found dead, and then we hear a story about Dumbledore and some goblins being associated with the shop. Then, just a few nights later, an Antiques shop is burgled, and we find out that Dumbledore had left stuff to them in his will." He began pacing the room, nodding along with his words. "Then, to top it all off, you come back, and then meet Dumbledore, who tells us we're 'on the right track'." He stopped, turning to face Fred with a deep crease in his forehead. "What on earth are we supposed to get from all that?"
Fred looked at him with a serious expression. "I think it's pretty clear," he said. "I'm willing to bet, in the rest of that article, it mentions the Quidditch shop - that's probably where Lee heard the story about the goblins in the first place. Dumbledore left stuff in his will to Banders, and to Jasper Rustin, and someone wants to get their hands on it. Then you get in the way, so they burgle this place to tell you to keep out of it."
He scribbled a few notes into his scrapbook and placed it to one side, a resolute expression on his face.
"So," began George, now looking a little apprehensive. "Why kill Bandersnatch and not Rustin?"
"Didn't need to kill him," said Fred. "Bandersnatch happened to be there at the time - got in the way. Plus, he already knew about the burglar: I'm betting whoever it was started writing those letters to him - the ones Angelina said were left in the shop - asking for the stuff back, blackmailing him. And he wouldn't budge, so our mystery man decided the only option was to burgle him." He shrugged. "Obviously, he didn't waste time trying to do the same thing with the Antiques shop, just burgled them straight off."
George was nodding now. "Yeah," he breathed. "That makes sense. But - how would someone know the contents of Dumbledore's will?"
"I don't think he does," said Fred. "I think he just read this article, or one like it, and started picking off the places mentioned one by one. I mean - nothing's been taken from any of the places that he's burgled yet, so he must be looking for something in particular. If he'd read the will, he'd know where that particular thing went, but I don't think he does - he's just working through a process of elimination."
He was scratching his chin now, thinking over what he had just said, while George continued to nod. Then, George's eyes became slightly glazed. He stared out of the window, then towards the stairs. "Wait a second…" he said quietly. "That morning - the one before you arrived, when someone sent me the necklace in that box, I read something in the Prophet. What was it?" He tapped the side on his head, trying to remember. "Something about a break-in, or attempted break-in, at Hogwarts. I'm sure it was something like that… Yeah, and then Angelina came in asking about spy glasses, and you came back - that was a bit of a distraction - and I completely forgot about it." He pointed at Fred, a rather determined look on his face. "Where do they archive the Daily Prophet?"
Fred shrugged. "Um… the library I think - the big one just off Diagon Alley."
"Right," George said, beginning to pace again. "I'll go and look up last week - find that article. I'll bet you it's linked to all this. I mean - if most of Dumbledore's stuff stayed at Hogwarts, then that's where our man would look first, isn't it?"
"Absolutely," agreed Fred. "And then he'd - hang on…" It was his turn to sport the far-off expression. "George, hang on a second. I just said nothing was stolen from the places, didn't I? But, there was stuff taken from the Quidditch place - I've just remembered. Those Snitches."
George looked a little stunned. "And in his will," he said, knowing exactly what Fred was about to say, "Dumbledore left Harry a -"
"- Snitch," finished Fred. "If you were looking for a Snitch, where's the first place you'd go?"
"A Quidditch shop," said George, a mixture of excitement and anxiety in his eyes. "And where would you go to find an ancient book of runic fairytales?"
"An Antiques shop," Fred replied, a broad, fervent grin spreading across his face. "Or, possibly, a book shop."
"Flourish and Blotts."
"Yep."
"But they haven't been burgled yet."
"Yet."
George shook his head, running both hands through his hair. "No way," he said. "It can't be - you really think this mystery burglar is looking for the stuff that Dumbledore left Harry and Hermione?"
"And possibly Ron," suggested Fred. "What did Ron get again?"
"The Deluminator," George told him. "Where would you look for one of those? Isn't it supposed to be unique?"
"Maybe Hogwarts?" said Fred. "Or some kind of accoutrements shop?"
"Yeah," George nodded. He sighed, and then looked more determined than ever. "I've got to find that article," he said. "I've got to see where else it mentions, and then I think we should warn them. What if somebody else gets killed? We've got to tell the people who might be in danger, make sure they're prepared."
"Agreed," said Fred. He had pulled the scrapbook back from the table and was now jotting down a 'to-do' list on one side of a page. He looked up at his twin, with a slightly concerned air. "And… what about Harry, Ron and Hermione?" he asked. "Do you think we should tell them?"
There was a pause. George had not really considered this - if they really were in danger, then it was probably the best thing to let them know. But how would his mother react if she found out that her son and his two best friends were in danger, only a year after the war had ended and when she already had so much else to worry about?
He took in a deep breath. "I don't know," he said. "I mean, we probably should, but… We don't even know if those are the things this guy is looking for. Why worry them for nothing?"
Fred closed the scrapbook. "Probably best to tell them, though, isn't it? I mean, it's not as though Harry hasn't dealt with this kind of danger before." He laughed.
"Yeah," George said. "Ok - tomorrow. I'll go home and tell them - best not to use an owl in case Mum reads it. And then we'll come back here and go to the library, look up that article." He breathed out a long sigh and sank onto his bed, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Oh, it's all coming together now… mostly, anyway."
"Ha! Yeah," said Fred. "Good little detective team, aren't we? I can see it now: Weasley and Weasley - private investigators." He grinned, then seemed to shiver slightly. "Hey, can you light a fire or something? It's a bit cold in here."
"Cold?" George frowned, but did not move from where he was splayed out on his bed. "I didn't think you could feel - I mean, I didn't think you got cold."
"Oh, cheers," said Fred. "Ghosts have feelings too, you know - or, whatever it is that I am." He pulled his bedcovers up around him and sat huddled in a heap of patchwork quilt. "You know, I'm beginning to sympathise more and more with Moaning Myrtle everyday… I hope it doesn't last."