Annabeth Chase and Things Are Getting Intense

Chapter Three

Annabeth studied the gravel path leading to the door. They wouldn't be able to enter silently. The gravel was neat and tidy, none of it spilling into the undisturbed flower beds flanking it, no sign that there had been a struggle or a rush to take someone out other than the broken door. And there was no dark mark in sight. This wasn't right.

"Wands out and follow me," Dumbledore said quietly. He led them quickly up the path and slowly pushed open the door. "Lumos."

A bead of light woke up on the tip of Dumbledore's wand, illuminating a long, narrow hallway. Dumbledore walked them down a few feet, then turned through an open door into the sitting room.

It was in shambles. A cracked grandfather clock lay on the floor by their feet, glass shattered and hands on the ground. Its pendulum was on the floor a few feet away like someone had ripped it out. A piano in the corner was on its side, its keys dropped and scattered across the floor like playing cards. The remnants of a fallen chandelier glittered on the floor. Every cushion in the room was flat and deflated, feathers oozing out of gashed in their sides. Powdered glass and china coated everything like a razor sharp blanket, and as Dumbledore raised his wand higher, the light caught slashes of something dark and red splashed high on the wall.

"Not pretty, is it?" Dumbledore said at Harry's horrified gasp. "Something terrible has happened here."

Yes, it looked like something terrible had happened—at first. But Annabeth looked closer.

First it was the cushions: every single one of them ripped, all drained of their feathers? Unlikely. Maybe a few, but not all of them. Then the blood: staining the wall in upward slashes, enough to see that whoever it came out of had been hit badly, yet there was not a trace of it on the floor. The piano lying on its side was a little plausible (emphasis on a little), but all those keys scattered across the floor was overkill. Then there was all the glass; crushed too finely and spread too evenly to have been done by accident.

And then there was the obvious: there were no scorch marks on the walls, nothing to suggest there had been a duel. And they were here to try and persuade a man out of retirement. Generally, old men couldn't put up a fight resulting in this much damage.

"Maybe there was a fight, and—and they dragged him off, professor?" Harry said, looking warily at the bloodstains on the walls.

"There was no fight," Annabeth muttered. Harry turned to look at her. "Someone tried to make it look like there was, to scare us off."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye. Without warning, he swooped down and poked his wand hard into the seat of an overturned leather armchair.

"Ouch!" yelled the chair.

"Good evening, Horace."

Annabeth blinked, and the chair vanished, replaced by a large, bald old man crouching where it had been.

"You didn't have to stick the wand in so hard, Albus," the man grumbled, rubbing his stomach as he stood. "It hurt."

He was short—the top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin. The lower half of his face was mostly covered by an enormous silver mustache like those shaggy dogs had. He was wearing a maroon velvet jacket over lilac silk pajamas. A man of luxury, though he didn't seem to care much for the expensive clothes he was wearing.

"What gave it away?" he grunted.

Dumbledore smiled, amused. "My dear Horace, if the death eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house."

"The Dark Mark," the man muttered, clapping a hand to his forehead. "Knew there was something. Ah, well... wouldn't've had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches on the upholstery when you entered the room." He gazed around at his work, and his eyes fell on Annabeth, who was still surveying the damage. His eyes widened. "And you—how did you get it, my dear—"