Chapter 194 - Grave-Digging Under the Moon

"We apologize for the delay to the 17:50 service from London Paddington to Totnes. This train is currently running approximately 20 minutes late due to technical difficulties."

"The next train at Platform 3."

Thick copper-gold sunlight poured through the glass roof of Paddington Station, staining the platform the same burnished hue.

The gentleman ahead and to the left wore a pinstriped suit, his curled whiskers neatly groomed, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. He checked his watch every two or three minutes. Almost certainly some hapless office worker.

The lady ahead and to the right wore a white blouse and jeans, hands stuffed in her pockets, chatting at ease with her companion in the polka-dot dress. Tourists, the pair of them.

Off to the side and slightly right was a shabby fellow in work overalls, his leather shoes coming apart at the soles, his sleeves rolled up in crumpled folds, grumbling and cursing about the train delay. The sort of bloke whose strikes usually caused the delays in the first place.

The last was the girl standing beside him: black dress, black women's hat, one hand holding a suitcase, rigid against the wall with her mind somewhere else entirely. Here for a funeral, no doubt.

John had sized them all up carefully. The richest were probably the tourist lady and the funeral girl. But the tourist lady had a companion — too easy to get spotted.

The funeral girl was the better choice. Around her neck hung a gold ring and a small round gold plaque. The shape in her breast pocket suggested a pocket watch, quite possibly gold as well. The chain on her wrist was silver, set with green gemstones.

Some sudden calamity at home, most likely. The girl's eyes couldn't seem to focus on anything. She was lost somewhere in her own head, completely oblivious to the crowd flowing around her.

By every measure, this girl was the best mark. But the moment John thought about how she might have just lost some important family member, and that was precisely the reason he had an opening at all,

Hah.

John told himself: his ninety-year-old grandmother always said that men who bully women have the least character.

Truth be told, the real reason was that rich types like this might actually manage to rouse those pigs at Scotland Yard. If they decided to make an example of him, that would be no small nuisance.

And so John bypassed the black-clad girl and "accidentally" walked straight into the office worker anxiously checking his watch.

"Haven't you got eyes in your head!" the office worker roared.

John cursed right back without missing a beat: "No eyes? Those two glass marbles on your face must be cheap goods from the dock market! Save up that dribble of spit and wipe them clean, why don't you! When your granddad here was running cargo and running people over, your dad hadn't even touched a woman's hand yet!"

"Hah — ptoo! Now piss off!"

The office worker was already frantic with impatience. Getting thoroughly cussed out by John made him hop with fury, yet he couldn't out-curse a barefoot bottom-feeder like John. He could only watch as the man swaggered off in broad daylight.

Not long after, the office worker let out a yell: "My wallet! Damn it! That was a thief!"

The "funeral girl," Praeris, had watched the whole thing. Beneath the black veil of her hat, the corner of her mouth twitched. She had noticed the thief observing her long before any of this. Pity for him, his luck had held, and he'd never given Praeris a chance to act.

The endlessly delayed train finally crawled into Paddington Station at a tortoise's pace, and Praeris managed to board.

On the surface, this journey was taking Praeris to Plum Purnell's hometown of Devon. In truth, her destination was Godric's Hollow, not far from Devon, in the southwest of England.

The ticket Praeris had bought listed Totnes as the terminus, a seaside town much like her own hometown of Southend-on-Sea, but she would be getting off midway.

The journey did not go smoothly. The train stopped and started and stopped again for all manner of reasons. At one point it halted for a long stretch: reportedly, a great fat sheep had wandered onto the tracks, forcing the train to pause while several railway workers climbed down to shoo it away. In the end they had to call in a sheepdog to do the job.

Which goes to prove: sometimes, man is worse than dog.

After finally getting off the train, there was still an hour or two by bus, and then switching from that bus to the Number 11 bus.

Apparition was a fine thing, but Praeris was not familiar with Godric's Hollow. Attempting to Apparate to an unclear destination made it all too easy to Splinch oneself in the process.

In summer, Godric's Hollow was a sea of green. The sky was as blue as the water off Southend-on-Sea. The grass rose to Praeris's calves. On the hillsides, sheep grazed at a slow, unhurried pace.

No, Praeris was thinking about that fat sheep on the railway again. Where was the sheepdog!

She crossed long stretches of woodland and hillside before finally reaching the village. By then it was 1 or 2 in the dead of night. Even the birds had gone quiet in their nests.

Praeris's night blindness had improved considerably. The summer moonlight spread bright and clear across the main road, lighting her way.

She passed a few shops. Some had their backs to the moon, and she couldn't make them out, a pub, perhaps. Others faced it directly, and she spotted a branch of the Owl Post Office.

In the very center of the village stood something resembling a monument. To avoid being seen, she kept to the edges and corners of the road and didn't approach it.

Beside the square was a small church. Its stained-glass windows cast colored light across the ground under the moon. Praeris could faintly make out the graveyard behind it.

She glanced around to confirm no one had seen her arrive. Then, facing the church, she made a gesture of prayer and said: "This is no injustice of mine. God has promised to deliver His people."*

Prayer complete, perfunctory, sloppy, and thoroughly unorthodox — Praeris walked straight into the graveyard.

She lit her wand with Lumos and moved through the glow past many familiar surnames she had seen at Hogwarts.

After a long search she found a gravestone carved with "Dumbledore," only to discover it was far too weathered. Not a fresh grave. Likely Dumbledore's relatives, yet he had never come to sweep their graves or leave flowers. Never mind. She was in no position to judge Dumbledore. She hadn't been back to Southend-on-Sea herself.

She thought this, and felt not a shred of guilt. Deapool William's cause of death hardly merited her wasting time at a graveside. What he had done to the young Praeris was near enough to murder. She had survived by her own efforts alone.

Her night blindness had improved considerably, and she had Lumos besides. She shouldn't have spent this long searching for a single gravestone.

But the stones had their backs to the moon, and she had to get close before she could read them. There were simply too many graves in this cemetery. As Praeris looked and looked, she started rubbing her eyes, rubbing them until they went red.

This was truly not the moment to run into any Muggles. She'd look like a haunting.

"James Potter" and "Lily Potter."

Deep in the graveyard, Praeris saw the names of Harry's parents. A sudden tension gripped her.

If Voldemort had once stormed into Godric's Hollow to kill this couple, might he come back now, to vent his fury on Dumbledore's "corpse"?

Praeris quickened her search. At last she found it: "Albus Dumbledore."

At the edge of the graveyard she found a long branch, Transfigured it into a mattock, and without the slightest mercy began hacking into the grave.

Under the bright moonlight, behind the little church, a girl in a black dress, black hat, and black gloves raised a mattock with both hands and brought it down hard into the earth. It was, by any measure, a terrifying sight.

If some Muggle happened to glance over, Praeris would probably earn herself some charming title like "the Gravedigger."

The Muggles were all fast asleep, of course. But as she dug, Praeris thought with cheerful satisfaction: she was about to achieve something no other witch or wizard could claim, prying open the tomb of the greatest White Wizard of all.

A real shame there were no fireworks or applause.

CAW, CAW, CAW —

Praeris looked up. A crow sat on a branch above her, calling away. She thought: Thank you, very supportive.

After about 10 minutes, white marble appeared beneath the mattock. Praeris tossed the mattock aside, used her black-leather-gloved hands to brush away the surrounding soil, and uncovered the full coffin.

She stood up, Transfigured the mattock into a crowbar, wedged it against the edge of the lid, and threw her entire body weight onto the other end.

It didn't budge. A bit presumptuous of her.

She scratched her head, and barely remembered in time that she was a witch. She used magic to pry the lid open.

Inside the white marble coffin, Dumbledore lay with his hands folded over his chest. His body was intact. His face was peaceful, serene, as if he had never died. Which, come to think of it, was not entirely wrong.

Praeris set her suitcase flat on the ground and sat down beside it, panting, one hand braced on her hip to catch her breath. Then she reached out and undid the clasps, revealing row upon row of potions inside.

She took out a bottle filled with red liquid, pulled the stopper, pried open Dumbledore's mouth, and poured it in.

She drew her pocket watch from her breast pocket and began timing the potion's effect. Around the 4-minute mark, nearing 5, she said softly:

"Time to wake up."

"Snow White!"

Inside the coffin, Dumbledore slowly opened his eyes. Having just returned from the edge of death, he still seemed dazed, his mouth opening feebly without producing a sound.

Praeris waited. "Your seven dwarfs are waiting for you, Princess," she said, perfectly calm.

Dumbledore let out a long breath. "I am most sincerely grateful," he said weakly. "My Prince."

The crow on the branch flew off in disappointment, no carrion here, and left behind only a splatter of droppings as a parting mark of disrespect.

"Sir, we need to leave." Praeris handed him a potion bottle. "Polyjuice Potion. The hair inside comes from a Muggle male."

Dumbledore blinked slowly and shook his head. "No. We cannot leave yet."

Facing Praeris's puzzled look, he said: "Voldemort will certainly come to my grave to confirm my death."

He gestured at the wand lying beside him. "It seems you arrived early. He has not yet been here."

"I apologize for not arriving at the time you anticipated," Praeris said, her face expressionless. "Had I come any later, the Queen's poisoned apple would have ensured the princess never woke again."

Dumbledore managed a cheerful smile. "Praeris, you are far more endearing than Severus. We must find something to take my place — to delay the moment Voldemort discovers I am still alive."

"Sir," Praeris said, with a note of irritation, "that is an additional request. It will cost extra."

Dumbledore blinked with exaggerated surprise. "Praeris, how quickly your heart changes! Am I no longer your princess?"

When the person teasing you has thicker skin than your own, you are simply not yet equipped to beat them at it. Praeris was still too young.

"Of course," Dumbledore said with a smile, once he had finished teasing her. "I will do everything we discussed. That was our agreement long ago, was it not?"

Fine. So be it. She came from an ancestral line of pure beasts of burden, from her maternal cousin to his niece, same fate, every time.

But it was necessary. Once Dumbledore's faked death was exposed, Professor Snape could fall under Voldemort's suspicion, even though he had killed Dumbledore in full public view.

The Voldemort of now was more paranoid than anyone. Not only because he had experienced death, but because of Winnie's second betrayal. He had to use paranoia to cow his followers, lest they decide Winnie's path looked worth taking.

Praeris left Dumbledore where he was and felt her way through the dark until she found a tattered scarecrow. She gestured for Dumbledore to Transfigure it into himself.

Dumbledore smiled and blinked. "Of course, that was my thought as well. But my condition seems rather less than permitting. What do you think, Doctor?"

"My Transfiguration," Praeris said, with some hesitation, "may not be enough to fool the Dark Lord."

"You can do it," Dumbledore said, with complete certainty. "Praeris, your unique gift makes your magic and your potions far more intricate and precise than those of other witches and wizards. Their raw power may not match that of some, but they are more than sufficiently ingenious."

Praeris was unconvinced. She shook her head. "I'm afraid you flatter me too much. But we have no better option."

What Dumbledore said was, broadly, not wrong.

Praeris's memory tormented her, but it was also an extraordinary gift. It meant she could recall with complete precision exactly how Dumbledore had looked while still in his state of feigned death.

And this was inanimate object to inanimate object, the most basic form of Transfiguration. The only real difficulty was making the result lifelike enough. Which happened to be no difficulty for Praeris at all.

The scarecrow twisted rapidly under the spell, reshaping into a "corpse" identical to Dumbledore in feigned death, exact down to the finest detail, indistinguishable in every way.

"None better."

➤ Next: I Shall Rise Again