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The Spree River, which rose from the northern foothills of the Lusatian Mountains in southeastern Germany, passed through broad marshlands and plains before finally joining the Havel River in Berlin.

In February, the Havel River was in flood. Its wide channel churned with swift currents that crowded together, forming patches of white, fish-scale spray. Lush spruces lined both banks, and these evergreen plants lent a touch of tranquility to Berlin's morning. Yet they could not dispel the oppressive feeling brought by the heavy gray smog hanging over the city.

Louise watched an elderly couple strolling along the riverbank until their backs vanished into the mist, then turned her gaze, somewhat forlornly, toward the rushing water.

The heavy moisture by the river condensed into glistening droplets on Louise's long lashes. As her eyelashes fluttered, the droplets rolled down, and their icy touch made her uncomfortable. She hurriedly wiped them away, but in doing so lost any interest in remaining there to admire the scenery of this city she had never visited before.

She entered the woods by the river, and after walking a few steps, a small wooden house came faintly into view through the leaves.

This place lay on the outskirts of Berlin. The house they were staying in had been built specifically as lodging for tourists from elsewhere, and there were quite a few similar lodgings nearby. For the sake of privacy, each house stood far from the others.

When she reached the door, Louise hesitated and did not push it open immediately.

Today was their third day in the city, which they had reached through something called a Portkey.

This marvelous means of travel, capable of crossing thousands of miles in an instant, was simply beyond Louise's imagination. If Muggles could travel this way too, the entire world