Late at night, after the daytime commotion, The Burrow finally sank into sleep.
Skofot lay on the guest room bed. The spot on his left leg grazed by the Taunting Charm still throbbed faintly, but it did not prevent him from thinking clearly.
Magic slowly circulated through his body, repairing the damage and nourishing those dark plans.
Suddenly, muffled yet unmistakably excited conversation drifted from Ron's room next door, sounding especially clear in the silent night.
The walls had truly terrible soundproofing.
He silently sat up, his bare feet touching the floor like a wandering ghost without making a sound.
He pressed himself close to the wall and held his breath as he listened.
"...Harry must be in trouble!" Ron's voice was anxious.
"He's never been like this. He hasn't written back all summer! Even Hedwig's nowhere to be seen!"
"Relax, little brother Ron."
Fred—or George—spoke lazily.
"Maybe his dear Muggle family confiscated his owl and grounded him."
"But it's been way too long!" Ron retorted. "And during our last call, he didn't sound right!"
"Hm..." The other twin spoke, with that distinctive tone he used when brewing up a prank. "I have a plan."
The corner of Skofot's mouth curled up soundlessly. Here it came.
The room next door fell silent for a moment. Then George's—this time distinguishable—lowered but excited voice sounded. "We could... take Dad's car."
"What car?" Ron asked stupidly.
"That flying Anglia!" Fred cut in, his voice brimming with eagerness.
"We've secretly tried it a few times. It's steady as anything! We can fly straight to his window and see what's going on!"
Ron sucked in a breath. "You're mad! If Mum finds out, we'll..."
"So we can't let her find out."
George interrupted him. "Now, in the middle of the night. No one will know."