Merlin raced back to his lodgings, peeled off his soaking stockings, and changed into a fresh pair of Balenciagas. As he marveled at how Muggles nowadays were making stockings ever more comfortable, time had quietly slipped into late July.
Half the summer holidays had passed as well. Under Hermione's "supervision," Su Er had finished all his holiday homework. All that remained was to wait for the Quidditch final to begin.
At that very moment, somewhere in London, something was happening in secret-
In a village called Little Hangleton stood a large, luxurious yet dilapidated manor. At the edge of its back garden was a little wooden cabin. Why call it little? Because it really had only one room.
Old Frank was the owner of this cabin. Few people knew his full name anymore. He was old and deaf, already in his seventies, and an injury that had not been properly treated in his youth left his old leg aching terribly.
Now that he was getting on in years, he had no intention of going to a hospital to have the leg examined. One reason was poverty; another was that the bad leg still let him feel the fact that he was alive.
Late that night, old Frank was woken by the pain in his bad leg. Trembling, he climbed out of his hard plank bed, intending to get some hot water to warm his old leg thoroughly. This was how he had managed all these years, and this time was no exception.
"I'll have to watch out for those little rascals sneaking into the manor tomorrow. The weeds in the garden need clearing, too." As Frank limped about filling his hot-water bottle, he looked up through the window toward the manor in the darkness.
No one had lived in the