A room left unoccupied for more than a month would gather a layer of dust.
Who knew how many years the Shrieking Shack had stood empty? It could not possibly have been this clean-even though this room had nothing whatsoever to do with cleanliness in the conventional sense.
Ghosts certainly could not have done it. They could not interfere with the material world. Cases like Peeves were exceedingly rare exceptions.
Just then, a teeth-grating creak came from the floorboards overhead.
"Upstairs!" Harry and the other two exchanged glances and hurried to the entrance hall.
The staircase was probably the most intact-looking part of the entire room. It seemed to have been repaired recently, in stark contrast to everything else.
Bringing up the rear, Hermione cast Lumos, and the three of them headed upstairs.
Only one door on the second floor stood ajar. As they approached, they heard movement behind it, followed by a familiar, thoroughly unpleasant meow.
It was Crookshanks.
Harry kicked the half-open door wide.
It was a bedroom with a large bed. Crookshanks lay on the bed, and beside it sat a middle-aged man in ragged black robes, his black hair rather disheveled. He was so thin that his features had become distorted, and his skin was rough and sallow, though he had kept himself reasonably clean.
At his feet, beneath a hemispherical glass cover, Ron's rat Scabbers scurried anxiously in circles, squeaking.
"I never thought our first proper meeting would be under circumstances like these," the black-haired man said, looking at Harry, his gaze flickering. "Harry."
His voice was dry and rasping, as though he had not spoken in a very, very long time, which made it sound exceptionally unpleasant. Yet, unexpectedly, it conveyed how hard he was trying to sound gentle.
His gentleness, however, seemed to