NOVEL WEB Chapter 72: Bob Ogden
The Thestrals flicked their long, black tails as their hooves scraped softly at the earth. Heads lowered, they tore eagerly into the slab of raw meat.
"Let them eat their fill," Dumbledore said gently. "It's a long journey ahead."
Snape, arms crossed and leaning against a nearby tree, muttered under his breath, "We had to use these creepy, troublesome creatures."
"Twycross should have explained it to all of you," Dumbledore replied. "To Apparate safely, a wizard needs an extremely precise mental image of the destination. That's why it's safest to Apparate only to places one has previously visited."
"I know, Professor," Snape grumbled. "But surely there are more efficient ways. What's wrong with using the Floo Network?"
Dumbledore merely gave him a smile, not bothering with an answer.
They waited patiently. Once the bones were all that remained, gleaming and picked clean, Dumbledore gave a quiet call.
Two Thestrals stepped toward them, slow and solemn.
Snape took a deep breath and reached for the mane of the one closest to him. Mounting it took some effort—its silky, muscle-smooth hide was not meant for comfort—but he finally slung his leg over its bony flank, just behind the folded wings.
The creature stood still, exhaling puffs of white mist from its nostrils.
"Ready?" Dumbledore asked. Snape gave a terse nod.
"To Lancashire, the southern bank of the River Ribble," Dumbledore told the Thestrals.
They waited, unmoving. Then, suddenly, the wings spread wide with a thunderous snap, slicing the air.
The Thestrals crouched low, then launched upward with terrifying speed, tearing into the indigo sky like arrows.
Wind howled in Snape's ears. The earth blurred beneath them. He pressed himself flat against the Thestral's back, clutching the creature's mane to keep from being thrown off and left to rot in the forest below.
Branches snapped against his cloak as they pierced the tree line, soaring into the starlit heavens.
"Professor!" Snape shouted over the roar of air. "Couldn't we have chosen a less suicidal mode of transport?"
The wind tore his voice to shreds. Dumbledore, gliding ahead on his own Thestral, offered no reply—his silver beard fluttered like a banner, leading the way toward the stars.
This was hardly a pleasant method of travel. Snape couldn't help but wonder if he'd somehow offended the Headmaster. But no—he was always courteous, never rude to his elders. Surely he hadn't earned this punishment.
The Thestrals flew swiftly over forests, villages, hills. The icy wind cut through Snape's robes like knives. He gritted his teeth, unable to free his hands to cast a warming charm, enduring the cold in stubborn silence.
They passed bridges and twisting roads, lights flickering below. At last, as dawn bled faint gold across the horizon, the creatures glided low over Morecambe Bay.
The sea below was painted in soft oranges and reds, the Thestrals' wings reflecting the glow with a ghostly shimmer.
"We're nearly there!" Dumbledore's voice carried faintly from behind.
The sun had only just begun to rise when they landed in a field of vibrant green, tucked beside the riverbank.
Snape dismounted ungracefully, shivering, his teeth chattering. He drew his wand and cast a warming spell on himself.
"Professor," he said as they began walking along a narrow riverside path, "how did you find out Bob Ogden had dealings with the Gaunt family?"
"Every touch leaves a trace," Dumbledore said serenely. "As it happens, I was speaking with Tiberius Ogden during a recent Wizengamot session. We were discussing the inevitable decline of certain blood-purist ideologies when he happened to mention that his cousin, Bob Ogden, once dealt with the Gaunts professionally.
"That family's legacy has all but vanished from history now."
They reached a small wooded glade, and there, nestled among the trees, was an old cottage. Ivy tangled across its crumbling stone walls.
In the garden, a short, stout, balding man was clipping flowers with surprising precision.
He looked up as they approached.
"Ah, Albus—it's you!" he said, astonished. "I thought Muggles couldn't get near this place. What brings you here? And this is…?"
"Good morning, Bob," Dumbledore replied cheerfully. "Severus Snape—one of my brightest students. Mind if we sit for a while? There's something I was hoping to ask you."
"Of course, of course," Ogden said, setting down his shears. With a flick of his wand, he cleaned the dirt from his fingers. "One gets fond of gardening in old age. Come in, come in."
Inside, Ogden magicked a teapot into action and set out some warm tea and biscuits.
"I'm not sure how much you remember from your days in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Dumbledore said, sipping his tea.
"Most of it, I'd say," Ogden replied, eyeing him curiously. "Why? What do you need to know?"
"The Gaunts," said Dumbledore.
"Tiberius mentioned that you once went to their house on official business. Could you tell me what happened?"
"The Gaunts…" Ogden frowned and leaned back, eyes narrowing. "Let me think... It was years ago—near Little Hangleton. They were an odd lot, to say the least. The girl, Merope, seemed a bit more stable. But the rest..."
"Who was in the household?" Dumbledore asked, seemingly offhanded, as he picked up a lemon tart.
"Old Marvolo, and his two children—Merope and Morfin," Ogden replied, taking a long sip of tea. "But Albus… why is this your concern now? You're one of the busiest men in the magical world."
Ogden drummed his fingers against the table, then muttered, "Parseltongue… Parseltongue…"
Suddenly his eyes widened, his body went stiff. He stared at Dumbledore with mounting horror, his voice trembling: "No… No. You have to leave. I don't know anything. I don't want to know anything."
With a calm wave of his wand, Dumbledore dispelled the fear on Ogden's face. The panic drained away, leaving him with a blank, vacant expression.
"Ah," Dumbledore sighed, finishing his tart. "It's always like this. Sometimes I do wish people weren't quite so clever."