When the Moon Lies

The night stretched like an open wound across the sky above Little Whinging. The lampposts seemed farther apart than usual—their lights, fragile and flickering, barely touched the wet asphalt. The wind cut through the corners like a wounded animal, scratching at the windows and tearing metallic groans from the gutters. Harry waited. Not just for the wizards — he waited for something he couldn't name. The stifling heat of summer had given way to a sickly humidity, a muggy air that carried the smell of turned earth and rust. He felt the heavy air with every breath. Since the Dementor attack, something inside him didn't fit. It was as if reality had a crack, a thin line through which sanity slowly seeped away. The sound came first: the brief rustle of cloaks in the air, followed by a whisper that cut through the wind. Then the figures appeared among the clouds, gliding like crows over the sleeping city. The members of the Order of the Phoenix had arrived. One after another, they appeared in the alley—Tonks, Moody, Lupin, Kingsley, and the others. Moody's face looked even more scarred in the pale moonlight, his magical eye spinning with contained nervousness. Tonks stumbled as usual, anyone could hear her cursing under her breath, but Lupin quickly helped her with weary kindness. His smile didn't reach his eyes. “All set, Potter?” Moody's hoarse voice broke the silence. Harry nodded, trying not to show the tremor in his hands. There was something different that night, perhaps a reflection of the encounter with the Dementors or that feeling of dryness he had felt in his throat since it happened. The group, normally composed and confident, seemed tense—as if they all sensed an evil that did not yet have a name. Even the air seemed to hesitate. They left. The flight was silent, a black slash cutting across the London sky. The city below slept obliviously as the wind carried the metallic taste of rain and London soot. Harry's chest felt tight; the cold didn't come only from the altitude. He thought he heard something—a low, hoarse sound that seemed to come from inside the clouds. When he looked at Lupin beside him, he simply said, “It must have been the wind.” No one else seemed to notice anything. The house on Grimmauld Place appeared like a tumor among the residences, living up to the Blacks' reputation: silent, damp, as if it had sucked all the color out of the neighboring houses. Number 12 slid out of the shadows, and Harry felt the familiar, nauseating weight of ancient magic—the Fidelius Charm was still intact, but the atmosphere felt... wrong. Tonks frowned as she entered. The air inside smelled of mold. The portraits slept under dusty sheets, and the eyes of stuffed creatures seemed to follow them from the top of the shelves. “It's colder than last time,” Lupin muttered. No one answered. Harry crossed the hallway and felt the sticky texture of the air—as if something invisible was watching him closely, its breath caught between the curtains. Mrs. Black's portrait awoke, shouting expletives, but even she seemed hoarser, weaker, as if time had fed on her own fury. In the main hall, they found Sirius. His godfather looked exhausted, dark circles marking a face that had lost its former rebellious glow. He hugged Harry tightly, but his touch was cold. “Finally, boy...” His voice faltered. “I was going crazy waiting.” Dinner was silent. The long, dark table reflected the light of the flickering candles. Moody ate in silence, his magic eye spinning slowly, as if measuring the weight of the shadows or due to some manufacturing defect. Tonks tried to look cheerful, but in that house her laughter sounded forced, like glass about to break. Harry watched everything. He sensed something moving between the lines—quick glances, long pauses, Lupin's restrained breathing when someone mentioned “recent attacks.” There were whispered reports of missing Aurors, but no one dared to comment. Later, when everyone had retired, the silence in the house was almost solid. Harry couldn't sleep. The sound of Lupin's footsteps echoed downstairs — rhythmic, methodical, like a watchman who fears what he guards. Sirius, lying in the next room, talked to himself, murmuring names from the past, as if trying to remember who was still alive. Around midnight, something broke the rhythm of the silence: a light scratching coming from the basement. Harry stood up, his heart racing. The sound seemed to come from inside the walls — like nails scraping stone. He thought about waking someone, but shame and curiosity held him back; after all, the house was old and it could just be the wood creaking. He went downstairs. The hallway was like a dark cave. Each step creaked as if in protest. In the basement, the air was damp, smelling of old wine and something else... Harry pointed his wand. “Lumos.” The light spread, revealing only boxes and dust. But then he saw it: a thin trail of dried blood, almost black, streaking across the floor to the back door. His heart beat so loudly that the sound seemed to fill the entire basement. Before he could react, Lupin appeared behind him, too quiet. “Harry...” he said softly, his voice too low to be natural. “You shouldn't be here at this hour.” The man's gaze seemed distant, cold, as if part of him were somewhere else. Harry tried to explain what he had heard, but Lupin just put his hand on his shoulder—a gesture that was meant to be protective, but at that moment seemed to contain something possessive, almost hungry. “The house has its sounds,” he said with a half-smile. “Sometimes the living get confused with the echoes.” For a second, he thought he saw the reflection of yellow eyes blinking in the dark behind the professor. The next morning, no one mentioned what had happened, as if nothing had happened. Tonks looked at Lupin, who was even paler, with a concern that bordered on fear. Moody spoke less than usual. Sirius tried to act like a host, but his smiles were increasingly empty. During breakfast, a letter arrived. The owl landed on the table, its wings trembling. Moody picked up the envelope, sniffed the paper, and his face hardened. “Arthur didn't show up,” he said dryly. “He disappeared last night after leaving the Ministry.” Silence. Tonks dropped her spoon. Lupin stood motionless, his eyes lost. Sirius rose slowly, his face tense. “Disappeared?” he repeated, his voice breaking. “How...?” “No sign of a struggle. No trace.” Moody looked around. “And the strangest thing... the shield charm he was using wasn't broken.” The clock in the hallway chimed hollowly. Harry felt his stomach turn. The same chill as before crept under his skin. Night fell again. And with it, the air inside the house seemed to move—as if the walls were breathing, swelling and contracting in sync with something invisible. Harry tried to ignore it, but when he looked out the window, he swore he saw a silhouette standing in the garden: motionless, facing him directly with yellow eyes. Blink. Gone. But the feeling remained. That unbearable certainty that, inside or outside the house, someone was watching them. And that something very old — and very hungry — was already among them.