3:10 p.m. Eastend

“Afraid of flying, huh?” Rachel said, buckling up.

Harry didn’t respond, concentrating on surviving the plane ride. The physical effects—headache, stiffness and fatigue—from the Visit plagued him.

“Can’t say I blame you. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of things that can go wro—”

“Don’t!”

“Best thing’s to talk,” she shouted over the din. “Keeps your mind off it.” Her eyes drilled into his. “Ready to tell me what happened?”

“Forget it.” He turned to look out the window.

“Forget it? You loose? You were assaulted, Harry. I heard it. Smelled it. Something attacked you.” She shuddered. “Something so fast I couldn’t see it. You jerked like a Mexican jumping bean on speed.”

Harry moved uncomfortably, thinking of the nasty job ahead. Truth be told, he had always hoped—or prayed—that the Chosen One was an old witches’ tale. Seems he had been dead wrong.