Cormac McLaggen stretched lazily in his compartment as the Hogwarts Express sped through the countryside. His final year had been an eventful one, to be sure.

He'd finally made the Gryffindor Quidditch team, done exceptionally well on his N.E.W.T.'s, and, most importantly, had gotten some valuable face time with the delectable Hermione Granger. "So what if she hadn't put out?" thought Cormac, "She'll come around. They always do." In fact, were it not for its unfortunate end, Cormac would have called this year a smashing success.

But it had ended. Dumbledore had been murdered. The Dark Lord had returned.

For all his supposed "Gryffindor courage", the Headmaster's death had left Cormac feeling more than a little shaken. He'd heard the rumors – seen the signs. His father had returned from the Ministry with ill news more often than not. Disappearances. Muggles murdered. Distrust and unrest in the Ministry itself. But Cormac, brave and headstrong, had brushed it all aside.

He thought that the Minister would quell the uprising and, if it came to it, You-Know-Who would fall by Dumbledore's hand. No longer. Dumbledore, so powerful and wise, was dead, and it was a student of his very school who had done the deed.

Still, Cormac was not deeply troubled. He'd met the Minister – Scrimgeour seemed like an intelligent man and a good leader, and he had every reason to trust in his abilities. These so-called "Dark Times" would soon be all sorted out. And, besides, he was a pure-blood wizard from a powerful family. He was safe.

Cormac stood up to stretch his long legs and, at the same time, managed to grab the butt of a passing witch.

"Oh, grow up, Cormac!" shrieked a thoroughly peeved Romilda Vane.

Cormac only laughed as he returned to his seat. In his eyes, he had it all. He was young, handsome, a spectacular Quidditch player and had a prestigious position at the Ministry practically lined up for him. He simply couldn't bring himself to be too bothered by the state of the larger Wizarding World. Life was good.

Cormac stepped onto the platform and, gazing about, caught site of his parents. They stood smiling and proud, though Cormac thought he detected the ghost of worry on their features; his father, certainly, looked more tired and lined than usual – ill, even.

Shaking his father's hand and hugging his mother, Cormac regaled them with his great exploits as the McLaggens stepped off the platform and prepared to disapparate.

The McLaggen estate was located in the north of Scotland, nestled in a forested region of the Highlands. It was remote, purposely so, and accessible only by apparition. Cormac spent many a day in his youth exploring the hills, hollows, lakes and streams of the surrounding country, and would remember his summer holidays as times of peace and happiness. That is, when he wasn't having a violent row with his father.

A particularly nasty confrontation ensued almost immediately upon his graduation from Hogwarts. A few days after returning, Cormac had bounded down the stairs of the house, heading out the door, when his father called him into the living room.

"Where're you of to, son?" asked Mr. McLaggen, with just a hint of sternness in his voice. Cormac paid him little heed.

"Off to see my mates. D'you have a problem with that, da? I'm a grown wizard, you know…"

And then something strange happened. Where he normally would have risen up for an angry lecture, Mr. McLaggen now seemed to deflate, leaning back in his chair and heaving a tired sigh.

"Son… we need to have a talk."

"About…?"

"Quell your surly temper for a moment, boy, and listen. This is far more serious than you know."

Detecting the grave note in his voice, Cormac sat down, eyeing his father curiously.

"You know well the state of things. The Trouble has been brewing for years – Dumbledore's murder is only the beginning. We're at war now, son. It's chaos at the ministry. The Aurors are in over their heads just trying to prevent mass murder day-to-day, not to mention the constant threat of attack. The Dark Lord is recruiting every tool in his power; his strength grows daily. He's trying to destroy our world, and he won't stop until he's done it. Any wizard – man, woman or child – who stands in his way is risking death. And, son, I intend to stand in his way."

Cormac was beginning to shake now. His mother placed a comforting hand on his.

"Two men came to the house a week ago. I'd never seen them before, but I knew why they'd come. We're pureblood – it's our stock that He wants on his side. They came to see that He had our allegiance."

"And what did you say?" Cormac shouted. He was beginning feel quite numb.

"I said," began Mr. McLaggen, his voice soft but resolute, "that they had 10 seconds to get off my property before I turned them both into ferrets."

Cormac was silent.

"No blood-purity or status can protect us now. We're His enemies. I've had some friends at the Ministry put up protective enchantments around the house, and Uncle Tiberius is doing what he can to cover our tracks. But you're not to leave the house, son. At least not until I can be sure we haven't been targeted."

Cormac was perfectly still for a moment. He looked at his mother and father.

"I…" he struggled to compose his words. "I don't believe it."

"Son…"

"No. This can't be happening. How could you do that, da? Why didn't you just lie? Why didn't you tell them…"

"Now you listen here, Cormac!" his father began angrily. "You're a Gryffindor, like your father before you! Have you forgotten what that stands for? Courage, honor, loyalty. A McLaggen is not a coward – he stands ups for what he believes in! I thought I'd raised you better than that…"

Cormac could stand no more. "YOU'RE AN OLD FOOL!"

And he sped out of the house, snatching a bottle of Ogden's from the cabinet, as his mother and father called after him.