I

"Alohamora."

Roger brought his wand away from his locker and reached for the handle. He felt his forehead slam violently into the metal grates. He closed his eyes just before impact. For this, he was grateful.

"Little Mudblood prick." An older boy said. Roger listened to him walk away.

He audibly sighed into his dark locker. He enjoyed the sound of his voice, especially in such a tight, dark space. When Roger was younger and afraid of the dark, he would talk out loud into his bedroom at night. As he welcomed the darkness into his life, he began to talk out loud even in lighted places. Roger was pleased that most inanimate objects did not have eyes to crease when he said what he wanted to say.

Roger and his mother were assured by the Institute administrators that there was nothing wrong with being Muggle-born. In fact, there were plenty of Muggle-born witches and wizards at Salem. Roger confirmed this statement, and yet he never was drawn toward any of his hereditary counterparts. They allowed the entirety of the magical world to spill into their ears, eyes, noses, and mouths. Roger would hear them gasp with wonder. Roger enjoyed the feel of his wand, but that was it. His wand was the only thing in the Wizarding world that accepted his touch, his voice.

Roger opened his locker fully and retrieved from the inside some spell books and piano sheet music. He remembered his mother telling the school representatives how talented he was at music. She was elated that Salem Witches Institute had a music program. When Roger first sat down to play and sing, the music teacher was impressed, but the girls in the choir only snickered and wondered what other freakish qualities he possessed. Roger was used to wizards disliking him; he would adjust to witches as well.

He closed his locker and made his way to the library. As he walked, he hummed a tune to himself. The melody ran itself senseless in his head for the rest of the morning, like a golden snitch everyone forgot to catch.

II

James reached for Jaime's hand and stroked her thumb with his index finger. After three days of intense training with his witch cousin Morgan at Auror headquarters, he was glad to spend Saturday morning with his fiancée, even if they were browsing yard sales.

"Oh, honey, look at this vase! It's only two dollars!" Jaime exclaimed. James looked at the beaten and discarded piece of pottery and summoned the strength to nod his head. Around him were fellow shoppers, all peering down at tables where a variety of second-hand items were on display. James knew he often took Jaime's enthusiasm for granted. With this in mind, he kissed her on top of her brown head and told her how great she was.

Jaime beamed at him, but then James saw her look behind him with surprise.

"James, look who's here! It's Morgan and Confessor!"

James turned around and sure enough, his cousin and her husband were approaching them. Confessor, in a leather jacket and corduroy pants, had his arm around Morgan, who was wearing jeans, a thick, open flannel coat, and a t-shirt underneath with a picture of a dead snake and the words, 'VOLDEMORT NEVER MET AN AMERICAN AUROR' above it. James was not used to seeing the two in Muggle apparel.

Morgan spotted James and smiled. Her long, red hair was blowing in the crisp, November breeze.

"We can't get away from each other, can we?" She joked.

Jaime laughed. "What are you guys doing here? Where's Circe?"

"She's at Xema's for the day. Morgan and I figured we'd take a walk in the neighborhood." Confessor said. James admired his long dreadlocks and shadowy beard. He remembered a date Confessor and Morgan had together when he had the same radiant look. James was still amazed at having almost all of Morgan's memories in his head. He looked around the lawn in mock interest.

"Let us know if you find anything special."

Morgan narrowed her brown eyes at one of the tables. "I think this qualifies as 'special'."

James looked around at the table. On it, about a foot and a half tall, was a pewter statue of an aged, bearded wizard leaning on a staff.

Morgan read the price on the attached piece of yellow masking tape.

"James, do you have ten dollars?"

James laughed. "You want me to spot you?"

"Please. The League will reimburse you if you want. I have a professional interest in this object."

James looked again at the statue and became serious. The piece was certainly different, but he wasn't sure why his cousin was curious about it. He picked it up and was surprised at its weight.

"What is it?"

Morgan ran a finger down the staff the old wizard was holding. "We witches and wizards have a saying: If it looks like magic and feels like magic. ."

James thought for a second. "No, you don't."

Morgan paused. "Well, we should."

III

Roger sat in the dining hall and ate his sandwich. Around him young witches and wizards were laughing, talking, shaking their sugar-fed limbs. Roger remembered a teacher telling him the importance of sugar in a wizard's diet and how it gives the brain 'zip'. Roger was surprised that sugar did not make him do the silly things the other children did.

Martin plopped himself down across from Roger. The milk in his carton splashed onto the lunch tray. He ate a forkful of mashed potatoes.

"I didn't miss the mail, did I?" Martin asked.

Roger shook his head and sipped some juice. A nervous, rotund boy, Martin, like Roger, did not readily attract companions. The two had a couple of conversations outside class, and Martin took the liberty to join Roger at lunch every day. Roger was not grateful for his company, but nevertheless was pleased his presence added interest to his daily routines.

Roger felt something warm, wet, and soft hit him in the back of the neck, most likely a piece of broccoli. He heard a group of boys laugh, but he didn't bother to turn around and confront his attackers. Martin looked aghast.

"Don't let them bother you, Roger! One day, when we're older. ."

Roger put down his juice and eyed Martin intently. The din of the surrounding students seemed muted; their noise was no longer overtly hostile. Did Martin know something about revenge that Roger did not? Roger imagined Martin elaborating on loud means of spreading blood. He laughed silently at the thought.

"What will we do when we're older?" Roger asked pointedly.

Martin stared at Roger quizzically. He blinked several times before answering.

"I don't know, but it will be better."

Roger felt something red lash around in his stomach. He rubbed his temples, making the fires die down a bit. Rage was a painful emotion for Roger, even if it was a natural state of being.

Through the open windows near the ceiling a flock of owls soared and dropped parcels on several laps and tables. A small, tawny owl fluttered over Roger and let fall a tied scroll. Roger felt the feathery paper in his palm. Martin grinned with delight.

"What is it, Roger? Open it!"

Roger untied the ribbon and uncurled the parchment. On it were several bars of music. His mother's handwriting was at the bottom of the page, wishing him good luck and saying she loved him and was thinking of him, and she happened to see this sheet at a yard sale and thought Roger might enjoy it.

Roger sang the melody in his head. It was a simple, eerie tune, like the last song a bird sings before winter. The music, strangely, locked itself in his head, playing over and over, louder and fuller each time. Roger felt the need to handle his wand. He drew it from his robes and without knowing why, he tapped the sheet with the tip and thought of that last, fading bird of the summer season. On the page, lyrics magically formed below the notes. At the bottom over his mother's handwriting were casting instructions along with projected results. Roger read the words and smiled to himself. He looked happily up.

"Martin, perhaps things will get better."

IV

Morgan put the statue on the coffee table in the living room. James sat on the sofa and Jaime dropped down next to him. Morgan looked at the couple for a minute and felt melancholy. She knew how much James loved his fiancée, and she knew how much hurt his secret instance of infidelity caused him. Since being inside James' head, Morgan developed a new appreciation for the scope of male emotions.

Confessor drew his wand and waved it carefully over the statue of the ancient wizard. The statue emitted a dull glow for a moment. He lowered his wand and nodded to his wife. Morgan produced her short, swarthy wand and crouched down in front of the statue. She heard Jaime speak up.

"Is it dangerous?"

Morgan didn't look at Jaime but focused on the staff the wizard was leaning on.

"No, but it is magical."

"How can you tell?"

Morgan reached forward with her fingers and plucked the staff away from the wizard. The gray pewter melted away, leaving a soft wood surface.

"Because this staff is actually a wand."

Morgan felt the wand on her skin and closed her eyes. Her hand became clammy and cold. She put the wand on the coffee table next to the wizard and looked at Jaime. Morgan enjoyed the intense fascination she exhibited; she wondered if all Muggles would have a similar respect for magic if they directly encountered it on a daily basis. She straightened up.

"Jaime, I am going to perform a spell called 'priori incantatem'. The magic will allow us to see what spells were last cast with this wand. James and Confessor know this already, and I will warn you now: This wand was concealed with the intent of never being found by anyone but its owner. There is a good chance that what we see will be Dark and graphic in nature."

Jaime nodded when Morgan finished speaking. Morgan was impressed by her show of stoicism, even if she wasn't convinced of its authenticity. She pointed her wand at the coffee table.

The other wand began quaking, and from its tip a gray mist formed, which rose slightly in the air. The smoke formed itself into a blank sheet of paper, and Morgan heard a light, ironic melody. Notes began to form on the misty page, and a warbling, male voice sang out:

When thriving frost leaves flowers lame

And sober breezes blow,

The earth and heavens shall acclaim

The white Warlock of Snow.

From lifeless air he shall descend

And rub the ailing lawns.

To night a crimson glow he'll send

Before the gray of dawn.

The keeps of men and women all

And stables dark with steeds,

Atop he makes the snowflakes fall

For hopelessness to breed.

Let wheels drag and fires burn,

His spell he'll never cease,

Till freezing, sullen children yearn

For life to end its lease.

The wordless Warlock of the Snow

Shall sing with devil's breath

And winter's laugh, then only go

When all is white with death.

The song ended, but Morgan heard a whistling wind, followed by the screams of many people, and then utter silence.

James let go of Jaime and stood up. Morgan hissed and slashed her arm; the wand on the coffee table stopped quaking. She looked hurriedly at Confessor.

"James and I have to go. Now. Please check the rest of that wand. If you find anything, let headquarters know."

Jaime stood up from the sofa. "I don't get it. What's happening?"

Morgan turned to her, but before she could say anything, she saw James fold Jaime's hands within his own. When he spoke his voice was gentle but grave.

"Babe, we think that song was a Dark incantation designed to kill a large number of people at once. That's why there was screaming at the end. According to what we saw, that wand's last act was to create a sheet of music, and from that sheet a witch or wizard would be able to chant a spell." James looked at Morgan. "Even without a wand."

Morgan nodded her head. "You have your Glock, correct?"

James nodded back. Morgan turned to Jaime.

"Jaime, please allow Confessor to escort you home, or if you want, you may stay here. James and I will investigate this matter, and when everything is resolved we will return."

Jaime appeared piqued. "This has to be done right now? Even if that music exists, it's been sitting around for who knows how long. Why not check it out tomorrow?"

Morgan replied quickly. "Because that music could have been sold at the yard sale, and therefore there is the risk, albeit a very small one, of it falling into a witch's or wizard's hands. I think James will agree with me when I say I would much rather stay here, but duty calls. Lives may be in jeopardy."

Jaime bowed her head and James took her in his arms. Morgan looked at Confessor. He appeared concerned, but he knew the drill well enough by this point. Morgan stood on her toes and kissed him on the mouth.

"We'll be back. If not soon, I'll send word."

"Be careful, sugar." Confessor responded affectionately.

IV

Roger sat at the piano and looked at the black and white keys. He imagined each black bar to be the handle of a blade, resting in a bed of snow. Mrs. Romero, the music teacher, cleared her throat.

"Whenever you are ready, Roger."

Roger looked at the school-issued music before him and started playing. This afternoon was the last rehearsal before the concert tonight. The Wizarding and Muggle parents would attend by using the Floo Network. Roger sent an owl home explaining why his mother should not come up. Punishing the innocent couldn't be helped in life, but where individuals are concerned, efforts should at least be made.

Roger thought of the Warlock of Snow. The ballad never mentioned why he would want to blanket the landscape in destruction and death, only that he would. It is possible that the grass, flowers, and lively, warmth-loving people were offensive to him, or perhaps caused him agony. In that case, his descent into the air was for self-defense. His victims could take comfort from the fact that they did not deserve to perish, at least not according to him.

The white death maybe was a magical way of starting anew. Fresh civilizations could be constructed on top of the compacted snow, leaving the flawed remains buried forever underneath. Roger discovered a catch to this logic; how many disintegrated societies stretched flat underneath his feet right now? Perhaps all the layers of the earth could be peeled back, one snow layer after another, revealing a small rock in space where one insane person once lived before being snowed upon.

Roger considered snow to be an appropriate means unto death. So much of the day there was noise and pain. At some point someone should stand up and make it snow. Sound was so rarely heard on a snowy day or night. Snow allowed everyone to sit quietly, observe the whiteness outside the window, and not cause grief to one another. Roger knew in a crazy way that making people die was the best way to stop them from spreading death.

Roger finished his piano piece and listened as Mrs. Romero critiqued him. He decided he would open with the Warlock of Snow and not finish with it. There really was no point in people being allowed to enjoy themselves this evening. Once everyone turned to ice, Roger would remove the keys from the piano and fashion for himself a pair of skates. Over everyone's eyes he would glide until he sank into their melting arms.

V

James and Morgan approached the house from the sidewalk. The sun was dropping in earnest now, and the comfortably cool breeze from the afternoon transformed into a biting wind. On the curb, James saw the unsold items from the morning's yard sale. He shuffled through a few of the boxes. He heard Morgan walk up behind him.

"Don't bother."

James watched Morgan brush her wand across the air; nothing happened, and James knew her Summoning charm was unable to locate the paper in the detritus. He looked at the house.

"They might still have it."

Morgan bit her lip and put her wand in her jacket pocket.

"Let's try doing this the easy way first."

The two cousins walked up the front steps and knocked on the door. A young woman with dark-framed glasses answered.

"Yes?"

James stepped forward.

"Ma'am, my name is James McBride with the FBI." James presented his badge. "This is my partner, Morgan Westerling."

The girl looked at him skeptically. "Wait a minute, I remember you two from today. I love your tattoo! Are you really from the FBI?"

James opened his mouth, but Morgan answered.

"Yes. Do you remember selling a piece of paper with music on it to anyone?"

"Oh yeah. Some lady bought the piano booklet right as we got set up."

James felt his mouth become dry. He watched Morgan gaze steadily into the girl's eyes.

"Can you remember what this lady looked like?"

"Um, let's see she had. ."

"Thank you, ma'am. You've been a great help." Morgan cut her off and turned around. James shrugged his shoulders.

"Good day."

James caught up with Morgan on the sidewalk.

"Way to play it normal, partner."

Morgan looked around to see if anyone was watching. "We don't have time for normal." She drew her wand and flicked it; a dark, crystal ball materialized and fell into her open hand. Morgan tapped the ball with her wand while closing her eyes. A small, transparent bust of a woman formed. James shook his head.

"Tell me this is not happening."

"Her name is Irma Pressey. She's a single-mom Muggle who lives around the block. Her wizard son, Roger, is in his first year at Salem."

James let her words sink in for a second.

"So we have to hope that with some luck she didn't give the kid that music sheet."

Morgan looked at James firmly in the fading light. He recognized her bitter expression.

"I'm guessing luck is not with us tonight, James," she said. "You see, according to the records, Roger plays the piano."

VI

Jaime picked up the book from the coffee table and flipped through its pages. She looked at Confessor in disbelief.

"Confessor, are these supposed to be words?"

Confessor, reading by the oil lamp on the table, nodded.

"They're runes. Wizards used to write with them."

Jaime put the book back on the table. She watched Confessor stroke his beard as he took in the words from the page. She felt relieved that the wand they discovered did not reveal any other threatening Dark spells, and yet she worried about James.

"With Morgan being an Auror and all, are nights like these, you know, normal for you?" She asked hesitantly.

"Now and then she'll have late nights."

Jaime took the liberty of putting her feet up and lying back on the couch. She closed her eyes.

"Do you ever worry she won't come home?" Jaime asked boldly. "How do you deal with the stress?"

Suddenly, a bright, ethereal hawk flew into the living room from the window and landed on the coffee table. It looked at Confessor with its silver head and opened its beak. When it spoke, Jaime was stunned to hear Morgan's voice.

"We're going to Salem. Don't wait up. Tell Circe goodnight."

When the hawk finished talking, it dissolved away. Jaime looked at Confessor with astonishment.

Confessor put his book down, sighed, and got up from his chair.

"How do I deal with the stress? Coffee. Lots of it. What do you take in yours?"

VII

Roger looked up from the piano at all the parents flooding into the auditorium. Most were wearing robes, but a few were in suit pants and dresses. Roger smirked as he noticed some of the adult witches and wizards give the Muggle men and women wide berths. The grown-ups were behaving like children, and he, the child, was this night going to act like a man.

He pushed the sleeves of his blue dress robes down past his elbows. He hated playing the piano in robes, but Mrs. Romero said it was magically appropriate. If he could wear anything, it would be a sleeveless gown of pure white. On his fingers would sparkle sapphire rings and on his head would be a crown of gleaming ice. He wished the teachers could show him a spell that would let him sail away on the frigid gusts that sometimes blew across the school at night. After tonight, the winds in the black skies would be his home.

Roger continued to examine the growing crowd. He saw coming in from the side entrance, wearing ill-fitting, mustard robes, Martin. When Martin saw Roger, he gave him the thumbs-up and took a seat near the back. Roger looked at the fatal, crumbling sheet of music in front of him. He had not expected Martin to be here tonight. Martin probably decided to surprise Roger by showing up and supporting him. Roger considered the dreadful irony of his kind decision. Something tightened inside his chest, and he felt his eyes grow heavy. In some small way, he would miss Martin. However, it was less important to have friends than to be the creator of dark ironies.

Once everyone took their seats, Mrs. Romero stood at the front of the stage and drew her wand. With a wave, she dimmed the candles burning against the walls, and everyone started applauding. Onto the stage marched the choir, all dressed in midnight blue robes. Some smiled and beckoned to crowd members. Roger thought of the way the girls would make fun of him, and the way they now looked and behaved so angelically. He felt something fester underneath his skin. He cracked his knuckles and thought how he would soon give real meaning to the phrase, 'snow angels'.

Mrs. Romero cleared her throat. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Salem Witches Institute's winter concert. We hope to give you a wonderful show this evening."

VIII

Morgan walked briskly down the shop-lined streets of Salem, with James at her side. After discovering Mrs. Pressey was not home, they decided their only viable option was to search the Institute and locate Roger himself. As Morgan took in the bricks of the walls, the glass of the stores, the dingy parking meters, and the brown trees, she felt incredibly nostalgic. She couldn't remember how many times she paced these walkways when she was a schoolgirl, worrying about exams and Apparition testing, wondering if one boy liked her and what would Confessor say about it. She figured James was experiencing similar sensations, but smugly guessed it couldn't be the same for him, no matter what he took from her mind.

They rounded a dark corner and the change from the Muggle neighborhoods was stark and immediate. Morgan saw a pack of young girls, all in sweeping school robes, walk past her and James, giggling and chatting vigorously. Goblins with bowler hats sat on several stoops, mumbling to themselves, trying to sell trinkets to passers-by. Morgan even watched as an elf scampered down the street with an agitated look on his face. After bustling past a couple more adolescent witches and wizards, Morgan and James entered a large costume shop. The candle-lit store was filled with all sorts of terrific robes, Wizarding hats, and other exotic accessories. The aisles were crowded with people, mostly students, but Morgan noticed a few quiet, intimidated, though fascinated Muggles as well. Behind the glass counter at the back sat an extremely wrinkled and gray witch with at least ten pendants hanging across her bosom. She appeared very stern at first, but when she saw Morgan she glowed with a wonderful smile. Morgan smiled back, went around the counter, and gave the witch a long, tight hug.

"Hello, Mrs. Middleton. It's been too long."

"Morgan, dear! It's so lovely to see you!" Mrs. Middleton exclaimed.

Morgan gestured to James. "This is my cousin, James. I wish we could chat, but we're actually here on business."

Mrs. Middleton looked at Morgan and James with joy and Morgan guessed a small amount of trepidation. An Auror on duty at the Institute surely spelled trouble.

The old witch rang a dull, brass bell on the counter, and the double doors to her right magically opened. Morgan bowed to Mrs. Middleton and swept into the school with her cousin right behind her. Morgan heard James cluck his tongue.

"So how does it feel to be back?" She quipped.

"This is really freaky. It's like I have a jigsaw puzzle in my head, but all the pieces are around me."

Morgan laughed. Down a wide, brick hallway the cousins walked. A few children gaped at them. Morgan turned to James, but noticed he was no longer at her side. Looking back, she saw her cousin staring at a poster on the wall next to a row of lockers. Morgan stood next to him and read the poster in the torchlight. Listed on it was an advertisement for the Salem Witches Institute's annual winter concert, being held tonight in the Giles Corey Memorial Auditorium, starting in approximately one minute. At the piano was first-year student Roger Pressey.

"James! Let's move!" Morgan shouted anxiously.

IX

The choir of blue-robed girls finished their opening number, and everyone applauded. Roger blinked and wiped the sweat that had trickled into his eyes. His moment had come. His statement was ready to be made.

A mystical spotlight hovered over the piano, and Mrs. Romero looked at Roger and nodded. Roger looked away before he could see her smile. He stretched his pale fingers over the keys, concentrated hard on the piercing coldness of snow, and pressed down with his hands. The magical melody issued forth from the piano, almost of its own accord. He repeated the bar twice, like the instructions said, and felt his fingers become unnaturally cold. The magic was rippling outward from the piano, from himself, and it was a cold like he never experienced before. It was amazing. He knew his transformation was complete; he was the Warlock of Snow. Roger glanced quickly at Mrs. Romero. She was standing completely still, as if spellbound, and Roger was sure no one in the audience was twitching. He ended the bar, and on beginning it again, he opened his mouth and sang.

"When thriving frost leaves flowers lame. ."

X

James stayed with Morgan as she rounded corners and sprinted through the hallways. If he wanted to, he could have concentrated and determined the entire layout of the Institute himself, but he wanted Morgan to be the one to lead. He felt, despite his adopted memories, it was still her school.

They blew past a trophy display case, and James sensed they were close. He drew his magically enhanced pistol before Morgan instructed him to. He wasn't exactly sure what they would find when they reached the auditorium. This Roger kid might never have even gotten the music from his mother. They would burst in during the concert and disrupt the otherwise exquisite performance. James hoped this was the case, since the alternative was too horrible to consider.

Morgan stopped in front of a large oak door. Breathing hard, she took a step back.

"You know what to do?"

"Yeah." James nodded.

Morgan violently brought down her wand and the door swung open. James kept his knees bent and his Glock raised as he entered the auditorium.

The seats all around him were packed with people, but they were completely still, as if frozen by the dim candlelight. The temperature was shockingly low. The only sound was coming from the piano in front of the stage. The haunting, simple melody of the curse was repeating itself, and chanting the deranged ballad was the pianist himself, a small, soft-looking boy.

"And winter's laugh, then only go. ."

James took aim at the piano and fired. The black-painted wood was blasted away, and as his bullets hit the strings, the music was disrupted. James saw out of the corner of his eye Morgan lash out with her wand. The boy at the piano flew off his chair and landed on the stage like a limp rag. James ran down the aisle and jumped on the stage, keeping his sidearm carefully aimed at Roger. He tapped the boy with his foot.

"Clear!"

Morgan was before the ruined piano. She flicked her wand and the music sheet vanished.

"Clear!"

James instantly became warmer. He heard the audience members stir. A woman at the front screamed. The music teacher on the stage darted her eyes around in disbelief.

"What in Merlin's beard is going on here?"

Morgan walked up on stage, flashed her insignia brooch, and addressed the crowd and the teacher.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Captain Westerling of the USLA. This is an Auror emergency. Please rise from your seats, exit the auditorium through the back, and await further instructions. I repeat, please exit through the back. Now."

Everyone stood up and left the hall. James watched as the teacher and choir girls evacuated, then turned his attention to the seats. He was grateful no one remained, frozen and dead.

He holstered his Glock while Morgan stepped in front of him over the prostrate boy. She looked appalled, but unsympathetic. She slashed her wand at Roger, binding him with bulky, metal chains. James did not stop observing his cousin.

"Do you think he knew what he was doing?"

Morgan scanned the stage to make sure no one was lethally affected by the curse, and then met James with her eyes.

"Yes."

James looked back down at the young pianist. He was disturbed by the softness of his face. He heard Morgan's voice echo in the cavernous hall.

"Please stay here with him while I see all the parents in the corridor. I am going to make arrangements for more Aurors to enter the school. Once they are here, we will all escort the boy off the premises."

Morgan stepped down off the stage and walked up the aisle. James crouched down next to Roger, and absurdly imagined himself as a baseball coach, squatting next to his young, on-deck batter, ready to give instructions.

XI

Confessor heard the front door open. He shook himself fully awake and stood up from the chair. He saw Jaime rise from the couch. He was impressed that she didn't head home, but stayed with him, as if they were a family in the waiting room of a hospital. Confessor concluded Jaime would make a good Auror's wife, or agent's wife, in her case.

Morgan and James entered the house. They looked drained. James picked up his fiancée and held her tight. Confessor met Morgan half way and together they embraced. He looked down at her keen eyes and sharp chin. He loved the way she was always so unconscious of her expressions. It made her perpetually beautiful.

"Circe?" She asked.

"She's fine." Confessor replied. Morgan again pressed herself against him, and together they swayed gently. Confessor noticed Jaime pull apart from James.

"What happened, honey? We put on the radio and heard about an incident at the school and we got worried. ."

James brushed her cheek with his finger and smiled vaguely. Confessor could tell he didn't want to get into it tonight.

"It's okay, babe. Everyone survived."

Morgan glanced at Confessor and spoke soothingly.

"It's very late. Confessor and I want you two to crash here for the rest of the night."

She pointed her wand at the sofa, and it magically extended into a double bed. Two pairs of pajamas were neatly folded on the sheets. James pressed his hand against the padding.

"Do magical fold-out beds have those annoying metal bars?"

Confessor smiled. "If you guys need anything, let us know."

He turned with his wife and walked back through the house. Morgan paused outside Circe's door. She looked up at Confessor. She appeared anguished, and he knew it had everything to do with love.

"Wait for me, Connie. I'm just going to say goodnight."