Back with Chapter Three - Playing With Kindling. And so soon after Chapter Two! For those of you thirsting for magic - well, the fun begins here. It's a rather short chapter, but sets many things in motion, so it is essential - but do not worry! This is only the start, much more magical happenings are to come, rest assured. Hope you enjoy the latest installment!

Your ever so humble writer,
Happyface

Playing With Kindling

"You think we can get it down?" questioned Cemeland skeptically. The frisbee had gotten stuck in the tall, thick yew tree in the center of the park. Dag gazed up into the sunlight, spotting the yellow disc somewhere near the top. Wordlessly, he began to climb the tree, hoisting himself up through the canopy of green.

"What are you doing, Dag! That's not safe – you could get seriously hurt! Come DOWN!" No answer. Dag could no longer be seen, having climbed too high, and blocked by the mass of leafy branches. "Come on, Dag, please get down." Sixty seconds ticked slowly by. The branches and leaves rustled, and a slightly scratched frisbee dropped onto the ground in front of a surprised Cemeland.

Dag jumped down next to his prize, dirty and covered in twigs, but grinning from ear to ear. "And that's how it's done," he said, laughter in his voice.

"You have done it! You hath saved the frisbee in distress!" cried out Cemeland, as if announcing the winner of some tournament. "Yet your quest is not complete. I will not let you win!"

"En garde!" Dag swiped a fallen branch and poked his friend in the side with its tip.

"Ouch, hey, no fair, I'm not armed," proclaimed Cemeland indignantly, picking up a fencing tool of his own. Thwack! Whap! The two boys battled, stick against stick, until Cemeland fell to his knees, in mock injury. "Oh, you got me," he groaned, flopping onto the grass with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.

Dag stuck his stick in the ground and claimed his victory, placing one foot on top of his defeated enemy. "I will now take my reward," he told the air, and proceded to do so. He gave Cemeland a noogie.

"Ow, gerroff!" laughed the noogie recipient, struggling to his feet. He yanked Dag's branch from the soil beside him, ready to advance on his weaponless friend. Cemeland stopped midstep, starring curiously at the piece of wood in his hand. Where before there had been dry, flaking bark, the branch was glossy – as if still a part of the tree itself – and small flower buds had appeared all along it.

"What is it, Cem?" questioned Dag, wondering why his adversary had come to a halt.

Cemeland beckoned a confused Dag over. "Take a look at this, Dag, I think the dead branch isn't so dead anymore. It's growing, see?" He showed Dag the small green buds on the stick.

Dag examined it, turning it over in his hands. "I know there weren't any flower things on it when I first picked it up – and it wasn't this color, either."

"Maybe it's a different branch," suggested Cemeland.

"No, this is the one, but how did it happen?" The puzzled boys tossed around a few more ideas, discarding them just as quickly. Shrugging, Cemeland suggested they start back to the house, or risk being late for dinner. They walked out of the park discussing the upcoming last few weeks of school, and what they were going to do in when summer came.

After dinner – spinach soufflé and cream of mushroom soup, followed by a moist chicken salad as the second course – Cemeland walked home, right down the block, and Dag was told it was time to go to sleep. The key word there being 'told.' For although he was told to go to sleep, he went somewhere that definitely could not be defined as sleep.

Under the cover of night, a small pajama-clad boy – stooped low and shooting furtive glances over his shoulder every few seconds – made his way across a stretch of grass in the direction of a giant, motionless tree. Using only the light of the crescent moon, the boy searched around the trunk of the tree for something specific, picking up and throwing away twigs and braches from the soft grassy ground. Apparently satisfied with the newest branch, he stuffed it under his jacket and scurried out of the park. Two owls, perched high in the ancient branched of the yew tree, observed the scene in silence. One of them – a dark brown owl with distinctive white markings among its head feathers – gave a soft hoot, and the pair launched themselves into the deep blue-black sky, sending a shower of leaves fluttering down through the inky darkness.

The way in which Dag uses his magic in the early stages is akin to the way we saw Lily use her magic in Snape's memories, in J. K. Rowling's most awesomest Book Seven of the Harry Potter series. Which means, he uses it without really being in need of it - Harry, on the other hand, only showed magic in times of need. Just to clear any confusion right up :) See you next time!