It was the sounds that came back to him first. The crackling of a distant torch, playing a lone solo into the abyss of James' consciousness. He focused on that single sound, willing it to draw him back to the surface. He strained, willing himself to pursue it, to chase it until that sound enshrouded him, reverberating around in his skull, roaring to a raging bonfire, searing away all other thought, burning him, cleansing him.

Faces, blurred. Worry, in their stance and in their words. Words too indistinct to make out more than the tone. Hands, gripping him, forcing him down. Something pressed to his mouth. Teeth gnashed, he growled, forced it away, but his strength was as nothing and soon he was overcome. Warmth – not heat this time – something more pleasant. Sliding down his throat, blossoming outward from his chest, dragging him down, down, until he was so heavy that not even his eyes could open, and blackness reigned once more.

'Did you hear Alannis McClellan kissed Emry Sameer last night behind the Greenhouse?'

'Argh, Fred for the hundredth time can you please be quiet! I'm trying to study.'

'Oh, such a shame that the first thing James hears is us arguing.'

James cracked open his eyes upon mention of his name to see Cat, who had just spoke, sitting by his bedside, his right hand cradled in her lap between both of her own. She smiled down brightly at him, those pale blue eyes brimming with emotion in the late night torchlight.

Silence ruled for a moment, but for the clack-clack-clack of a pair of knitting needles that Cat had charmed in mid-air before her. Oddly enough, there was no wool in sight.

'James!' Cassie yelled.

'Bloody hell,' Fred swore.

'Eep!' Holly squealed.

'Well I'll be,' muttered Tristan.

Clip gave an extra loud snore in the corner and jerked violently awake beneath a sharp jab in the ribs from Fred.

James tried to lift his free hand to wave, but found it wrapped in stiff bandages. In fact, his entire body, save for the hand that Cat held was enshrouded, layer upon layer of stiff, white gauze, preventing any sudden or dramatic movements. A wave of embarrassment threatened to sink him for a moment as he suddenly wondered how he had been going to the bathroom. He paused.

'How long have I been here?' he croaked.

Cassie and Holly, already beside themselves, could resist no longer, throwing themselves atop his supine form with sobs of – what he hoped were – joy.

'Two days, mate,' Fred offered. James could see him through a tiny part in Holly's midnight hair. 'It's Friday night now. You went down on Wednesday evening.'

'Urf,' James nodded in recognition.

The two girls seemed rather reluctant to let go, and the wind was slowly being forced from his tender chest.

'What do you think you are doing?' screeched an irate Madam Petheridge, bustling over red-faced, her arms laden with all manner of salves, herbs and poultices.

She shooed the sheepish girls away as one would a pair of annoying flies. Cat fumbled momentarily in mid-air beneath her needles, passing whatever was – or wasn't – there to the Matron, who accepted it graciously.

'Fine work, Miss Lovegood.'

Cat beamed.

'Now, Mister Potter, it appears that someone is looking out for you. You've been exposed to enough Lobalug venom to kill three adult males. But for the interference of some, frankly archaic, magic, you very likely would have perished. What were they thinking, tossing a child into the Lake like that? To converse with Merfolk, of all things! Phaw, just you wait till Tia hears about this.'

'Er… Tia?' James asked, confused. He didn't want to think about how close he might have come to dying back there.

'Galatea – Headmistress Renshaw to you lot. Open up.'

James obeyed, propping himself up on the pillows to swallow some cloying, sickly sweet concoction that made him a touch lightheaded. He had managed half a spoonful when the doors crashed open, causing Madam Petheridge to spill the remainder down his chin, where it was remarkably cold to the touch.

'Is he here?' boomed an achingly familiar voice. James felt his face splitting into a broad grin, cracking the blistered skin on his cheeks painfully.

'Mister Hagrid, please! I must ask that you keep your voice down! I really am bending the rules already, allowing so many visitors at once.'

'Ruddy hell, James!' Hagrid boomed, paying the poor, beleaguered Matron no heed at all. 'I thought we'd lost yer. All me fault, too. All me fault…'

He trailed off into great, heaving sobs, eventually snatching a nearby bedsheet clean off the bed and blowing his nose into it with the sound to rival the whistle on the Hogwarts Express.

'Professor Hagrid-'

'I got these for yer,' he sniffled, proffering out a half-giant sized handful of what looked like general shrubbery.

A cascade of dirt and leaves showered down in James' lap, followed by a bush that looked suspiciously like the one that usually squatted in the courtyard outside. The gift itself, the poorly concealed laughter from his friends, and the look on Madam Petheridges beet-red face was enough to send him into roaring fits of laughter, cracking blisters and damaging tender lungs, finally causing them all to be well-and-truly evicted until the Matron could 'make sense of this circus.'

A night of deep sleep, crowded with chaotic dreams of vivid colour and bright expression, abstract in their entirety, haunted his night-time. They gripped him fiercely, refusing him the surrender of wakefulness.

He woke alone, and the cold streaks of tears burned icy on his cheeks,

His friends visited, but not for long. Holly, in particular, was eager to spectate the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw match that was taking place that morning. Speculation was rife around the school; had Slytherin's hapless Chasing trio pulled together enough to trouble the fast-growing Keeping legacy that was Aster Ogleby? Or was Odette's deadly precision going to end the game before the Chasers even began to play a part?

Rain was still absent – not that she had ever cared much for Quidditch – and Holly was having trouble getting a rise out of Cassie as James watched the group head out the door, laughing and joking. A pang of sadness rang out in his chest; Madam Petheridge had given him strict instruction that should he leave the bed before Monday at the very earliest she'd really give him cause to be ill.

He mostly didn't believe her.

James snoozed throughout the morning, occasionally hearing a stray cheer or boo from the distant Quidditch stands, drifting in through the cracked window on the wings of a coincident breeze. The sound of footsteps stirred him from his dazed slumber just before lunch, and he cracked open his eyes, expecting to see his friends returning.

'Odette?'

The Slytherin Quidditch captain was the last person in the school he expected to see. He told himself that she was the last person that he wanted to see, except maybe Preston Lynch. Still, his smile didn't quite falter the way he thought it should have upon laying eyes upon her.

Truth be told, she was still somewhat of a mess following the game; an angry red scratch stretched beneath her left eye, right up into her hairline, a small cut on her lower lip was leaking blood slowly, causing her to wipe at it in exasperation every few seconds. No glittering heels today; merely a pair of faded grey flip-flops over her stockinged feet, flecks of mud spattered halfway up her calves. The neckline of her oversized Slytherin jumper looked stretched, hanging down off her left shoulder, baring an alarming amount of skin, and a pale green, lacy bra-strap that James had to force himself not to look at.

A far cry from what he was used to seeing from the prissy upstart.

As she got closer, however, and his eyes began to focus, James noticed details a little more clearly. Like the way her trademark ashy blonde hair was tied up in a loose ponytail. A few wispy strands hung down to caress her jawline, framing her face and shining ethereal as they caught the midday sun streaming in through the window.

James realised he had been staring, and quickly tore his eyes away at the same time Odette cast her own down sheepishly.

'Who brought you the bush?' she asked, her voice devoid of the usual self-assuredness.

'Oh, erm, Hagrid.' James pushed himself up to a seated position, wincing slightly as burns from the Venom cracked and split at the slightest movement.

'Are you alright?' Odette asked, genuine concern tingeing her voice. She froze with an arm half reached out towards him, suddenly uncertain of what, if anything, she could do to help.

'Yea, fine,' James winced, finding the least painful position. 'What are you here for, anyway? Come to gloat about winning the match today? We're still ahead of you on the table.'

'No,' she said, sounding a little put out. 'But we did win. Just. Three goals was all we scored; we were down by a hundred and thirty-'

'When you swooped in and caught the Snitch to save the day? What a hero you are, Odette, really. I'd clap for you now if it wouldn't cause me so much pain.' James couldn't keep the sarcastic derision out of his voice, even has he saw the hurt growing on Odette's face.

He wasn't in the mood to talk Quidditch, not when he was stuck in here and they were all out there playing, having fun. Least of all was he interested in listening to Odette, of all people, gloat about her success.

'I'll just go then,' she murmured, scrubbing angrily at her lip with the back of her hand, leaving a long, red smear across her milky skin. 'I got this for you, anyway.'

She pulled something out from behind her ear – a flower. James frowned; had she been wearing it the whole time? Or was the act itself one of magic? She gently set it down beneath Hagrid's shrub, near where she had been standing at his bedside, turning to leave.

A single apple blossom, snowy white against the dark, stained wood. It caught a ray of sunlight, dewdrops glimmered bright and pure in the midday sun, so perfect and innocent. Merlin only knew where she had managed to find one at this time of year.

'Odette, wait-' James found himself calling out. She froze, now at the far end of his bed. James gestured to a spot next to him, where Cat usually sat and held his hand – not that he'd left Odette do that, obviously. The very thought…

'I'm sorry,' she all-but whispered. 'I should have known. I'd hate to be cooped up in here, told what I can and can't do each day. No walking about, no visitors, no Quidditch. Everyone always obsesses about what you can't do, no one likes to ask about what you can.'

'It sucks,' James grudgingly agreed. 'I just want to get out of here, back to normal. I want everyone to stop treating me like I'm made of glass. I want to get back to lessons, walk down by the Lake, but mostly I want to get back to Quidditch. I hate missing training. To be honest, I though Ryan would have come by at some stage.'

Odette froze, the colour draining from her face. She cast her eyes downwards, tracing a pattern on James' bed idly with one delicate finger. A single drop of blood fell from her lip, staining the sheets in brilliant carmine.

'James, he- he is. He will. We had a captains meeting last night, like we do before all the matches.'

Her nervous pause was beginning to worry James; a strange, cold feeling was coursing through him, emanating from somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

'James, you're currently too injured to play, and Madam Petheridge doesn't want to give you the all-clear to return for the next game just yet. So Ryan… Ryan has had to promote somebody while you are out. He's… Oh, James he's promoted Preston Lynch.'

All of the heat drained from the room, taking with it the colour. Torches burned but gave no heat, no light. Rich, ochre walls, adorned with tapestries were mere slashes of grey-on-grey. Odette's pale face, silvery hair, colourless irises, all of it had lost its lustre. Even her flower now sat ashen and lifeless atop his bedside table.

'So this… this is what you came to tell me?' James' voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. Just like the scene before him, it lacked inflection, rhythm, life.

Odette swallowed nervously, she was chewing on her lower lip, aggravating the cut and causing the blood to flow more freely. It trickled down her chin now in a muted ruddy track, unheeded.

'No- I mean yes- I mean, I wanted to-'

'To see how I'd react? To have a bit of a laugh? To poke a bit of fun at me while I'm down?'

He had gone from cold to hot now, blood thundering in his ears, heart racing in his throat. He wanted to get up, he needed to move. He tried to throw back the covers, but damned Odette was sitting on them, and even that small act sent streamers of pain flowing up his arms.

'James, you can't-'

'Oh, so now you are going to tell me what I can't do, as well? The whole flower, the nice girl act was just another little game of yours, wasn't it? Well are you happy, now? Does this make you happy?'

The anger was flowing through James unabated now. He heard footsteps from within the Hospital Wing, in the direction of Madam Petheridge's office, but paid them no heed. He lashed out an arm, scudding Odette's flower across the table and onto the floor, petals strewn about, the stem snapped. Tears beaded at the corner of his eyes – he told himself it was from the pain. He ignored Odette's tiny gasp of shock as he did so.

'James, please-'

'Just go, okay? You've had your fun. Go and laugh amongst your friends about it. Tell them you made James Potter cry, if you want. I don't even care, I don't care about them, or you, or Lynch, or anything!'

He was yelling now, and the approaching footsteps had quickened in pace. He heard an indistinct voice call out his name.

'I'm fine,' he snapped, the shakiness in his voice betraying the sentiment.

'Listen to me, James Potter!' Odette's voice cracked through his fiery haze of anger like a whip, despite her not having shouted in the least. 'I wanted to tell you now, before Ryan gets here. So it's not a surprise. So you can let it out now, here, with me.

'I know Ryan, at least well enough to know that he won't stand for any of this, you making a scene, getting upset. He'll just keep Lynch on the team without a second thought. Anything that gets in the way of his championship run will be pruned. This, this emotion, these feuds the two of you share, that is exactly the sort of thing that could stop him winning a championship. He likes you James, he speaks highly of you to all of us, but if you're not mature enough to take this like a team player then there's nothing any of us can do to get you back on the team, I'm sorry.'

Her monologue had cut clean through James' anger, sucking the wind from his sails and leaving him floundering, rudderless. He cast his gaze around, as if looking for something else to fix is fury on, but found no worthy cause. Words kept replaying over in his head, making a scene, or not mature enough. He wanted to lash back out at Odette, but something rational within him reigned him in. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the tears from his vision.

Instinctively, he reached out for a tissue from his bedside, holding it out to her; the frantic talking and lip-chewing had opened the cut right up, currently stemmed only by the collar of Odette's Slytherin jersey, the muddy red stain slowly growing.

James gasped as, instead of taking the tissue, Odette reached out, holding his own hand – and the tissue within it – to her bleeding lip. He froze, shocked, his arm extended awkwardly, pain creeping in to tender muscles. She looked at him, her eyes fierce, and perhaps a little watery, as she held his hand and the seconds stretched on in silence.

'Why, Miss Mansfield, what do we have here?'

A smooth, silken voice whispered into the space between them, shattering the tense, terse bonds that had been forming.

'Head- Headmistress,' Odette stammered, dropping James' hand like a stone and shooting upright, delivering an awkward half-curtsey.

'Not to worry, Tilly, I'll take it from here.'

James looked over to see an equally confused Madam Petheridge, her mouth agape, a single finger in the air as if to begin one of her infamous dressing-downs. She turned and scurried off, muttering rapidly beneath her breath.

Where in Merlin's name had Headmistress Renshaw come from?

'You must think very fondly of Mister Potter, indeed, Miss Mansfield. Coming here instead of your customary post-match warm-downs. Most devoted.'

Odette blushed furiously, taking an involuntary step backwards. James' eyes bulged at the implication. Galatea Renshaw curved the corner of one midnight-purple lip upwards into a cruel smile.

That seemed to be the icing on the proverbial cake, as Odette turned and fled wholly, looking back only once as she passed through the great oaken doors, embarrassment writ so plainly across her face.

'Now Mister Potter, I have you all to myself,' Renshaw made to assume Odette's vacated seat, next to James on the bed, casually flicking her wrist to Vanish the blood. 'It truly is most fascinating, once you know someone's deepest desires, how easily you can exploit their most guarded insecurities.

'What are Odette's deepest desires?' James asked before thinking.

'Ah, Mister Potter, I fear that the fact that you must ask that question means that you are not yet ready to know.'

He was getting sick and tired of hearing that explanation.

'And besides, who am I to stand before such things? I have learned my lesson, worry not about that.'

It was fast becoming the norm for these conversations with Headmistress Renshaw to leave James far more confused than before they had spoken. This one appeared to be starting out in much the same manner.

'But never mind about that, what I am really here to talk about is what happened to you down in that lake on Wednesday, and just why it is that you keep finding yourself in so much trouble.'

James had to stop himself from groaning aloud in exasperation, was he to get no rest at all?

The next hour and a half was spent exhaustively answering myriad questions from a persistent Headmistress; questions about what he said, what he did, what he looked at, what he wore, right down to the way Hagrid had tossed him in the lake. His return questions were batted away with less-than-satisfactory answers; yes she had spoken with the Merfolk; no, the two that attacked him wouldn't be any more trouble; yes, it was safe to return and continue with their project; no, there was no need for additional safety measures going forwards.

By the end of it James felt drained and lethargic, and was glad when she finally stood up gracefully to leave, sweeping a hand through her free-flowing, raven hair.

'I shall see you in a weeks' time, Mister Potter. I am forced to travel, unfortunately. As you can imagine, this has created quite the political uproar, all things considered.'

James just nodded dumbly, glad to finally be free. His eyes were already beginning to close as the Headmistress swept from the room, pausing only to speak briefly to Madam Petheridge.

'… leave it in my office, if you would, Tilly. I shall examine it upon my return. Most intriguing, by the sounds of it. A scarf, of all things. Farewell.'

James was asleep before she had even left the room.

The following Monday James was released, with little more than a stiffness in the muscles as a mark of the whole, harrowing ordeal. He was just glad it was all behind him now, hoping to get back to normal as quickly as possible. That week saw the last of October – and the welcoming of November celebrated with another fearsome storm rolling in across the lake, lashing the waves and the castle alike with sheets of driving, blinding rain.

Ryan had indeed been impressed with James' level-headed acceptance of his removal from the team; clapping him warmly on the shoulder (and sending a searing pain all down his left side) and informing him that he couldn't wait to get him back out there, to the point where he leaned down to whisper in James' ear that he 'also couldn't wait to get that Preston git out of there.'

Sadly, however, despite the fact that James was now out of the Hospital Wing, Madam Petheridge had made it abundantly clear that he would not be back to playing Quidditch until she was one hundred percent happy with his state.

Rain had remained curiously absent from his life, though he was beginning to become accustomed to that; she merely wandered in and out as she saw fit, revealing a mysterious secret here, potentially saving his life there. Everywhere she went, the shadow of whispers ever followed. She had begun to build it into a Cloak now, revelling in its presence, taking from it protection rather than harm, wrapping it about her to protect herself behind a shifting, smoky façade.

The following Wednesday, James was languishing in the common room, an entire plush couch all to himself. The roaring fire within was competing for supremacy with the howling wind without, and all the students were huddling tight into coats or blankets, trying to coax some life into stiffened, chilly limbs.

Together the Gryffindor Four were making a slow, wallowing effort at studying for an upcoming Transfiguration test. Not to be outdone by the rigorous new classes that Renshaw had introduced this year, Professor Plye seemed eager to vie for most-dreaded lesson of the week. He had been swamping them, almost gleefully, with more and more homework as the year progressed. James felt as if he had learned more in this first half of the year than he had his entire first year.

The most recent project involved the arduous process of Transfiguring a small army of wooden horses into identical, miniature dogs. They were to be graded on how consistent their pooches were, down to the finest little detail such as eye colour and coat lustre. So far James had yet to produce a dog without hooves. Though he supposed he was doing better than Clip, who had somehow managed to animate one of his subjects, and was now busy chasing it around the common room.

James leaned over to consult his textbook, flipping the page to find the section on wand movements. He frowned as a thick, creamy sheet of scented parchment slid out onto the sofa cushion.

Intrigued – and slow to learn about the dangers of opening mysterious notes – James slid his fingers beneath the seal and popped it open. He was immediately assaulted by a wafting scent of lavender and some sharp, sweet spice.

To: Students 769, 824, 742

Potter, Wallace, Lovegood.

First floor, room 47B, 7:30 p.m. Wednesday 1 November

Two doors down from the Come-and-Go room.

Mandatory,

Enchantress

The "E" on Enchantress was a massive, sprawling, cursive masterpiece. Even as James watched, midnight strands of ink lanced out across the page, twirling and interlocking like vines. They spread and spread, blacking out the soft, creamy parchment until all he held was a stiff, black sheet. A breeze, conjured from nowhere, gusted past him. He gasped as it did, for the sheet that he held was picked up and carried away as roiling purple-black smoke until there was no evidence of his ever having held anything at all.

'Er guys,' he exclaimed to the group, a nervous tension knotting itself in between his shoulders. 'I think it's time for Wren's Enchanting club.'

He wasn't even surprised when the three of them arrived at the aforementioned location to find Cassie and Rain already there.

'Did you get the letter?' Cassie asked, excitement flitting about the edges of her voice.

James nodded a little uncertainly, staring about the room, waiting for Wren to fade in out of some sliver of shadow. Five seats – apparently they were the only members to this most exclusive club – were arrayed facing the teachers' desk. The rest of the room was bare. One set of musty grey curtains stirred in a breeze which whined in through a shattered pane, causing the students to huddle in on themselves. James wished he had Rain's scarf.

'How amazing was it?' Cassie continued, 'such subtle magic, so beautiful. Do you think she will teach us to do that? It seems like a lot to learn in a single year, but I think I could manage it…'

'What a waste of a year that would be, Cassandra,' Rain drawled from where she sat, furthest from James. Her thick woollen scarf was bunched up beneath her chin. 'I should hope that someone who thinks as highly of themselves as this Wren does could teach us something a little more useful.'

'Well lucky for you, witch, I think rather highly of myself, indeed.'

The door to their room slammed shut, and a radiant warmth immediately began to seep out of the previously frigid stonework, forcing James to shrug out of his bulky overcoat. Wren – The Enchantress – strode purposefully in, barely glancing at them, coming to a halt behind the teachers' desk, facing them all with a challenging glare.

The silence waxed eloquent for a minute, then two.

James tried to study Wren, without her noticing what he was doing. She was slight of build, taller than average for a girl her age, without being remarkably so. Dark of hair and eye, honey skin. She wore a long, black blouse that was nearly a dress and plain, black tights. Alone, none of these factors were remarkable.

What was it, then, that was so imperious, so indomitable, so larger-than-life about her? The way she never blinked as her eyes drifted lazily across each of them, calculating, weighing, measuring, discarding. The way her posture never faltered; back ramrod straight, shoulders back, chin upright. The way she looked down her nose with those almond eyes as if she just knew that she was better than you.

Whatever it was, it made James uneasy, a squirming sensation, an itch he couldn't scratch. Likely because he had stolen her most prized magical possession towards the end of last year and she probably wanted to skin him alive. So long as there were witnesses, however, he figured he would be safe. Probably.

'As it eventuates,' Wren began, her voice languid and bored. 'I have no choice in the matter of teaching the lot of you. Aunt Tia – Headmistress Renshaw – has mandated this little club, and there appears to be nothing I can do to nullify that. Thus.'

Clip shot James a concerned glance. He replied with a mute shrug.

'So tell me, children. Do any of you actually know anything about Enchanting?'

Cassie raised her hand uncertainly.

'Yes…'

'Cassandra.'

'Like I care.'

'Oh, erm well… Enchanting is a school of magic oft-confused with Charms, as both methods have an overtly similar end result: applying magical properties to a usually inanimate object in order to change its function or aesthetics. Charms achieve this by utilisation of the magical power of the individual casting the charm; the directed magical energy is applied to the object through the caster, thus imposing a change in properties of the object. Enchanting, on the other hand-'

'Yawn… If I had wanted the textbook thrown at me I'd have asked Madam Cresswell to do it. Anybody else care to continue?'

Cassie looked crestfallen. Clip nervously cleared his throat.

'The mud- Muggleborn. Go on.'

'Clip, Clip Wallace. Er, well from what I understood in the book, when you Enchant something you do so without actively funnelling the magic through your own body. Like, every other form of magic uses the human body as a vessel; we funnel the energy from the Magical Flux through us to create a spell. With Enchanting, though, you work entirely apart from your own body. There is no vessel, so, in theory no limitations to the amount of magic you can work. I don't understand how that can be possible, though. It seems too dangerous.'

'Of course you don't understand,' Wren snapped. 'You're a twelve-year-old Muggleborn who can barely lift a feather and only gets by because you spend all of your worthless free time reading every book you can get your greasy little paws on. Twenty points from both your houses, by the way. I know for a fact that the only book that holds that information currently resides in the Restricted Section, so you've clearly broken the School Rules to get it. Be thankful I don't kick you out on the spot.'

'But-' Cassie started.

'I never-' Clip protested.

'Argue with me again and I'll transfigure your arse to your mouth and force-feed you a pound of laxatives, Mudblood. Am I understood?'

Clip nodded. Cassie nodded. James silently fumed.

'What the pair of you fumbled around at like a pair of blind dogs was, at least, close to fact. Close enough to get you killed, had you ever tried Enchanting, yourselves, might I add.

'The art of magic known as Enchanting is one many claim to be forgotten. That is a bare-faced lie. It is forgotten only in the way a repressed memory is forgotten. Writing on the subject has been forbidden for the greater part of a century. It has not been taught at Hogwarts in decades. The only place where it is actively practiced is within the Department of Mysteries. And likely behind the heavily Warded doors of many of the Old Blood.

'Why, then, does my darling Aunt see fit to teach such supposedly dangerous magic to a bunch of drooling twelve-year olds? I find myself asking the same question. It is a brave new world out there, she tells me. And what is decried here as dangerous magic, elsewhere is utilised to do great good. Behind me, of course, Aunt Tia hopes to nurture a bold new generation of witches and wizards who will push the frontiers of magic further than it has ever been pushed, to create, to build, to advance. We cannot do that if we cower in fear from ancient superstitions, hiding behind the skirts of greater Witches than ourselves, afraid to test the waters for fear of what getting wet might entail.

'And so, if my part in this legacy, this Renaissance, is to begin with instructing children on how to wipe the snot from their chins, then so be it. For it will be my name chiselled into that Marble Arch in years to come. They will say "The Enchantress" with fear.'

James was feeling not a small amount of fear himself, right now. Judging by the expressions on his friends' faces, he wasn't alone. This side of Wren was scarier even than when she had found out about her missing map.

'And so. Enchanting is, indeed, a form of magic which forgoes the use of our bodies as filter to the power. This, as you guessed at, means that there is theoretically no limit to the power which we can wield. Humans are weak. Our bodies are weak. We can handle only a sliver of the amount of magic that we dream of. Some people can train their bodies to handle more; these men and women become powerful wizards and many bow at their feet. But these fools but stand on pedestals, while I will teach you how to walk among the stars.

'Enchanting is different in every aspect to any branch of magic you have learned thus far. You will have to unlearn what you already know, every time that you walk in that door if you wish to succeed in here. Your minds will have to be sharper, harder, and faster than any of your peers. You will have to have total control of the magic you craft each and every time you Work. What could happen should you take too much magic and pour it into any one Enchantment?'

The five of them blinked as one, collectively stunned by the abrupt presentation of a question.

'You'd damage the Flux,' Rain whispered, almost reverently.

'Correct, witch. Perhaps one of those brains inside that head of yours knows what it's doing.'

James saw the corner of one of Rains eyes twitch. Which was as good as a shocked gasp, for her.

'The Flux – the Magical Essence that is layered on, in and through everything on this planet, the very lifeblood of a witch or wizards magic – ever seeks redress. The magic of one human, even that of a thousand, here at Hogwarts, is as nothing to its flow. Each time a student draws from it to cast a spell, restructuring the Magical Energy and thus reordering the Flux, the magic flows back to take its place. Think of it like a river, or a stream. When you take some water away, more rushes to take the place of the material you just removed.'

'Like wind,' Clip muttered.

'Don't interrupt. But yes, in the same way as air moves around our planet as wind, so too does the Magical Flux flow in response to those who draw from it. Should a witch or wizard draw too much, and deplete the Flux in that area to such an extent, they will shatter the balance. The Flux will not be able to flow back sufficiently quickly to restore the balance. It will snap, tear, open a giant wound in the very fabric of magic itself, with consequences even I am too terrified to dwell on. That, children, is why we do not teach of Enchanting in schools.'

The five of them staggered out of that room an hour and a half later, their minds stuffy and buzzing. Wren had mostly talked at them for the remainder of the lesson; about rules and impossibilities, about what they must never try and why they were too stupid to do it anyway. Of actual, practical Enchanting, they learned nothing, and left with only the threat of swift retribution if they had not read the entire textbook list that she had ascribed to them by the next time they met.

'Does it scare you, James Potter?'

James jumped – in fright – as the voice appeared right next to his ear. He spun about to face Rain – a grave mistake – a wave of wooziness washed over him, forcing a steadying hand out to clutch at the stone wall for balance.

'I wish you'd stop doing that,' he growled through gritted teeth.

'Permit me my fantasies, if you will,' was all she said in response.

'I suppose it is a little scary, come to think about it.' The pair made their way back toward their respective common rooms together, hanging back a ways from the others, all of whom were eagerly chatting away in a tight huddle about this exciting new magic.

'Fear is good. From fear comes respect. From respect, understanding. I think you would make a fine Enchanter, one day.'

James just mumbled noncommittally. Rain pulled her dark coat tighter around the tartan jumper she wore. Her creamy, woollen scarf hung down, low about her chest. James caught a glimpse of gold in amongst the thick folds of cloth.

'Are you eyeing my scarf again, James Potter? I should think that one is enough, surely. I was rather fond of that one. But then, I am rather fond of you, so I must say it was worth the loss.'

'I liked it too, right up until Madam Petheridge confiscated it and handed it over to Renshaw. Something about examining what I was wearing when the Merfolk attacked.'

Rain froze on the spot. She had linked her arm through James' own, so this caused him to grind to a halt as well.

'She what?'

'She confiscated it. Gave it to Renshaw, who said she'll examine it once she's back from… wherever it is she left to. I can ask for it back after that, if you'd like?'

Rain's mouth worked silently for a moment. Her eyes darted up to the ceiling above them, then back to the floor. She disentangled herself from James. Chewed on a bright red-painted lip for a moment. Ran a hand through her hair. All these signs of nerves were setting James on edge.

'What is it?' he asked, worried.

Finally, she spun to James, gripping him on both upper arms, fiercely tight. There was a desperate, unguarded plea in her eyes that James had never seen before, and it frightened him far more than any of Wrens empty words.

'James, if Renshaw sees that scarf… I'm dead. Really dead. You're dead. Everything is ruined.'

He stared wide-eyed back at her. All this for a scarf?

'An entire lifetime…' she mumbled, evidently not for his ears. 'Again. I can't… Not again. Too much… Not strong enough.'

'If it means that much to you…' James began, squirming inside as he knew where this was going to end up.

'James, please. I beg of you. We have to steal that scarf. We have to break into Renshaw's office.'