By the time early December arrived at Hogwarts, the Christmas spirit had well and truly permeated the castle. The customary twelve massive fir trees stood proud behind the Staff Table. This year Hagrid had gone all out, clearly working on the principle that bigger was, indeed, better. The trees were so large that they wholly covered one side of the Great Hall. A wall-to-wall expanse of needles and branches, each tree reaching out to join arms in verdant celebration. So tall were they that their tops became dipped in the clouds, disappearing as they did far up into the magical ceiling above.

James spent the entirety of one breakfast session trying to work out where tree ended and ceiling began. He succeeded in little more than giving himself a splitting headache for the remainder of the day.

Hagrid appeared to have lain down the festive gauntlet, and all throughout the castle, teachers and students alike clamoured to outdo the scale of their celebrations. Professor Plye had them all Transfiguring various species of local wildlife into secret gifts for one another, with prizes for the most flamboyant and gaudy. James was less-than-thrilled with the toad-cum-nightlight that he received from Fred. He had managed to retain the slimy texture as well as the ability to emit an earth-shuddering croak periodically whilst it was glowing. At least it was coloured red-and-green to get them in the spirit.

Not to be outdone, Professor Longbottom had the second-years busily knitting and fitting festive earmuffs and little mittens on his most recent batch of young Mandrakes. This was until Leah Ridley thought she could cut corners by stuffing her own earmuffs over the ears of her clamouring flora, promptly fainting on the spot and eliciting an almost nostalgic smile from the Professor.

The hallways were a riot of colour: tinsel hung from every protrusion; reds and greens and golds draped over the poor suits of armour, which Professor Budd had charmed to toss confetti or dangle mistletoe above passing students. Sadly, this was discontinued after the charm backfired and a Hufflepuff fourth year ended up with a branch to the face and an outrageous black eye.

Ghosts sung carols, students skipped through the halls, the sound of their laughter joining in symphony. The silly season had most certainly arrived. James even caught Renshaw, striding through all of the merriment in her ever-present black garb, pause for a moment before a suit of armour which was vigorously brandishing an arm-thick bough bedecked with a cluster of mistletoe. As if by Apparition, Proffesors Longbottom, Plye and – for good measure – Ellfrick vanished from the room, leaving only James, Fred and a rather vexed Headmistress.

The day after that there was only a suspicious-looking hole in the ground where once that suit of armour had stood.

The facet of celebrations which had most captured the imagination of the students, however, was the gifts. Slowly, one day at a time throughout December, the entirety of second-year received an identical parcel, popped on the end of their bed as they slept in the night. There was no name, no possible hint of who this mysterious gift-giver could be. Each parcel was identical; ten inches long, reasonably pliant, smoked slightly if squeezed, and each bore the same identical scrawl of handwriting. A code; a time seemed to be the general consensus, a time before which the mysterious gifts should not – nay, must not – be opened: the last Saturday of term.

Georgia Braithwaite found this out the hard way – much to Holly's glee – as the moment she tore at the outwardly-flimsy wrapping she promptly became alarmingly buoyant, floating up to the ceiling amidst a chorus of panicked screams.

The story went that she spent an entire morning up there, with nobody able to bring her down. Every time the poor girl opened her mouth a tumble of soft, powdery snow cascaded out in a sparkling waterfall, serenaded by numerous heavily-altered and incredibly crass Christmas Carols.

After that, the mysterious packages were treated with a bit more caution. A few students tried tossing them out, but each time they did, they would wake to find another one sat primly at the foot of their bed, delivered as if by magic.

The mystery held the entire school tightly within its grip.

A roar went up among the second year students as the end of class was signalled on the second-last Friday of the term. It hadn't helped that they had been practising Cheering Charms, and many of the students were bubbling with an overflow of giggles. James waited patiently in his desk, unmoving as the turmoil raged around him.

'Did you hear Emry Sameer tried to cast a diagnostic charm on his? It turned him into a chicken for a full half-hour.'

'They've got to be some sort of joke, surely.'

'I heard Tansy McKendrick saying that they are letters from the Desecrator. You know, that guy who was destroying all the magical sites last year? She says her Aunt said that he's recruiting.'

'He was caught, remember?'

Almost half of the conversation snippets that drifted James' way were centred on the true nature of the gifts. They were a mystery, to be sure. His had arrived just last night, with a tiny little blue ribbon on top. He was hesitant to touch it; one could never quite be too sure when it came to these types of things.

Once the class had filed out, James slowly approached their excitable Charms professor, an innocent smile on his face. Professor Budd was sitting atop a makeshift throne of books – his newly acquired lecturing chair – and humming a bouncy tune under his breath. He appeared to be completely oblivious to James' existence.

'Erm Professor? D'you mind if I ask you a favour? In the spirit of Christmas and all of that…'

Some time later James bustled from the room, checking his watch eagerly and dashing up the stairs towards the Owlery. He had a busy night ahead.

Someone had thought it a brilliant idea to tie tiny little bells onto the feet of each of the owls, and so as James approached, he was treated to a calamitous cacophony of tinkling and jingling as nearly a thousand birds hopped, ruffled and hooted.

And, of course, shat.

'Eck, gross!' James swore, un-suctioning his foot from a particularly wet pile of owl-droppings and glaring up towards the ceiling above. 'If I find the one of you who did this, I'll make owl mittens out of you.'

The whole ruddy lot of them just stared right back, unblinking. Tinkle, tinkle.

Channelling his inner Zoe Meadows, James decided to elaborate. 'You think I'm joking? I'll grab you by the stupid poofy neck and jam my arm so far up inside-'

A very human-like, rather shocked little gasp snapped James' attention back to ground level. He felt his cheeks flare with embarrassment.

'Oh James, do you always talk to the birds like that? Maybe I ought to wear a feather in my hair, then maybe you'll say such… exhilarating things to me.'

'Ugh. Odette.'

She finally decided to close the door, sauntering up uncomfortably close to him so that their shoulders were touching. She was dressed, like most students these days, in almost a dozen layers of clothing. She wore a black coat with green trim, and a simple, embroidered silver 'S' on the breast. Up this close, she was tall. The rain outside had turned to snow, and James noticed some of it caught up in her lashes, melting slowly from her body heat.

He thought strongly about taking a step away from her, but was cut off by another steaming gift from the owls.

She rolled her eyes, as if she was far too mature to be so petty. James suddenly felt a little silly for his reaction, and blushed some more.

'You know you don't have to wade through a sea of owl-mess each time.'

'I know that…' James trailed off, feeling like an idiot. Of course he did, he had just been far too preoccupied with making other arrangements. He checked his watch once more. Time was of the essence. 'Scourgify!'

A tiny square the size of his hands cleared from the path before him. Stupid, boring cleaning spells.

'Oh darling, you're doing it all wrong. Hold your wand out. Like this.'

James just stared up at her, blinking in confusion. Odette made a vexed tsk, planting hands on hips.

Without any warning, she reached down across James and grabbed his wand-hand, raising it up to chest height.

James twitched, an instinctive jerk attempting to distance himself from Odette, but she held him firmly. They had both removed their gloves once in the marginally warmer interior, and her skin was soft. James stared, fixated at her long, gracile fingers and perfectly painted, jet-black nails.

'-did you hear me, darling?'

'Wha- erm. Yes?'

'Yes? Sweetie, I asked the ratio of zig to zag that you use in the wand movements for the spell.'

'Oh.'

She had turned to face him. Her left arm was still reaching across his chest, firmly gripping his wrist. Her right had snaked around behind him, and was currently cradling his elbow in position for the spell. He could see the sheen on the fresh, midnight-purple paint decorating her lips, and a tiny freckle beneath her left eye he had never noticed before. Her breath was hot and sweet, rich with Christmas spices.

She was close to what Tristan called the "tipping point" – the distance, beyond which – your faces were so close that you were going to kiss. There was no backing out once that barrier had been broached. Suddenly, an image of him and Odette kissing began to coalesce in his mind, to the point where it became all that he could think of. Terrified, he tried to back away, but pressed up against the wall there was no going anywhere. She was staring at him, waiting for a response, her eyes lidded, her gaze smoky. He could see the faintest glimmer of perfect teeth from the way her lips were slightly parted.

An owl above them screeched in alarm, and suddenly the room was alive in a tinkling, jingling riot as no fewer than twelve owls careened in through an upper window, startling the entire roost.

The pair jerked back in alarm. James had never been so happy to see a package arrive in his life. He didn't even like the girl. How in Godric's name had she wrangled him into a position where he was thinking about kissing her? Merlin, but he didn't even like kissing!

'Another day, perhaps,' she grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet and eagerly scanning for her own owl.

James got annoyed just looking at her.

As he staggered out under the weight of his gigantic parcel, he turned at the door one last time. Odette was busy fastening a letter onto the leg of a perfectly groomed eagle owl.

'I sure am going to enjoy beating you on the pitch, next week.'

Odette looked up, not breaking eye contact as her owl hopped onto her arm and subsequently took off amidst another chorus of jingling bells. A tiny smile quirked the corner of her midnight lips.

'A date? On the pitch? How lovely! I shall make sure I do my hair.'

James couldn't roll his eyes enough as he stomped his way with his package back up to the castle through the snow.

'Again, Potter! If I'd wanted it to be this cold, I would have placed it next to my heart!

Wren, it seemed, was entirely exempt from the Yuletime cheer. Not even so much as a bow in her long, dark hair.

James scowled down at the stick he was supposed to be Enchanting with Everblaze. It remained aggravatingly free of even the faintest trail of smoke. So far, a shower of sparks from Rain, and a violent explosion from Cat were all that the group had collectively managed. Sweat was trickling down into James' eyes, despite the frigid air in the damp dungeon room. His eyes darted between the open textbook in his lap and the stubborn stick set before him.

Wren had called them all together one more time before term's end to see how they had been progressing. She had spent the first quarter hour lecturing them on the importance of keeping up with their reading – which they all assured her they had been doing. James could certainly vouch for that; he'd lost precious hours of sleep over the past weeks to a never-ending flow of thick, esoteric textbooks on the intricacies and dangers of Enchanting.

Another twenty minutes passed, filled with increasingly frustrated whispered verses and vexed tuts. At one point Clip let out an excited yell, only to be cut short as he realised that it was merely his nearby wand, reacting to the constant attempts at magic by its owner, and emitting a shower of golden sparks.

'That's enough,' Wren eventually barked, ceasing the eye-rolling and derisive stares that she had been showering upon them for the last hour.

James leaned back in his seat, wiping his brow. All five of them were equally exhausted. Cassie had gone so far as to point her wand at her face, generating a cool breeze which ruffled her short, auburn hair.

'As you have all no doubt just discovered, this isn't going to be an easy road to success. Nobody is going to hand this skill to you. You will not master it without considerable magical talent, the utmost diligence and hours upon hours of practice.

'The only magic that any of you produced today was of the accidental wandless variety.'

There was a chorus of disappointed sighs among the five students.

'Believe me – I know the feel of Enchanting, and none of you were even close. Tangentially, Lovegood you should see someone at St. Mungo's. If your magical core is so unstable that it can produce such a violent explosion on a whim, there's a good chance there's something wrong with you. Other than the obvious, of course.'

Cat shrugged off the not-so-subtle insult without missing a beat. 'Oh, Mummy said I'm very prone to Whimsy Sprites. They're quite playful, always getting up to mischief. I think they were just bored, is all.'

Wren went so far as to sink her face into her palm, exasperated.

'Mental deficiencies aside, you have to understand just how difficult this is. I could have had you practising that for the past month and you all would have still produced the same result, and fire is the easiest of all elements to Enchant.

'You are not just learning a new spell, you are learning a whole entire branch of magic. It is as if you are Muggles, and I am the lone witch. That is the learning curve which you must surmount in order to succeed.'

We get it, James sighed internally. You're clever Wren, good for you. He was starting to doubt if his spiteful acceptance of this Club had really been worth it after all.

'To do this, you must un-learn what you know about Magic. From the moment you think of a spell, until it bursts forth from your wand, that entire process is void. You must meditate, as it says in your books. You must open your minds entirely, let your stream of consciousness and thought meld with the Magical Flux, for only once you can sense it, can you begin to manipulate it.

'From page two hundred and seven of The Blossoming Lotus: "The student must close their eyes and open their minds. They must let forth all of their knowledge to the Flux, and trust only in Faith that it shall return unharmed. For only when one can give all of themselves, and give freely, will the gift of limitless power be given in turn."'

James closed his eyes. He laid his hands, palm down, on the table. He tried to be as still and peaceful as he could, he snatched at serenity, clutched at total calm. It was ever elusive. He tried to give up his thoughts, his memories, and his secrets. He imagined himself offering them as if at an altar, holding high the intangible gift for the ethereal Flux to swoop down upon, hoping desperately that he should be found worthy. There had been an entire book on the disastrous consequences of doing this wrong.

There was no clock in the low-ceilinged, damp dungeon in which they sat, but the hands would have shifted a complete turn before James noticed anything. He was combing through his memories, desperately offering up his most hidden secrets, like the time he broke Al's toy broomstick and blamed a drunk Uncle Ron, or the time he had dove through golden fire to save a desperate friend… Wait- what?

Searing heat, a glowing barrier. Bonds, writhing, fighting, screaming. Crumpled bodies, a spill of red-gold hair. Desperation. A figure, out of place, too real. Too familiar-

James jerked awake at his desk. He looked around, his friends were now staring at him, concern writ across their faces. All except for Clip who had apparently just woken up from a deep slumber. Wren's gaze was fixed on him, hard and icy. Her eyes were swirling with myriad guarded emotions. It was a long time before she spoke.

'That is all for now. I expect progress when you return from holidays, or I shall end this venture and write you all off as a complete waste of my time.'

'Merry Christmas to you, too,' Rain drawled back at her.

Outside, James managed all of six steps before he was accosted by his friends.

'So, did you manage it?' Cassie pounced, spinning on him and practically pinning him against the wall.

'What was it like?' Clip persisted, wide-eyed expectancy all over his face.

'So that was where all the Wrackspurts came from,' Cat mused behind her ridiculous, pink-and-green goggles.

James was too busy flicking between the four of them as they pored over him beneath the torchlight. It was Rain who eventually answered.

'I don't think you did it, did you James?'

He shook his head. Concern replaced excitement on Cassie's features. Cat removed the glasses, stared back at the classroom from which they had just exited.

'You kicked the table, mate,' Clip explained cautiously. 'Woke me right up. Then you sort of went all rigid, like your muscles were all tensed up. As if you were about to jump off the Gryffindor Tower into the Lake, or something.'

'I- yea…' James recalled the building tension as he had charged through fire. But the memory seemed so foreign to him now. He grasped at it like a fading dream, but details were hazy.

'I don't think right here is the place to speak of it,' Rain suggested, sharing Cat's pointed glare at their makeshift classroom.

James agreed wholeheartedly, though he couldn't put his finger on why.

They headed back up through the castle, Cat happily changing the subject to how she and her mother were set to spend the holidays in Australia, where it was the middle of summer. She waxed eloquent about the Billywig-hunting trips that they had prepared, and promised to bring some back for the others.

'I'm going to the Alps to go skiing,' Cassie offered.

'Hey, Aunt Hermione likes that! What is skiing? Uncle Ron says it's terrifying.'

'Erm, it's a sort of Muggle sport. You strap boards onto your feet and slide down a mountainside. It's really quite a rush, my family does it every year.'

James was stuck imagining a bunch of Muggles careening down the side of the Alps, decked out in varying lengths of timber. 'Muggles are mental.'

'Says the boy who thinks that flying around fifty feet in the air whilst students throw giant balls at him is a fine example of sport!'

'At least there's no Yeti on a Quidditch pitch,' Cat offered sagely.

Their laughter was exacerbated by a nearby suit of armour aggressively tossing handfuls of confetti after them all the way along the corridor. The smile was still on James' face as he crawled into bed later that night. Despite the howling storms and the terrifying memories, the happiness of his friends was more than enough to keep him warm.

The final week of school passed in a haze of mistletoe, tinsel and Christmas Carols, but before the students could leave for the holidays there were two hotly-anticipated events that had yet to pass.

The first, obviously, was the Quidditch showdown between Gryffindor and Slytherin. It was to be a top-of-the-table clash with the undefeated Gryffindor team coming up against the streaky Slytherins, fresh of another nail-biting win over Ravenclaw, thanks to Odette's heroics.

The second was to be the opening of the mysterious parcels. The time and date that had been scrawled upon them was the coming Saturday and nine o'clock, immediately prior to the game. James strode into a crowded Great Hall that morning, his own wrapped package tucked into a pocket of his Quidditch Robe.

A distracted round of cheers went up along the Gryffindor table, met by some half-hearted boos from the Slytherins. Fred was a starter this week; Archie MacDougal had received a one-match ban for his questionable tactics in helping secure Gryffindor the win in their last match, and so Freddy had been training with the first-string all week.

He wore his uniform proudly, despite the chilly edge to the morning air. Today there was no Reserve Squad jacket to hide the resplendent crimson-and-gold, and James smiled alongside him as he gave a mock bow, sliding into one of the last empty spots along the table, saved for them by the rest of the team.

'Full house today,' Fred grinned wickedly at James.

'It's those bloody parcels,' Will laughed, draining a goblet of pumpkin juice in one go. 'Even the older students are curious. Danny Williams nicked one from a Hufflepuff squirt and tried to open it last night. Turned him pink, head to toe. Come to mention it, I don't see him here this morning. He's probably still up there in the shower, scrubbing away.'

'There's no way he'll get it out,' James smirked. 'Not for a week at least.'

Will shot him a questioning look.

'Call it intuition.'

James and Fred extracted their own parcels, laying them down on the table in plain view. They immediately attracted a horde of curious stares.

'You're not going to open them,' Ryan rumbled, joining the group. It wasn't a question.

'Erm, well Ryan you see…' Fred began.

'I just get this feeling that would be a really, really bad idea.' James finished.

'Merlin only knows what's in them. You're supposed to be starting Weasley. If you get yourself injured you'll be off the team indefinitely.'

Fred swallowed a little nervously. 'Let's just say we have a little inside information that they're harmless. Relatively speaking.'

Ryan's lingering gaze caused the pair to squirm uncertainly.

'Looking good Freddy!' Lillian chirped, flouncing down next to Ryan, practically on his lap due to the lack of space. She didn't seem to mind. 'You too, James. You nice and limber? I thought you might have been wearing-'

'That's enough,' Ryan barked, cutting her off abruptly.

Wearing what?

He pushed himself up from the table, spearing Lillian with a final, menacing look, and marched purposefully up towards the Staff Table. Lillian looked entirely put-out by the whole ordeal, a sulky expression souring her usually-bright demeanour.

'Get ready,' Fred's voice was laced with anticipation.

It was thirty seconds until nine o'clock.

A hush descended upon the entire room. Breaths were held, conversations abated. The only sound that could be heard was a whisper-shouted argument between Ryan and the Headmistress.

The rustling of wrapping paper began to grow as nervous hands fidgeted. All eyes were on the clock above the door to the Entrance Hall. Ten seconds to go.

Five.

The great, resonating chimes of the school clock were drowned out, as over a hundred pairs of hands dove for over a hundred parcels, furiously tearing at the paper. Those brave enough to refuse the mysterious packages were treated to a series of small explosions. When the smoke settled, they could easily be picked out as the few students clad head-to-toe in glittering tinsel.

'A Christmas hat?' Will groaned, disappointed. 'I had been hoping for something a little more exciting.'

James and Fred had led the students in donning theirs, soon the entire second year was kitted out in identical, matching, bright-red Santa hats.

Perfect.

'Keeps my ears warm,' James retorted. 'Wanna try it?'

Will shrugged, catching the thrown hat and pulling it on tightly. James immediately turned up towards the staff table, caught the eyes of a certain excitable professor, and nodded.

WHAM!

A few startled shrieks as the doors to the Entrance Hall slammed shut. Students clamoured, a few frightened voices rose above the noise. One or two were looking between the Hats and the doors, confused.

James heard three sharp raps of a wand, and then it started to snow.

The roof of the Hall became entirely covered in thick, grey clouds. An imaginary breeze swept through the room, blowing out candle after candle. The fires sputtered in the hearths. Nervous giggles ensued. Gentle, wafting snowflakes sauntered softly down to land among the students, melting away to nothing as soon as they made contact with wood or tile or robe.

'So pretty,' James heard a nearby third-year sigh dreamily.

He and Fred shared their most evil grin yet.

That was when the screams began to start.

All around them, second year students were leaping up from the tables in terror, gasping, shrieking, pointing. The snow continued to fall, building in intensity. Swirls and eddies began to form in the drifts. James plucked a flake from his outstretched tongue.

The screaming continued.

Throughout the hall, every single Christmas Hat that the snowflakes touched melted away in an instant, a house of cards beneath a clumsy hand. As they disappeared, a sudden rush of red smoke billowed from each Hat down over the shoulders of each wearer. When it cleared again, every single student who had been hit was entirely, unequivocally, one-hundred-percent bald.

Laughter from the older students was beginning to overcome the screams now, as a hundred bald second years ran madly about the room, screaming, feeling their smooth, shiny pates, and banging furiously on the doors. The deluge spared no-one. Those who were quick enough to cower under tables were soon dragged out by joyous older students, held squealing and squirming like a pig at slaughter as their end drifted lazily down towards them in the form of tiny, white sparkles.

Will MacDougal was caught between being flabbergasted and furious.

'You-!' he roared at James, an ear-to-ear grin splitting his face.

James tried his best to look innocent, but burst into a fit of laughter upon catching a glimpse of Fred, who had nicked a candle and affixed it to the top of his bald head, the rich olive skin gleaming in the flickering light.

'I need to shake the hand of whoever came up with this,' Fred laughed, tapping the side of his nose.

'Look at the Slytherin girls! Viola Greengrass is actually crying!'

James looked up towards the Staff Table and flicked the briefest of salutes to Professor Norvel Budd.

'Potter.'

The firm hand on his shoulder caused him to start.

'Ryan? What's up? Second-year got a hair cut.'

'I don't care about that, Potter. You shouldn't either. I just talked to Renshaw, and there's no way around it. Flint scored a "T" on two of his end-of-term exams. He's been barred from participating this week under Renshaw's new academic acceptance rule. You're up. Are you ready?'

Suddenly all of the mirth within him wilted like a dying flower, to be replaced by a hearty serving of nerves.

'Erm yea, sure. Whatever you need. I'm ready, definitely.'

Ryan nodded, stalking off without another word. James hoped he had convinced his captain, because he certainly was a long way from convincing himself.

All of a sudden the madness around him seemed to fade, become less amusing. Fred squealing as hot wax dripped onto his newly-bald head. Cat, convinced that someone was hiding her hair just out of sight, spinning around until she was too dizzy to stand, desperately searching for her flowing, silver-blonde locks.

As the only student in second-year still with a full head of hair, James was beginning to draw a few looks and pointed fingers. He paid them no heed as the team rose as one, headed for the doors. Hands reached down, fumbling at the zipper to his Reserve Squad jacket, jerking it free. The brilliant crimson and gold burned brightly.

Odette and the Slytherins awaited them in the Entrance Hall, watching the Gryffindors march past with barely-veiled hostility. James caught Odette's eyes, briefly registering the unabashed shock on her face upon seeing him in playing attire. Lillian was resting an arm on his shoulder, speaking rapid-fire instructions and encouragement. One word in five made it through his shocked fugue. None of them stuck.

Bright blue sky, at odds with the faux-snow within the Hall. A biting, sharp coldness that stabbed at exposed skin. A pale, watery sun hung low in the sky, kissing the tops of the Forest with her soft light.

Just another practice, James told himself as he picked his broom up off of the racks. He traced a deep gouge in the wood, right where his left hand would reside. He imagined his mother riding it, winning the cup with it, brilliant red hair streaming out behind her as she barrelled towards the goal hoops and victory.

The bile in his throat persisted all through the warm-ups. As the team gathered for their final pre-match speech, James found himself crouched over a toilet bowl, watery-eyed, wiping at his mouth. A massive hand grasped him by the shoulder, pulling him to his feet.

'You'll do fine today, Potter,' Ryan barked gruffly.

'I- how do you know?' James blurted out. He immediately felt ashamed for asking such a childish question.

His captain paused for a moment. Squinted his rich, golden eyes at James. His mouth twisted as if he was tasting his words before speaking.

'I see a lot of us in you, Potter. The way we were in our early years. First to practice, last one to leave. We notice the little upset look you get when you don't beat us down to the pitch in the mornings.'

James gave a sheepish smile.

'The main difference, I think, is your confidence. The three of us were told that we were the future from the day we walked in here. Together, we were going to blaze a trail for a new generation of Gryffindor dominance. And we have. You, on the other hand, have Doxies like Lynch in your ear all day, bringing you down. Sirens like that Mansfield wench messing with your head – it's no accident she's taken a liking to you Potter.

'You need to believe me when I say that your commitment, your training, your bloody knowledge of the game isn't average. Merlin, it's not even above average. Not even Wood was as twigged on to what happens out on that pitch as you are, and she's… well, never mind what she is.

'What I'm trying to say, Potter is that there are thirteen other people in that changing room with you, and the only one worried about how you'll do on the field is you.'

James was trying desperately to stamp down on the goofy smile that was tugging at the corners of his lips. When Ryan O'Flaherty spoke to you, you didn't smile like some sighing fourth-year. He bit his tongue to stop it, nodded as gruffly as he could manage, and went in for the firmest handshake he could muster. All of those factors, plus the lasting soreness in his crushed fingers, meant that when he slammed the door on that bathroom to re-join his team, the nerves stayed behind.

And there they stayed, as the teams trotted out onto the pitch for the captains' handshake. James shivered slightly from the cold, slapping his upper arms to keep them lively.

Again, James felt Odette's eyes on him across the pitch. Of course she had done her hair – dyed snowy white and tied up in an intricate braided crown. A single, pale feather was tucked in behind her ear. Her grin was predatory.

Ryan's hand enveloped hers, her feature's remained impassive beneath the crushing handshake. One long blast on the whistle by Professor Hawksby, and the players mounted up. Two more, and the game began.

Ryan instantly had possession of the Quaffle, bumping off Collette Malkin easily. There were no Bludgers to duck, as the Slytherin Beaters were currently under fire from Fred and Will. With just the Keeper to beat, Ryan zinged a shot low at the left hoop. The sheer speed behind it was too much for the hapless Slytherin Keeper. Ten to nil, Gryffindor.

James joined in the brief round of high-fives, before it was their turn to play defence. Collette led out with the Quaffle, dumping off a short pass to Selwyn MacNair, a monster of a second-year boy with blonde hair and arms like James' legs.

He looked across to Lillian, she flashed him a hand signal for man-coverage, and James nodded acquiescence, moving up to pressure MacNair. The Slytherins were grouping up on their left flank – James' side of the pitch. He fell in shoulder to shoulder with MacNair, jostling for position, working himself into an angle to cut down his passing options. MacNair threw an elbow into James' solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He felt a tug on the tail of his broom, but stuck with his counterpart, forcing him ever closer to the boundaries of the pitch. The wind roaring in his ears drowned out the crowd's screams as the two second-years zipped over the heads of the students in the Fred Weasley Memorial stand. MacNair was grunting, infuriated by James' stubborn insistence. They were well wide of the hoops now, making a shot impossible. James heard a short whistle, a coded message from Lillian, and he dropped off the pressure instantly.

MacNair, sensing the opening as a gift, immediately turned towards the hoops-

THUD.

-right into the path of a perfect Bludger sent by Freddy.

James scrambled as the Quaffle dropped like a stone – he had been supposed to slide into position to catch it. He zipped past a dazed Selwyn MacNair, scooping up possession and turning up the pitch.

He immediately cast his eyes around for Lillian. She was in a tussle with Collette. Will decided the outcome of that one with another well-placed Bludger and James heaved on the Quaffle to get it to her, tossing it with all his strength into the wind.

Unfortunately, all of his strength was not quite enough, and he watched in horror as the momentum of the Quaffle died beneath a particularly brisk gust, and it fell right into the arms of Tennyson Braithwaite. Ten couldn't believe his luck, darting up towards the Gryffindor goal and slotting a shot in through the central hoop thanks to a well-executed Dartmouth Dive to fake out the Keeper.

James kicked himself internally. The pass had been there, he just didn't have the arm strength to deliver it. He slapped himself on the chest and reset for offence once more. The pass went to Lillian off the restart. She signalled James to push up the right side and dropped a pass in front of him as he came past Ten Braithwaite. James tucked the Quaffle under his arm, haring up the pitch. Ryan cut sharply infield, breaking free of his defender with ease. James tossed it to him, wide open now. The two of them had the pitch to themselves, Ryan drew the Keeper with a fake shot, instead lofting the Quaffle perfectly to James. He caught it, fumbled momentarily in his slick palms, and dropped it in through the goal hoops for the first – and likely easiest – goal of his career.

'Shake off that pass, Potter,' Ryan called above the roar of the crowd. 'Happens to the best of us. Nice job.'

James grinned, wheeling his broom around to play some defence once more.

This time Lillian called a zone defence play, and the three Chasers dropped back from their Slytherin counterparts, each covering a designated area of the pitch. The Slytherins hesitated, unsure of how to attack this new look. Selwyn tried to make a break up field between James and Ryan into what appeared to be open space. Both players kept their discipline and didn't turn to chase. The pass from Collette shot over James' head, and right into the waiting arms of Lillian.

She fed James the Quaffle. He turned up the field, stopping on a dime to let a Bludger screech past him harmlessly. His loss of momentum meant that Collette Malkin was able to tear in and collide with him in a bone-shattering collision, forcing the Quaffle out of his hands and leaving him clutching a stinger on his right arm.

Goal to Slytherin, twenty points apiece.

That the Slytherins were out to target James was no surprise. He was the smallest and most inexperienced player on the pitch. The game dragged on, a far cry from the trouncing that had occurred when the teams first met.

The pass that fell short wasn't James' last one of the game. Thrice more he attempted to toss the Quaffle into the building wind, each time resulting in a turnover. He could see the play, he knew what it was, but his small frame was betraying him time and again. As the minutes turned into hours, the physical nature of the game began to take its toll. Selwyn MacNair loved throwing elbows, and one scuffle near the turf had James tossed clean from his broom, landing face down with a mouthful of dirt. He was unseated shortly again by a rocket of a Bludger from one of the Beaters, sending him on a brief but panicked ten foot drop once more.

Clouds began to gather, thick and steely-grey. Much more reminiscent of the recent weather. This clouded the visibility, made the Quaffle harder to hold on to. Collette fought James for a fifty-fifty pass, coming up with the Quaffle and leaving James with a bloody claw-mark down his cheek for the effort.

At two hundred sixty against two hundred thirty in favour of Gryffindor, the rain really set in. Careening in sideways from the lake, making passing – and scoring – nigh on impossible. Bludgers flew through the sleet, connecting with limbs and bodies. Blood mixed with the mud caked onto broomstick handles, bruises blossomed under teeth-rattling collisions. A stray fist collected James' jaw, leaving him reeling for a moment, missing an easy pass sent his way by Lillian.

A streak of red passed him on the left, one of two unsullied jerseys left on the pitch – the Seekers. Play halted momentarily as both Odette and Diana converged on a spot just above the centre line. James couldn't even see the Snitch, let along track it. Ryan used the distraction to break away with the Quaffle, but James had eyes only for the show at midfield.

Odette was tearing in from above, lining up for a Wronskei Feint. Diana had a lower, safer angle, but was a half-second behind. The two girls converged in a splash of mud and a tangle of limbs. Diana was the first to rise, but her hands were empty. Odette had caught the Snitch. Gryffindor had lost.

Ten Braithwaite brushed roughly past James as he rushed to congratulate his captain who was currently making mud-angels in the centre of the field. The Gryffindors slowly drifted down towards the changing rooms, James now carrying the heavy, leaden feeling that this loss had been entirely his fault.

'Chin up, James,' Lillian offered him a supportive hug. 'You did well, that was a tough one out there.'

James could only grumble a nonsensical response. He tried to catch Ryan's eyes but the Captain was shut off in his own world, a sour expression on his face.

James didn't even bother changing out of his robes as he showered, letting the steaming water wash over him. The mud fell away into the drains, but try as he might, that sinking feeling refused to follow.

Not even Fred's ridiculous bald head could cheer him up.

They trudged up towards the school as a team, trailing the rest of the students. The Slytherins were still celebrating out on the pitch. James was glad he wouldn't have to look at Odette's stupid face for a whole fortnight over Christmas.

The team paused as they came across the majority of the student body, milling about in the rain. Nervous conversations were rippling out from the centre of the massive group. James shared an uncertain glance with Fred, before ducking into the press to see what was causing the hold-up.

The track from pitch to castle was outlined by a cobbled stone path, overgrown in places. It was completely absent in others, present only as a stretch of muddy, flattened grass. Many of the stones were slick and slippery after a heavy rain, providing at best treacherous footing for the unwary traveller.

The spot where the student body had halted was where the track reached its lowest point, a great sweeping arc down before the lakeshore, where a broken grassy bank gave way to rounded, wet stones and gently lapping waves. Except that now, the waves were completely covering the footpath, and their lapping had become far from gentle.

Some more adventurous students were attempting to strike up the treacherous slope and avoid the water. Even as James watched two lost their footing and fell gracelessly, amidst a ripple of nervous laughter from the onlookers.

A great, rumbling boom of thunder reverberated around the valley, rolling in as a physical force across the lake. The water rippled and flattened beneath the shock wave. Several students gasped as a gust of air blasted them, knocking even more off of their feet.

James turned to look out over the water. Where once there had been clear sky, clouds now ruled. Lightning flashed, in myriad crystalline colours. Pink and blue pastels danced menacingly across the horizon.

A single rending scream rung out, a death-knell. Students clapped hands to ears, added their own terror to the peal. James felt himself thrown bodily backwards, all sound now gone, only a faint ringing in his ears. He slipped and slid in the mud, got tangled in flailing limbs from frantic students at the bottom of the press. He fought and elbowed his way to the surface, the ringing in his ears only growing.

A brilliant blue bolt of that very same lighting had struck within their midst. It left a singed, smoking ruin on the shore, just beyond the reach of the water. Stood proudly within the centre of that twisted scarification was a spear made entirely of ice.

A/N: Dun dun dun... Ice spears, you say? What is this craziness? Who could it be? What's with all the lightning? And why does Odette seem to have such a fascination with our young hero?

Stay tuned next week to find out what the Potters have for Christmas dinner, how young Lily has been faring, and maybe, just maybe, what the whole deal is with that nasty scar of Rains...