If there was any one thing that James had learned from a year and a half of Care of Magical Creatures classes under the tutelage of Rubeus Hagrid, it was to always be prepared for anything. His father and uncle had peppered him with stories of rampant Hippogriffs and some terrifying concoctions called Blast-Ended Skrewts before he'd even taken up the class, and James hadn't quite been able to dismiss their dire warnings as typical scare-the-newbie ribbing.

Their tales had been confirmed over the past eighteen months, as Hagrid's love of the dangerous and possibly insane had led him to trot out a series of magical beasts that lesser men would have been afraid to even touch, let alone scratch endearingly behind the ears. Whether it was furry and bitey, slithery and venomous and bitey, or scaley and, well, probably bitey, James had patted, poked, prodded and coerced them all.

And so it was a touch perplexing when, one chilly late-autumn afternoon, James found himself leading a group of his friends in the proper grooming and feeding etiquette for a herd – a flock? – of Mooncalves.

A rare day moon was out – the pale disc of a full moon clutched tightly to a feeble existence high in the heavens. The awkward little creatures were absolutely fixated on it. Every so often it would disappear behind one of the high, scudding clouds, and they would mewl and whine pathetically, whereby the students would have to feed and soothe them until it was visible once more.

Hagrid had – in an unprecedented move – managed to instantly endear himself to almost every single female student in the class, who absolutely adored the fluffy little creatures, and couldn't stop fawning over them and making all kinds of uncomfortable cooing noises.

Kattala absolutely hated them.

'Stupid, moon-worshipping devil-sheep,' she called the one that their group was tending to, as it sidled up to her, looking for food.

This was only the lesser of two surprises awaiting them this lesson as, with an unannounced rustle and a curse that nearly earned him a crossbow bolt to the face, Fred Weasley – missing for three days since their Hogsmeade weekend – showed up from the depths of the Forbidden Forest, completely out of the blue.

Their entire group instantly forgot about the Mooncalf – which they'd had no real interest in anyway – and turned to face Fred with slack jaws and bewildered expressions. He looked as if he'd just trekked the length and breadth of the country wearing the very clothes on his back. And fought at least two mountain trolls along the way.

'I haven't slept in four days,' he croaked, stumbling forwards and collapsing onto a bench. It appeared he hadn't eaten, either, as he dove for the small sack of Mooncalf feed and began tucking in, apparently unfazed.

The little Mooncalf didn't take to kindly to this, and yipped uncertainly, nuzzling at James' hand as if to prompt him into rescuing its food from this new vagabond.

James, ignoring the animal, ran his other hand through his hair in disbelief. It wasn't unheard of for Fred to disappear for a day or two, if he was working on something particularly insane to try and ruin their lives with. But this looked a little more… drastic.

'Where the hell have you been?'

'Blue hair,' Fred rasped, around a mouthful of pellets. The words meant nothing to James, but Tristan gasped like he'd just been punched in the gut.

'You jammy git,' he roared with laughter, reaching over to clap Fred on the shoulder. The act nearly knocked him clean off his seat.

Fred managed a shaky smile, and – pellets now gone – collapsed flat onto the bench while he filled them in on a raspy, shortened version of his most recent misadventures. Well, at least, those that he could remember.

It appeared that during the blackout, which began sometime after finding a secret, underground pub guarded by a pair of Hags and generally barred to students, then swimming naked in a river that fed the Black Lake, but before regaining consciousness dressed only in Slytherin undergarments inside the attic of a stranger's house, Fred had lost his cohort of the mysterious blue-haired Slytherin girl and her friend, and had been left alone to wander back to the castle, intermittently hounded by visions of dragons descending from the sky to eat him.

Perhaps the oddest part of it all was that James was certain he couldn't recall any blue-haired Slytherin students at all…

'And did you manage to survive?' Fred eventually asked in Tristan's direction. Fred had pulled a large, leafy branch over his eyes as if looking at the day's pallid sunlight was too much for him.

'I had an awful time, no thanks to you,' Tristan grumbled, looking absolutely devastated he'd missed out on Fred's long weekend of debauchery. 'But at least I managed to survive Chloe Swann. I was rather suspiciously… rescued.'

'And which fair maiden was your saviour?' James asked with a sly grin, pushing the irritating Mooncalf away from where it had started nuzzling its wet nose into his fingers.

For some reason, Tristan looked absolutely mortified, and began blushing profusely – most uncharacteristic. But their conversation was interrupted as the spurned Mooncalf – having given up on garnering James' attention, toddled over to try the same trick on Cat. Naturally, she wasn't having a bar of this, and the minute it started suckling on her unattended fingers, she bent down and gave it a taste of its own medicine by popping one of the poor creatures own ears into her mouth.

Terrified and confused, the poor animal yipped and squealed, dashing over to hide behind the tails of Hagrid's moleskin coat, looking out at the group with large, baleful eyes. Cat simply scowled back as if it had been the most normal exchange in the world.

'And on that note,' Hagrid called out over all of them. 'We might wrap this one up. James, Kattala, Tristan, could yeh stay back a mo' after class?'

There was a round of groans and heartfelt farewells among most of the female members of the class, and a pair of Hufflepuff girls even tried to smuggle one out with them. Thankfully, this wasn't Hagrid's first rodeo, and he promptly plucked the bundle of flailing legs from the girls' satchel bags as they shuffled past.

James waved farewell to Fred, who shuffled off slowly towards the castle, and some much-needed rest, groaning as he went like a particularly ginger Inferius.

The rest of the class filed out past James and Tristan, and Cat with her mouthful of Mooncalf hair. As they came abreast, Caspar Helstrom and his group of disagreeable Ravenclaws shot James a dirty look. Caspar jerked a thumb over his shoulder at where Hagrid stood, doing a poor job of trying to balance looking nonchalant with herding a score of excitable Mooncalves.

'More secret meetings with Hagrid, Potter?'

'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Really. The pair of you are about as subtle as a stampede of angry Erumpents.'

'And just what has your keen and penetrating Ravenclaw mind decided that we are up to?' Tristan shot back. 'Organising an illicit Mooncalf-smuggling ring, are we?'

For good measure, Tristan also started rolling up the sleeves of his robe.

Caspar, however, remained unfazed. 'We know you're up to something Potter. Your little fan-club with Renshaw and the Freak is finished. No more special treatment for you and your weirdo friends, now. This will be my school, when the Ministry takes over.'

'The Vampires will run this school before you do,' Cat chimed in. James wasn't sure that it was helpful. Caspar mostly just ignored her.

'Better witches and wizards than your father died so that he could take the glory of killing Voldemort, Potter. I won't let you do the same.'

'Better witches and wizards stood aside and left it up to my father to kill a Dark Lord before he'd even left school.'

Caspar scowled then, James had evidently hit a nerve. Dannil Pyke, his right-hand man pulled him back and took his turn leering at the group. 'Your little friend ain't coming back, Potter. She's gone. For good.'

With that, the pair of them stalked off, joining up with the rest of their group. Cat stuck out a hair-covered tongue at their backs as they retreated.

Once all the other students had left, Hagrid gestured them to a small way off, out of the penned clearing into which he'd finally managed to shepherd the mooncalves. A hazy golden light was filtering through the tree tops, illuminating drifting particles of dust that gave off a smoky, burnished glow. The air – already cool – was becoming quite frigid this late in the day, as if the sun was already ceding to the impending winter, hugging close to the caps of the distant mountains as if in fear of the coming cold months.

James pulled on his coat as they huddled in close. Hagrid towered over all of them except Cat, who squatted rather patronisingly to join down on James' level.

'Thought yeh might want ter know,' Hagrid told them in a whisper as gruff and subtle as gravel sliding down a hillside. 'I found this in the forest a few days back.'

He rummaged around in his myriad pockets, producing a candle, a pair of giant callipers and a wicked looking hunting knife before he finally found the item in question. He held it out before all of them. It the late afternoon glow, it caught a ray of dappled sunlight and shone with a warm, golden hue, like a kind of holy artefact proffered to a group of avid zealots.

'Well bugger me,' Tristan breathed, in awe.

'D'you think it's one of theirs?' James asked.

'Oh, I don't think they are going to be friendly', Cat sulked.

Before them Hagrid held a giant claw – a talon – large enough so that it was not dwarfed even in his gigantic hands. It bore a wicked hook, and a point that looked razor sharp. It was covered in countless scratches, gouges and marks that spoke of years of hard use. A dark substance was caked on to the tip. It could have been mud. But none of them were so naïve. There were a series of splintered cracks near the base, and it ended roughly, as if it had been torn free by force. Hagrid passed it around the three of them, and they studied it with intent.

'Might be it picked a fight with something that fought back,' Hagrid explained, as Cat measured the talon against her palm. It was longer than her hand fully extended. 'Found it in a clearing deep in the Forest. Centaur territory. I don't usually go in that deep, but I saw no sign of 'em about. Then this…'

'So you think it attacked a Centaur?' James asked.

'Aye, I reckon. Found a broken arrow an' a few tail hairs covered in blood. Reckon it's chased the rest of 'em deeper into the Forest.'

'Does this mean they'll help us, now?'

'Not a chance. Be a cold day in Hell before Centaurs look for help from Wizards. 'Specially after that carry-on in the Lake a couple years back. Nasty business, that. Entire coven of Merfolk…

'No, likely this will only make them testier. But might be that the beast here has driven them in deep enough so that they won't be a worry to us.'

Not having to sneak through miles of Centaur territory seemed like a positive to James, but Tristan wasn't so convinced. He was scowling, and kicking up small scuffs of dirt with his feet.

'So, instead of passing through swaths of Forest controlled by Centaurs who might kill us, we now have to run the gauntlet through the hunting grounds of this this that definitely will kill us. This way seems a little more… stabby.'

'Aye,' Hagrid nodded, tugging on his beard uncomfortably. 'If it's too dangerous, yeh don't have to come-'

'No- we're in,' all three chorused together.

'When's the next adventure?' Cat added eagerly.

'Soon,' Hagrid assured them. 'Just need to find a time. Have to be at night. Found a couple nosy Ravenclaws snooping around me hut the other week. Tried to set Sirius on 'em to shoo 'em off, but all he wanted was ter lick the little blighters.'

'Be careful, Hagrid. They seem to have it out for us. And you.'

'Aye, I will. Ain't me first rodeo, never you mind. Now off with yeh, afore someone gets too suspicious. The walls have ears, these days. Shady type of people getting' bold without Renshaw around to keep things in line.

'Off with yeh. James, you'll have Quidditch practice tonight, best get ready fer that.'

'As if we'll need it to beat Hufflepuff.'

'Oi!' Tristan shot, giving James a shove. 'Careful now. I reckon we might have a bit of a surprise in store.'

James dismissed him with a wave of the hand and the three of them turned to head back up to the castle. Cat began telling them in great depth about a time her mother faced down an Albanian mountain Yeti with only a frying pan and a length of shoelace. So engrossed in pretending to listen were James and Tristan, that they didn't even notice the pair of figures crouched behind the bushes a short way off from where they had left Hagrid behind.

That following weekend Gryffindor was to face Hufflepuff in Quidditch. James – along with much of the team – figured themselves to be favourites after Hufflepuff had lost one of their better players – their Beater – to injury in the match before. Even though both teams were still undefeated, James couldn't find it in himself to think of them as a threat.

Nobody had told that to the Hufflepuffs though, as they had turned out in force to support their team, and were in the process of rocking the very stands in which they stood with riotous cheers and singing, while the Gryffindor team huddled in the changing rooms below.

'Blimey,' Fred swore, as a little rain of dust fell from the ceiling onto his shoulder. 'By the sounds of them, you'd think they'd already won the Cup.'

'It's been a while since they were good,' shrugged Carina, as she brushed said dust off her captain's armband. 'Ava has put a good team together. They're just happy to have something to cheer about.'

'For now,' James smirked.

The air among the team was light and casual as they made their final preparations. Even Al looked a little less green than usual before a match.

'So how fared the King of Gryffindor with his doting subjects last weekend?' James asked, referring to Al's three-way Hogsmeade date with his Ravenclaw fan club.

'Fine,' Al shrugged, straitening a twig on the tail of his broom. 'We went to the Three Broomsticks and had a drink. They tried to sneak us in to the Hog's Head but got caught, then we went out to the Shrieking Shack. They said they knew a secret spot from the far side where you can get a better look and nobody ever goes there, but I'd promised Rose I'd meet her back in town to check out the Quill sale at Scrivenshaft's, so I didn't go.'

'You utter, colossal pillock,' James laughed.

'What?'

'Bet they were a bit miffed at that,' Fred grinned. He'd manage to pull his playing jersey on backwards, and was involved in an arm-waving struggle to right himself.

'Well, they did seem a touch put out…'

James clapped his brother on the shoulder and smiled, shaking his head. It wasn't long ago that he'd have been equally as clueless. It had only taken Odette Mansfield three years of relentless pursuit and painfully non-subtle hints before he had caught on to what it meant to have girls interested in him. It was a lesson that Al would have to figure out on his own.

James took a seat on the benches that lined the room and set about adjusting the straps on his Chaser's glove – the gift he'd received from all of his friends in first year. He'd never gone a game without it. And before every match he'd take a minute to run his thumb over the stitching where each of them had embroidered their names, and ask them for good luck.

After four years, though, it was beginning to show the wear. A deep gouge cleaved through the spot where Holly's name had been. And Rain's was now little more than a faint silver smudge.

But before he had time to ask any of them for guidance, a thin, keening sound cut through the roar of the Hufflepuff crowd – Declan Hawksby blowing his whistle.

'Shit,' Fred swore, his head lost beneath his jersey. 'Already?'

Carina checked her watch, and her eyes popped. 'Oh, bother,' she squeaked in alarm.

The team scrambled to grab broomsticks and line up to file out onto the pitch. Fred – despite all of his efforts – ended up with his jersey back to front yet again. Several pf the leather straps were still loose on James' glove, and Carina – whose armband was aligned with perfect precision – had spent all of her time on that and forgotten to tie up her hair. She had to settle for jamming her wand hastily through it and hoping that would hold.

Across the field from them, emerging from their own change rooms with impressive precision, Hufflepuff were the picture of readiness and focus. They filed out with brooms over shoulders at a precise angle. They fanned out behind Ava Adams, their captain, and – at a signal that was the barest twitch of her wrist – they swung their brooms out as one and prepared to mount up.

It was impressive in its own right, but James – along with Fred – were not gawking at the discipline of the pressed and ironed, golden-robed Hufflepuffs. It was the figure stood just to the left of Ava who had their full and utmost attention.

'Tristan?!'

James broke rank and started walking dumbly across the pitch towards his friend. Carina hissed for him to get back into line, but he shrugged off her feeble attempts. He felt Fred staggering along next to him.

Neither quite seemed able to piece together what was occurring before them. Tristan was here. On a Quidditch Pitch. In Quidditch robes. But he didn't play Quidditch. That couldn't be right, could it?

A shrill call sounded from behind James – Declan Hawksby blowing his whistle to send them back to their team. But both ignored it. The roar of the crowd was taking on a strange, buzzing tone. Individual whistles and jeers could be heard. They slid off James as he continued to stumble across the pitch.

'I told you I'd have to take up this stupid game,' Tristan called across to them. 'Just to beat you two at it so you'll shut up once in a while. Nobody wants to hear about you polishing each other's broomsticks in the changing sheds all day.'

'You…' James sputtered. An odd sensation was taking over. He felt a sort of betrayal. Quidditch was his thing. Tristan shouldn't be allowed to do it, too.

His stupefied march stopped only when Declan Hawksby rammed his face in front of the two boys, blowing on his whistle in their ears so loud that they both winced back, snapping out of their fugue state. He handed them both penalties for unsolicited approaching of the opposition team, and sent them marching back to the Gryffindor ranks, tails between their legs, and slapping themselves for the lapse in judgement.

Unwaveringly bright and cheerful, Ava Adams managed to slip in an excitable wave, and mouthed 'Hi James!' in his direction. All she got was a sheepish smile in return.

Thanks to James and Fred's antics, Gryffindor then started the match twenty points in arrears – as Ava slotted both penalty shots past Carina with a pair of beautiful South Surrey Spinners that broke first left, and then right. The overwhelmingly black-and-gold-clad crowd roared and shook the stands, all before the rest of the balls had even been released.

It was to a round of boos and jeers that James finally took off when the match began. His episode of stupidity was stuck in his mind, and thus he was distracted off the start, too slow to dart in on his lightning broom and grab the Quaffle like he usually did. Instead, Ava Adams beat him cleanly to it, and he managed only to fly face-first into her hip as she took off down the pitch. The blow sent him spinning off, dazed. He bit his tongue and tasted blood, saw it dripping down on to the handle of his broom from his mouth and nose.

Another round of boos could just be heard underneath the Hufflepuff's riotous cheering as Ava manage to score a third goal, and Gryffindor were suddenly in a thirty to nil hole.

'You suck, Potter!'

'Can't even Chase a Slytherin properly!'

'Snake-kisser!'

James shot off up the pitch to await the Quaffle from Carina's restart. Lynch and Abbey Fisher both were shooting him frustrated glares already.

His head was so far from being in the game. Tristan's appearance had rattled him. Tristan hadn't even done anything yet. He hadn't had the time, and yet James was still putting all of his focus into working out if he felt mad or upset or betrayed about it. Or if he even cared at all.

He took the pass from Carina and signalled for a push up the flank that Tristan was patrolling. He was playing a little too high, perhaps six or seven feet above where he should have been circling. And his turns were those of someone not yet accustomed to the deft manoeuvring required of a Quidditch player. James felt that should be able to get past him with some swift vertical change-of-direction plays.

And that ought to teach him to think he could just show up and beat James and Fred at Quidditch.

Abbey pushed forwards, staying up high. Tristan's focus locked on to her – she was riding at about his level above the stands – an easy target for him. Especially when James heaved a pass upwards to her and she rocketed off up the pitch.

James watched as Tristan got a tunnel vision focus on Abbey. Just the mistake James had been pushing him into making. He was calling for his teammate to send one of the Bludgers his way. James stayed steady, in position beneath Abbey. Preston Lynch was off to her left, near centre field. All going well, the Quaffle should end up in his hands with a nigh-open shot on goal.

Even better, that Tristan was out of position. He was hovering too far to the right, as a Bludger obliged in rocketing up towards him. The crowd tensed – James heard the sibilant intake of breath – as Tristan raced to make last minute adjustments. He wasn't even looking at Abbey anymore, oblivious to her flight path – which was currently taking her very close to his position. He wasn't going to have time or space to swing his bat.

James grinned; the goal was as good as theirs.

Right up until a last second, unprecedented and clearly accidental burst of speed from Tristan threw him directly into Abbey Fisher's line of flight. He still had no clue as to where his opponent was, managing only to reach out and swing wildly at the approaching Bludger.

His bat barely managed to graze it, and the resulting shot veered off harmlessly outside of the stands. But it wasn't the Bludger that did the damage, as Abbey Fisher careened straight into Tristan's suddenly-outstretched arm which flashed out directly before her. The move collared her around the neck and the Quaffle tore free from her grip. James had to dash in and catch her as she lolled about atop her broom, dazed from the blow and in danger of falling.

And who was there to capitalize, but Ava bloody Adams, scooping up the Quaffle and scoring her fourth goal of the match up the other end.

There was nothing subtle about the jeers from the Gryffindor stands, now.

'Get off the pitch, Potter!'

'Piss off to Slytherin!'

'You suck more than Mansfield in a broom closet!'

The last one, James took umbrage to, and as he was helping Abbey to the sideline, he tried to shoot off up to the spot in the stands where the older Gryffindors who'd made the remark were seated. It took Fred and Preston Lynch both to hold him back.

'Cool it, James,' Fred urged.

Zanthia Fisher, brought on for her injured twin sister, joined the huddle and hissed at the lot of them with a furious glare. 'What is wrong with you? You're playing like a bunch of first-years on Cleansweep Threes. Potter, you look like someone has tied your tail twigs in a knot out there.'

'I dunno,' James mumbled. 'Head's not in the game.'

'Well get it there! Or else we're in danger of being blown out and looking like even bigger idiots than we do already.'

He nodded, rolling his shoulders in a sort of physical attempt to get the nagging annoyance of Tristan's appearance off of his back. James couldn't quite put his finger on why it annoyed him so much, but it had certainly made it worse that Tristan had just made a big play without even bloody meaning to.

Quidditch was James and Fred's thing – it didn't seem fair for Tristan to saunter on in and beat them at it. They put hours of practice in on the pitch every week. Tristan, really, could barely sit a broom in comparison.

The team regrouped near centre-field. James signalled for a reshuffle of their positioning. Zanthia didn't have anywhere near the arm strength of Abbey – she was far more of an Enabler than a Finisher. So she and James would work to funnel all of the scoring opportunities to Preston Lynch, in a two-one formation, a reverse of their usual one-two.

'Good luck, James!' called Ava from across the pitch. 'You're doing great!'

As it turned out, her unflappable positivity was a touch more grating when you weren't on her side.

James caught the Quaffle off of Carina's restart. He signalled Lynch to push up the left of the pitch, and offloaded a pass to Zanthia as Ava began to pressure him. Zanthia looped a gorgeous no-look pass behind her back to him again as he cut over to her opposite side. She managed to draw in a second defender and tangle herself up with Ava who had been pressing James on defence, freeing up James and Lynch for a two against one. James didn't miss the casual elbow Zanthia threw in Ava's direction, either.

Between them, James and Lynch managed to easily score, with Lynch rocketing a shot in through the centre goal hoop, with heat on it that spoke to the entire Gryffindor team's frustrations.

Forty points to ten. It felt like hours but had really only been minutes. Gryffindor were finally off the mark.

'Nice one, Zee,' James waved to where Zanthia hovered, now wearing a bloodthirsty grin.

He and Lynch high-fived in mid-air.

'Well played guys, great goal!' Ava called out.

Shut up, Ava, James thought.

Almost too late, and after a disastrous start and at the cost of one of their starting Chasers, Gryffindor had finally woken up. A Herculean effort would still be needed to bring themselves back into the match. That they had been unprepared and disorganized coming into the game was painfully obvious. It had appeared that none of them had been willing to take Hufflepuff seriously, despite their team steadily improving every year James had been at Hogwarts. Without the fiery, unbridled passion of Ryan O'Flaherty, or the rough-and-ready, prepared-for-anything guidance of the MacDougal twins, the Gryffindor team looked rudderless, and Carina had thus far been unable to right the ship, pinned to the goalposts as she was by her position as Keeper.

Thus it would be up to James to lead his battered and bruised Chasing cohort to keeping Gryffindor in the game. And to Fred and Ash to help them do it. Whilst, above it all, Al circled the pitch like a hawk, his eyes never still, his body coiled tight, poised and ready to spring into action. His movements were mirrored by the golden-clad Hufflepuff Seeker who soared even higher again.

Hufflepuff scored off the restart again. This time it was Ava's turn to set up one of her teammates for a goal. She was everywhere on the pitch, both on attack and defence. The crowds chanted her name, they waved banners dripping in black and gold paint and singing her praises. She was their Hero; if Al had been the Prince of Gryffindor, she was the Hufflepuff Queen, their ruler of the skies.

But James would be damned if he'd roll over and let her cheery bloody smile take over the match. At fifty points to ten down, the game had become one of survival. To not let the opposition encroach on that one hundred fifty point lead that would sound the death-knell for the crimson-clad Gryffindor fliers.

He and Zanthia flicked rapid passes back and forth to one another, using their lithe frames and knife-sharp manoeuvrability to cut through the Hufflepuff players. But ultimately, they were not used to playing together – Zanthia being restricted mostly to the reserve squad – and a pass mere inches too wide had James stretching. He felt the Quaffle glance his wrist, and a felt a snap as the buckles on his Chaser's glove popped open. The glove fell, jerking his fingers back and sending the Quaffle down with it towards the pitch below.

He saw the leather bracer hit the grassed turf far below, but had no time to retrieve it as none other than Ava Adams was there to swoop on the Quaffle and tear off back up the pitch, frustratingly scoring yet again with a breathtaking rendition of the Welsh Wagtail move – a stuttering feint to the left that sent Carina wide and left two hoops open for Ava to easily score.

Sixty points to ten, in favour of Hufflepuff. The crowd was now a nearly consistent roar. A thunderous rumble rolled over the ground as they all stamped their feet in excitement.

Carina's pass to restart the match was a little firmer than it needed to be. Frustration was mounting for all of them. The heat on it stung James' now-unprotected palm. He faked a long throw to Preston Lynch, which set one of the Hufflepuff Chasers minutely off-balance. It was a subtle shift in the way he levelled his shoulders, but James processed in an instant that he had been about to break right. Driven by instinct more than thought, James shot to the opposite side, and left the defender wallowing and stationary in mid-air.

Lynch was open, and waving for the pass. James signalled for Zanthia to run an interfering line on Ava. The dark-haired girl revelled in the tooth and nail scuffling, as each tried to force their way past the other. For someone so happy and bright, Ava certainly wasn't afraid of pulling any punches on the pitch.

James reared up to throw, but before he could, a lightning streak of black shot from the periphery of his vision and collided with Lynch's outstretched arm. He spun away with a curse, cradling a throwing hand that now hung limp and useless against his chest.

Snarling his own vulgarities, James tucked the Quaffle and tore up the pitch, weaving underneath the outstretched arms of the final defender. Fred appeared like a wraith at his left shoulder to fend off a sure-hit Bludger, and James slid an Umbrian Undercutter shot through the hoops that spun so viciously it skidded right through the hands of the Hufflepuff Keeper.

There was a barely perceptible dent in the roar from the Hufflepuff onlookers.

In the end it was their defence that kept them in the match. With Lynch's hand possibly broken, and Abbey still unable to recall even what she'd had for breakfast, their chances of scoring were evaporating, and they began to slowly bleed points to Ava's relentless attack.

But as they were down one hundred thirty points to forty, and with the feeling of the match slipping away from them, Al silenced the entire stadium for the space of a heartbeat by plummeting towards the pitch in a breakneck dive.

But it was only for a heartbeat.

The entire stadium exploded in noise as the Hufflepuff Seeker joined the pursuit. From a shallower angle, he tore in opposite where James sat frozen, watching. Al's descent was nigh on suicidal. A vertical line to the tiny flutter of gold that gleamed just off the turf at halfway. James tried to follow the glint, but soon lost it in the pallid, overcast light. Al however, had eyes made of keener stuff, and a slight adjustment brought him back on line.

The pitch of the roar began to change, as the crowd realised Al had the better angle. He was going to plaster himself all over midfield to do it, but he was a clear shot to get the Snitch first – the Hufflepuff's tactic of flying high above Al had cost him precious time and metres – and when it came to Seeking, everything was a matter of seconds and inches.

Movement from the corner of James' eye – Tristan was lining up a Bludger. But it was surely too late, Al was too close to the Snitch. The only danger left to him was whether or not he could pull out of the breathtaking dive. The game was all but theirs.

But, James watched in horror as Tristan wound up and let loose on the Bludger – his most perfect hit of the day – and Merlin, how it flew off the bat. He'd hit it harder than anyone on the pitch that day. Harder than James had even thought possible. The Bludger was a streak of black death as it tore across the pitch. Al had come to the same conclusion as James, and previously dismissed Tristan's play. But the tensing of his body showed James he knew he'd been mistaken.

There was a sort of whistling noise that sounded gleeful just moments before the Bludger hammered into Al in a teeth-jarring collision. Splintered wood and robes and limbs flew everywhere, crashing to a heap on the turf below. The golden-robed Hufflepuff Seeker swooped in and finished what Al had started, and James' cursing was lost even to his own ears as the stadium erupted into levels of noise unprecedented.

They poured out onto the pitch. In gold and black and any colour under the sun. They carried streamers and flags and, soon, their teammates high above them.

Before joining them, Ava Adams flew past James. 'Well played James, super match! You'll get us next time!'

Shut up, Ava. James waved her off with a half-hearted shrug. It might have been all the more irritating because she was actually genuine in wanting to share her joy. Bloody Hufflepuffs.

He hovered in the air a long time, waiting for the crowds to disperse. The surface of the pitch was a trampled, churned mess by the time they left. Litter and golden ribbon made picking through the remains for his precious glove a nightmare. If someone had trampled it into the turf…

He'd waved the team off not unlike he'd pushed Ava away. They had staggered into the change rooms, or off to the Hospital Wing in a couple of cases, wrapped tightly within themselves. Knowing, each of them, that their own brash dismissal of the Hufflepuff team and their lackadaisical attitude in their preparation and entering into the match had cost them the game. United in that they all blamed themselves for the loss, but somehow unwilling or unable to share even that small comfort. A team divided in defeat.

'Accio stupid glove thing!'

James paused at the intrusion, waiting until the sound of careful footsteps across the uneven pitch brought Odette Mansfield to his side.

'Well, I tried,' she shrugged. 'Never say I don't do anything for you.'

James tried to stifle the small smile. He was perfectly content wallowing in his self-serving, indulgent pity.

'Come to gloat?' he mumbled, stomping on a caricature of a badger urinating on a lion sketched onto a gold-trimmed banner.

A wind from across the lake stirred Odette's unbound hair. Strands danced coyly across her face. A couple stayed, stuck to the dark paint decorating her lips.

'Sulking is unbecoming on a man, James. Leave that to lesser boys.'

'It isn't fair,' James mumbled again. He bent down to overturn another discarded placard, but again to no avail. 'Tristan doesn't even like Quidditch.'

He was busying himself so that he didn't have to look up at Odette. For a long time, she contented herself to walk alongside him in silence, gliding over the churned earth as if it were a ballroom floor. Eventually, as James tossed aside a black-and-gold scarf in frustration, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

Perhaps it was the sheer scale of the gigantic Quidditch pitch that amplified the relative closeness of the two figures who stood, alone, at its centre. That gave James the sensation that they were the only two in the whole school, perhaps the entire country.

At least, the only two that mattered. He reached up to brush away one of Odette's stuck strands of hair. She smiled, and spoke.

'In my second year I made the team over three other candidates. All of them sixth year. Second years on the starting team come around once in a blue moon. I was – as I always am – unprecedented. Anybody who knew anything about Quidditch knew that I was destined to be a star.'

James wasn't entirely sure just where she was going with this.

'But do you know what was on everybody's lips, all through that preceding summer? All throughout that year? Not the flowering of a generational talent, no. It was that James Sirius Potter was starting Hogwarts. And then it was that he had made the Gryffindor junior squad. And every little thing you did, down to every time you bloody farted.

'To me, it felt like nobody cared about the hours of practice I had put in. About the things I put my body through to be the best. The sacrifices that I had made. I earned their gratitude on the pitch every few weeks, or their ire. I was but a flash in the pan, but you, James. You were the raging inferno.'

There was something there, in her eyes, as she spoke those words. That sort of avid rapture undercut by deep desire that he had seen across the table at Madam Puddifoot's. She clutched his hands and pulled the two of them close.

'And what did I do about it, this sudden upstart? This challenge to my supremacy? Why, I went out there and flew the best Seeking year of any second-year in history. Caught more Snitches than any had before me. I was singular in my excellence. Because it was not they who mattered, James. It was only me. And now, it is only us.

'We are the inferno now. Everyone else will come and go. Their world and their minds and their deeds are small and insignificant. It can only be people like us that make a true mark upon it. And so know that they will fade to ashes whilst we burn on. So fight it by being the best you can, because you are greater than it.'

James smiled as they drew close, but pulled back the moment before their lips touched.

'And so, if I'm following your model, I ought to pursue and seduce Tristan relentlessly over the next three years until he finally becomes worn down and gives in? Somehow, I don't think either of us would go for that.'

Odette stepped back abruptly, her face a mask of faux-anger. 'Worn down? Worn down? James Sirius Potter you collapsed into my arms when I deemed you suitable as if the air I breathed provided you with life itself. The only thing that was worn down was my standards.'

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her arms were crossed in a way that was making it difficult for James to maintain eye contact. Of course, she knew exactly what she was doing. And what it did to him.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night,' James mocked with a sly smile, looking off into the distance and ceding the point.

And just like that Odette Mansfield had done what none other was capable of – dragging a bitter James Potter out of his dark reverie. With their perverted mind games and the kindling of a belief that had long lain dormant and buried that maybe, just maybe there was something special about him. And that perhaps that wasn't something that ought to be suppressed.

A dangerous belief indeed for one as keen to prove himself as James Potter. And one that, like her own presence, was heady and addictive and all-consuming. So it was that she led him away from the pitch, match and glove and ill temper all forgotten. The sun was setting at their backs as they strolled up to the castle hand in hand, and their shadows stretched out long and dark before them.