James Potter smiled as half a thousand voices cheered the sound of his name. As the wind teased and tugged at his flyaway hair. As the rush of cold air stung his cheeks and nose and set his eyes to watering. He smiled at the firm, reassuring handle of his Nimbus Model One broomstick beneath his fingertips, and the reassuring weight of his Gryffindor Quidditch jersey upon his shoulders.

But the smile didn't reach his eyes.

It wasn't fair, he seethed, that after everything he'd been through in the past few weeks, not even Quidditch was able to give him that sense of freedom and release to scrub away all of his worries.

What, with the Ministry entourage breathing down his neck at every turn, Caspar strutting around the corridors like a peacock with his tail up, and Odette Mansfield shooting him loaded, baleful glares whenever their eyes met, it was a wonder he had made it this far at all without breaking down completely.

And then there was the phantom pain that refused to recede. It made even keeping a grip on his broomstick a struggle. Throwing a Quaffle was agony. Like his body didn't know it had been healed, his arm and shoulder still ached. He'd had to re-bandage the wounds on his chest, as they'd re-opened at the slightest aggravation.

He tried to shrug it off, as Declan Hawksby blew his whistle to start the match. He tried to ignore the nagging worries as he fought for control of his broom in the buffeting winds, and squinted against the sleet that began driving in from over the Lake. He pretended not to see the meaningful glance Odette had sent his way, as she whipped by over his shoulder in the hunt for the Snitch.

But the elation just wasn't there. Too much else crowded in its place.

James tried to throw everything he had at the match, instead. He dove in on his broomstick to secure the Quaffle, signalling with his free hand for Preston Lynch to push up the left flank. James shadowed him, holding one arm up to shield his eyes, as he steered his broomstick with only his knees. The wind hammered and buffeted him, threatening to throw him off balance, hurling fistfuls of driving rain and sleet into his face that stung his frozen cheeks.

His move drew attention of the Slytherin defenders. They drifted to James' left, anticipating the attack from that flank. With a subtle gesture missed by most, James sent Abbey hurtling across the face of the green-robed defenders, dropping a pass off to her as she streaked by – a smudge of red-and-gold against the grey haze.

The Slytherins about-faced, panicking at leaving their flank exposed. James smiled, just as he'd guessed they would. Abbey took the pressure, receiving an elbow to the ribs from Collette Malkin for her efforts, but returning the favour with a shoulder to the jaw that left her dazed, and her teammates crying for a foul. A quick behind-the-back pass to James, which he shovelled on to Preston – now all-but forgotten to James' left, allowed him a one-on-one opportunity with the Slytherin Keeper, and he slotted the goal through the centre hoop with a smooth execution of the Finnish Flick.

James pumped his fist, feeling some of that pent-up anger dissipate in the form of excited energy. Now this was something he could revel in.

Slytherin's counter-attack off the restart was fast and angry, embarrassed at ceding a goal so quickly. The rain pelted James' face, slowly turning every inch of his exposed flesh numb. The cold settled in to the bones of his shoulder, the ache becoming a constant companion, stiffening his movements. His fingers were stinging – the fingerless gloves he wore doing little to keep life in his extremities. Not for the first time that day, he wished for the Chaser's Glove that Caspar Helstrom had taken from him. His arm – already damaged – felt naked and exposed without it.

Preston Lynch pressured Tennyson Braithwaite, who took the Quaffle from the Slytherin Keeper. He tossed a wide pass towards Collette Malkin which held up in the strong wind. Sensing an opportunity, James broke formation to contest the fifty-fifty throw. He collided hard with Collette, their bodies momentarily interlocking in a desperate flailing of limbs and growling of curses. He was spun roughly around, having to yank on his broomstick to avoid collision with the stands. He heard the onlookers gasp – their voices almost imperceptible over the howling gale. Any cheers or further noise was torn away the moment he passed by.

James wheeled around hard. Beaten for possession, he had to fight to chase down the Slytherin Chaser. They had a numbers advantage, as he'd left a gaping hole in the Gryffindor defence with his risky play.

But thankfully, Fred had already seen the breach. First one, then a second bludger whizzed past James' shoulder, humming almost gleefully as both found their marks – one into Collette's lower back, and one into her elbow. The second caused her to spill the Quaffle, and James ducked down to secure it, pulling up just in time to skim his toes across the snow-laden pitch.

Down low, the wind was less severe, shelter afforded them through the hulking masses of the stadiums. He could hear the faint cheers, and flashes of colour caught his eye through the swirling, monotonous grey. He ducked as an umbrella careened past him, torn free from the grip of some hapless spectator.

Abbey pulled in close to his right, body-checking a Slytherin Chaser on an intercepting path and knocking him clean off his broom into a muddy puddle near centre-field. This time, James had no problem hearing the outraged cries from the supporters in silver and green, and a few boos started to emanate from the D.L Malfoy stand.

James popped a short pass to Abbey, and flew up ahead to return the favour. As he struck out before Abbey, he held a hand up over his head, signalling to his team. If they had replied, he couldn't hear it over the wind, nor see it through the driving rain, but he didn't need to – their discipline was supreme.

He took a blocking line in front of Abbey. Jen Redfern fended off a Slytherin Chaser with a well-placed Bludger, and he narrowly avoided joining his teammate down on the turf. With just the Keeper to beat, James eased back on his broom, slowing down and rearing up, making himself as large as possible as he and Abbey both approached the goals.

At the last possible second, Abbey fired her shot from barely a foot behind James' position, where he sat obscuring her from the Keeper's view. Unable to react in time, the shot sailed through the left goal hoop completely uncontested. And Gryffindor doubled their lead.

The manoeuvre came at a price, however, as James was unable to stop quite in time, and he collided with the burly Slytherin Keeper. His right arm got caught between the Keeper's shoulder and his own chest, and he heard a nauseating crunch as something gave way in his wrist.

James disentangled himself, cradling his wrist and barely managing to save himself from a topple down to the deck. The boos were even louder up this end of the stadium.

'James, are you okay?' Abbey called through the storm. Her long, dark hair was plastered to her face from the rain and sleet, and blood from a cut on her lip appeared to have frozen already.

'Fine,' he lied in response.

Fred made his way over, concern plain on his features. He shot James a thumbs-up with a questioning look. James' attempt to return it with his damaged hand made the severity of the injury plain.

'Hit the bench, James!' Abbey yelled, pulling in next to him and grabbing a fistful of his robe for support. She had to huddle close to be heard. 'Zee can come on. You need to heal up.'

'Not bloody likely,' James growled, breaking the contact and returning to position as the match resumed.

James used his knees and his left hand to guide the broomstick. His right, he tucked in close to his body. Give it time, he thought. It'll come right. He hoped it was just a stinger, made worse by the biting cold. He tried to move his fingers again as he chanced a brief look down. No response.

High, up ahead, Al and Odette could only rarely be seen, circling the pitch in opposite directions, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of gold through the weather.

Ahead of him, the Slytherins were attacking up the right wing. A second Chaser flew a parallel line, near the centre of the pitch, with the third member sitting a little way off their shoulder. James could see the move they were going to pull almost as if he'd designed the play himself. Attacking the flank aggressively enough to draw attention – and sure enough Preston Lynch took off in that direction – then the lightning-quick pass to the Chaser in centre field to disorient the defenders. But it would be the third flier, the one sitting slightly back and inboard that would take the shot, receiving the Quaffle after a gentle inward flick of a pass from the Chaser in centre-field. The Gryffindor defenders, already caught off balance, would be helpless to stop it, and they'd have a one-on-one against Carina.

James tucked down low against his broom and raced up, timing his intersection perfectly so that as the second pass was made, he was right there to grab it. On instinct, he reached out his right hand to grab hold of the Quaffle-

Whack!

Unseen and unaccounted for, a Bludger hammered into his outstretched arm, sending blinding pain washing over James. Sparks danced in his vision, and it was all he could do to keep hold of his broom, as he lost control and for a moment the wind threatened to dash him into the side of the stands.

But Fred arrived at his side, grabbing James' robe in a vice-like grip and steadying him against the raging storm. A cheer from the Malfoy stand meant that Slytherin had scored their goal, and James swore violently, blaming himself for the lapse.

'Bench. Now.' Fred growled, physically manoeuvring James up to where the Gryffindor reserve team was waiting. Zanthia Fisher was mounting her broom on the take-off platform already.

'I'm fine,' James protested through gritted teeth.

'Bullshit.'

Abbey and Preston both arrived to help Fred drag James from the field. He cursed and swore at them most of the way, but his protests were feeble; he knew he was in no fit state. Zanthia gave him a one-armed hug as she took off, and a promise that she'd 'make the bastards pay.'

Back in the reserves booth, James angrily tossed his broomstick aside and threw himself into the chair bearing his name. He'd never been pulled from a match before in his life. His father had played on with a broken arm in his own second year. James winced as he ran his hand through his hair in frustration, pushing the dripping locks out of his eyes. He could even move his fingers again, now.

The anger was back. The Quidditch had barely kept it at bay, and now even that was taken from him. James felt waves of it building up as frustrated energy. He wanted to lash out and kick something. Out on the pitch, Zanthia and Abbey Fisher completed a complex series of passes that wove through the Slytherin defenders and ended in another goal. Instead of cheering, James ground his teeth. It should be him out there doing that.

He got up and started pacing back and forth through the reserved area. The rest of his teammates gave him a wide berth and averted their gaze as he ranged up and down their little booth in the front row of the stand. Out on the pitch, another cheer went up as Preston scored another goal. James clenched his fist.

'Oi, Potter, you make a better door than a window, sit down!' an older Ravenclaw called from the crowd.

James rounded on him. 'You stick a fucking sock in it four-eyes, or I'll come up there and shut you up myself!'

A hush fell over the crowd around him, those that had heard his outburst. For a moment, all James could hear was the wild wind rushing in his ears, and the rain hammering against the roof of the stand. James' chest was heaving. His heart was still racing, fuelled by anger and adrenaline. He spun angrily away just in time to see Preston score yet another goal, and the crowd behind him snapped to their senses.

It made James feel worse and worse as Gryffindor stretched the lead so swiftly after his exit from the game. As Abbey and Zee Fisher set up goal after goal, James had to wonder if he'd have been able to pull it off. There was something instinctive about the way the twin girls played together that he'd never be able to match. The self-doubt only served to fuel another round of pacing back and forth in the Gryffindor booth.

Though he was fuming, James was still enough aware of the match proceedings to know that Gryffindor were only one hundred forty points ahead when Odette went into a breathtaking dive high above the Slytherin goal hoops.

James sprinted to the barrier and grabbed the railing fiercly, ignoring the pain that lanced up his right arm and through his shoulder. This was more important. This was Quidditch.

It was clear from the start that Odette had a far better angle on the Snitch than Al did. He had been around midfield, whilst Odette had been hovering almost directly over it. Despite all of his planning and preparation, his study of notes and identification of the most efficient route to fly in order to see the Snitch, it had come down to sheer, dumb luck that it had appeared closer to Odette than he.

Jen rocketed a Bludger in Odette's direction, the crowd gasped – and even James had to give grudging appreciation – as she twirled beautifully upon her broom – mid dive, in fact – to send it skimming over her left shoulder. Fred followed up with another, perfectly placed, but instead of slowing her descent, she simply corkscrewed around it and continued rocketing towards the earth at full speed.

It was breathtaking flying by anyone's standards. James couldn't quite decide whether he was in awe, furious, or aroused as he watched Odette's figure flatten down atop her broom and shallow out the dive as the Snitch tore off up the pitch, away from her.

Carina sensed the urgency and gave a signal to the team. A signal that James knew well. It was the sign to start their top-secret desperation manoeuvre titled the Snake Snatcher, designed by Carina specifically for this moment – should they need a sure-fire goal with only seconds to score.

James banged his fist upon the railing in frustration. He'd put hours of practice into this move, he desperately wanted to be the one down there orchestrating it. He turned away from the match for a second, squeezing his eyes tight shut as he felt the waves of anger building up again, that volatile energy surging through his limbs, the desire to strike out almost overwhelming. Around him, the crowd gasped, then screamed, then roared in shock or admiration.

When James opened his eyes again he saw the aftereffects of the Gryffindor's manoeuvre. Two Slytherin Chasers were locked together in a tangle of limbs, spinning around in furious circles at midfield as they desperately tried to untie themselves from one another. Abbey Fisher – the designed sacrifice – was a bundle of feebly stirring robes down upon the muddy grass. Carina had left her goal hoops entirely, there was a large scorch march marring the façade of the Hufflepuff stand, and Preston Lynch, trailing a streamer of blood visible even through the driving rain, was one-on-one with the Keeper, just as Odette was about to close on the Snitch.

Or so James had thought.

Appearing from a deeper pocket of swirling grey like a wraith of the mist, was Collette Malkin, the third Slytherin Chaser. She shouldn't have been there. How did she get there? James scanned the field furiously. There was no way that Slytherin could have foreseen the move. Not unless-

There was equal parts despair and elation as Lynch was blocked handily by Collette, and Odette grabbed the Snitch in her hand, moments before Al was able to close, lifting it aloft and handing Slytherin a narrow, ten-point victory. But James didn't join in on either. He was dead silent, as he snatched his broom and leapt over the barrier in one fluid motion, not even bothering to mount until he had fallen halfway to the turf below. In his eyes was murder.

She had been watching them. It was the only explanation. She'd seen them practising the move and prepared her team for it. James was adamant. That lying, conniving, cheating little… He should have known better; the moment Odette had taken him to spy on the Ravenclaw practice. He should have known she'd use it on him eventually. Typical, self-serving Slytherin.

'Oi!' James yelled as he flew in to land. His anger made the affair rough and uncoordinated. Odette herself had only just touched down. Her team was celebrating its way to the Slytherin changing rooms near the centre of the pitch.

The rain had plastered Odette's hair to her forehead and face. Long, unkempt strands of it stuck to her cheeks and lips. Dark tracks were beginning to form beneath her eyes as her ever-present makeup struggled to withstand the barrage of the weather. Her Slytherin jersey hung sodden and limp, clinging to her frame in a way that would have stolen James' attention, were his mind not already so set on its path. He noticed consternation briefly flicker across her features as he approached.

Before he could even open his mouth to berate her, Odette flung her arms wide, leaping on to James so that he was forced to catch her. He felt her hands tangle themselves in his hair and he was pulled inwards forcibly until her lips locked with his own. He struggled as she pulled their bodies together, and tried to force back her exploratory tongue, or the hand that slid itself up under his jersey and down the back of his trousers. A few onlookers gave the pair a hearty wolf whistle and hurried on from the obviously private exchange.

'What the hell-?' James started, as she finally let him come up for air.

'Zip it, Potter,' Odette growled. 'Not here.'

'Don't think you can get away with this, you-'

'I'll let you finish that sentence inside. Away from prying eyes.'

'I'll bloody-'

'You'll bloody make a Loyal Clavet of yourself if you carry on right here, Potter.'

That finally shut James up. He allowed himself to be pulled along by the hand as Odette made for the abandoned Ravenclaw changing rooms. Odette hated embarrassment. Airing their dirty laundry in front of the school as she'd done with Loyal last year would have been the last thing she'd wanted. Not to mention James himself would have looked like a bit of a tit. He wasn't sure if she was doing it for herself or him, but he should have expected it, at least.

What he certainly didn't expect was to be laid into the moment the door closed behind them.

'James Potter you're an utter pillock, and a selfish, ungrateful, idiotic arse!'

'Wait a minute-'

'How dare you! The bloody nerve, swooping down like you own the show, as if I'm the one in the wrong after everything you've done.'

'I've done? You cheating little Slytherin-!'

'You self-centred, pig-headed Gryffindor-!'

'You used our move-!'

'Sending that jumped-up whore-!

'Cheated us out of the match-!'

'-been more places than a Niffler's nose-!'

'I'd never have done that to you!' both of them chorused together, leaving them staring at one another in the abandoned room, chests heaving, water slowly dripping off of their clothes and bodies into little puddles at their feet. Somewhere in the stand high above them, loose cladding began slapping against the framework, adding an urgent tone to the steady drip, drip and the rush of their laboured breathing.

James had never seen Odette truly distraught before. There was genuine hurt in her eyes. The corners of her mouth were turned down – a far cry from the sultry smile that was usually affixed. Her shoulders were slumped and, as James studied her, she crossed her arms defensively. James noted the tiny golden wings of the Snitch giving a feeble flutter between her fingers.

It was the perfect opportunity for James to stop, take a breath and realise that he was pushing Odette too far. That she had her own grievances, which he'd been remiss in addressing. That their relationship was a two-way thing, and that they might have born more chances to work through their problems if they were able to have a civil discussion about it all.

But the broiling, bubbling anger seethed over and washed away any chance of rational thought. And James scowled as he opened his mouth again – the bitter taste of their defeat outweighing all.

Again, Odette beat him to the punch.

'You've treated me like absolute dirt these past few weeks, James!'

'I have not!'

'Let's stop for a minute and consider this from my perspective. Something your thick skull is clearly incapable of doing, so I'll walk you through it, like the baby you are. First, you get caught in the middle of the night in the Ravenclaw girls' dormitory. Then, you proceed to ignore me all week, while all manner of rumours fly about just what you might have been up to, leaving me to put on a brave face and try and weather the looks of scorn, ridicule, or even worse, pity as everyone whispered about how you were fucking Cassandra Featherstone!'

'You're stupider than you look if you think that's the truth!'

'That's not the fucking point! The school doesn't know that. And now they think you're messing around behind my back and I – Odette fucking Mansfield – am supposed to come crawling back to you like some pathetic lapdog!'

Odette advanced on him, gesturing wildly with her right hand. It was hard to tell with all the rain coating everything, but James thought there might have been real tears in her eyes.

'That's not true- I'll tell them it's not true.'

'It's too late, James. Because you didn't do anything about it. You let it fester and grow. To them, that's as good as acceptance.'

'Hold on. None of this makes what you did any better. You did it to hurt me, but you're messing with the whole team. They didn't deserve-'

'Didn't deserve? Don't talk to me about what's fucking deserved! After you send her to stand me up. Holly- fucking- whore- Brooks!'

She punctuated each of her lasts words by shoving James in the chest. On her final push, her hand pressed against one of the wounds from his run-in with the Golden-Eyed Monsters, and he flinched back.

'Don't call her that.'

Crack!

Even before James' vision erupted in stars and colour, he realised he'd said the wrong thing. Odette had – without any warning – punched him with the fist still holding the Snitch. And Merlin, but it ached. He worked feeling back into his jaw, but again, it was Odette doing all the talking.

'Of course you'd defend her!'

'She's my friend.'

'Your friend? Morgana's tits, James! They're all your friends, aren't they?! Rain, Cassandra, Holly. Well, here's something from the front page of the Prophet for you: where I'm from, in the real world, friends don't go around with their hands up other friends' skirts, and leave their girlfriends high and dry!'

'That's not true-' he started

'Oh, no. I'm not hearing it, James. I don't fucking care any more. All you wanted to do was whine about your Quidditch. You hadn't even thought to apologise. I'm done. I'm so fucking done. You know what? I'm glad I spied on that move of yours. I'm glad we beat you, and your pathetic team. You can go cry about it to them, seeing as that's all you really care about!'

And with that, Odette tossed the Snitch at James' chest and stormed from the room, throwing the door open as she marched out into the storm.

On instinct, James caught it, closing his fist around the tiny golden ball. He took a few slow, deep breaths, pocketing the Snitch and placing his broom up gently in the racks meant for his Ravenclaw counterparts.

Then he proceeded to hurl a bin meant for dirty robes across the room. He punched a hole in the door of a locker, and tossed a chair out into the wind and rain after Odette. So caught up in the maelstrom was he, that James never had the presence of mind to stop and think how unnatural this all was. He knew only the anger.

Back out into the storm, and James was still seething. He needed to vent. He cut through a walkway, abandoned now, as most of the school had fled back to the safety and warmth of the castle. Abandoned banners and streamers, and few paper cups were all that was left of the hordes of spectators. James' footsteps did a poor job of filling the void left behind by a thousand or so of his classmates. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath that hissed between clenched teeth.

Odette had been completely unreasonable. She's succeeded in derailing his conversation entirely, instead getting herself worked up to a ridiculous degree about something as trivial as his visiting Cassie in the night. Nobody with two brain cells to rub together would think anything like that was going on between them. Which showed to James just how much Odette was thinking about the whole affair.

He passed a small group of students clustered around one of the eerie, older Ministry officials whose name James still didn't know. It was the wizard. He'd been haunting James' classes all week, making James feel like someone was watching over his shoulder at every turn. James took a sharp turn back between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff stands so as to avoid him, lest he say something that would get him into even more trouble.

'Thought I might find you sulking around here, Potter.'

The voice came from the end of the tunnel James was walking down. There, leaning up against the wooden frame, a silly little Slytherin flag in one hand, was the second-last person James wanted to see at that moment.

'Piss off, Caspar. Not in the mood.'

'Saw your girlfriend stalk past earlier. Or should I say ex- girlfriend. Bet you ten galleons she's off for some heavy consoling under the sheets of a sixth-years bed.'

'For once in your life, Caspar, shut up, or by the Founders I'll-'

'I mean this is Odette Mansfield we're talking about. Frankly, I'd be shocked if she didn't have a hand up her skirt already-'

'I'm warning you, Caspar.'

'Oh, I'm terrified. Don't take it too hard, mate. I thought Gryffindor played well today. Might have won it, if they'd pulled you out right at the start of the match. Must be disappointed you couldn't play longer though, right? If only there was some sort of bracer, or glove one could wear that would prevent such serious wrist injuries.'

That was it. James had heard enough. It was, after all, Caspar's fault he was in this state in the first place. Caspar had stolen the glove. He'd been the one who had allowed James to get injured, and Gryffindor to lose the match, and James to lose Odette. His hand went straight for his wand-

'Expelliarmus!'

But Caspar had been hiding his behind his back all along, evidently waiting for this very moment. The blow was like a punch in the stomach to James, who watched his wand fly end over end, well out of reach out on the pitch behind where Caspar stood.

James didn't let the paltry fact of his being unarmed stop him, barrelling down the tunnel towards where Caspar stood. It was clearly an unprecedented move, and the look of shock on Caspar's face was a beautiful sight as James wound up and punched him square in the jaw before he had time to form a second spell.

Using the moment of disorientation, James disarmed Caspar the old-fashioned way, by slapping the wand clean out of his hand. He managed to land another punch before Caspar gathered his wits and grabbed hold of James' shirt by the collar, swinging wildly back in retaliation.

But James didn't let it faze him, as he landed punch after punch. Head, body, arms, anything he could reach. Caspar landed a few retaliatory blows, but they were poorly-aimed and James shrugged them off, letting the anger he'd built up over the past day – no, week – release.

Eventually, Caspar's grip on James' shirt came free, and he collapsed to the ground. James' fist was coated with a thin spattering of blood, and bruising was already evident on his knuckles. His own lip was split, and he could feel a black eye forming. But Caspar was collapsed in a heap on the ground.

James stood over him. Somewhere, deep down, an animal part of him urged him onwards. Kick him. It said. James was shocked to feel his body tensing up to obey-

'Reducto!'

James flew through the air, crashing into the wooden beams that supported the wall of the tunnel. He felt his neck jar, and fire flare all through his shoulder and arm. Hastily pushing himself to his feet, he looked around for the source of the attack, and the red mist of his rage shattered. Calantha Merriweather was marching his way, wand drawn and fury writ all across her face. The strange old wizard was a half-step behind her, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

'What have you- Oh Caspar my dear, sweet boy- Impedimenta!'

Another spell caught James off guard, and he was barely able to throw himself out of the way as a jet of orange light whizzed over his shoulder. Calantha Merriweather was torn between stooping over her son to stroke his rain-soaked hair, and rounding on James to take out her wrath.

'He fired first-'

'I'll not hear of it! You're done boy! Finished, you hear! I'll have you expelled quicker than you can say "My father's a wastrel", you mark my words!'

Calantha's eyes were wild. Her long, golden hair – magically kept dry despite the deluge – seemed to crackle and rile with electric anger. Her lilting, drawling speech was gone, now, all clipped tones and vengeful fury. Stood a little ways behind her, with his hands folded at his waist, the old wizard shot a smug smile in James' direction. With a pang of shock, James recognised his own wand in the old wizard's hands.

For the first time that day, worry outweighed the anger. Like the sun cresting a hilltop, it burned away the fog that had been clouding James' thoughts, and left him filled with a shaking, nervous energy, instead.

'I'll see your wand shattered, boy. You'll be banished from these grounds. Your days are over, you hear me? Over! Incarcerous!'

'Relashio!'

James wasn't able to dodge the ropes that leapt from Calantha's wand to ensnare him, but a new voice arriving on the scene cut the cords before they made contact. The thick, heavy rope collapsed at James' feet, twitching feebly like a thing half-dead.

'You dare use such a spell on one of my students again, Calantha, and it'll be you that never sees the inside of Hogwarts again.'

Professor Longbottom marched up the tunnel from behind James, his strides purposeful, and his gaze ice cold. His wand was out, and though it wasn't actually lowered at either of them, he kept it trained in the general direction of the Ministry duo. Caspar had made his way to his feet, and his mother flocked to croon over him, shooting hateful glares at James every other second.

'An unprovoked attack on another student-!' she spluttered. 'Brawling like a damned Muggle! Look at my poor boy!'

The evidence was damning. Caspar's face was a bruised, bloodied mess. A cut on his eyebrow leaked blood down his cheek. One eye was sealed shut, and his lips were a swollen mess.

'Yet nowhere in the Hogwarts code does it say this ought to call for snapping a student's wand on the spot and dragging him up to the castle like a criminal. This isn't Azkaban, Calantha. That's not how we handle discipline around here.'

'And that's why we're here,' she hissed back.

Professor Longbottom gestured curtly for James to fall in behind him. 'Any discussions on the requisite punishment will go through me, as his head of house. Come, then. Let us discuss the discipline.'

'Yyyes…' Calantha purred. 'Retributionnnn.'

As James was marched up out of the tunnel and back towards the castle, he passed the spot where Caspar was being tended to by the elderly wizard. James shot him a dirty look as they crossed paths, but Caspar returned it with a smile.

His teeth were bloodstained, and his face a ruined mess, but James could just make out the words he hissed, sounding almost gleeful, and certainly taunting. 'Glorious Sacrifice…'

It haunted James all the way back up to the castle.

His forced march continued through the Entrance Hall and up the sweeping Grand Staircase. The few students that were milling around shot the trio an array of odd glances. James could sense the whispered conversations behind hands and out of earshot as they speculated. But all were left in Professor Longbottom's wake, and soon they had only the muddy trail of water and a few flecks of blood over which to formulate their fanciful tales of just what the enigmatic James Potter had gotten up to now.

Up they continued, past two, three floors. Towards the large group of offices that the ministry officials had requisitioned upon arriving. It had been a solitary, small victory that the offices of the Headmistress had refused to open to each and every one of them, no matter how they had cursed, pleaded and reasoned with the stubborn statues guarding the door.

He was bundled into a sort of waiting room off the main corridor. A row of stark, uncomfortable chairs lined one wall, made to keep the students who waited squirm. Opposite, four identical wood-panelled doors oversaw the waiting area with solemn regard. Professor Longbottom and Calantha Merriweather had a hushed, heated conversation to which James was not privy – only a soft buzzing filled his ears despite standing no more than a few feet away from either of them. Eventually, it seemed the professor won out, as Calantha scowled, and gestured pointedly with her wand. A flowing, silver ermine burst forth and scampered off through the wall over James' head. Professor Longbottom followed suit; the sheer bulk of his great lion Patronus making Calantha take a step back in shock. Small satisfaction for James, as he had the feeling his fate was about to be sealed.

'Sit,' the professor barked, gesturing at a seat behind James. He and Calantha turned on their heels and strode through the centre-right of the four doors. The moment it swung shut, an absolute and eerie silence filled the narrow room James occupied.

He shifted in the chair, finding the hard wood unforgiving, the sitting position too rigid and upright. It made his shoulder ache, his muscles clenching in protest. He stood up and began to pace back and forth along the narrow room, adding his footsteps to the dozens of students who had already began to wear down the carpet over the past few weeks as the sweeping Ministry disciplinary reform slowly took hold.

Movement behind him, and he saw Professor Ellfrick appear from the corridor without. She favoured him with little more than a stern glare before sweeping into the same room as Professor Longbottom and Calantha Merriweather, trailing her long, dark cloak behind her.

Outside, the rain continued to hammer against the walls of the castle. The single, large window that overlooked the lake was awash, distorting the view into a weeping melange of greys, greens and blues. Far off, thunder rumbled, promising that the worst was yet to come.

Alabaster Shelby was the next to arrive. His stern face regarded James without he barest hint of emotion. His polished boots clicked menacingly as he marched across the floor. But the moment the long, sweeping tails of his jacket disappeared behind the polished oak, silence smothered James again like a blanket.

By now, James had a fair idea of what was happening. As professor after professor piled in to the tiny room, his heart began to sink. His suspicious were all but confirmed when Zoe Meadows – by James' count, the last to arrive – dashed over to him and wrapped him up in a full-body hug.

Any last vestiges of James' stern resolve melted away beneath her touch, and he allowed himself to feel afraid for the first time. His breaths shortened, his heart quickened, and a sickly sort of energy coursed through all of his limbs.

'Don't let them-' he stammered into the Professor's neck.

'Shh,' she whispered, giving James one last squeeze. 'We won't- they can't…'

And then she was gone. Once more, James was alone in the corridor.

They couldn't really expel him, could they? The question rattled around in James' head as he paced back and forth along the corridor. He'd fought at school before. What Caspar had done to Fred and Clip was no worse, surely. And yet he had suffered no retribution. If Fred was to believed, the attack was even endorsed by a member of staff.

A fact which demonstrated just what sort of odds James was up against.

This couldn't be his last day at school. The very thought of having his wand snapped terrified him to the core. Living without a wand would be like living without a head, or a heart, or lungs. They were all critical pieces that made him alive, that defined who he was. He couldn't be James the not-wizard. Little more than a Squib. The shame of it caused his cheeks to flush and his ears to burn, though nobody was around to see it.

How would he get Rain back without his friends by his side to help him? And what about Renshaw? Was it even safe to venture back into the forest? How much did Caspar and his Glorious Sacrifice know? Would he ever hear from Odette again? So many unanswered questions, things he hadn't done, spells he hadn't learned, experiences he hadn't had within these walls that piled up before him, like a giant, looming monolith that shattered as he squeezed his eyes shut – taken from him forever in a moment of uncontrollable anger.

The wait nearly drove him mad. Thrice, he marched up to the door with the intent of throwing it open and ending the suffering. Eventually, it was only Professor Longbottom and Calantha Merriweather that exited. Both faced him down across the narrow corridor. James tried to read the Professor's expression, but it was too guarded.

With shock, James realised the wand held in Calantha's hand was not hers, but his own. Instinctively, he reached out towards it, but she didn't so much as move.

'James, the professors and… hangers-on-' here Professor Longbottom shot a sidelong glance at Calantha with no small amount of distaste. '-have met, and the majority decision has been not to see you expelled.'

James' body sagged in relief. A tentative smile crept onto his features and he reached out again to reclaim his wand. This time, Calantha actively pulled it away, and addressed him coldly.

'However, due to the severity of your actions, your case is being forwarded to the Ministry for a full Departmental review, and in the meantime, you shall find yourself suspended from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry indefinitely.'

James almost let out a whimper.

'Your wand will be detained for the duration of your suspension, Mister Potter, according to the Hogwarts code. The Hogwarts Express shall take students home for the Christmas holidays tomorrow. When it returns, you shall not be welcome aboard.'