'You should have seen the look on that Blue's face when you scored. He looked like his head was going to explode!'

'Personally, I enjoyed it most when Loyal snapped his broomstick across his knee after you kissed Odette.'

'He what?!' James spluttered, jerking upright for the first time in their History of Magic lesson. 'That's a state of the art Siberian Striker. Those things go for at least three hundred Galleons!'

'Tell you what,' Fred shot. 'I reckon I can fish the halves of it out the trash. I'll sell them both to you for fifty. Bargain.'

'The man is insane,' James breathed, aghast.

'Well, you did sort of steal his girl,' Clip added.

Professor Binns, oblivious to all of this, continued to drone on in the background. With exams cancelled as part of the tournament, there was a notable lack of focus in the classrooms for these final few weeks of the year. As it was currently, one would be hard pressed to even hear the professor's voice over the veritable cacophony the third-years were making.

'Ex-girl,' James corrected. 'And to hell with that. That broom was a-'

'Siberian Striker,' the group chorused. 'We get it.'

'Only James Potter could spend all term pursuing a girl and then forget about her the moment somebody mentions Quidditch.'

James couldn't see Cassie from where she sat behind him, but he just knew she was rolling her eyes.

'So… have you don't anything about it?' Fred asked, clearly fishing for gossip.

'Of course not. I only just found out he broke it. Where d'you think he tossed it-'

'Odette!' the four of them yelled. Conveniently, just loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. A wave of not-so-subtle shifting of seats and sidelong glances threatened to overwhelm the group with their glaring obviousness.

'Oh, er… not really. Well, not at all.'

'James!' Cat and Cassie hissed, as if he'd just admitted he threw a Kneazle off the North tower.

'That reminds me,' Fred said, diving into his satchel bag. He rummaged around among what sounded like a sackful of wind chimes, before produced something odd and lumpy, wrapped in brown paper. 'Dad was at the game. He said to give you this.'

James took the package uncertainly. 'What is it?'

'Don't open it here!' Fred hissed, panicked. 'It's something to keep you safe, for when you inevitably make a mess of things with Odette.'

'Who says I'll-'

Clip spontaneously burst into a coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like 'Holly Brooks.'

'You lot are as bad as my mother,' James grumbled, producing a crumpled note from his pocket that he'd received that very morning.

James, well done on the Quidditch results. Your father would be very proud. He should be back any day now. I did hear some rather troubling stories from your uncle about some post-match extra-curricular activities underneath the goal hoops.

I believe it is my duty as your mother to inform you that you are much too young to be indulging in such carry-on. Likewise, remember that I will be here for you when you inevitably mess it all up. That being said, I do so look forward to meeting her over the summer, and having her around for a family dinner.

Love and Kisses, Mum

'Love and kisses,' chortled Fred.

'Why does everybody think I'm going to fail at this?'

'Because, mate, you're you.' Clip cryptically provided.

'You do have something of a penchant for the dramatic, James,' Cassie added, not unkindly.

'And Odette, well…'

'Do penchants come in the thousands?' Fred asked.

'It was rather a James Potter thing to do,' Cassie continued. 'Kissing her in front of the entire school.'

'I disagree,' Cat said, speaking up for the first time. The group shot her quizzical looks. From a nearby row of seats, Rosalie Gardner was almost stretching off her chair, straining to listen. 'I think it was a very Odette Mansfield thing to do. Don't you, James?'

'Well, I mean…'

'She's been waiting, hasn't she? For almost a year now, for James to be ready. For him to be Odette-worthy, at least in her eyes. For you to live up to everything she wants you to be. Now, you've won the Quidditch tournament. You're a hero across the school. Everyone wants to be your friend. And now she has you. It's perfect for her, and just in time for you to ask her to the Farewell Feast, as well.'

Cat immediately went back to staring out the window behind them, pulling faces at a bluebird that was trying to fly in through the shutters. The group were left staring at her in a wide array of shock.

'Oh, bollocks,' James muttered. He'd forgot about the Feast.

'I think you and I have a date with a certain, newly-liberated Book,' Fred whispered when the girls weren't looking.

It was all James could do to give a pale-faced nod in response.

The moment class was over, Fred James and Clip marched off to find Tristan. They dragged him off to the library, and attempted to find themselves a quiet corner to themselves.

'Hey James, nice job on the weekend!'

'Where'd you learn to fly like that James?'

'Is it true the Blues bit off your ear, and you put it back on yourself?'

The last one took James a little by surprise. It was rather alarming the depth and breadth of rumours that flew around the castle, any time something of note occurred. He'd been asked at least a half dozen times which Quidditch League side had offered him a contract over the weekend alone.

Although it earned them the immediate ire of Madam Cresswell, the Librarian, James didn't mind the attention and admiration thrown his way. He even stopped to sign the Potions book of a weedy little first year.

'Those bruises look so sore, James. You must be so brave,' Leah Ridley sighed from a conspicuously unoccupied booth.

Truth be told, James had shied away from Madam Petheridge's ministrations immediately following the match, despite his team's insistence. And if his battle scars added a visual reminder of his heroics on the pitch to the boys and girls of Hogwarts, then all the more reason to keep them. He'd already been asked to show the gouge on his arm at least a dozen times. It had been transformed by hearsay from the scratchings of a desperate Chaser's nails to something that could have been done by a rampaging Hippogriff.

The legend of James Potter was coming along well, indeed.

'In here,' Tristan gestured, as the well-wishers finally abated. He stuffed James behind a lamp to keep him out of sight, and threw a furtive glance up and down their aisle. The coast was clear.

It was with shaking, reverent hands that Tristan withdrew the book from his bag. He held it aloft before them all, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

The book had certainly seen better days. Already shabby from what James could only assume was extensive use by Uncle Ron and his Dad, it had clearly lived a hard life this past year, the true victim of their – well, Tristan's – almost religious zeal to recover it. One corner of the cover was folded over. There was a dark stain like spilled tea marring the artwork. A couple of pages were loose, clinging for dear life to the tired binding within. A small smudge of soot on the spine still lingered from where Cassie had tried, no fewer than three times, to set fire to it. Evidently Uncle Ron had foreseen such an occasion, as it had stubbornly resisted her best efforts.

Despite its tattered, scrappy nature, Tristan looked on as if it were his firstborn son as he cradled it gently before them.

'This is it, gentlemen.' His voice was quavering slightly in anticipation. 'The culmination of a year's worth of work. The knowledge of generations of wizards who have gone before, now made immortal in this most sacred of texts.'

'Well, are we going to open it?' James cut in, gesturing pointedly. Tristan paid him no heed. His face caught up in rapture.

'We have given much in the pursuit of this knowledge. Suffered much, in its protection. Some of us may never walk quite the same again,' here Fred gave a sheepish little wince. 'Our values have been tested, our morals challenged. The very ties that bind us have been strained, but gentlemen, I tell you, we have not been found wanting!'

Upon the last word, he slammed the book down on the table dramatically. Unfortunately, the gesture was ruined somewhat by the fragile nature of the bindings, and so they had to spend a frantic minute or two stuffing pages back in the correct order before Tristan would continue. This time, a little more tentatively.

'And so brace yourselves, my fellow disciples, for the journey of knowledge that we now prepare to undertake together. For we will emerge at the end of this tunnel unrecognizable from the men who entered. Farewell your ignorance, and your innocence. Shed your naïveté, for tonight, we ascend!'

'Shhhhhh!' came a hiss from the direction of Madam Cresswell's desk.

Tristan opened the book to the first chapter.

An Introduction to the Principles Moste Basick

The true art of charming a young witch is governed by a most simplistic set of tenets. Like Wandcraft itself, to master this form of magic, one must be intimately familiar with the basics. For it is an act as simple as a door held open, a textbook carried, or a smile proffered to quell an erstwhile foul mood that will sow the seeds of a most fruitful relationship.

As the title suggests, we shall outline our twelve tips for success for each of the chapters herein. We then encourage the young wizard to venture forth and embrace his new, Moste Charming Nature.

Point One – Classroom Etiquette: The ability to comport oneself in the Hallowed Halls of Learning is critical to the foundation of any relationship. The Classroom is the confines in which, dear reader, you shall spend the most time in company of the young Witch, and so it must be treated as a stage, with the onus to perform at the highest calibre.

For the mind of the young Witch – far more advanced and complex than thine own, let your humble author assure you – will know of this, and thus be aware of every interaction within said Hallowed Halls. Including, and perhaps of most import…

'Can we skip to the chapter about asking girls out to the end-of-year Fest?' James asked impatiently.

'Slightly unstable girls,' Clip added.

'No! Tristan barked. 'The knowledge must be acquired in order, lest we risk-'

But Fred wasn't listening, and he grabbed the book from the table, flicking straight to a page right near the end.

From his awkward spot behind the lamp, James was unable to see just what Fred saw when he opened that page. All he could make out from his vantage point was a single line of text:

And as we near the rear of this book, so too…

Fred had snapped the book shut and pushed it away as if it had burned him. His olive skin was a ghostly grey, and his hands were shaking. His lips were struggling to stammer out cohesive words.

'P-p-p-pictures. T-there were pictures,' he squeaked. 'They were moving.'

'Alas!' cried Tristan. 'He has seen too much. He has gazed too long into the maw, and reached too far. The darkness has touched him.'

James and Clip were eyeing both Fred and the Book with wary sidelong glances. Just what had been on that page?

'This must bring an abrupt end to our study of the Sacred Text,' Tristan informed them. Fred was shivering slightly, though the Library was perfectly warm.

'Why do I feel like the girls might have been doing us a favour in confiscating this?' Clip asked nobody in particular.

With the book away, Tristan cast his overly-dramatic mien aside. Fred was showing signs of human life once more. All three turned to look at James. It was Tristan who spoke.

'We're still stuck with the problem of how you're going to face down Odette.'

'Might I suggest with a very long pole?' Clip added. He'd been the most sceptical on James' Odette fascination from its inception.

'Merlin, Clip!' Tristan roared. 'Whatever you're in to, I guess. Just make sure it's a quiet broom closet-'

'Ergh, no! I meant-!'

'Hang on a minute,' James said, interrupting the conversation. 'No you bloody don't.'

He'd just seen a shimmery length of strawberry-blonde hair meandering through the bookshelves outside their booth. Hair that was attached to a young Ravenclaw with whom he had a very large bone to pick.

'Rain.' He said with a glower, slipping deftly out of the booth and cutting her off. He wished he was a touch taller, so that he could loom over her menacingly.

Despite his best efforts, she looked entirely unfazed. 'James Potter.'

'You and I need to talk.'

'I think somewhere more secluded is appropriate, don't you?'

James nodded, and stomped off into the depths of the library, keeping a sidelong eye on Rain, in case she decided to try anything. The shelves grew narrower and the lights grew sparser as they progressed. Soon, his footfalls were kicking up tiny puffs of dust from the moth-eaten, threadbare rugs that ran the length of the aisles.

At the end of their row, the iron grille of the gate marking the restricted section loomed tall and foreboding. The stump of a single candle flickered fitfully near the entrance, serving to do little more than illuminate the heavy lock that barred the way through.

Deeming them to be sufficiently out of the public eye, James cornered Rain against a bookshelf, causing a small shower of dust to cascade down onto the pair of them like unsightly snow.

His assertive questioning charade was derailed somewhat by the sneezing fit that they both devolved into, and the subsequent sheepish smile she flashed him, cheeks flushed, and eyes watering from the outburst.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, glaring up at the stack of books, piled drunkenly above their heads. Then, 'why'd you do it?'

They both knew exactly what he was referring to.

'I would have thought that obvious; I was trying to protect you.'

'You could have told me. You didn't need to steal it from me. I'd have given it to you.'

'Would you?'

James hesitated, only for a second. But it was enough.

'I didn't have the time to try and explain to you why you needed to hand it over,' Rain huffed, colour rising in her cheeks.

'Because you thought I wouldn't trust you? Or because you didn't trust me? '

'Don't be ridiculous James Potter-'

'Don't you "don't be ridiculous James Potter" me,' he snapped, 'we agreed to this whole plan together. We're a team. Does that mean nothing to you?'

'I maintain that I was acting in both of our best interests. Had you been caught-'

'We could have figured something else out. If you'd only asked. I agreed to this to help you. To maybe get us a shot at stopping the Infected from overrunning the whole country, but most of all, because I saw what happened in Hogsmeade. I saw what it did to you. I vowed to do what I could to make sure that wouldn't happen again. Because you're my friend, Rain.'

'Well I apologise if I have upset your sensibilities, James Potter,' she said, stepping clear of where he'd cornered her against the bookshelf. She fished around in a deep pocket of her robe. The object she brought forth winked coyly in the dim light, and looked out of place for being so clean, amidst a dust-filled world.

James took the proffered vial and clutched it tightly. The liquid was warm against his palm.

'You don't get a thank you,' he told her, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

'James,' she started, with a heavy sigh. 'I'm sorry if I haven't always been the best friend. It is not a concept I have ever been familiar with. I am sorry if it feels that there are things you have the right to know. You are right, in a way. I have not been entirely truthful with you. But know that I have not done so lightly, and it is not without due cause that I make these decisions. They weigh on me. So much, I have wanted to tell you, from the first day I arrived at Hogwarts. This is my promise to you: when we have achieved what we set out to achieve here, I will tell you all. Everything I have wanted to tell, everything you could possibly want to know. It will be yours.'

An earnest light shone in her eyes. It could have been real. James wasn't sure he could tell anymore.

'You've promised this before. And fed me snippets, only to turn around and do the same again. Why else would we be having this conversation?'

'You have my word, James.'

'So you are asking me to trust you, now?'

She pursed her lips for a moment. A slight hesitation before she bent her arms behind her neck and began fidgeting.

'Very well. Then I offer you this, in place of my word.'

The shining golden chain of Rain's Locket was pooled in her hand. The deep blue sapphire, almost as large as a hen's egg, glowed with a serene light. James gaped at the amulet that they'd fought so hard for last year. Her lifeline. And she was handing it to him.

'I can survive without it,' she said in response to his awestruck look. 'For a time, at least. Take it James, please. It matters to me that you hold to your faith. When this is over, I shall tell you everything. And only then, shall you return the Amulet to me.'

James accepted it reverently. The chain coiled into his hand like molten gold. The gemstone sat atop it was inexplicably heavy for its size. It felt warm to the touch. He stashed it in his pocket, careful not to tangle the chain.

'Thank you,' was all he could find to say.

Rain nodded in understanding. Their meeting had come to an end, albeit a somewhat awkward and uncertain one. James asked her once again to turn around as he strapped the vial back to its place across his chest. They left their meeting place at the same time, but somehow not really together.

James was too caught up in fumbling with stubborn buttons on his shirt before he realised they had company.

'Well, fancy seeing the two of you here. Together.'

'Oh bloody- hi Odette.'

'Your friends told me you'd be back here.'

'Well wasn't that swell of them.' James' tone was drier than the pages of the unused books surrounding them.

'You certainly are a persistent one,' Odette snarled in Rain's direction.

'Perhaps James needed a palate cleanse after tasting something nasty.'

The flash of teeth Odette shot in Rain's direction could hardly be called a smile. Mercifully, rain sauntered off without another word, and as she finally disappeared behind a bookshelf James let out the breath he'd been holding.

'Is this some kind of a game to you, Potter?' Odette asked him. It stung a little that she wouldn't even use his first name.

'We weren't doing anything,'he protested.

'Your unbuttoned shirt says otherwise.'

'I swear-'

'Well then, what were you doing?'

James froze. He couldn't exactly tell her he was harbouring the highly illegal and potentially dangerous substance that the teachers were currently turning the castle inside out to try and find underneath his shirt. Whatever she read into his hesitation, it soured her disposition. She pursed her lips into a thin line and spun angrily away. James had to scurry to keep up.

'You're going to have to cancel, you know,' she told him. They were making their way out of the library. A wave of stares followed their every move, and a rustle of whispers like shifting pages chased them all the way out to the corridor. 'With Rain. Whatever plans you two had been making.'

James froze. Odette took three more stops before realising he was no longer with her. How long had she been there? What had she heard? James tried to respond, but all that came out was a dry sort of croak.

'The Feast, obviously.' Odette was looking at him like he was stupid. 'Don't think I don't know why she's all over you all of a sudden.'

'Oh. That. She's not-'

'She's still harbouring a grudge from last year, I'll bet. The incident on the train. Thinks she can get back at me by stealing you away. Pathetic.'

'Er, hello. I'm right here.'

'The Feast is in two weeks. It's the last weekend of the year, so it will be all anyone talks about over summer. You can pick me up from the common room at six. I'll be wearing green. Don't mess it up.'

She cupped his cheek with one manicured hand and flashed a simpering smile. James' mind felt rather like the aftermath of a whirlwind. Everything was jumbled about and he was struggling to find anything worthwhile to say.

Well, that saves one problem.

'Odette, wait!' he called, as she started walking away. A few onlookers heard his cry, and quickly made an effort to pretend not to be listening. A little quieter, he added; 'does this mean that we're… you know…'

'Spit it out, James. We're neither of us nine years old anymore.'

'Together.' The best he could manage was a whisper. And not even a forceful one.

'Ha!' her bark of laughter was loud and jarring, and more than a little hurtful. 'After what happened on the Quidditch Pitch? I've kissed my mother with more enthusiasm.'

James failed at letting the sting her words caused show on his features. She paused one last time, flicking her curtain of blonde hair over her shoulder. 'But you're up for consideration.'

With a wink and a smile, Odette Mansfield strutted off. And James Potter, once again, was left with the sensation of having narrowly survived some sort of natural disaster.

Harry Potter pushed himself up from his knees. His whole body ached. His joints were swollen and stiff. His lips chapped and his mouth dry. Welts and bites and lesions dotted every inch of his exposed, sun-baked skin. He'd given up trying to fight nature. As it was, it was taking all of his energy to combat the wholly unnatural abomination before him.

The cave looked no different than the day he had arrived in the small clearing. Nets of creepers and verdant vines draped over the weathered stonework. The mouth yawned black and endless, defying even the sweltering midday sun that assailed him at that very moment. A few water-worn etchings around the mouth could have been Runes, or merely nature's blunt claws dragging ceaselessly across the face of the unyielding rock.

The only changes to the area were marks of his own presence. A tiny hut and cot in one corner where he slept fitfully through the night. His meagre pile of belongings. A beaten track through the bush where he staggered to relieve himself when his body allowed. And the churned earth before him where he would flail and lash in pain after every failed attempt at his goal.

And there were plenty of instances of that.

He'd approached the cave more tentatively, after the first disaster. That one had taken him a full day to recover from. A day of fever and vomiting like he'd never known. He thought for a bitter moment that he'd contracted the Infection himself, and briefly considered abandoning the mission entirely.

He would have tried to Apparate out of there after that restless, fever-stricken night's sleep, had it not been for the small pile of tropical fruits and mouldy waterskin that had appeared at the foot of his bed that morning. The fruit was ripe and soft and energizing more than it had any right to be. The water was cool and clear. The smell of the beaten waterskin mattered not to his desperate lips and parched throat.

He'd not recalled fetching anything, though his night had been so riddled with phantasms and nightmares from his fever, anything could be possible. However, he became even more certain that he wasn't alone after the second and then third instance of such offerings. Each time, after he passed out from his attempts, he awoke in his cot. A ratty woven blanket was tossed over his shoulders. Sustenance for another day heaped at his feet.

Perhaps it was his sense of duty, of not leaving a task – particularly one so important to the fate of so many – unfinished. Perhaps it was the burgeoning sense of companionship with his newfound, secret guardian. Or perhaps, as Ginny had suggested on many an occasion, he simply possessed a self-flagellating desire to suffer in the name of good. Whatever it was, he had stayed in that damned clearing far longer than he had any of intention of when the mission began. And one, or a combination of all three, drove him to push himself up on shaking legs each morning and face down that darkness. A darkness with which he was growing more and more familiar. A darkness, a nothingness, that he felt resembled himself more and more each day.

The wards were unlike anything he had ever seen before in his life. They were set to stop magic only – they held no danger to a physical presence. He could have walked right in to the cave at any time, as Teddy had, all those months ago. But it wasn't their purpose that was so vexing, it was the way they had been crafted. So alien, so foreign and distinct from everything Harry knew about magic.

Though he was no expert with Runes and Warding, he had a fair amount of experience in both. Generally, he likened subverting a ward to picking apart a spider's web. The way they were crafted was through the painful and exhaustive layering of protective spells, one over the other, in a sort of mesh. And primed in such a way that they were sensitive to the presence of intruders, or magic, or whatever the desired target may be. The trick was understanding the intricate array that they created, sensing it, and the order of its creation. Being able to pick apart the threads, in the correct order was paramount to successful destruction of a ward. The wrong thread in the wrong order could quite often leave the would-be Dismantler as little more than a smoking pair of boots in a crater the size of most houses.

But here, there was no sense of threads, or order at all. It was as if the creator had simply forced raw Magical Flux into place to guard this cave. As if they'd jammed a handful of square bricks to plug a round hole. The result was that Harry could sense that there were multiple individual spells, multiple iterations of the work. But it felt as if, in the forcing in to place, the lines between them had been muddied, blurred and melted together. So that he could get the sense of one, individual piece of defensive magic. And as he probed it, searching for weaknesses, he would suddenly find himself dealing with a completely different part of the ward. A part that was immune to all of his ministrations and required a completely different approach to defeat.

It was frustrating, exhausting and, so far, fruitless. Not to mention every mistake was punished brutally, with another wave of pain on a level with some of the worst Cruciatus Curses he'd ever faced.

He'd taken to yelling at the trees in frustration most nights as he lay in bed. They didn't answer back, save only to rustle with the occasional laughter at his failings.

That very morning, he'd asked them if he was going mad. They'd nodded back and waved, taunting.

Now, after another failed attempted, he stomped back towards his cot, seeking sustenance. He scowled at the bundle of fruits and roots that his hidden saviour had provided. Today, he'd packed them into a woven mesh sack. They were jammed in so tight that the strings were cutting into the flesh of some of the fruit, causing them to bleed a pale yellow ichor into a small puddle on the earth below.

He searched the bag for an opening, found none, and swore. Never mind the fact that these small gifts were his only sustenance out here, and possibly all that was keeping him alive, the extra effort required simply seemed like too much today.

But as he grabbed his wand and slit one of the strands, causing a cascade of fruit all over his grubby cot, his expression slowly began to change.

He bolted upright, the quickest he'd moved in weeks. The fruit lay forgotten all over the floor of his hut. The remnants of the sack in which they'd came in one hand, wand in the other, he paced slowly towards the cave.

'That's it,' he growled. His voice hoarse and cracked.

He'd been going about it all wrong. Trying to pick apart these Wards as if they were something they're not. Trying to coax out one string of magic from a chaotic, tightly-pressed melange. He'd been trying to pull the fruit out through the mesh bag the whole time. Whereas what he'd needed to do was to find the weak point, find whatever it was that was holding all of the damned square blocks in the stupid round hole, and then everything would spring apart in an explosion of nasty, magical fruit.

Harry Potter smiled menacingly at the cave before him and raised his wand.

'Time to try a little bit of force.'