'So, captain, who's going to make the team? What's our strategy this year? What do you think our chances of winning are? Can anyone beat Hufflepuff? Can we have next Thursday off, I've a date with a packet of Endless Sneezing powder and the unused chimneys in the Slytherin common room.'
James laughed, holding up his hands for surcease from the barrage of Fred's endless questions. It had been thus ever since he'd announced his captaincy the previous week. Now that they had finally arranged for a trial to select new members for the team, the questioning had reached a fever pitch.
The pair of them were sat in the Gryffindor changing rooms, early for the session. James had made sure to put up parchment all over the house and school noticeboards – he was hoping for a sizeable turnout. He'd have placed even more fliers, but a coalition of the Gobstones Club, the Junior Arithmancers Guild and the Magical Creatures Enthusiasts had cornered him in the corridor last Thursday to insist he stop covering up their own notices of club meetings.
Truth was, he was more than a little nervous. He only really needed to fill two positions from last year – the third Chaser position, and Carina Swift's now-vacant Keeper role. But a full tryout for all positions would help keep the returning members on their toes, and show him who still had the fire in them to play, and who was content just to coast along.
'On Thursdays Slytherin practice anyway,' James mumbled distractedly. He was aiming for at least a half-dozen new hopefuls, as well as the returning players, to show up. He'd prepared a few spare brooms from the least knobbly of the school's stock, and laid them out on the pitch in preparation.
'Exactly,' Fred was rubbing his hands together eagerly. He and James had arrived a half-hour before practice to set up and discuss their plan for the afternoon. James wasn't sure Fred had actually been any help per se, but he had been quite adept at coming up with ways to charm the newbies' broomsticks to "keep them vigilant", as he put it.
'Bit of a head-wind today,' James muttered. 'We'll use the northern goal-hoops. Have the Chasers practice throwing into the wind.'
'If I hurry, there might be enough time to Hex enough of the stadium that if the Slytherins come to spy, their seats will turn into Blast-Ended Skrewts and try to eat them.'
'Are you evening listening?'
'Okay, fine, giant flobberworms. Something less deadly.'
James gave up, and took to pacing the length of the room. The doors were thrown open and the sunlight streamed in, the setting sun angled such that it plated the surface of the lake with a burnished bronze hue that set the grass of the pitch afire to their eyes. Small clouds of dust puffed up as James tracked back and forth, worried about by streamers of wind that slipped in through the open doorway.
There was movement out on the pitch, and James spun to see a figure approaching, broom draped casually across his shoulders, and wearing last year's Gryffindor team outfit – a statement if ever there was one. It was Preston Lynch.
'Oh, shit,' James muttered.
'Lynch?' Fred guessed, craning his neck around the open door to look. 'Git's still ten minutes early.'
In all the excitement of being named captain, James had entirely forgotten about Preston Lynch. His rival for nearly three years, he and Lynch had fought bitterly on the pitch, often costing their team victories. It had only been the realisation that the team, and the game itself, was bigger then their petty feuds that had allowed them to put aside their differences. But something like this, James' being named captain over Lynch, was sure to be a reopening of old wounds. A stirring of a pot that had barley been allowed to settle. James braced himself as Lynch noticed the two of them and started heading over. The beginnings of a plan began to form in James' head. He hoped his decision wouldn't create a new rift within the team.
Lynch set his broom carefully on the rack next to James' before he turned and face the pair of them.
'Evening, Potter.' His voice as short and clipped, terse and taut. 'Weasley, why are your trousers purple?'
'Not important,' Fred waved it off with a huff.
'Good holidays, Lynch?' James asked, painfully aware of the awkwardness that had settled over the room.
Lynch shrugged. 'I spent them in Ireland. Practised a week with the National Team in their training camp. My Uncle says he can get me fast-tracked into the developmental squad once I leave Hogwarts.'
'Awesome, sounds exciting.' There was a tentative hint of genuine enthusiasm in James' voice.
'Indeed. Although, it seems I can't even make captain of the House team, over someone who had been kicked off of it, last time I checked.'
Ah, there it was.
'Listen, Lynch – Preston – it wasn't my decision. I didn't even know if I'd be on the team when the term began-'
'And yet, now you're the captain of it.'
The conversation was going nowhere, fast. Time to come out and say it.
'I'd like you to be the Vice-Captain with me.'
Lynch blinked. His eyes immediately darted to where Fred was sitting. Assumptions were that if was James was to make anyone a vice-captain, it would have been him. Fred stopped in his polishing the handle of his broomstick and looked up slowly. James tried to meet his eyes and convey both his apology, and the necessity of his actions, in the hopes that at least some sting would be removed from the deliberate oversight.
'Don't look at me,' Fred shrugged. 'Most mornings, choosing clean underwear is more responsibility than I'm happy with. Vice-Captain would be the last thing I'd want.'
James sagged in relief. Lynch narrowed his eyes, wary that this was some kind of trap. Knowing Fred, it could well be, but James trusted his friend in this, at least, to remain serious.
'Are you giving this to me as an excuse to boss me around even more, Potter?'
'I'm offering it to you, Preston, because you deserve it. Because…' and James paused a moment to swallow his pride. 'I need it. Nobody is a better shot on goal than you, and you organise defensive formations far better than I do. We've got a shot to win it all this year. But not if we're going to fight the whole season through. If you're not going to accept the offer, then I'll… I'll step down. I don't want bad blood between us ruining our shot at the Cup.'
Behind him, James heard Fred overcome by a sudden choking fit. Lynch stood only a few strides away, his arms crossed, studying James intently. The moment hung in the air, it seemed suddenly as if the wind were still and nothing moved between the two boys. James kept his arms at his side, his expression fiercely earnest. His heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced his breathing into calmness, wrestling with the nerves that tried to overwhelm him.
Lynch stepped forward. 'That Captain's badge would look damned good on my collar.' James' heart stuttered. 'But it belongs with a man who is going to do what is right for this team, to make sure we're the ones holding that Cup at the end of the season. To a man willing to sacrifice it for his house. For Gryffindor.'
'For Gryffindor,' James echoed, and he stepped forward to clasp hands with Lynch, the agreement settled.
Lynch nodded curtly to Fred, and then turned to leave, retrieving his broom and striding out onto the pitch, to take to the skies in preparation of the warm-ups that were to come.
It wasn't until Lynch was safely up in the air that James allowed himself to let out the breath he'd been holding.
'Bloody hell. Sorry, Freddy, we both know it should have gone to you.'
'Nonsense,' Fred waved it off. 'I know no such thing. You handled that well, captain. Looks like there's a bit of Gryffindor spirit buried down there under Lynch's ego, after all.'
James nodded, his eyes on Lynch performing a series of advanced aerial acrobatics, the dazzling display prepared just in time for all of the newcomers to bear witness and be awestruck. 'That's what I was counting on.'
The phrase James had oft heard his father use to describe the difficulty of organising the junior Aurors was "herding cats". For his part, James found that when broomsticks were added to the equation, it was more like herding butterflies, as the score or so of energetic Gryffindors could hardly contain themselves from scooting off into the air, warming up, showing off to their friends, or – as was the case for one particularly overeager second year -flying round and round the goal hoops as quickly as possible until they vomited.
It took a good fifteen minutes, and several instances of wishing Lynch would have taken the burden of captaincy from him, before James managed to corral most of them – barring the green-tinged second year who'd wisely decided to call it a night and head back up to the castle.
'Welcome, everybody! It's good to see such a strong turnout. Old faces and new ones, too.' There were more than James had anticipated seeing. A half-dozen Chasers, and a handful of would-be Keepers had come along to try for the vacant positions, and there were one or two brave Beaters looking to steal a position from Fred or Ash Attaway, along with quite a large seventh-year lad who'd amusingly come down to try out as Seeker. 'Before we start, I'd like to introduce you all to your vice-captain, Preston Lynch.'
Lynch stepped forward from the group and gave a casual wave. James could see his eyes sifting through the pack, weighing the merits of each of the candidates before they'd even had a chance to perform.
'We're going to run through a series of warm-up exercises as a team,' James continued. 'So that I can get a handle on how comfortable you all are on a broom, and then we'll break out into position groups and run through some drills and finally, we'll wrap up with a practice match. We've plenty here to make up two even teams.'
The group did as they were bid. James tried to stir a bit of life into them, tried to generate a bit of enthusiasm for what they were doing. He eked out a half-hearted round of applause from a sixth-year girl named Carissa Li, which did little more than earn her a snort of derision from a group of older seventh-years.
It soon became apparent from the team drills that a clear divide existed in the talent pool, between those who seriously had a shot at making the team, and those who appeared to just be along for the ride. There were a few minor spills, a lot of messy turns, and when James had them practicing a co-ordinated manoeuvres drill, many, many collisions. After one such, when he'd had to help a small third-year lad off the field with what seemed to be a mild concussion, James found himself wondering just how Odette managed it. He could practically feel his hairs greying already.
The big lad who'd come for the Seeker position was a bit of a revelation – he was far more nimble and agile than any would have predicted. But Al, with his far superior broom, his recent experience, and his own gritty determination, was still soundly ahead. Likewise, none of the Beaters seemed up to challenging Ash or Fred for their positions on the teams. The current duo were busy flying rings around their would-be teammates, playing keep-away with four Bludgers at once. Tempers were beginning to flare over in their corner, and harsh words were being exchanged. Beaters had always been a funny breed, James mused.
It was with some satisfaction that James noted Bianca Petit was distinguishing herself for the Keeper position. A classmate of his, he was aware she'd tried out and failed to make the team every year so far. She was likeable and diligent, and he'd seen her down on the pitch at various times over the past few years practising on her own, in the hopes of one day making the team.
The Chasers group, on the other hand, posed a more tangled web to unravel. Carissa Li was by far the most engaged and enthusiastic. Her glee was palpable every time she took to the air, and James couldn't help smiling along with her as she laughed and whooped her way through the drills. But she was on the slender side of lithe, and her arm strength was questionable. The three seventh-years who had come along were all adequate fliers, and one of them, Anthony Hardcastle, had an arm on him like James had never seen, an absolute cannon that was almost impossible to save… when he managed to get his shots on target. But it was another from that group, one Genevieve Sweeting that looked to be the most complete prospect.
The only drawback was that she was a bit of a…
'Bitch,' Fred swore as he pulled up next to James. They'd both just watched Gen shoulder Carissa out of the way to get back to the front of the line and have another shot. She was obviously fuming that Bianca had saved her previous attempt.
Lynch peeled away from the group and drifted up to join them. They were hovering a few feet above the action, looking down as the group of prospective Chasers took shots at goal, while the would-be Keepers tried to stop them. The Beaters – less Fred – were engaged in a healthy shouting match down on the ground at midfield, and Al and the big lad were chatting amicably near the sidelines. The sun was going down, and James wanted to try them out in a game situation.
'I like Sweeting,' Lynch said, as she lined up for the shot.
Come on, Bianca, James silently hoped.
'She's got all the tools,' James reluctantly agreed. 'But she's a bit… feisty.'
'Nothing wrong with a bit of mongrel,' Lynch smirked. 'Got to get your hands dirty as a Chaser, you know that.'
James shrugged, and stuck a couple fingers in his mouth to whistle the group together. It just so happened that he did this right as Gen Sweeting took her shot. The piercing sound cut through the gentle chatter of the few students up in the stands, and the shot went high, Bianca didn't even have to try and save it.
'What the hell, Potter?' Gen barked. 'I want another shot. That's not fair, you put me off.'
James just raised his eyebrows and shot Preston Lynch a significant look, but said nothing. He ignored Gen's grumblings altogether as he split the group into two teams, paying no heed when Gen shouldered her way to the front of the pack again to make sure she was chosen first.
James and Preston retired to a stand at the half-way line, to watch the proceedings and evaluate all the players. James put Lynch in charge of rolling on the substitutes to make sure that everyone got some time on the pitch. He whistled once more to begin the match, and released a Snitch which darted off towards the castle and was lost into the grainy light before the Quaffle had even been captured.
Watching the match was an exercise in frustration for James. He called out encouragement where he could, and instruction where he thought it necessary, but more than anything, he longed to be in the thick of it. To feel the wind whipping his hear, tugging the shouts and calls from his ears and stinging his ears and nose with its fresh touch. To feel the collision as he jostled for possession, to loft a perfectly weighted pass or to send the Quaffle sailing through the goal hoops. As it was, he was forced to watch Gen Sweeting refuse to pass the Quaffle to Carissa Li or the other Chaser on her team, a young fourth year boy with a broom that was far too fast for his somewhat meagre ability.
The saving grace was the fact that James had stuck Bianca Petit on the opposing team, and she was proving delightfully adept at blocking Gen's shots.
'Can I get a little help?' Gen roared, after her third consecutive shot was saved. This one was an easy swooping dive to the left goal hoop for Bianca, who restarted play while Gen was still sulking in midfield.
With Gen out of action, the opposition scored easily.
'Oh, you two are so useless!' she roared.
Carissa, finally having had enough, pulled up alongside and drew herself up to her meagre height Gen. 'Well, maybe if you passed a bit more-'
'Oh, shut up! We all know I'm the best flier here, so you can sod off back to your knitting, Li. Everyone knows that your lot are no good at Quidditch anyway.'
Oh, shit.
James moved to grab his broom and mount up. Out above the pitch, Carissa put a hand to chest, aghast.
'M-my lot?'
Whack!
Fred had launched a Bludger from above the two arguing girls, and – true to his talent – it had hit Gen Sweeting square in the jaw. She slumped forward on her broom without a sound and started drifting haphazardly towards the ground.
Though, technically, the match was still ongoing, and Fred's move had been legal, Gen's friend Anthony clearly didn't see it that way. He wrestled a Beater's bat off of one of his own team and shot towards Fred, with it raised in one hand.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit.
James tore off across the field.
Beneath him, the fourth year was a red and gold streak, nearly out of control on his lightning broom. Poor Bianca didn't know whether to try and stop him, or join in the fray.
'I'll gut you, you red-headed freak!' Anthony cried.
'Come and try it,' Fred roared back, reaching for his wand.
'ENOUGH!' James shouted, coming in over the top of both of them. In the background, he noted Preston Lynch helping Gen to her feet on the ground.
'Sod off, Potter,' sneered Anthony.
'Watch it, Hardcastle. This is my practice.'
'Like I give a shit.'
This was all spiralling rapidly out of hand. A far cry from what James had hoped for upon beginning his first practice as captain.
'Get off my pitch, Hardcastle.'
A stray Bludger chose that moment to zip through the proceedings, and, seeing an opportunity, Anthony wound up and swung at it, utilising all the strength in that cannon arm that he had been showing off all afternoon. James reacted more on instinct, than anything. He reached out his hand before his face, where the Bludger was streaking towards him, little more than a black blur in his vision. He felt something collide with his hand. Hard. The jarring of the hit sent shockwaves all up his arm, and jolted his shoulder painfully. Pain lanced up his forearm and all the way through his chest. He'd closed his eyes upon impact. Upon reopening, it took him a moment to focus on the Bludger that sat, quivering weakly in his hand, his fingers wrapped around it.
His hand fell to his side, the Bludger still clasped within it. He didn't even know if he could let it go, or if his damaged fingers were seized up around it. He didn't know what damage it had done, other than the fact that the surging onrush of pain made it hard to focus. His entire arm burned. He clenched his teeth so hard he heard a grinding in his jaw, and skewered Anthony Hardcastle with his best level look.
'Off my pitch. Now.'
It came out as half a snarl. Anthony, who was looking stunned, shifted his weight awkwardly on his broom.
'He just caught it,' whispered one of the Beaters.
'With his bare hands,' replied another.
The awe was evident in their voices. James pushed it angrily aside, along with the impressed looks he was getting from the rest of the team who had gathered around to watch. He jerked his head in the direction of the castle. One last warning to Anthony.
'I'm going to check on Gen,' he mumbled, wheeling about and giving it his best effort at storming off. James didn't breathe out until the pair of them were through the gate together. Their third friend was soon to follow.
'You bloody madman!' Fred cheered. 'James Ironfist!'
He tried to get a chant of 'Ironfist! Ironfist!' going, but there weren't many takers.
'Shut up, you idiots, I'm not a pirate.'
James called an end to the practice after that, and gathered the group at midfield. He'd dropped the Bludger, and it had fallen to the turf, unmoving, evidently as stunned as the rest of his teammates had been by what had taken place. James had lost all feeling in his right hand beyond a sort of burning pain. He was going to have to make a trip to the Hospital Wing to get Madam Petheridge to look at it, no doubt.
He briefly conferred with Preston Lynch. Lynch disagreed with James' decision. James told him to suck it up. He was the captain. Lynch nodded, with a furtive look at James' injured hand. Purple and blue bruising was already beginning to show. The throbbing was becoming unbearable.
'I've made my decision,' James announced to the gathered group. The chatter died down immediately when he spoke. A respectful silence fell across the group, with all eyes on him. 'Rather than have you all waiting a week to find out who's made the team, I'll tell you now and we can get it over with. First training is coming up in three days' time, so be ready for it.'
That really got their attention. A round of shuffling and nervous glances followed. They were practically leaning in towards James in anticipation.
'Albus, Fred, and Ash will all retain their positions alongside myself and Preston. Joining us at Keeper will be Bianca Petit.'
Bianca gasped and blushed as a few of her friends congratulated her. The joy on her face was radiant, and it eased a little bit of the pressure off of James to see her so relieved to achieve something she'd been working towards for the past four years.
'And our new Chaser will be Carissa Li.'
This time, there were a few whispers and grumbles, and Carissa outright gasped in shock, clearly not having expected it. Next to James, Preston crossed his arms and pursed his lips, making his displeasure evident.
'A-are you sure?' Carissa whispered timidly from the front of the group.
'Of course, I am. Easiest decision of the day. You've got poise on a broom, you're comfortable in the air, and nobody showed more effort or enthusiasm.'
Carissa clapped happily, and Bianca rushed up to hug her. The rest of the hopefuls dispersed, some few muttering about James' controversial selection. It was true, Carissa hadn't been the fastest, nor had the biggest arm, nor been the most aggressive, but he'd readily defend his decision to anyone who challenged him.
As the team and new members went to celebrate in the change rooms, James separated himself from the group under the guise of packing up the gear they had been using for training. He levitated the brooms and hoops away a little awkwardly with his left hand, keeping his right clutched close to his chest. Sounds of laughter, and the popping of corks emanated from the Gryffindor lockers. James shouldn't have been surprised that Fred would have a secret stash stored somewhere.
'Need a hand?'
James looked up to see Odette watching him from the shadows beneath the stadium. She was leaning casually up against the wall of the broomstick shed, her arms crossed. In spite of himself and his soured mood, James smiled at seeing her.
'Of course you were spying.'
She shrugged, offering him an innocent face. 'I wasn't the only one. Ava Adams was there with her little clique of Yellowbellies, and Percy Pevensy and his squawking birds were roosting up in the Ravenclaw stand, as well.'
James shook his head. 'You all know each other are doing it, why bother with the hiding and slinking about?'
'Oh, James, you're such a Gryffindor. If one takes away the mask, one is forced to look upon the ugly face that lies behind it. Better we keep things this way, for all involved.'
'And you are the epitome of Slytherin house.'
'I must admit, though, I nearly broke cover when you caught that Bludger with your bare hands.'
'Right. I suppose some backup would have been appreciated.'
'Backup? I meant I was ready to tear the clothes off of you right then and there. That was the manliest thing I've seen since, well… ever.'
Laughing, James shot her a sly smile. 'Might have been a bit of a logistical nightmare, considering we were thirty feet in the air at the time.'
Odette's eyes lit up. 'Oh, I've always wanted to try it on a broom!'
'You are insatiable,' James laughed. And then, 'Ow, ow, ow!' as she pounced on him and tried to wrap him up in an embrace.
'Oh, right. Let's get you up to Madam Petheridge. And then down to a certain broom closet on the first floor…'
'You know Petheridge will want to keep me overnight, there's almost certainly broken bones.'
Odette pouted dramatically. 'Oh, you simply can't keep doing this to me, James! I'm about to explode!'
'Cross your legs for another night, then,' James replied, not unkindly, as she fell in step beside him. He received another sullen look for his comment. And then a hurt gaze, and then something salacious coupled with a hand sliding up the back of his shirt…
When he shook his head firmly, Odette went so far as to stamp her foot in frustration and give a loud huff, crossing her arms and fixing her gaze pointedly ahead.
'You made the wrong decision, you know. Li over Gen Sweeting. Gen is good. She might have made Gryffindor… passable, this year.'
'Passable? Hah! We'll fly circles around your band of misfits, and you know it. And no, I didn't. Carissa is a damned fair flier, and an accurate shot, as well.'
'If her noodle arm can manage to get the Quaffle through the hoops, that is.'
'I spent two years fighting with Lynch over Quidditch, Odette. There's barely enough room in the changing room for all of us and his ego-'
At this point, Odette was overcome by a sudden coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like, 'And your own.'
'-and so the last thing I need is another drama queen in that locker room. Quidditch skills I can coach. I can't teach the enthusiasm and team spirit Carissa has, that's invaluable.'
Odette gave an indifferent shrug. 'Well, it's your team to butcher. But know this, Li takes her studies very seriously. There's no way she'll come back next year while N.E. are on. If you wanted to win now, you should have taken Gen Sweeting for a one-and-done wonder. All that training you do this year, you're going to have to do all over again when Li leaves you high and dry next season.'
James hadn't considered that at all. A tiny seed of doubt lodged itself in his brain. Had he been to rash in his decision? Too fuelled by emotion on the back of Gen's actions?
'I don't care, I stand by it. You heard what Gen said to Carissa. I won't have that on my team. If we can't even get through a practise without her causing a fuss, we sure as hell won't make it through the whole year.'
Odette sighed again. They'd arrived at the doors to the hospital wing. 'You go on,' she nodded. 'Petheridge still hasn't forgiven me from stealing all her painkillers and knocking them back like Butterbeer in fourth year.'
They parted, and James paused to watch her leave. He'd need some kind of mental fortitude before facing the wrath of Madam Petheridge. No doubt she'd find some way to make him feel even worse than he did upon coming in, berating him about his stupidity and what-not.
The doors swung inwards of their own volition, and the scent of cleansing potions, painkilling tonics and that sterile, scrubbed-bare smell that seemed to come with too many cleaning charms assaulted James. He barely had the chance to glimpse the rows of mostly-empty beds before Madam Petheridge swooped down upon him in a bundle of skirts and admonitions.
'Foolish boy… catching Bludgers… wonder the whole arm's not broken… honestly, what is wrong with you… Gryffindor, of course… head full of Flobberworms…'
James barely had the time to protest as he was bundled across to the nearest bed, shoved firmly down onto the mattress, and had his hand prodded, poked and squeezed in a dozen different, painful ways.
'Wait a minute,' James murmured. 'How did you know what happened?'
'How did I know? How could I not know, is more like it. Half of the school is abuzz. Idiot boy. I've cuffed three students already who tried calling you a legend. Tsk… Look at these bones… they're shattered, not merely broken.'
'I didn't think-'
'Zip it! No more questions. Drink this.'
'What is it?'
'A tonic to help re-knit bones. Not as quick and efficient as my healing magic, but it'll be much easier on the body. And its better for the delicate little bones…. Particularly when you've made such a mess of them. You'll stay here tonight. You'll not leave this bed. The tonic may make you feel a little… woozy, but you should get a good night's sleep out of it.'
James was nodding along obediently as Madam Petheridge spoke.
'Well? What are you waiting for? Drink!'
James hastened to obey. The tonic tasted somewhere in between old socks, and the musty scent that assaulted him when he opened his trunk after leaving it shut all summer. He grimaced, gagged, and cursed, but got through it all. Madam Petheridge watched him with a beady-eyed glare to make sure it was so.
She placed a small magical device down by his bedside that looked a little like a Muggle hot-air balloon. It started inflating and deflating in rhythmically as James watched it.
'This will keep a measure of your breathing and notify me if anything is amiss. Now, sleep, Mister Potter. I suspect you'll need it.'
James lay his head back on the pillow. Come to think of it, he was feeling a little tired. And a light-headed sensation was stealing over him quite abruptly. High up above, the few candles that lit the room swam in his vision.
'Woo-oozy,' he mumbled, giggling to himself. What a funny word.
He heard Madam Petheridge tsk beside him as she stood up from her stool, but he was fast asleep before he even heard the sound of her office door closing.
Some time later, James felt his eyes opening. It was dark. Only a handful of candles lit the room, floating up high above, offering just enough light to make out the grainy, grey shapes of beds and furniture in the gloom. The light of the crescent moon offered little, obscured as it was through the windows by thick clouds. James' head was pounding, and the whole room span and swam before him. He blinked furiously, but couldn't clear his vision. His thoughts were slow and foggy. His body responded to his mind as if he were moving through thick soup. His limbs were leaden and unresponsive, his hand lay numb and insensate.
He strained his neck to look up and down the room. He was the sole occupant of the hospital wing this night. The light beneath Madam Petheridge's door was out, which must make the hour late, indeed.
James wondered why he had woken. He could here no noise, and his sleep had been dreamless, and undisturbed. He struggled to listen for any sound beyond the rush of his breathing. His mind trudging through possibilities with a frustrating slowness and a distinct lack of clarity. He could feel himself drifting back to sleep already…
When all of a sudden the lights above him went out. The candles flickered, sputtered, and vanished as one. No, he hadn't simply closed his eyes. It was pitch dark. A pattering rain sounded as each one fell to the floor. He'd never heard of that before. Those candles were charmed to float endlessly, and burn forever.
He'd seen something like this before, he knew it. But his sluggish mind refused to make the connection. A sweeping darkness, a wave of failing magic… lights, going out.
Next to his bead, the little balloon started rapidly inflating and deflating, though James' breathing remained slow and calm, methodically stilled by the tonic he had taken, his lungs were as lethargic as the rest of his body.
In fact, his breathing was becoming deeper, longer, slower. His thoughts trailing away into mindless, fuzzy warmth. His pillow was soft, the covers were tucked under his chin, and the sudden failure of the magic in the Hospital Wing was a problem in a far-off land. If only the little breathing monitor would stop making that high pitched whine-
Ah, there. It had shattered. Perfect. James rolled over, and fell instantly back to sleep, the darkness of the room offering up no further obstacle to his slumber.
The next morning when James awoke, his head felt woollen and his eyes grainy, but his hand had healed. And the only indication that his visions of the night might have been more than a dream where the pile of powdery ash that was gathered on the side table to his bed, and the thick, purple-black stain that it left soaked into the grain of the wood.
