'She fucking what?!'

'Mister Potter! Five points from Gryffindor, and I'll have you strung up on the Whomping Willow by your jock strap and wave you around like a bloody flag if I hear you speak like that in my lesson again.'

'Yes, Professor Meadows. Sorry, Professor Meadows.'

James turned back to Tristan and continued in a whisper.

'She fucking what?'

Tristan eyed Professor Meadows sheepishly before continuing. 'Kicked me off the team. Monday morning. Cornered me in the common room and told me it was better for all of us. I'd be too busy with my Prefect duties anyway, or some such nonsense. Did it in front of the whole bloody house, too.'

James was furious. How dare she? He was of a mind to march out of class and track down Ava Adams that minute, to bail her up for the travesty.

'But you've a match against Slytherin this weekend. You were half the reason the team won the Cup last year – as much as it pains me to say it.'

'I know, mate. I know. But she's the captain. Her word is law.'

'That bi-nnnggh!'

James was cut off, as his tongue suddenly leapt up and sealed itself to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't speak, only cough and gurgle pathetically as Professor Meadows bore down on him with murder in her pale blue eyes. Even her uneven step-thump gait seemed menacing.

James spent the rest of the lesson facing the corner in the back of the room, his tongue sealed fast to the roof of his mouth, and a cushion balanced on his head. He'd been given vague but terrifying threats of what might happen should he let it fall. This change of circumstance somewhat curtailed the remainder of his conversation with Tristan, but the moment the lesson was over – and the fifth years had been set free, laden with three feet of parchment on the topic of the distinction between Hexes and Jinxes for homework – he sought his friend out in the corridor.

'So what's all of this about, then?' James wasted no time mincing words. He'd gestured the others onwards, whilst he and Tristan held private council within a small enclave adjoining the third-floor corridor. The suit of armour who called the little niche home was none-too-pleased, and kept rustling and clinking irritably in a show of metalliferous displeasure.

'I honestly don't know,' Tristan despaired, throwing up his hands. 'One minute, she's praising me in practice for chasing some Slytherin spies out of the stands with a well-placed Bludger, and the next, this. Gone. It was completely out of the blue.'

'But that's- She can't just do that,' James sputtered, his outrage forcing his words to trip over themselves on their way out. 'It isn't fair.'

'Mate, she's captain,' Tristan shrugged wistfully. 'She can do whatever she wants.'

'What about help from your head of house?'

'Professor Bolt? I don't even think he knows we exist, most of the time. He's read one too many runes the wrong way round, if you catch my drift. Besides, he doesn't care a whit for Quidditch.'

'Is there anyone in your house that can help?'

Tristan broke eye contact, glancing down at his feet for a moment in clear discomfort. 'You're barking up the wrong tree there, James. Most of my house hates me. Remember that big lug who came to get me for prefect duties on the train? We had a particularly unpleasant conversation about just how I was going to behave myself this year, and how they could keep a better eye on me as a prefect, that my actions would be much more closely scrutinised, by the professors as well as the house.'

James listened, aghast. He gripped the strap of his bag so tightly that the leather threatened to tear. 'We can make them pay for that,' he growled.

'Don't, James. Honestly. Let me deal with this one. You won't win, and you'll only make things worse for me in the meantime. There's a group… they call themselves the Council. Seventh years, who make sure everyone within the house is following house rules. Working hard, keeping out of trouble, all of that. They don't like our little… adventures, and run-ins with the other students. They say it's not in the spirit of Hufflepuff house.'

'You mean like punching Caspar Helstrom in the face?'

'A strong right cross isn't the most Hufflepuff of gestures, if we're being honest.'

'Do you think Ava is one of them? This Council?'

'I'm not sure. Usually they're seventh years. They try and keep their identities a secret. Maybe they've let her join, she is a pretty big deal, and a Hufflepuff Golden Girl, to boot.'

'I'm going to talk to her,' James said suddenly. He checked his watch. He could probably catch her before she headed down to Quidditch practice after class.

'If I tell you not to, will it stop you?'

'Not a chance.'

'Well, then. At least leave me out of it, if you can. I've enough problems at the moment.'

'You can't just let them push you around and get away with it.'

'I'm not. I won't. I just need some time to think. Remember, I'm a prefect now, I can't just head on in there and knock some heads together. I'll lose more than just house points.'

An unenviable situation, indeed. James had never expected to be made prefect, and hearing what Tristan had to say, he was glad he'd never been given the extra responsibility.

'I'll tell you how it goes,' James said as a farewell, striding purposefully back out into the corridor and down towards a point where he could head Ava off before she made it out onto the pitch.

He fumed as he stalked through the corridors, skewering passers-by with dark looks and glares sufficient to keep the path ahead well clear. Hufflepuffs, of all people, engaging in such cloak-and-dagger, behind-the-back savagery was unthinkable. Slytherins, perhaps. But, out of all the other houses…

James admitted, albeit painfully, to some discomfort at seeing the most recent crop of Gryffindor first-years, and how timid and flighty a bunch that they were. It irked him somewhat that they seemed to be the antithesis of Gryffindor values. But it had never crossed his mind that he would physically threaten them about being more brave.

And no small part of his ire stemmed from the fact that This Hufflepuff Council clearly thought him the catalyst. That somehow, what he did – which, really, was little more than protecting his friends – was un-Hufflepuff. Did they not see the irony in that? So what if they got their hands a little dirty from time to time. Nobody else was going to do it for them. If there was anything James had learned in his time at Hogwarts to date, it was that if he wanted to have any impact on the world around him, he would have to get his own hands dirty in the shaping of it. His own bared knuckles, if he had to. For nobody else would step in to do it for him. Nobody else would ever hold his interests to heart as dearly as he could.

He'd worked himself up into quite a rage by the time Ava Adams appeared in the Entrance Hall. She was dressed in her Quidditch outfit, ready for a practice, and waved cheerily towards James as she noted his presence. There was a moment of confusion that flashed across her face as she read James' expression, and then he was upon her, stepping up into her personal space close enough that he could smell the mint on her breath and count the freckles crowding her nose.

'What the hell are you playing at?' he snarled, holding her gaze with the ferocity of his own. 'Tristan is one of the best players on your team. If you think you can just kick him off because-'

James found himself cut off as Ava's hand shot up and grabbed the front of his shirt. He sought to break her grip, but she held fast, marching him across the Entrance Hall to a shadowy spot beneath the Grand Staircase. If people had been starting to stare at his outburst, now they were outright ogling the couple, as it was Ava's turn to hold James silent with her own glare.

'I don't know what you think you've heard, or who you've been talking to, James, but you need to stay out of this.'

Though their setting was more private, it still didn't stop any onlookers from helping themselves to a good stare into the gloom beneath the staircase, or even a few more bold students leaning over the railings above them to get a closer look. Ava's defence of what James saw as an indefensible act rankled him yet further.

'And you need to put Tristan back on the team. Whatever you think you're doing. Whatever Hufflepuff values you and that Council think you're preserving, you're wrong. And you're stupider than I thought.'

'You'd better watch what you're saying, James. I mean it.'

'Threats, Ava, really? From the local house drunkard? Or can you not even recall? Imagine if that little secret got out.'

James knew he'd shot low with that comment, but it didn't bother him. He was too fired up, too furious about it all to have a hope of reigning in his thoughts. Ava gave him a look that would have frozen his blood, had it not been set afire so by his rage.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said icily.

'You're pathetic,' James spat, and made to leave. But Ava pushed past him first, shouldering her way out of their no-longer-private meeting place and bolting from the Entrance Hall, her head down, avoiding the dozen or so stares that chased her from the room.

It was a long few moments before James realised that, upon her departure, she'd pushed something into his hand. His balled fist clutched it tightly, creasing the delicate parchment on which it was wrote. His heart raced and a dozen thoughts and speculations rushed through his mind. He chased away the last few straggling onlookers with a final threatening glower, and when he was alone once more, he hurried to unfold it.

Trophy room. Midnight. Come alone, we need to talk.

She'd signed it with a little sunburst in blue ink. It was too bright a touch to an otherwise-ominous letter to have been written by anyone but Ava Adams – well, the cheery, bubbly Ava Adams James had thought he knew, at least.

He pondered the note all through dinner, and begged off for an early night when his friends set up in the library to begin an evening of study and – if Fred was to be involved – likely some minor pyromania.

He shut himself away in his bed early, prepared some clothes for walking the hall at night, and set an alarm to be woken a little before twelve. Thoughts of conspiracy accompanied him down into the dark recesses of his eventual sleep.


Tristan Macmillan slept fitfully that night. He was disturbed by endless repetitions of textbooks and wand movements. Of Cassandra Featherstone's short, clipped voice telling him to focus, or Fred's bored drawl speculating on what item at their table might be the most readily combustible. He was hounded by wand movements and incantations. By Spell Linkages and Runic Translations. By Arithmantic semantics and everything in between. It was the relentless monotony of his OWL-driven year thus far.

And always in these dreams, these half-memories, something lurked in the background. Something dark and formless and foreboding. A shadow where one oughtn't to be. A ray of sunlight that just wasn't there, an opened door revealing only blackness. A hand reaching forth to clutch his shirt…

Tristan yelled as he found himself shaken awake. He looked down to see his singlet bunched in the fist of the one who held him, pinning him down into the mattress. The rough, sharp feeling of a wand pressed into his throat snagged every breath he drew, and grazed against the soft, exposed skin.

Behind his attacker, several other shapes loomed, every bit as dark an ominous as they had been in his dreams.

'Good evening, sleepyhead,' his attacker growled.

Someone had lit a Lumos spell, and turned it directly into Tristan's eyes. It made so that his sleep-addled vision was unable to determine anything beyond vague shapes and distorted voices of those who crowded around him. He didn't even bother trying to shout for help, he knew they would have put up Charms to prevent it.

'Aren't you a big boy, attacking a man in bed, with… how many friends have you got there, six?'

'Four, and shut it, Macmillan. I'm doing the talking.'

So there were five, then. Five Council members. Tristan had no doubt that that was who they were – though their true identity remained a secret. It was scant little to go on, but, at least, it was a start.

'You must be real brave. It's a wonder you lot weren't put in Gryffindor- eck-!'

The wand jabbed painfully into his throat, cutting off his sentence as well as his breath. An animal panic stirred in his gut as he battled for air.

Finally, the attacker relented, and Tristan gasped in great lungfuls. That seemed to make the whole group chuckle. Distorted by magic though their voices were, there were at least two females distinguishable among them. Good. More information to store away.

'You got Potter involved,' growled the figure, only inches from Tristan's face. A hot waft of spicy Firewhiskey-riddled breath washed over Tristan. So the courage was borrowed, it seemed.

'I didn't. I-'

The pressure came on again, the wand at his throat.

'Don't lie to us, Macmillan. We know.'

When he could breathe again, Tristan spoke. 'He was going to find out eventually. And I asked him not to interfere. I told him I don't want trouble.'

'Wrong answer.'

Tristan found himself forced backwards into the mattress, and once again struggling for breath. His wand sat just out of reach on his bedside table. It may as well have been a mile away.

'I can't- compel him- to stop.' Tristan struggled to force the words out. The corners of his vision were wavering. The harshness of the Lumos light was becoming greyed at the edges.

'You're right,' sneered his attacker. 'But we can. And we can be quite… persuasive. Take just now, for example, when we persuaded your dear Quidditch friend to tell us she'd agreed to meet Potter in secret, this very night. Needless to say, she won't be able to make the rendezvous, but we've managed to arrange something of a welcoming party, to ensure he doesn't feel like he's been stood up.'

Tristan's efforts to free himself were fuelled with renewed vigour, but he was held fast in an iron grip. His fear for James was allayed not at all by the entire group's cold laughter.

'Bastards,' Tristan ground out between wheezing breaths. 'I'll- get you all.'

Laughter again, and the shadowy visage of his attacker receded. Others swooped in, grabbing him by the arms and legs, pinning him mercilessly to the bed. At least he could breathe, this time.

'Five minutes,' the main voice spoke, from the foot of Tristan's bed. And nothing visible. I don't want people asking questions.'

Tristan's momentary confusion as to the meaning of that statement was dispelled as a pillow was forced over his head, and vicious blows started raining in all over his exposed body.


James had learned many things in his four-and-a-bit years of magical education. He could cast Charms and brew potions. He could throw Hexes and Jinxes with the best of them. He was even passing decent at Transfiguration. But one of the things he was most proud of learning, was the layout of Hogwarts castle. He thought it likely that no one person could ever truly master such knowledge – the magic that the castle was founded on seemed to have inherited some of the playful nature of its inhabitants over the centuries, and thus continued to throw up puzzles and confusions on a semi-regular basis. But equally, James was sure, there were few that currently resided in these halls who knew them better than he. Servant's passages and disused corridors, secret doors and false tapestries. Which statues to tap with his wand that would open on command. Which portraits would swing forward under a bit of coaxing or a secret passphrase. The network of slides that connected Gryffindor tower with the basement corridor. Supposedly for when Godric had desperately wanted a snack.

James knew them all. Or, at least, most of them. More than sufficient to ghost through the passages of a sleepy Hogwarts castle at midnight unseen, slipping in and out of the well-worn corridors as little more than the flicker of a shadow. He grinned as he phased in and out of sight, trusting to the blackness of night to enshroud his passing. Luck to the patrollers this night, to try and catch him thus. With their vision soured by Lumos spells, their creativity hobbled by regular and predictable patterns. They had not a chance! Though the thrill of such a game lent James' slinking an exhilarating edge. He'd done what he could to exacerbate this, to even the odds a little in the favour of those he eluded. He'd left his Cloak tucked safely in the bottom of his trunk. He wandered the corridors boldly. After all, there was little to fear for one as skilled as he.

The Trophy Room itself was silent when James entered. He checked his watch. A few minutes early. He contented himself by passing the time studying the row upon row of silverware that lined the walls, and admiring the portraits of past heads of school that were dozing quietly in their frames.

The great glass cabinets were full to the point of being cluttered. They crowded every wall, save for the one lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the pale, tentative light of the moon to stream in and glint off polished metal and gleaming glass. There were sections for Special Services to the School – here he found multiple bearing the name of his father. He lingered long in the Quidditch section, seeking out both his father and grandfather among the honoured. He was in the process of counting how many Quidditch Cups each house had won when he heard footsteps approaching from the corridor that led from the front entrance. They were loud and confident. Overly so.

Be careful, Ava, James thought. The last thing he needed was more unwanted visitors to their meeting.

He assumed that had been the reason for her overt rebuttal of his questioning earlier that day. That she had feared members of this "Council" were watching them. James shook his head at the prospect of it all. A secret cabal of older students guiding the House to maintain what they saw as the Hufflepuff values. By force and blackmail. The irony of it was beyond belief. It was the motives that James couldn't understand. Why the need to keep Hufflepuff in such a light? Did their house pride really burn so hot? Hufflepuff house had always been looked upon fondly, albeit with a touch of pity. Champions of the House like Tristan were what they needed for people to take them seriously. As it stood, Ava Adams was the only Hufflepuff whose name James could recall offhand. And she was the epitome of what their house valued. James wondered if it was the only reason she was allowed to stand so tall, because she lived their values so fiercely. Truly, it was a game beyond James, at this point.

'For a bunch of Hufflepuffs, you sure do spend a lot of time acting like Slytherins.' James' call was loud and confident. Verging on cocky. In truth, he hoped his words stung a little. He was still smarting from their exchange earlier that day – even if it had only been a charade.

'There will be no Hufflepuffs here, tonight, Potter.'

The reply was a male voice. A familiar voice. One of the last ones James wanted to hear at that moment.

Caspar Helstrom.

The reasoning behind the overloud, shuffling footsteps became clear, as four other figures appeared behind Caspar in the doorway. He'd been concealing their presence. Likewise, behind James, the other exit to the Trophy room became similarly blocked. Ten figures in all, James counted. Members of Caspar's infamous Glorious Sacrifice group who had so troubled them last year. James suddenly wished that he'd brought the Cloak.

'Imagine our pleasure when a little birdy told us you'd be out here, all alone, Potter.' Caspar's voice dripped with malice. It was no secret he blamed James for the death of his friend at the end of their fourth year. A death that had also succeeded in breaking the Ministry stranglehold on Hogwarts. James tried not to think about it in that way.

'Who told you?' James asked. He expected no answer, but it was all he could think to say. He was trying to buy time, trying to work out a way out of the trap they'd sprung. It was becoming increasingly apparent he was going to have to blast through five wizards to do it.

'A little yellow birdy,' Caspar continued. 'I heard she sang like a canary.'

Ava. So it had been a ruse, then. The note to lure him here, alone. She must have known he'd trust her enough for that. Must have counted on their relationship on the pitch to hold strong enough for this.

The betrayal stung more than James would care to admit. But perhaps it made sense. Who would suspect such a perfect Hufflepuff as Ava Adams? He vowed a vengeance on her as well. He hoped he could carry it out on the pitch.

'Why don't you fight me man to man, Caspar?' James goaded. 'Unless you're too afraid.'

It was really the only hope he could see. Bait Caspar into a duel. Ten against one were odds he was never going to win. But Caspar's cool smile told James he had no interest in falling for that.

'Not likely Potter. Perhaps that would work on you thick-skulled Gryffindors, but it doesn't take even the brightest of us Ravenclaws to realise ten against one is surefire odds.'

'That's good,' James spat. 'Because there's no way you're the brightest of anything.'

'Oh, how I shall enjoy this.' The smirk on Caspar's face was as unbearable as the mockery that dripped from his words. 'The Hufflepuffs sure have got it in for you, Potter. "Anything goes", they said. I don't care what you did to piss them off, but I hope you keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, Potter, because this is going to be only too fun.'

The unfairness of it stung. The lack of honour in this attack physically pained James. It was so… so un-Gryffindor. He'd not even considered such an option. But what he did know, was fighting. And he'd be damned if he let Caspar take him down without landing a few blows of his own, first.

'Stupefy!' James roared, drawing his wand in a flash.

'Iminuum!' Caspar cried, slashing through the spell, leaving it to dissipate in a series of feeble sparks.

James ducked and rolled as the expected barrage of spellfire from behind him zipped over his head. It was his saving grace, that both groups were aligned directly across the room from one another. The backstabbing spells his opening gambit elicited shot directly towards Caspar and his group. They had to scramble to erect shields or duck for cover. James didn't hesitate.

'Protego! Depulsum!'

Just as Professor Meadows had done in class, he interwove his shield with a banishing charm, sending it rocketing towards a reeling Caspar. One of his cronies managed to fire off a Hex in James' direction, but it fizzled against the shield, which reached the group and popped with a dull, concussive blast. It staggered them backwards in much the way it had done to Clip, in the classroom. James took the window of opportunity and bolted through the open doorway, over the sprawling bodies.

He tore off up the corridor, his only thoughts on the safety of the Gryffindor common room. Upwards, he sprinted. Behind him, he heard Caspar shouting, and a wave of footfalls in hot pursuit. He hoped desperately that some prefect on patrol would stumble across them. Or better yet, a professor. But his path was suspiciously deserted as he sprinted from corridor to corridor. Pools of glowing moonlight and the dark smears of sleeping portraiture whipped past as he sought only to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the pursuers.

A jet of red light zipped past James' shoulder. They were getting closer. He ducked down a concealed passage behind a suit of armour, forcing himself sideways to squeeze through the narrow confines. He burst out again one floor up, and now in the west wing of the central tower. He gave a cry of dismay as footsteps sounded at the end of the corridor. They'd found another way. He turned and fled. Upward, ever upward. He must keep them from getting between himself at the Gryffindor common room. If they cut him off, all was lost.

An unused classroom housed a cabinet with a false back that hid a tunnel leading to a windowed walkway on the northern face of the tower. It was narrow and winding, but the steep staircase at its end put James out on the sixth floor. Still, the pursuers tailed him. They were as adept as he at navigating the castle. He bolted to his left – the more direct route. But two figures blocked that way. Blue light hammered into the wall behind James as he skidded to a halt. He rolled to avoid another barrage, and turned about face. To his right, then. A sinuous corridor that meandered through classrooms mostly kept for the lower years. Its curved path blocked line of sight for his attackers, at least.

The end of the corridor held two doors. On the right, a dead-end broom closet. But the door on the left led to a narrow space concealed in the walls that led to the seventh floor. Almost to the Fat Lady herself. It wasn't so much a secret passage, as it was a highly inconvenient way to travel through the castle. It was well known to most of Gryffindor house, and James, himself, had used it often.

He threw a Blasting Hex over his shoulder. It collided with a suit of armour. Rattles and clangs filled the air, interspersed with curses. He hoped he'd at least tripped a couple. Up ahead, the door beckoned. Closed tonight. Curious, as it was usually ajar. James collided into it with his full weight, expecting it to give way. It didn't budge. He jiggled the handle desperately. Nothing.

'Alohomora!' real desperation filled his cry. Again, nothing. This was not a simple magical locking. The door was sealed. James had no time to think on how strange that was.

To fight, it was, then. He readied his wand, and spun to face his attackers-

Only to receive the full force of a Disarming Charm right in the face. The force of it flung him backwards, into the unyielding door. He felt his wand fly from his fingers, felt white hot pain blossom in the back of his head, and sudden light burst bright and searing across his vision. He managed to stagger a step forwards, his mind reeling, thoughts spilling out through his mind, with no chance of ordering them. He would have fallen, but a hand grabbed the front of his shirt, shaking him roughly.

Caspar's face swam into view. James' vision had a hard time focusing. Beady eyes glinted in the moonlight. White teeth flashed in a snarling grin. And a fist, as if from nowhere sent James' world into a blossom of pain, and the embrace of darkness.