The sun burned high and hot in a perfectly cloudless sky. The cavernous blue yawned above, blushing to a faded white atop the distant horizon. Light glinted off the quivering tops of wavelets upon the black lake, forsaking its name to dance instead with colour and light.

The beauty of the warm day had drawn almost the entirety of the school out for the trip down to Hogsmeade, and a steady flow of students snaked between the village and the castle, with yet more dotting the grassy verges and sun-drenched hillsides throughout the valley, taking in what might be the last of the good weather, a final parting gift of a balmy autumn season.

James Potter was one among many in that steady trickle of bodies. He walked arm-in-arm with Odette, in companionable silence for the moment, enjoying the warm kiss of the sun's rays, and the sense that the day held endless possibilities in store for them both.

And in truth it did, for Odette at least. For she had something planned that she had been keeping fiercely secret from James' prying and probing. He'd exhausted himself over breakfast, trying to glean it from her, and finally, as they had left the castle grounds, had given it up as a bad job.

'Typical Slytherin,' James muttered for the umpteenth time. 'Happy to share in everyone else's secrets, but the moment it's something about yourself, you're as tight-lipped as a virgin clam.'

'Now there's two things nobody has ever accused me of being before,' Odette replied playfully.

They continued onwards, and soon came to the outskirts of Hogsmeade village. But where the bulk of the student body turned right, up the high street and towards where the open doors of the Three Broomsticks spilled laugher and merriment out onto the street, Odette steered James left, to a less well-travelled part of the town. Here, there were few shops, and several houses had boarded-up windows. The cobbles of the street slowly gathered a thicker and thicker film of greasy dust as they forsook all of the main thoroughfares in favour of back alleyways.

James observed a curious thing happening as they progressed through the town. Odette, who had been holding on to James' hand for most of the journey, released his grip to wipe her palms upon her skirt. Then she retook James' arm, and clutched it tight. Then she released it, and walked with her hand at her side. Then with her arms folded. Then she toyed constantly with her ponytail, drawing it forwards over her shoulder and combing it relentlessly with her fingers. When she gave even that up, and started biting on the nails of her left hand, James finally spoke up.

'If I didn't know you any better, Odette Mansfield, I'd say you were nervous.'

She stopped suddenly in her tracks, heaved a great sigh, and turned to face James. She put her hands on her hips huffily and gave him a playful glare. 'Oh, stop enjoying it so much.'

James just shrugged, and made of his face a picture of wide-eyed innocence.

'Fine, I'll tell you, then,' she eventually said. James at least had the good grace not to laugh. 'But you need to promise not to tell anyone. And that includes all of your dorky friends, too.'

James sighed. 'How is it you manage to make even this seem like you are the one doing me a favour.'

'It's one of my most prized talents. Along with that thing I do with my tongue... But never mind that now-'

'Well now you've got me thinking about it!'

'Shut up. The Montrose Magpies owled me over the summer and asked if I'd try out for them. I've got a private session arranged for today with one of their recruiting team. This… this might be my shot to make it into the League, James.'

It eventually came to James' attention that his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it shut with a click. He didn't know where to start. He'd always known Odette was going to try and make it into the professional Quidditch leagues. But… now?

'Y-you will have your shot whenever you want it, Odette,' James stammered. 'You don't need to do it now.'

'This might be my only chance with Montrose,' she countered. 'They've the best facilities in the league, and their Chasers are some of the sharpest. Well, as sharp as Chasers can be, that is. Their Seeker has just retired. If I can get in there, we could be winning championships next year.'

Next year. There was a spark of defiance in her voice, behind the excitement. James squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to just let it go, to be happy for Odette. It was just so sudden. And so… final.

'Don't you think you should at least stay through to the end of school?' James asked. He tried to make his voice as earnest as possible. She misread his concern entirely.

'Oh, James, darling. We'll still keep in touch, don't you worry, I won't forget about you! And just think, you'll be able to tell everyone at school you're dating a professional quidditch star. And then, when you join the league after school, we'll be the greatest power couple since your father failed to marry Hermione Granger.'

James blinked slowly. There was rather a lot to unpack there, not least with the slightly nauseating thought of his father marrying his aunt. He decided he was better off letting that one slide. For now. 'So then, tell me about this trial.'

'Oh, it's just a basic run through the paces, from what they told me,' Odette began, evidently oblivious to James' strife. She started nattering away, her nerves making her overly chatty, and dragged James onwards through the outskirts of town, down towards the makeshift Quidditch pitch and rickety old stands that lay nestled in the valley below. 'He was going to come watch the match last weekend, but couldn't make it. Good thing he didn't, too. I'd have hated him to see us lose. Even though I did catch the snitch. It was Ava's dirty tactics that did it. She knew we had no reserve Chasers. I'll go to my grave swearing that elbow she threw was deliberate. Poor Justine lost three teeth. Three! And couldn't tell her arsehole from her elbow, let alone carry on playing. Two Chasers against three was hardly a fair match. I caught the Snitch to put us out of our misery. That's fine, isn't it? He won't think that's selfish, will he? Oh, James, what should I tell him if he asks? We shouldn't bring it up. Let's not bring it up. Pretend it didn't happen. And don't tell him you play Quidditch, too. This is supposed to be about me, remember?'

Caught up in the whirlwind, James just nodded along. The wisdom here dictated he let Odette do the talking. Something she was particularly adept at, he well knew.

He let her natter on unimpeded all the way down to the pitch. The grass that covered it was uneven in length, and in parts more weed than actual grass. A set of wonky goal hoops leaned drunkenly against one another at one end, specked with rust and almost certainly not regulation size. A pair of stands at halfway were no taller than a small house, and offered little to no advantage to the casual observer, ensuring that anybody watching would leave the match with a crick in their neck from continuously craning upwards to watch.

All in all rather a dubious location for what was supposed to be quite an official affair, although the figure that strode into view from behind the stands was a picture of professionalism in his cleanly cut Quidditch robes in the severe black-and-white stripes of the Montrose Magpies, his perfectly styled hair, and the gleaming Nimbus Model One broomstick he held draped casually over his shoulder.

'Odette Mansfield!' he called across to them. 'As I live and breathe! It's an honour.'

Odette shot a look of girlish excitement at James. 'He knows my name!'

James fought not to roll his eyes, already disliking this greasy fellow. Of course he did.

'Well, what are you waiting for, my girl? Get on over here!'

The Magpies official was grinning jovially, and held his arms wide, as if he were set to embrace Odette. Annoyingly, when they did make their way over to him, that's exactly what he did. And lingered long on it, too.

'I'm Kingston Princely, Chief Recruitment Wizard for the Montrose Magpies, but of course, you already knew that. It's you we need to get to know, darling. And I just can't wait to do it.'

Odette giggled – she giggled – and held a hand delicately against her chest. 'Oh, Kingston, it's so lovely to finally meet you.'

James had to stop himself from openly shaking his head. It was as if he didn't exist at all. He gave a pointed cough, and nudged Odette none-too-subtly in the ribs.

'Oh, right. Kingston, this is James.'

Kingston held out his hand dismissively, not even bothering to make eye contact. 'A pleasure, I'm sure, James. Good to see Odette's brought the fan club along.'

'I'm James Potter,' James said, making sure to emphasise the name. 'I'm Odette's boyfriend.'

He heard Odette scoff, though the statement did earn himself a second look from Kingston. 'Good for you, buddy. Do you play, as well?'

James opened his mouth to respond the affirmative, but recalled Odette's warning against it. 'Uhh, I…'

Kingston gave him a look that said he thought James might be a bit simple, and clapped him on the shoulder. 'Why don't you sit over there out of the way in that grandstand, champ, while we go through the session. Make sure to wave your wand around, or something. Throw some sparks up when Odette does well. You know, regular cheerleader stuff.'

James glared up at Kingston's pearly white smile and his glimmering blue eyes. He hated how not a single, stupid hair was out of place on his stupid, tanned head. Eventually, Odette shouldered James and jerked her head in the direction of the stands with an obvious 'hurry up' look. He sighed and trudged away, hating this Kingston fellow already.

'Good luck,' he muttered listlessly at the grass beneath his feet.

But there was one more barb for Kingston still to twist, as he threw his arms around Odette's shoulders in an all-too-familiar fashion as he walked her around the pitch, gesticulating with the broomstick in his other hand as he presumably outlined the exercises that they were to go through. Apparently, it was absolutely hilarious, James observed darkly, if the amount of time Odette spent throwing her head back and laughing was any indication.

Things didn't get much better when Odette finally did take to the air. Kingston offered her the Nimbus – the broom that all of the Magpies players flew on – and produced for himself a solid, reliable Cleansweep model to hover about and observe. James found that he had a particularly irritating habit of halting Odette between manoeuvres and getting in close to adjust her form, slipping a hand around her waist to shift her weight upon the broom, or make minute changes to her posture with one hand on the small of her back. Pretty soon, James was sitting there scowling, his arms crossed fiercely and his glare one to rival the Basilisk. He found himself wishing fervently that he was back up in the village, sharing a Butterbeer with his friends around a table at the Three Broomsticks instead.


'Cheers!' Tristan Macmillan laughed, as glasses clinked and Butterbeer sloshed over their hands.

'Here's to a whole day without studying!' Fred added, bringing the glass to his lips and draining half of it in one go. 'I'm sure Clip and Cassie are doing enough for all of us back up at the castle.'

'If you keep going at that rate, you'll forget most of what we learned this week anyway,' Tristan grinned, eyeing Fred's half-empty glass.

'Good. I'm hoping I can drink enough to forget about O.W.L exams entirely. At least for half a day or so.'

Cat, meanwhile, hadn't yet touched her drink, and was fishing around in a small black pouch she'd placed on the table between them.

'What've you go there, Cat?" Tristan enquired.

'It's a bundle of herbs,' she explained. 'You see, during the holidays, I spent some time working as an apprentice to a Butterbeer brewing company-'

'Is there any job you didn't do over the holidays?' Fred interjected.

'Um. I wasn't Minister for Magic. At least, I don't think I was.'

'You know, she's got a point there,' Tristan added with an overly-serious expression.

'Anyway,' Cat continued. 'I learned this trick from him. If you add these herbs to your Butterbeer, it sets off a reaction that makes the drink taste a little… hairy, but it gives one a headrush akin to licking a Billywig.'

Fred and Tristan wore identical dubious stares.

'A… Billywig?' Tristan ventured.

'Yea, you know, the little flying creatures. Their stings have all of these chemicals that make you hallucinate. But they tend not to like it when you pull them out, so you can get away with licking them for a more moderate high. It's really quite addictive.'

'It doesn't sound particularly… healthy,' Tristan said.

Fred, meanwhile, had helped himself to a handful, and happily tossed the powdered, greyish herbs into his half-empty glass. He swirled the contents once, and then tipped back the remainder, downing it in one.

'Oh, I see what you mean by hairy,' he said, sticking his tongue out and going cross-eyed looking at it.

'Oh dear,' Cat added, her mouth agape and gaze appalled. 'You weren't supposed to-'

Thump. Fred's eyes rolled back and he fell from the chair in a heap, collapsing on the ground like a dead weight in a tangle of awkwardly-sprawled limbs.

'Is he okay?' Tristan asked, aghast.

Cat held up one finger. She'd just taken a sip of her own spiked drink, and was currently half-cross-eyed herself, with a firm grip on the table to steady the gentle swaying that momentarily overtook her.

She surfaced with a great, shuddering breath. A dreamy look still misted her vision. Tristan could see goosebumps on her exposed arms. 'Goodness gracious, that feels good,' Cat breathed.

'Er, hello, what about Fred?' Tristan was poking their collapsed friend with the toe of his shoe, but eliciting no response. Other patrons in the bar were simply walking around him, evidently fairly well accustomed to such floor decorations.

'Oh, he'll be fine,' Cat shrugged. 'The herbs become exponentially more potent, the less beverage one has to dilute them. He'll come 'round in a while. He's just passed out from over-stimulation.'

'There are worse ways to go, I guess,' Tristan shrugged, and took another sip of his own, definitely-not-spiked drink.

'Hello, you two, mind if I muscle in on this private little gathering?'

The sound of the newcomer's voice caused Tristan to inhale a small amount of his drink, and he was too busy choking and spluttering to be able to protest, as Lily Potter sauntered into view from among the growing crowd.

She'd taken full advantage of the warm, summery weather, and was wearing a vibrant little sundress. Her hair was tied back with a silver and green ribbon, and had enough make-up on that she looked… well, Tristan dared not finish that thought, only to say that she certainly didn't look like a third year.

'Hello, Lily,' Cat greeted her brightly. 'I'm surprised to see you here.'

Lily shrugged. 'Really? I couldn't tell. You don't have any eyebrows today.'

Cat raised a hand to stroke the pale strips of skin where her eyebrows had once been. 'I had my hair burned off in a small explosion. The rest of it grew back, but it seems my eyebrows are a little shy. I've been singing to them every night to try and coax them back. It's not working.'

'I… see.' Lily obviously took this as acceptance. And, instead of taking the seat opposite, newly vacated by Fred's untimely collapse, she squished and squirmed and elbowed her way in to the tiny space between Tristan and Cat. She set her drink down on the table with an air of permanence. Tristan tried his best to leave a little space between them, but it was as if her shoulders were magnetic. Whichever way he moved, she always found a way to subtly brush up against him.

There was nothing for it but to take another long drink from his mug and bitterly curse his rotten luck.

'So, what are we talking about?' Lily asked brightly, beaming up at the pair of them. Dripping with smugness though it was, her smile was one that lit up her entire face. The green eyes she'd inherited from her father glittered like-

Stop. Tristan tore his gaze away and fixated upon the grain of the wood in the table before him. A treacherous train of thought, that one.

'Well, we were discussing the dangerous of mixing too much Mindwort and Tickleme herbs into ones Butterbeer,' Cat explained, with a pointed look in Fred's direction. 'And then I do believe Tristan and Fred were going to discuss how to get back at Ava Adams for kicking him off the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. And then we-'

'Wait a minute,' Lily interjected. 'She what?'

Tristan groaned into his hands. There wasn't enough Butterbeer in the entire Three Broomsticks to make this better. He wished vainly that it was he who had passed out in Fred's place.

'It's nothing,' he grumbled at his half-empty mug. 'Just politics, that's all.'

'But you're the best Beater they've got! Nobody can hit a Bludger as hard as you. Just look at those muscles…'

'Stop it, Lily.'

'I beat him in an arm-wrestle,' Cat piped up unhelpfully.

'Of course you did, Kattala. You're just perfect at everything, aren't you?'

Though it passed over Cat's head, Tristan caught something of the venom in Lily's voice. He stashed that little piece of information away for later.

'Exploding Snap,' Cat suddenly said. 'I'm rubbish at that. I don't think the cards like me, they keep blowing up in my face.'

Tristan and Lily shared an identical shrug, unable to come up with any more suitable response.

'I'll get us another drink,' Cat said, nodding towards where Tristan's mug now stood empty. He'd finished it already? Must have been where that warm sensation in his fingers and toes was coming from. Before he could reply, Cat was off, leaving him alone at the table with Lily.

Come on, Freddy. Up you get, lad.

No such luck.

Tristan tried in vain once more to put a little bit of space between himself and Lily.

'How long are you going to keep trying to run, Tristan?' she simpered at his shoulder.

'Forever,' he growled back.

'I'm nearly fourteen years old, you can't keep treating me like a child forever.'

'You're James' little sister. I'll damn well keep doing it for an eternity, if that's what it takes.'

Lily let out a sigh. For a moment, Tristan thought she was giving up. But she merely reached for her mug and took a long, slow drink. Her eyes never left his, smouldering away over the lip of the glass with a slow-burning heat that made the midday sun outside pale in comparison.

'Tell me to go, then,' she told him, setting down her emptied cup. 'Tell me to leave you alone, and never come back. Tell me you don't want me, Tristan, and I'm gone. Forever. All you need to do, is make me believe it.'

'I-' Tristan stammered. But the moment he said it, he knew his hesitation had been too much. He had betrayed himself. Lily lunged towards him, clutching at the front of his shirt, twisting and snarling her fingers in the fabric as if it were her grip on life itself.

'I knew it! Oh, Tristan I always knew it! One day- soon, you'll see-' her elation was causing her to stumble over her words. He could practically see her heart thumping in her chest- Merlin, no! Don't look down there! 'In the meantime, Tristan, I will solve your little Ava Adams problem. I'll fix it for you, you'll see. And then… afterwards…' she leaned in so that their foreheads touched, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her scent was something floral. Her breath was cool and fresh on Tristan's cheek. He could back up no further, vexed by the wall behind him.

But with that tense, taut, moment of terror stretched thin between them, Lily turned and fled, with the abruptness of a popped bubble. In a shimmering twirl of bright red hair, she slid gracefully off of her seat and disappeared through into the crowd, lost from sight almost immediately. Tristan didn't want to dwell on just how hard or how long he looked after her. Nor would he dare examine too closely the small hint of loss he felt at her departure.

Thankfully, his solitude didn't last overlong, and Cat returned laden with three foaming mugs of butterbeer.

'Oh,' she said, looking a little put-out. 'Where did Lily go?'

'Not sure,' Tristan grumbled. 'She said something about heading off to ruin somebody else's day next.'

He was spared offering an explanation by Fred, who was clambering back up to his spot at the table, first an arm, and then the rest of his body, appearing into view.

'That. Was. Awesome!' he exclaimed, grinning like the idiot he was. His smile slid away as he saw the sombre look on Tristan's face. 'What happened? What'd I miss?'

'Nothing,' Tristan grumbled. 'Nothing at all.'


'Bravo, Miss Mansfield! Simply spectacular!'

James rolled his eyes as Kingston Princely clapped and cheered like an idiot at what had ben a fairly basic manoeuvre by Odette. She'd zipped through a series of floating, glowing rings arranged in a backwards loop. James could have managed it with his eyes closed. Admittedly, she was doing it at breakneck speed, but still…

James scoffed audibly as Princely directed his broom in to give Odette a congratulatory hug. Really? James couldn't wait for the day to end. He could swear this fop had spent at least half the practice getting handsy with Odette, and the other half telling her how she was the best flier he'd ever seen in his entire career. And his hair was still picture-perfect, despite the fact that he'd been up there in the air for the better part of two hours.

James kicked out at the seat in front of him but acquired nothing more than a stinging toe and the sense he was being stupid. Up above, the fawning had abated, and the pair were making their way back to earth. James couldn't make out Princely's words, but from the doting, adoring tone, he didn't need to. He pushed himself to his feet and hurried over to where they touched down, eager to park himself right in between the pair of them. Or, better yet, right on Princely's toes.

'You were excellent up there, darling,' James said, making sure to put emphasis on the word.

'Yea, right. Thanks, James,' she replied distractedly, barely sparing him a glance.

Not one to be dissuaded, James stepped up and slipped an arm around Odette. 'That backwards loop at the end there sure was impressive.'

James felt as if Odette kicked him in the gut, as she slipped out of his grip and flashed an irate glare in his direction. 'Could you just give us a minute, James?' she snapped, all but turning her back on him where he stood.

Princely shoved his irritating, perfectly-groomed face in James' vision. 'Yea, run along and play with your model Firebolt for a moment there, champ. The adults need to talk a moment.' And he put his arm across Odette's shoulders, leading her away from where James stood, discussing something in a low voice that periodically had her nodding, gasping, or giggling like a girl once more.

Short of something in his immediate vicinity to punch – and adamant he'd really piss off Odette if he laid out Princely – James stormed over to the edge of the pitch to wait, with his arms crossed and his foot tapping rapidly on the weedy grass verge.

Eventually – and not before an irritating amount of tittering laughter flitted back and forth between them – Odette bade Kingston Princely and his immaculate hair farewell. She was graced him with a gleaming smile and another hug before she finally made her way over to where James was standing. He put every bit of effort he had into maintaining his composure, but couldn't stop himself from looping an arm around Odette's waist possessively and marching them from the field at double speed.

'Slow down, James, what's the rush?'

James didn't respond.

'Aren't you going to ask me how it went?'

'I was there, I saw exactly how it went.'

Odette pulled up, forcing James to stop as well. She shouldered roughly away from his touch and faced him with hands on hips.

'And just what is that supposed to mean, James?'

The flush of exertion dusted her cheeks with colour, and her forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat, and yet she still managed to inject such domineering fury into her statement that it caused James to stumble.

'I- You were all over that lout the entire session. You two could barely keep your hands off one another.'

As soon as he'd said the words, he wanted them back. They sounded whiny and jealous, even to his own ears.

And to Odette, it must have sounded even worse.

'Are you fucking kidding me?'

'I just-'

'I busted my arse out there for two hours in the midday sun for the opportunity of a lifetime, James. For something I've dreamed of from the moment I knew I was going to be a Quidditch star. For an opportunity that might never come my way again. Weeks of preparation has gone into this! My whole life has gone into this. And you're whinging that I was getting handsy with the Recruiter?'

'I didn't mean it like that-'

'Of course I'm going to flirt with him, James! He's the one link I have to this role, he's the one who has my dream in the palm of his clammy, greasy little hand. I'll bat eyelids and flash cleavage and even put up with his awful cologne all day, if that's what it takes to land me that job. I'll damned well use every tool I've got to show him I'm the best Seeker he's ever laid his beady eyes on, and to convince him that the Magpies can't possibly go another season without me.

'All I asked, was that you stay out of the way. Was that you let me do my thing, and let it be about me. That you not butt in at every chance you get. That – for once, James Potter – you let someone else have the limelight. Or is that just too much to ask?'

James knew it was an unfair question. But his pride had already taken a blow, and he wasn't about to back down.

'That's just all you're ever concerned about, isn't it, Odette? Being the centre of attention. If half the school's not gossiping about you, it's a wasted day.'

James was offered only the briefest of moments of lucidity, in which he wondered how things had gotten out of hand so suddenly, before Odette was spitting back her venomous response, waving her arms wildly around her as she yelled.

'Oh, grow up, James! And get over yourself. I thought you, of all people, would support me in this. Not be some selfish, jealous little brat. I don't need you for this. I don't need anybody. I'll do this for myself. By myself.'

And with that, Odette stalked off. She shoved roughly past James as she made her way back up the street towards town, her feet crunching on the gravel in angry rhythm. James let her go. He wouldn't call her back, he told himself. That would be admitting he was wrong. He watched her make a left. To the Hog's Head, no doubt. Drinking, again.

James turned his back on her and strode off in the other direction, bypassing the centre of town and intending to make his way back up to the castle. There was still plenty of the day left, and the sun shone unimpeded up in the sky, but suddenly, he was feeling as if all he wanted to do was lay in bed, away from everyone. Or punch something. Or both.

His unfamiliar route took him through the main residential section of Hogsmeade. Here, the houses were quaint and tidy, little cottages organised in rows, and painted in various clashing pastel shades. The thatched rooves stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and little terrace gardens added a sprinkling of verdant life. It all could have been quite muggle, but for a few out-of-place oddities. The suspicious number of perfectly-polished broomsticks, for one. Or the purple pumpkins. Or, perhaps, the thing that looked like a stuffed cat dangling from the eaves of a squat little beige home on the corner.

Not for the first time, James wondered if there was some kind of secret competition he was not privy to, between all older witches and wizards, to see who could be the most publicly outlandish and obscure.

He turned up a broad, cleared street, paved in cobbles and easily wide enough for a Thestral-drawn cart to traverse it. Deciduous trees lining its flanks were just beginning to show the blush of autumn. James nodded to an elderly wizard out tending his front yard. He was unable to cling too tightly to the bubbling rage he felt at Odette, in the face of that bright old smile and wide, snaggle-toothed grin.

He tried, in fact, to give her no thought at all, as he made his way up the street, with the sun to his back and his gloomy shadow stretched out ahead. He tried to push the thought of her from his mind. A problem for tomorrow. He knew enough, at least, to understand that they both needed to be alone, to let their heads clear before any effort was made to pick up the pieces of their relationship. If, in fact, any still remained.

His dreary reverie was snatched away from him by the sound of a keening scream bursting out of a house to his left. Though doors were shut and blinds were drawn, the noise cut through the still day with chilling efficacy. Before he knew he was reacting, James found himself with his wand drawn, edging closer to the house in question. The rest of the street was now deserted. Even the cheery old man down the far end had turned inside. A sudden chill breeze toyed with the scattering of dust that lay across the road, and set James' arms raised in goosebumps.

It came again, that scream, and James tossed aside all pretext of caution. There had been something in it. Some note of abject terror that emanated such utter desperation, that there was nothing he could do to resist it. In his hand, his wand quivered. It seemed to be giving off waves of excitement, as he threw his shoulder against the wooden door. Mercifully, it blasted inwards at his touch.

He stumbled into an entrance hall, blinking in the sudden, dim light. A rack of shoes and a hanger of coats stood to attention by the door. The sound was coming from up ahead, through an open doorway on his right. A sudden flare of green light bathed the hallway in an eerie glow. James had only a moment to fear the worst, before the scream cut through everything once more, and stirred him to action.

He barrelled up the corridor, and through the doorway. It opened to a lounge room. The blinds had been drawn, sealing off all light but for the flaring green glow that strobed from the fireplace, revealing its source as great green flames flared up and licked the mantle, pushing their way into the room to leave the carpet singed, and a desperate, babbling blonde witch clawing futilely at the floor, trying to force her way towards the fire.

'Socks!' she was crying, sounding nothing short of deranged. 'Oh, socks! Come back to me!'

Frozen with confusion and indecision, James could only watch as the fire in the grate roared once more. A great rush of air preceded the vibrant green flames, as they leapt hungrily out into the room. A searing wave of oppressive heat had James staggering. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes, and felt sweat jumping out all over body in response.

And there, in the midst of the flames, when they were at their brightest, was a shape. An animal, of some kind, writhing and squirming. When it appeared, the witch wailed once more, pawing and scrabbling at the ground, trying to find a way in through the blaze.

But as suddenly as they flared, the flames receded, the shape within them was gone, and the witch gave that scream once more, lunging towards the fireplace and heaving desperate, racking sobs.

'Do something,' she pleaded, turning to face a slack-jawed James for the first time. 'Save him, please.'

James stepped slowly into the room, one eye on the simmering fireplace. The heat that it emanated remained severe. Far more than an ordinary fire ought to be giving off. He knew not what could cause a Floo portal to malfunction so dramatically, only that he feared to get any closer.

His wand, however, was longing for it.

He had to wrestle almost physically with that desire, to throw himself at the flames, into the flames. To chase whatever was causing this to its source. For somehow, instinctively – though his wand, he thought – he understood that there was some kind of wasting destruction at the heart of this.

He took the witch by her shoulders, dragging her backwards toward the relative safety of her sofa. He turned to face the flames once more, stowing his wand away, despite its protests. He stamped down on the excitement that still radiated from it. The eagerness it exuded was pervading his entire body. He focused on the fireplace, on the spot he'd last seen the shape within the flames.

A single iridescent spark was all the warning he got. And then the room was engulfed in fire and heat and light. James lunged towards the fireplace, into what seemed a physical barrier of searing heat. He dove across the carpet, skinning his elbows and knees as he fought onwards, though the flaring of pain was nothing compared to what roared over him from above. He could feel the heat singeing the hairs on his exposed body. He gritted his teeth against it as a sooty smudge appeared in the fireplace before him.

Socks. Whatever Socks was, it had resurfaced, and looked none too happy about it. A yowling whine was barely audible over the hissing roar that engulfed him. Only the way that James slithered so close to the floor kept him from being burned alive. He reached an arm forward. The stones of the hearth were hot, and scalded his palms. James hissed and jerked backwards. Socks gave a baleful cry and was swallowed up again momentarily.

The little animal reappeared to James' left. He gritted his teeth and lunged towards it, plunging his right arm into the depth of the blaze. The pain had not the time to overwhelm him before his hands clutched fur. There was a squirm and a yip, but James locked his fist in a death-grip and fought to roll clear of the blaze.

But, before he could, something grabbed back. He felt it collide with his consciousness like charging Erumpent. He knew instinctively that it was what had a hold of Socks. It was what was lurking within the Floo Network. It seized his mind as if he were nothing more than a drop of dye in a surging river. And, like the drop, James felt himself beginning to be torn apart. He could feel it, at the edges of his awareness. An eroding. A dissolution of his consciousness. An Unmaking of self.

He was powerless to fight it. He could only be battered and tossed about in its grip. He felt, with a chilling dread, neither a malevolence nor a viciousness from the entity. Only a complete and utter apathy as it tore James' sanity apart.

But something rose up to meet it. The susurrus of a thousand whispers sounded in James' head. Like the rustling of waves on the shore. And from them rose a mighty breaker. It's rustling built up until James thought he could discern words. It built up until it, not the Unmaking, took over all of James' world. It ensnared him, buffeted him, roared through him and left him flensed and raw, but unassailed.

The time between flaring of the fire to its sudden disappearance took all of a half-dozen heartbeats. Though, as James lay shaking on the floor, a squirming, whimpering Socks gripped in one hand, and a fussing, dithering Witch poring over the pair of them, it had felt closer to six lifetimes. His breath rattled and shook as it escaped him. A pounding headache drove a spike into his skull that throbbed in time with his racing pulse. The smell of burned hair filled the room, and now the pain on his back began to creep over him. In parts, the blaze had been so fierce it had burned away his t-shirt.

'Up with you boy, come on, now,' came the gentle coaxing of the blonde witch. She cradled in her arms the creature that must have been Socks – a squash-faced, now largely hairless, Kneazle who was whimpering softly and looking around the room with wild, yellow eyes.

James struggled into a sitting position, wincing where her hands made contact with his raw, exposed skin. She turned from him for a moment, drawing her wand with a shaking hand and summoning mugs of tea, a roll of bandages and a tinkling, clattering hodgepodge of salves and tinctures in little glass phials from elsewhere in the house.

'Your soul is spoken for. The Unmaking shall not have you,' came a sudden whisper. James was glad the Witch was distracted, as he nearly jumped out of his damaged skin. There was no mistaking it, this time. That rising chorus of whispers had clearly come from his wand.

James looked down at where it sat, tucked into his waistband, in horror. He was unsure whether he ought to be grateful or terrified. He decided on both, and wondered at the extent of the gift – and the burden – of Death's wand.

A sudden cold touch on his shoulder, and James winced his way back to the present. The witch – whose name he still did not know – was applying some kind of a burn salve. The pressure was firm and unyielding, and a little uncomfortable. But where her hands passed, a spreading coolness followed, and much of the pain evaporated as James sat there. Socks made his tentative way around to sit at James' knee, purring softly and looking up cautiously in James' direction, as if wondering when he, too, might turn on the poor animal.

'Hold still, boy,' the witch hissed as James reached out to pet Socks.

'James.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Nice to meet you, Sorry.'

'No, I wasn't-! I mean, my name is Verily. Call me Verily.'

'Well then, it's nice to meet you, Verily.'

'No, it isn't! This was the equal-most horrific day of my life! When they boarded up my poor, dear Mittens, in the bowels of the Ministry… I left that madhouse because of this type of craziness!

'But… nevertheless… I am grateful for your intervention, James-who-won't-stop-squirming. Socks and I will be forever in your debt.'

'Don't mention it,' James waved if off, copping another tsk at the sudden movement. 'This burn salve is a treat.'

'Drink this,' Verily said. She wiped her hands on a spare rag and levitated a steaming mug into James' hands. He took it a little dubiously; it smelled rather a lot like lawn clippings. 'Drink it all, else in approximately half an hour, you'll start seeing giraffes everywhere. No, no- don't ask, just drink.'

James took a sip. Sadly, it tasted much as it smelled. Additionally, it was too hot to drink right away, and so Verily waved him towards what was left of a large armchair to be seated.

'Just, try not to lean back on the fabric' she said, gesturing at James' unguent-smeared back. 'That salve stains horribly.'

James looked down at the soot-smeared, threadbare remnants of what had once been a rather ugly floral sofa.

'Right.'

Verily bustled out of the room once more, her arms laden with the bottles and phials. Socks drifted over to where James sat, and brushed up against his leg as if they'd been lifelong friends. Verily's return found James gently scratching the Kneazle behind the ear, his mug of lawn clippings steaming and forgotten beside him.

'Drink up!' Verily nagged, gesturing with her own mug. Her one smelled much more pleasant, and James looked at it longingly.

'So, you used to work at the Ministry?' James asked, as Verily sat down in the chair opposite. James didn't feel in the mood to make the trek back up to the castle just yet, and didn't particularly want to push Verily's giraffe warning, so he figured he may as well stay and make conversation while he waited. She owed him that much, at least.

'Goodness me, must you insist on dredging up such ghastly recollections?'

'Just making conversation,' James mumbled defensively.

'Oh, very well, I'll tell you!' huffed Verily. James got the impression she'd have ended up telling the story whether he asked for it or not.

'It must have been about three months ago now, they were boarding up the Department of Mysteries-'

'They what?' James choked on his tea – and this time it wasn't due to the ghastly taste.

'Boarded up the Department of Mysteries, boy, do pay attention.'

'But why?'

'Oh, Merlin only knows. It's a mystery, isn't it? About bloody time, though, if you ask me. That place had been getting kookier and spookier all summer. Ever since that kerfuffle last June. But don't let the Steelhearts find you asking any questions about that, heavens no! Poor old Guffins dragged off for arctic reassignment. The old codger won't last a week up there. A death sentence is what it is!'

James was all of a sudden incredibly interested in what the flighty witch Verily had to say. So much so, in fact, that he'd finished half of his grass-tea without even knowing it.

'So what was it that Guffins uncovered?' James probed. '

'Oh, I haven't the foggiest, boy. I've two brain cells to rub together, see. I don't go about asking after such things. 'S'why I'm still alive up here, and not melting into the floor like the rest of the Ministry!'

'The Ministry is melting?!'

'You focus on the most obscure details, boy. I haven't even got to tell you about my poor, darling Mittens.'

'Oh, yea. Right.' James set aside his empty mug and leaned further forwards, hanging on to every word Verily said.

'I believe it was a Tuesday afternoon. No, wait. A Thursday evening. Yes, it was definitely a Thursday, but I distinctly remember drinking chamomile tea, so it must have been morning.

James leaned back in his seat and groaned.

'The fabric, boy! You're staining the fabric.'

James' frightened jump sent Sock skittering off to hide behind Verily's legs, where he shot James a baleful glare from the safety of the skirts of his owner.

'Anyway…'

'The Department of Mysteries,' James prompted.

'Ah yes. I had just let Mittens roam around to stretch his legs – he gets a bit cagey if he's cooped up for too long, you see – when what do I find when I'm calling him back but some hunch-backed cretin and his little workboy boarding up the entrance to the Department. Where I distinctly heard Mittens mewling from not two minutes prior. No matter how nicely I asked him, the odious little man refused to let me through, and finished the job right there in my face. Oh, my poor Mittens. Mummy hasn't abandoned you, darling!'

James wasn't quite sure just who she was calling to. Or if she was even in possession of her own wits at this point, but the lead seemed too good for him to pass up, so he ventured to brave a little more of the wild conversation in the hopes he might find some answers.

'So, was there anything you did hear, about what was happening in the Department? Surely they must had told you all something about it?'

'Oh, only the usual Ministry nonsense. "Confuse Them With Bureaucracy", that must be their motto. A failed experiment, allegedly. Sabotaged by some crackpot secret organisation. Dinkley said there was some kind of portal. And Harris swore black and blue that he saw a woman walk out of the Department the night it all happened, but everyone knows that Harris couldn't see the nose on her own face if it wasn't for all those Charms she has to keep applying. All utter nonsense, if you ask me.'

'Well then, Miss Verily, what do you think happened?'

James braced himself for the response.

'Why, some kind of magical malfeasance, seems most likely. Did you know, that not a week after they boarded up the Department of Mysteries, that the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had to be closed down, as well? And then the Department for the Control of Uncontrollable Magical Occurrences started spontaneously combusting. Lost three interns that week. When the floor of the Unexplained Obscurities Wing of the Department of Magical Curiosities started going all spongey, they saw the writing on the wall and sealed off three whole floors of the Lower Ministry. Too little too late, though, if you ask me. See, I'm an Esoterics Engineer. Or, I was, at least. These kinds of disturbances are my forte. If you ask me – and it seems as if you are – those nut jobs found a way to dissipate magic itself, only they never stopped to consider the consequences, and now its spreading like a cancer. They say its in the Floo, too. Merlin, but I'd hoped not. Think on that, will you! The Floo – the magical network that connects the entire Wizarding world like veins beneath your skin. And now a rotten Ministry at it's heart, pumping out this evil. Gah, but it makes me shudder just thinking on it!'

Truth was, it left James more than a little uncomfortable, too. He'd never heard of the ability to dissipate magic, but it sounded scarily close to the Unmaking he'd witnessed of the Sorting Hat. And the sealing off of the Ministry level? The sixth floor corridor instantly came to mind.

'I'd best get going,' James announced, feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer he stayed.

'Aye, best you had. I've a fireplace to brick up. Apparition only for me, now. Mark my words, boy, something's spreading. And stay out the Floo!'

The witch Verily was more than a little wild-eyed as she shooed James from the door.

'Don't forget to water the hydrangeas on your way out, dear!' she called to James.

James looked up and down the street as he hurried away from the building. There wasn't a hydrangea in sight. Crazy though the woman was, however, he couldn't help but feel there had been an ounce of truth to her ramblings. And even that was enough to leave him terrified.