A warm, golden light slowly began to suffuse James' blurry vision as his eyes slowly opened. He blinked, scrubbing them with the heel of his palm. High, arched windows above, a firm, functional mattress at his back, and the click-click of heeled boots echoing in the stark, militaristic space could only mean one thing.

He'd landed in the Hospital Wing.

But that didn't make any sense. The last thing he could remember was…

Eyes. Those eyes. One green, one blue, the force of their gaze washing through him like a river in flood. He suddenly felt cold sweat prickle the nape of his neck. He tried to sit up, but felt an instant head rush and swayed, clutching at his bedside table for support and knocking over a glass of water that had been standing there.

'What's all this racket?' demanded Madam Petheridge in her prim, clipped tones, as she bustled over and threw back the curtains surrounding James' bed. But her expression softened when she saw James sitting up gingerly on his pillows.

'S-sorry,' James croaked, suddenly realising how much he'd miss that glass of water.

'Not to worry, dear,' Petheridge smiled, and with a wave of her wand she cleared the mess away. 'I'll fetch you another, won't be a moment.'

And off she bustled, a swishing of skirts, and a click-click of heels echoing throughout the cavernous room.

James made an attempt to get himself more comfortable. He wiggled his fingers and toes and rolled his shoulders experimentally. Everything seemed to be in perfect working order. He felt no pain – physically, at least – only a mild discomfort directly behind his eyes, like the afterthought of a headache, along with the sensation that his thoughts were swimming in treacle – so slow and arduous was his brain moving.

Sooner than expected, he heard footsteps approaching. He turned to face them, hitching a smile onto his face. 'Thanks, I'm parched…'

He trailed off. The hand that he had extended expectantly fell to the bedsheets at his waist. It was not Madam Petheridge that appeared from behind the curtains, but the two Ministry Esoterics Engineers – Buckthorn and Millhart. They loomed over him menacingly, and Buckthorn's eyes were gleaming brightly above a particularly predatory smile.

'Good morning, Mister Potter,' he said in a deep, calm voice. As if he knew he had all the time in the world. As if he had James exactly where he wanted him.

'Is it?' James retorted with a false calm. 'I seem to have slept in a touch.'

The cold smile offered by Buckthorn bared a flash of brilliant teeth but never reached his eyes. 'Was our introduction really so dull?'

'I've never had much time for the Ministry sort, myself,' James replied, barely controlling a bubbling anger that was being fuelled by an undercurrent of fear. There was something off about Buckthorn, now that he saw him up close. Something that didn't seem very Ministry-like at all. Most of the officials that James had met were old and stuffy and probably needed help finding their wand most mornings. This calm, controlled power that roiled behind the visage of Alderton Buckthorn was as un-ministerial as James could imagine.

'Nor have I,' Buckthorn sneered, and there seemed to be much more hidden behind those few words. 'But for bright young children such as yourself, Mister Potter, I have all the time in the world.'

James worked on showing the sourest smile that he could muster. Perhaps it was because he knew that these people represented the clock that was ticking for him to find evidence for Rain's involvement – or lack thereof – in what was happening to the castle, but he found himself falling into a default of animosity when face to face with the pair of them. As if they were lifelong adversaries, rivals reunited. This wasn't helped by the fact that there seemed to be some sort of fell familiarity about Buckthorn that James just couldn't put his finger on. As if they'd crossed paths before.

And as for Amelia Millhart, with those eyes…

James chanced another look at Buckthorn's hitherto silent companion.

'It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Master Potter.' Her voice was slightly muffled from behind the cowl bunched about her neck. Her features remained mostly hidden beneath a midnight-hued hood, and yet… somehow, her eyes still managed to glint and glimmer with vibrant light from within the shadowy depths.

James recoiled before he succumbed to another wave of dizziness. He knew that feeling…

'There's nothing to fear, James,' Millhart spoke softly, stepping to the fore and laying a hand softly on the edge of his bed.

James found himself looking up once more. There had been something in her voice, an invitation that he found himself accepting before he even understood what he was doing. He purposely made eye contact this time, putting as much force into such an act as one could manage.

The idea stole across his consciousness without warning. As if a voice had whispered it softly in his ear, it came to him, almost alien, but immediately accepted.

He'd never knowingly used Legilimency before – it was Occlumency, the defense of the mind, that he sought to master – but he knew that proficiency in one did foster a certain inherent aptitude for the other. He knew how it felt to be probed. He'd heard Professors Longbottom and Meadows discuss how it worked, albeit vaguely. So he had a fair idea of what was required to be the aggressor…

He pushed his consciousness forwards, extending it outwards from his body. Feeling an almost-too-easy sensation of slipping away, as if suddenly emerging from a warm pool of water. He was still aware of his body, of his racing heart and twitching fingers. He could even feel the muscles tense in his cheeks as he offered up a cold smile in Millhart's direction. But a sort of double-vision plagued him, momentarily disconcerting, before he made a contact with Millhart.

A coupling that he instantly realised as successful Legilimency.

He had less than a moment to appreciate it, as something seized him instantly. A suffocating iron grip bore down from every angle. It squeezed his mind with a dizzying amount of force. He thought he ought to be gasping and spluttering for breath, but in his double-vision, he saw himself – as if from another pair of eyes, Millhart's – to be sitting deathly still, a tiny bead of sweat forming above his left eye.

It was then that he realised he could not feel it. He couldn't sense the sweat at all, only see it from what he suddenly realised was a prison. A steel cage that encircled him, squeezing his consciousness until only the barest of tethers remained back to his body. Had he control of his lungs, his breath would have been coming quick and fast. He hammered against invisible walls, but to no avail. His vision was becoming fogged and grainy around the edges. Sometimes he saw his own perspective, sometimes Millhart's. And sometimes there was only nothing, just vast, empty blackness.

Fear flooded through him. It gripped with icy talons and dug deep into his mind, sending spreading roots down, to the most primal layer of his awareness. He realised too late what these roots were, that the subtle familiarity they possessed belonged to Millhart. She was permeating his psyche utterly, wringing from him every memory, every experience he had ever lived. He could feel her as surely as if her hand punched through his chest and rummaged down beneath his ribcage. And her ministrations were just as painful. James screamed, though it did no good. Trapped as he was, there was nobody to hear him.

But a voice answered. Spoken as if from a great distance. Muddled and fuzzy. Nonsensical. The pain stopped. The fingers withdrew – so suddenly as to leave great, gaping wounds behind. Millhart's presence vanished, and for a moment James had the sensation of bursting free from his prison, crashing through a wall of shattered glass. No – a mirror. And in it he saw reflected…

'–my patients are off limits to your snooping and probing, I'll have you know! Ministry folk or not, you've no right to be in here without my permission, which I most absolutely will not be giving.'

Madam Petheridge had stormed back onto the scene, James' glass of water in one hand, whilst the other brandished a tray of bandages threateningly in the direction of Millhart and Buckthorn.

James saw all of this as if through a tunnel, with a bleak, foggy greyness muddling it all. He tried to blink away a splitting pain behind his eyes, a pain that spread all the way to his fingers and toes with every pulsating beat of his thundering heart.

'Deepest apologies,' Buckthorn offered with a low bow. 'We didn't mean to intrude. We simply had a question or two for young Mister Potter here.'

'A question that leaves him just about unconscious?!' Petheridge's voice rang with incredulous rage.

The Ministry Esoterics Engineers only smiled blithely in response.

'Be good to him,' Millhart purred over her shoulder as they turned to leave. 'He's been very helpful, indeed…'

James didn't even get to hear their footsteps fade entirely before the greyness overtook him and he slipped into unconsciousness once more.

It wasn't until lunchtime that he resurfaced, likely thanks to a fiercely rumbling stomach. And it wasn't until classes were just about over for the day that he started pestering Madam Petheridge to let him go. He had Quidditch practice scheduled that afternoon, and while classes were perfectly replaceable in James' mind, a full hour-and-a-half session down on the pitch in calm conditions, such as they were, was most certainly not. He made his feelings abundantly clear to the exasperated matron, and finally managed to wear her down when he threatened to call Fred and the team in to have an indoor session right there in the Hospital Wing.

So it was, admittedly still a little woozy, and under the dubious side effects of approximately half a dozen potions, all of which were trying unsuccessfully to dull the pain behind his eyes, James Potter staggered and weaved his way down to the Quidditch pitch that evening. Their upcoming match against Hufflepuff was set to be crucial to the championship. It was shaping up to be a two horse race this year, and James was determined to come out on top.

But unfortunately, Gryffindor were unlikely to make great leaps in that direction on this particular sunny afternoon, as the aftereffects of what Amelia Millhart had done to James' mind were slow in releasing their thorny grip. He stuttered and meandered his way through half of the practice session before finally admitting defeat and handing the reigns over to Preston Lynch, his vice-captain.

James flew over to the nearest Gryffindor stand to watch on, cradling his throbbing head in his hands and trying to focus enough so that the six remaining players out on the pitch stopped turning into twelve, or even eighteen. He had shrugged off Fred's concerned looks, and pointedly ignored any questions from his teammates. There was something stopping him from talking about what Millhart had done. And until he could get his mind back to functioning normally, he didn't want to let slip what had happened.

So, solitary, headache-laced misery it was, then. James tried to mull over what Millhart had been looking for. Had he been a target specifically, or was that how they planned on dealing with all of the students? The former seemed more likely. Millhart and Buckthorn would fast outstay their welcome if they went around flensing the minds of the whole student body.

They must have suspected, too, then, that James would stay quiet about what had happened. For it was fast becoming clear to him that he would not tell a soul. Never mind the embarrassment of his hubris in trying to see inside Millhart's mind in the first place, he wanted to get a better idea of just what these Esoterics Engineers were up to, and he wouldn't get that by flushing them out so early.

The final question to answer was, why him? How could they know that he was close to what was happening. Renshaw could have told them, certainly, but James didn't think it likely. She played her cards too closely to her chest for that. So it came back to the fact that they must have some knowledge that James as unaware of. Coupled with the familiarity surrounding them both that James just couldn't shake, and he was forced to arrive at the fact that he was missing something critical about them, but whatever it was remained elusive to his fogged mind, all the way through until the practice wound up, and James made his lonely way back towards the castle.

His dreary reverie was shattered before he made it more than half-way, however, by a familiar voice calling to him from back towards the Quidditch pitch. At this hour it had begun to get dark, and it had long since gotten cold, though there were still a few students making their way back up towards the castle. Students who had been enjoying the relatively short wintry evenings in the fresh, cool air. A pair of frantically chattering Ravenclaw girls hurried past James about some urgent business or other, and he contented himself to stay put as Ava Adams pulled up alongside him, no doubt fresh from spying on the Gryffindor's practice – not that she'd have gleaned much usable information, with James in his current sorry state.

'Evening, Ava,' James said gloomily, stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning to fall in step with her up towards the castle.

'What's got you down, James?' she asked brightly. 'Your Quidditch practice was a little… underwhelming.'

At least she had the decency not to lie about what she had been doing.

James contemplated an answer for a short moment. They reached a covered walkway, and for a moment the trickling of water from a fountain filled their ears. Here, they had shelter from a chill northerly breeze that had begun to stir the surface of the Black Lake, and make scarves and gloves appear on students as if by a mass summoning charm. The foot traffic was a little heavier here, too, as they came close to the Entrance Hall. James waited until a gaggle of Gryffindor first-years had finished scurrying past, hot on the trail of what looked to be a fleeing purple rabbit.

'Just feeling under the weather,' James eventually said. It was only half a lie, really. 'Splitting headache today.'

'Oh, that's no good at all. I do hope it's gone by the weekend.'

'Right. The Quidditch match.'

'Sure is! I bet it's going to be a close one, your team looks so good this year, James.'

'Huh, thanks…' truthfully, James' head was distracting him far too much to allow him to offer any reasonable sort of companionship, and he was fast beginning to tire of Ava's incessant cheeriness.

'I've, er… I've been meaning to ask you something James. I mean, I've been planning to ask you. After the game. I'll meet you in the Gryffindor change rooms. If, er, that's fine with you?'

James didn't pick up on the expectant look that Ava had suddenly turned upon him, and so when he shrugged his shoulders and wordlessly nodded his head, he took her little squeal of glee and clap of the hands as just her usual over-the-top elation.

It wasn't until she reached in, wrapped him up in a lightning-fast hug and planted a swift kiss on his cheek so fleeting he thought he'd imagined it, that James realised he might have just agreed to something a little more than a post-match Captain's breakdown.

The thought almost – almost – got a smile to register on his face as Ava skipped happily away, humming a bouncy tune beneath her breath.

In his defence, he hadn't been deliberately vague with Ava. His attention had been torn away from their conversation the moment they entered the courtyard before the Entrance Hall. Standing off in the far corner, enshrouded in shadows just enough to make James squint to be sure he was seeing anything at all, were two hooded figures. They could have been almost anyone, but James knew instantly who they were. And though dozens of students had filed through the courtyard in the time since he had entered, their gaze had never left his and Ava's conversation.

Alderton Buckthorn and Amelia Millhart were watching him. Intently.

'Just because I'm paranoid, Holly, doesn't mean they're not out to get me.'

The hour was much later that same evening, and James and Holly both were ensconced in their usual alcove, staking out the sixth-floor corridor beneath the Ravenclaw Tower, to try and catch a glimpse of Rain.

Holly gave a very unladylike snort that was loud enough to cause a few of the local portraits to stir in their frames.

'Put a sock in it, James. Your trousers start pitching a tent every time somebody even whispers "conspiracy" in your direction. It's nothing.'

'You spend a lot of time thinking about what's going on in my trousers, do you?'

'Pass me that candlestick, so I can shove it up your–'

'Wait a minute. Hush.'

'Don't you hush me, Potter. I'll–'

'Hush, Brooks. Someone is coming.'

Holly did eventually hush, but not without throwing him one final, very loud look of distaste, crossing her arms most huffily and pointedly glaring off out into the corridor they were watching.

Small satisfaction though it was, to irk Holly when her sole purpose these days seemed to be to get under his skin, James was worried. He hadn't told her everything about the confrontation in the Hospital Wing with Millhart and Buckthorn. If he told her, and they managed to corner him again, then she would be at risk as well. It was a large part of the reason why he couldn't tell another soul. He couldn't risk putting any of his friends in danger. And as loathsome as Holly's company often was these days, James was certain some sort of kernel of friendship still existed between them.

Only buried very, very deep.

Sure enough, the faint sound of footsteps that James had heard earlier began to grow stronger. It didn't take long for James to identify two sets. And it took even less time for his heart to sink as his mind leapt to the conclusion of who it would be.

Buckthorn and Millhart.

Sure enough, the two Ministry figures strode into view from James and Holly's left. From a corridor that James knew only led to a cleaning cupboard, a classroom where all the chairs screamed when sat upon, and an odd little room only three feet square that seemed to have a trampoline as the floor.

Subconsciously, James shrunk back in their little hide, pushing himself as far into the shadows as he was able, and held his breath. He watched as the pair strode out onto the landing, and paused conspicuously, as if torn between heading up towards Ravenclaw Tower, or down to the Grand Staircase. After a low, murmured conversation which James couldn't make out, they headed downwards, lighting their wands to better see the stair laid out before them.

'We need to follow them,' James said through gritted teeth. He expected ridicule, but instead found unabashed sympathy on Holly's face as she studied him intently.

'You… James, you're terrified of them. What did they do to you?'

James almost told her, then. That earnest look glittering in her wide, grey eyes slipped deftly past his guard and almost completely disarmed him. But he couldn't. For her sake.

'N-nothing. Come on, we need to move.'

And just like that, walls went back up, the temperature between them cooled notably, and it was back to Potter and Brooks slipping out to tail the Ministry figures through Hogwarts castle beneath the cloak of night.

'Keep up, Potter,' Holly hissed as they alighted on the fifth floor landing. Faint traces of wandlight were just disappearing off up a corridor to their left. They tailed it in darkness, using their familiarity with the environs alone as a guide.

Eventually, they came to a stop on the third floor, in a section of the east wing that had already lost two classrooms that James knew of. A spot that was directly above the portion of the second floor that had been deemed under attack just before the holidays. James and Holly held back, crouching behind a suit of armour back up the corridor a ways, peering into the glowing sphere centred on Buckthorn and Millhart. Though their voices were too distant to make out, James could see their every move well enough, and their position outside the globe of wandlight would mean that he and Holly would be virtually invisible.

They watched as the pair stopped adjacent a small mantel crowded with dusty figurines and miniature sculptures. A display of antiquities like any other in the castle, James had walked past this one in particular for years without ever truly registering its existence. Buckthorn produced something from the depths of his coat – another figurine. Identical to the one Amelia Millhart was in the process of pulling down off of the shelf.

James and Holly shared a perplexed look, but remained silent as Buckthorn placed the idol into the vacated spot, adjusted it so it sat identical to the previous one, and then leaned in to share a quiet word with Millhart. There was the sound of a low, gravelly chuckle, and then the two Ministry figures turned up the corridor – away from James and Holly – and carried on. Before they'd even left James' sight, Millhart lifted up the corner of a large, ornate tapestry and tossed the old idol – the one she had taken down – behind it, discarded out of sight.

A few moments more, and James and Holly exhaled together, light and sound of the Ministry pair now long gone.

'What in the hell was that all about?' Holly asked rhetorically.

James led the way up the corridor to inspect the new figurine placed by Buckthorn. A witch in a swirling robe, wand held aloft. But for a little less dust than the others on the shelf, James could tell no difference at all. He reached towards it, but Holly swiftly slapped his hand away.

'Don't bloody touch it, you idiot. Who knows what spells they could have put on it? It's probably a trap, or something, set up to catch Rain. Or whoever is doing this to the castle.'

James' hand dropped to his side. 'Good point,' he mumbled.

The pair studied the figure from a distance for a while longer, speculating on what exactly it could do. Eventually, though, tiredness got the better of them, and Holly begged off to bed, heading off in the direction that Buckthorn and Millhart had taken, down through the castle. James went in the opposite direction, but only as far as the next landing up, where he waited, counting to one hundred to ensure Holly really was gone, before doubling back to the corridor that he had just left.

He fished out the old idol from behind the tapestry, and very carefully replaced the Ministry idol for the original, pocketing the one that Buckthorn had produced from his coat.

Whatever it was that those two were doing, it was unlikely to be something that Renshaw approved of, if they were slinking around the castle to carry it out in the middle of the night. This meant that it was exactly the kind of thing that James wanted to uncover. And the kind of thing that he didn't need to trouble Holly about. The less she knew about it, the safer she was, if James' recent experiences had told him anything.

He'd spent most of the day feeling outfoxed and bested by these mysterious Ministry officials. But it had taken them fewer than twenty-four hours to slip up on James' turf. And just like that, he was back one step ahead of them.

So it was that James rolled into the weekend with a spring returned to his step, the ghost of his splitting headache little more than a memory, and a wealth of confidence on his belt as he led the Gryffindor Quidditch team out onto the pitch to the sound of a roaring crowd. He raised his arms above his head and listened for his name. 'Potter! Potter! Potter!'

Al darted in and elbowed James in the ribs, holding his own broom aloft and soaking in the adoration. The brothers laughed, and led their team in taking to the air, whipping close by the Hufflepuffs just as they emerged from their own stand, and coming within touching distance of a startled Ava Adams. The crowd ate it up.

James signalled Preston to the left side of the field, and Carissa to his right. Fred and Jen took their positions slightly above and ahead of them, while Al began to hover directly above the centrepoint of the pitch, about fifty feet in the air. They waited, calm and collected, as Ava shouted orders against the torrent of noise from the crowd. The Gryffindor fans noticed her struggling, and cranked up the noise even further. James calmly made some minor adjustments to his teams' positioning with the hand signals they had worked on throughout the year.

James met Ava in the centre of the pitch. Declan Hawksby, the flying instructor and referee, awaited them. He had to shout to be heard, even over such a short distance. He wasn't helped by a sudden, blustery wind that had picked up, blowing left-to-right across the pitch. James noted it, and signalled behind his back for Preston and Carissa to swap sides.

'Captains!' Roared Hawksby, and they both leaned in. Ava winked at James, momentarily unsettling him. 'Let's keep it tidy today. This wind is forecast to pick up throughout the afternoon, so stay safe, play fair, and may the best team win!'

'We will,' smirked James.

'Oh James!' Ava giggled. 'You're so silly!'

And with that, she turned and flew back to her team, already barking orders and gesticulating wildly.

'D'you sometimes wonder if she's not quite… all there?' Hawksby asked, watching Ava leave.

'What?!' yelled James, deafened by a sudden, blustery gust.

'Never mind! Good luck.'

James nodded, and re-joined the formation. All eyes swung to the chest resting on the half-way mark of the pitch. The crowd noise finally receded. From somewhere in the stands, a cannon fired. Hawksby jabbed his wand, and two streaks of black burst from the chest, followed by a glint of gold. The match had begun.

James dove in as quick as he could to secure the Quaffle. What Ava had over him in finesse, he had in pure speed, and he felt a surge of satisfaction as his fingers clamped down on the firm leather, leaving Ava's nails to scrabble in vain against the back of his hand.

He instinctively avoided a well-placed elbow from Ava, and threw a blind pass to his left, where they had planned for Carissa to be waiting. Sure enough, he heard her yell that she'd secured position, and so he tore off up the pitch without looking back.

The move they had schemed up for the opening play involved a series of complicated passes back and forth between Carissa and Preston, designed to cross up the Hufflepuff defenders while James streaked towards the goal hoops before Ava could about face and match him. If it had worked as planned, he ought to be…

Whump. James reached out and caught Preston's pinpoint deep pass. Exactly as planned. He had a one-on-one shot against the Keeper, whom he easily vexed with a wicked Baltic Backspin shot that curved upwards over outstretched arms and clean through the centre hoop. Ten-nil to Gryffindor.

But they didn't stop to celebrate it, as now the work really began. They fell back into their designed defense for the match. It was a tactic James had come up with during one of his many sleepless nights over the past few weeks. Their team was faster than Hufflepuff, by a good margin. They had better brooms, and were at least equal in talent, perhaps with the exception of Ava. And what Carissa lost by having a slightly slower broom, she more than made up for with her agility and oily grace, combined with a burgeoning mean streak that James had been quietly cultivating as the season progressed. They pressed up on the Hufflepuff Chasers, sitting right in their hip pockets, and refusing to be shaken loose. This left Ava with no good options to throw to. So she would be forced to try and take James on one-on-one.

Just what he had wanted.

For it was widely held amongst the student body that Ava Adams and Odette Mansfield were generational talents upon a broomstick. Even the professors who paid attention had a hard time recalling any students who had shown more promise. The fearlessness with which Odette handled her speed was unrivalled. And Ava could outfox anybody between the goal hoops, so clean and refined were her aerial manoeuvres that she could have the opposition flying circles around themselves within a few short moments.

But nobody said the same about James. Sure, they agreed he was talented, and sure, most agreed he was a good choice as captain. But he'd be damned if he was going to go another season as an afterthought in the conversation of Hogwarts' greatest flier.

The smile Ava gave him as she hefted the Quaffle and set off down the pitch was as if she had read his mind. She invited him in close, holding the Quaffle loosely in one hand, weaving her way slowly forwards as if confused and confounded by Gryffindor's tight defensive scheme. But James knew better. The moment he closed down is approach angle, she would tear off up the pitch, and he'd be hard pressed to reel her back in. So instead, he played soft coverage, shepherding her towards the right-hand side of the pitch, where she would be forced to pass or shoot into the stiff, gusting breeze.

Eventually, she made her move. She dipped beneath a Bludger from Jen Redfern and tore off low, towards the centre of the pitch. James dove in to block her, stiffening his shoulder in anticipation of a blow–

That never came. Ava somehow contorted herself backwards on the seat of her broom – still with Quaffle in hand – and dipped just beneath James' expectant contact. She breezed right by him, leaving him squared up against thin air. A scattering of laughter from the yellow-and-black clad supporters caused his ears to burn.

Mercifully, a pinpoint Bludger from Fred saved James' blunder, as he cracked one into Ava's shoulder, causing her to drop the Quaffle. Moving mostly on instinct, James scooped it up barely a metre from the turf, and bolted back up the pitch to slot it past the Hufflepuff Keeper again and double Gryffindor's lead.

This time, Ava's smile caused James' blood to boil. It was like she knew. As if she had enjoyed embarrassing him. And she was inviting him back to make a fool of himself again.

James would see to it that her wish was denied.

There was nothing passive about his defense the second time around. He pushed up on Ava immediately, forcing her again to the outer limits of the stadium, daring her to weave in and out between the stands. Fred suddenly appeared above and ahead of them, winding up a solid crack on a Bludger. James didn't flinch, trusting to the accuracy of his cousin, but Ava was forced to swoop low, leaving herself exposed to a predatory attack from above.

This time, James was sure of his contact, driving his hip firmly into Ava's shoulder. He heard a satisfying grunt, the Quaffle slipped free, and he wrapped a hand around it, sawing on the handle of his broomstick to bring it around and–

Smack!

Somehow, through another eye-wateringly acrobatic trick, Ava had managed to loop a foot around the haft of James' broom. This caused the nose to dip violently, catch on the turf beneath them, and send James careening forwards, losing the Quaffle and tumbling head over heels enough times to make himself feel sick.

More laughter. Drowned out eventually by cheers from the Gryffindors, as Lynch had regained James' lost possession and scored. James slowly righted himself and re-mounted his broom. The grinding of his teeth was audible to his ears even over the roar of the wind.

Thirty to nil. Ava's restart. That irksome smile that inexplicably grew more smug with every Gryffindor goal.

This time, though, Ava opted to pass. But James' defensive strategy worked a treat, as Bludgers from both Jen and Fred bore down on the hapless Hufflepuff Chaser, and he dropped the pass right into the waiting lap of Carissa Li, who flicked a smooth pass to Preston Lynch who then saw to it that Gryffindor's lead was extended again.

Fine, James growled. If he wasn't going to earn his fame as an outstanding flier, at least his moves as a tactician were on full display. Ten minutes into the game and they had completely shut down Hufflepuff's high-flying offense. He'd take that compromise any day of the week.

And so it continued for another half hour: James managing to just hold his own against an increasingly formidable Ava Adams, but the Gryffindor team as a whole utterly stifling the Hufflepuff attack, by throwing all of their resources at it. Fred and Jen were working full time hounding all three of the yellow-and-black Chasers. Preston and Carissa were stuck to their counterparts as if a Permanent Sticking Charm was in play.

Gryffindor's forty point lead became eighty. But Ava's smile never left her face. She restarted again. With growing confidence, James rushed her, looking to force an early contact and out-muscle her in front of her own goal. He drove in, shoulder to shoulder–

And Ava cried out, flinging herself backwards and dropping the Quaffle, clutching her face.

Hawksby's shrill whistle blew for a foul. A wave of boos thundered out from the stands, all directed at James.

'What are you playing at, Potter?' Hawksby growled.

'I didn't–' but the referee wasn't listening, turning already to mark the spot directly in front of Gryffindor's goal where Ava would take the foul.

James felt a presence hovering at his side. It was Ava, with an entirely uninjured face, and a wicked gleam in her eye. 'Yea, Potter,' she smirked. 'You can't hit a girl.'

'You little–'

But Ava, too, ignored him, following Hawksby up the pitch to take her shot.

While she prepared to take it, James called his team aside, adjusting their tactics to be solely focused on making Ava's life hell. Every Bludger would have her name on it. They'd harass her every pass, shadow her every move, double cover her if they had to.

'Whatever it takes,' James growled through gritted teeth. 'Stop Ava Adams.'

The game ground on, with James' vision acted out play by teeth-jarring play. Hufflepuff clawed back a couple of goals, but Gryffindor continued to edge ahead. Ava suffered a split lip courtesy of a stray kick, she wore a Bludger clean in the solar plexus from Fred, and another in the back of the head from Jen, but she just kept on smiling.

One hundred and forty to thirty. Now it was James who was beginning to smile. He lunged at Ava off yet another restart, forcing her low to the ground. He sensed Jen Redfern high and to his right. Sure enough, the black streak of a Bludger tore through his vision, narrowly missing them both. Ava broke left, and James tailed her, sticking tight to her right shoulder, making any sort of a pass to her teammates all but impossible. She pulled up abruptly, trying to shake James. But his better broom kept him in touch. High above them, shouts and curses came from the other Chasers, as the Hufflepuffs fought for position, and the Gryffindors sought to deny it. Around them, the crowd noise was almost entirely lost to the roaring wind in James' ears.

Suddenly, Ava bolted once more. James fell into pursuit. He noted she had switched the Quaffle to her left hand – her off-hand, which could only mean one thing. So when she made to break left, away from him, James didn't bite on what he had surmised was a feint, instead positioning himself to block off her path as she tried to cut in front of him, directly towards the goal hoop.

There was a thundering crunch of bodies. James kept enough of his wits about him to reach around and knock the Quaffle free from Ava's hands and extricate himself before they became tangled. He dove triumphantly, shouting 'Hah!' as he secured the Quaffle, having bested Ava fair and square.

But the thundering in his ears was no longer the wind. It was the roar of a jubilant crowd. An ecstatic screaming building to a fever pitch that could only mean one thing: the Snitch had been caught.

And sure enough, as he looked wildly around, he spied the Hufflepuff Seeker waving her fist aloft over midfield, and Al laid out down near Gryffindor's goal hoops, recovering from a pair of nasty Bludger hits. The game was over. Hufflepuff had won.

'Unlucky, James!' Ava called, as she raced by to join her team. 'Better luck next time!'

Was that smugness in her tone? James couldn't tell. He could never tell, when it came to Ava Adams. And that was what annoyed him the most.

Their post-match breakdown was kept short and clinical. With the benefit of hindsight, it was painfully obvious to James, the failings of the one-eyed strategy he had been so proud of. Nobody said it, but they didn't need to: his ego had cost them the match. His desire to best Ava Adams had left Al entirely exposed with no help from his Beaters when he needed it the most. There was little that his teammates could have said to be harder on him than he already was on himself. He dismissed them after little more than fifteen minutes, and sat alone with only the bitter taste of defeat for company.

But his grim solitude was soon interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching outside the locker room. James' eyes darted around the room, but no obvious hiding place presented itself to him. Not that he really had the energy to spare, even if it had.

'You played well today, James.' Ava Adams stood in the doorway. She wore her battle wounds from the recent match as boldly and proudly as her bright yellow Hufflepuff t-shirt. Some of those bruises, James had probably inflicted himself.

'Sorry about your… face,' James offered lamely. He was currently dealing with some very mixed feelings about Ava's appearance at that particular moment. He wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't have preferred another round with Millhart and Buckthorn.

'And I'm sorry I manipulated you, on the pitch. Do you mind if I…?' she gestured to a seat next to James.

The sigh he let out seemed to sap the very last of James' waning energy, and he slunk down into his chair, tilting his head up to the ceiling. 'How did you know?' he asked. He hadn't answered her question, but heard her enter the room nonetheless, and realised – quite bemusedly – that he was pleased she had done so.

'It wasn't so hard, really,' Ava said softly, sliding in on James' left. He brought with her a cool, floral scent that made James suddenly self conscious about his own sweaty, post-match musk. 'You're not the only one who can read the game, you know. And besides, after that first passage of play, it was obvious what you were up to. You just couldn't get enough of me, could you?'

'Something like that,' came James' bitter laugh.

Ava leaned in. The sudden contact up against James' arm caused him to jolt upright, and sent a burst of energy coursing through his lethargic muscles.

'You are good, you know. Not many people can give me hell like that. A few more rounds and you might have broken me. Not to mentioned gained a one hundred and fifty point lead. You were this close.'

She held up her thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart.

James' smile was wry as he leaned forward and pushed a finger through the gap. 'Just enough space to fit a Snitch.'

As James reached out, Ava's grip closed around his extended hand – cautiously, so that James could still feel the barest hint of a nervous quiver. He made no move to pull back, instead letting their conjoined hands fall gently into Ava's lap. Firm callouses from years of broom riding were hard against the back of James' hand, while he was certain she felt something similar, as her thumb traced softly back and forth across his own palm. He looked up slowly, meeting her expectant gaze.

'I hope there's no hard feelings, James,' she said, suddenly hesitant.

'I'm a big boy. I'm sure I'll get over it.'

'Good.' There was a moment's pause, in which James and Ava both sat frozen. When Ava broke off eye contact, James had the distinct feeling that something had just slipped through his fingers. 'Because I was hoping to ask you something. Next week is Hogsmeade weekend, and, well, I guess you would have heard that the Tutshill Tornadoes are hosting a lunch at the Leaky Cauldron…'

James nodded. 'Yea, but it's not open to students, is what I heard. Nobody is allowed in.'

'Well, about that… I might have managed to get special dispensation, because my Mum works in their front office. And she said I could bring somebody along with me…'

Surely not. James was nodding like a bobble-head toy, eyes massive in his face.

'Would you, James? D'you want to come along.'

James had rooted against the Tornadoes for as long as he could remember. But in that moment, he found himself unable to agree any faster.

'Sounds great!'

'Awesome!' Ava leaned in and gave James a quick peck on the cheek, before leaping to her feet and looking back over her shoulder, allowing a curtain of hair to hide her flushed red cheeks. James didn't quite have that luxury. 'Well, I'll see you around, then.'

'Yea. Excellent. That's great. Thanks. Bye, Ava.'

Unable to make his mind up on exactly which statement to say, James had decided on all of them. He was still saying his bumbling farewell when Ava disappeared from the room. But he didn't mind so much. After what had earlier felt like a day of total defeat, he was starting to get the feeling that he might just have scored a win after all.