At precisely 10:34 am on the last Wednesday of May, 1996, a storm blew over Hogwarts, announcing itself with a streak of lightning. This wasn't remarkable to anyone apart from Minerva McGonagall and one of the students in her seventh year class, Andrew Fawley.
What was remarkable to the rest of the class was that student knocking his chair out from his desk and sprinting from the classroom as though he was being chased. What was remarkable to those in the hallway was him pulling a broomstick from his pocket, enlarging it, and flying out a window into the storm.
"Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus—Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus," he muttered under his breath, the second heartbeat which had been present the last few nights and mornings beating in time with the first.
Reaching the clearing, he grabbed under the tree root for the phial, holding his breath as he pulled it into sight, releasing it only when he saw the blood-red of the potion. Hands shaking, he uncapped it, holding it in his left hand, while pointing his wand-tip to his heart.
"Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus," he said, shouting the words into the rain rushing through the forest, then drank the potion. He felt it slide down his throat, thick and almost sticky. McGonagall's voice came to his mind, sayingthe last thing she'd said to them in the lesson before they'd hidden the phial:
"It will be painful, the first time. But you must stay calm. And you must hold onto your wand."
Easier said than done, he'd responded—and that was his last conscious thought before pain overwhelmed him.
/
Just after 6:00 pm, the same day
Minerva McGonagall was not a woman easily ruffled, and she was certainly not a woman who paced. And yet, here she was, in her office, walking from one bookshelf to the other , pulling books and flipping through them in uncertainty.
She had scanned the Slytherin House table first at lunch, and then at dinner—along with the Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw tables, just to be safe. But each time, the result had been the same: Andrew Fawley had not been present.
She was about to sink into her chair when a chattering came from her window—not the hoot of an owl, the call of some other bird. With a flick of her wand, she pulled the latch free, and the bird—a type of falcon, perhaps?—landed on the ledge, then hopped down to the floor. Slowly, as though someone was pulling from both ends to stretch it out, the bird was replaced by a rumpled eighteen year-old boy.
"Andrew Fawley—" she put as much sternness as she could into her voice to cover the relief she felt at seeing him in one piece. "What in Merlin's name have you been doing for the past eight hours?"
"Well, the whole first round of it took some time—there was a bit where I couldn't get back to being me, and I thought I'd just be a bird forever—and after that, I thought I'd better try again, just in case—to get used to the vision and size and, well, the wings." At the last word, his face lit up, as though he still couldn't believe he was able to fly. "And the weather had cleared up by then, so I dropped my broom off at the Quidditch shed and flew around for a bit to adjust to things. The first bit must have taken a long time, really, because I wasn't gone for too long the second time around."
"Well, at least you're in one piece," Minerva said, checking him to make sure that was, in fact, the case. "I do hope you used some of that time to think up a good excuse to tell your classmates."
/
Morning, The Last Wednesday in June
The Hogwarts Express set off from Hogsmeade station, carrying, as always this time of year, a class of seventh year students for the last time. The DA had grabbed a few compartments in a row, everyone moving between them to share summer plans or talk about the implications of the year that had passed—with Voldemort in the open, everything had changed.
"At least Umbridge is gone," Jake Urquhart was saying as Cedric stood to leave the compartment. "Did you see the Prophet article about it? They swept it up in everything about Fudge getting sacked—blamed it all on his poor administrative skills and failure to see what was under his nose."
"Right—because the bogus report from the inspector from Magical Education had nothing to do with it."
"It's easy to pin things on someone everyone's already against—makes things easier for whoever's the next minister."
Cedric slipped into the corridor, walking down a few compartments to join the seventh year Slytherins, who were in an intense game of Exploding Snap with Lee Jordan and Marietta Edgecombe. He paused before opening the door, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire, which seemed liable to come any minute—
"SNAP!" Marietta cried, slamming her cards down. The other four tried to move theirs away from themselves with varying success, Jack ending up the least singed and Andrew the most.
"Big plans for this next year, Cedric?" Adrian asked, collecting the Snap cards and returning them to his bag.
"Auror training—just got my official acceptance to the program last week," Cedric told them. "I've got a flat in Diagon Alley."
"Us too—well, the flat part, not the Auror part," Jack said.
"Yeah—no Auror office for me," Andrew replied. "I'm only cut out to be a lowly Hit Wizard—our training's not for another two months, though, so I'll have time to settle us in while Jack's off working with his ancient tomes." Jack opened his mouth to say something, but Andrew continued before he could speak: "Working with rare book dealers is only a limited time job, though—one of these days, his agenda to remove Binns from his post will go through and he'll leave me in the dust to go preach about history to a captive audience."
"I'll come stay with you for a few weeks when Jack gets the job—help you adjust," Adrian said with a grin. "I'm going up to stay with Cassius's aunt," he explained to Cedric, "she was a healer, years ago, but she's kept up to date, and she lives near one of the best hospitals outside of London. She suggested it when I wrote to her a few weeks ago and, well—I've got all the NEWTs I need, so I thought I'd give it a try."
"There's always a place for you at the joke shop," Lee promised. "Well—you'd have to check with the twins, but I'm sure they'd agree. I'll only be there part-time—I've got a gig announcing for minor league Quidditch."
"Must be nice to have plans that aren't just more school," Marietta said, slumping into her seat. "I don't even know what I'm doing this summer. Tamsin's letting me stay with her for a few weeks, and my parents agreed—they think it's so nice that I'm helping her move into her new place. But after that, it's home, and I just…I don't know what I'll say to them. About any of it—Umbridge, the Death Eaters, the future…" She trailed off, looking contemplative for a moment, then stood.
"Any of you for one last round of snacks from the Hogwarts trolley?"
/
Platform 9 3/4, King's Cross Station, Evening
"Keep in touch or I'll show up at your doorstep," Andrew threatened lightly, pulling Adrian into a hug.
"And I'll join him," Jack said, doing the same.
"I don't have a doorstep," Adrian said, "But I'm sure Lucina would welcome you with open arms—not that it'll be necessary."
"It better not be," Andrew said, feeling oddly unanchored. "Well…see you around, then, I suppose."
"You haven't gotten rid of me quite yet," Adrian said, a grin crossing his face before, turning in place, he disapparated.
"What do we do now?" Jack asked, looking at the space Adrian had stood.
"Now," Cedric's voice came from over their shoulders, "we have a meeting to go to."
The three looked at each other, and Jack nodded. Hand on his trunk, he followed Adrian's lead, leaving King's Cross Station behind.
/
An hour later, The Flat Above 93 Diagon Alley
Andrew looked at the faces scattered around the Weasley Twins' flat—Fred and George themselves, pouring glasses of Butterbeer, Lee and Jack levitating them over to the table they would all shortly be sitting at. On the couch, Gil Ossett, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson were in deep discussion about some quidditch team or another—Andrew couldn't pick it up from their words. Patty Simpson, on a chair by the kitchen, reading a newspaper that appeared to be made by Muggles, brow furrowed in concentration. Corrie and Kim, sitting on the floor and debating the meaning of some law about broom safety, Cedric in a chair nearby pitching in every so often.
"Everyone ready?" George's voice cut through the chatter, and everyone made their way to the table. Cedric sat at one end of the table, Jack at the other, everyone else filling in around them. For a moment, everyone sat in silence, sipping their butterbeer, unsure who should be in control.
"So," Fred asked, breaking the silence. "Are we still the Diagon Alley Guard, or just "The Guard," now there's no one at Hogwarts?"
"Glad we're asking the important questions," Andrew replied, grinning. "My vote's for The Guard—nice and simple."
With that, the tension melted away, and chatter began, plans yet unneeded discussed.
A shadow was falling over the Wizarding World. They had seen it—some had fought it already—and they were prepared to do what needed to be done to push back, ready, if the time came that a fire of rebellion was needed, to provide the spark that set it ablaze.
After almost five years (!) the little story I planned on writing in about three chapters, Cassius Warrington and the Triwizard Tournament, is at what is most likely its end. How the war changes the world after this is something I've thought about, but I want the story to be at a point of conclusion when I leave it-even if not the ultimate ending. Writing this story has been quite a journey, and I couldn't have done it without the encouragement of everyone who has read along with it, in spite of the long, long waits between chapters.