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Chapter 27

December 23rd

Monday Night

~oOo~

"Argh!" Even through gritted teeth, the pain in that one groan was evident.

The healer kneeling on the ground gave the young man a calculating look, her hands soft against the skin of his leg. The long gash she was working on finally started showing signs of fading as the waves of gentle magic ran through the cut.

"Just a moment longer for this one, Mr. Bolton, then that's it for the large cuts."

Grayish green liquid trailed out of the closing wound, the poison that had been on the knives was slowly making its way out of the area.

Atticus Bolton grimaced harshly, "sick fucks."

He had known even before the healer told him that the poison wasn't lethal. No, its purpose wasn't to kill but to cause the victim more pain and make the healing process more complex and longer. About a whole 12 hours longer, in fact.

Though the infliction of these wounds weren't just to cause pain. On one side it was to make sure it seemed like he had gone through hell and barely escaped with his life, to make the narrative a little more believable. And the other to make sure he knew he only had escaped because he was allowed to.

He tried to focus on other things as the pain washed over him a waves, but his surroundings didn't allow for much distracting. The deafeningly silence of the room he was in created an almost ringing in his ears from its lack.

"Or maybe that was just the blood loss," he thought darkly.

Either way, he didn't think the pressure in his head was a good sign. There wasn't anything to be done able that though, the healer had already healed his head to her satisfaction, even if he was left with a persistent head ache. Plus all this was simply to keep him from dying or passing out again, not to make sure he was in good health.

He had fucked up, he knew that, and he also knew that the people watching him from behind that two-way glass had no idea what to make of him or his loyalties right now. After all, he had given them bad information, very bad. And it had resulted in some of their men getting hurt. So he wouldn't trust himself either.

"There," the healer's soft voice washed over his thoughts and brought him back to the present.

He saw that finally, the last of the torn flesh had been stitched back together, leaving an angry red line of healed skin.

"Thank you, you've been very kind." His voice sounded raw even to his own ears.

Only solidifying his previous suspicion, the healer did not answer, merely gave a short nod, and left the room. Her job here was done, there was no need to be nice.

Now that Atticus was utterly alone for the first time since he had woken up, he felt oddly cold. The room of grey black marble seemed to close in on him a little, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise at the feeling of being watched from behind that glass. He made it a point not to look directly at the mirror, not wanting to seem confrontational. Instead, he gently traced his fingers over the fresh red scars that now littered his body.

Legs, arms, stomach, back, shoulders, and finally, one across his forehead, tracing from his hairline to his left eyebrow and stopping centimeters away from his eye. Another warning. Another purposeful cut. Another promise.

He knew, even if he didn't want to think about it, he knew that his brother was getting the same or worse than him. He had been told it enough in the days since he got caught and put until he stumbled into the Ministry and collapsed moments after begging to see Harry.

Those dark days and nights spent with her.

Atticus shook his head, closing his eyes tightly and slumping more in his chair. Everything that had happened made his stomach turn and his lung close up. No part of him wanted to think about what had ensued and the place it left him in now. Because like it or not, he was now firmly and irrevocable on one side of this battle, this war, and he had no escape. His life was no longer just his to gamble away. He had someone else to think of now.

And if he failed, Merlin help them.

The door to the holding room made no noise as it opened, and neither did the men's shoes as they crossed the threshold.

But Bolton supposed Harry Potter had learned the art of stealth long ago.

~oOo~

December 23rd

Monday Night

The moonlight cast the attic in long, stretched shadows, the dust in the air glittering in strips of fragmented light. Large pockets of darkness seemed to lurk around the space, and the eeriness in the room was almost like a warning not to enter till daylight cleansed it of the night's terrors.

But the three teenagers that sat huddled together under the large round window didn't heed those warning whispers and creaks. They were more focused on the topic at hand.

A muggle lantern glowed gently in the middle of their small circle, left and forgotten up here years ago by Mr. Weasley after he'd had his fun trying to figure it out.

"But Ro, you know your dad deals with this kind of stuff all the time, rebel groups that still believe in the ways of old Voldy and nutters who think he'll come back, so they need to stay loyal to the cause. My dad tells me that there are still plenty of people out there who want to end muggles and muggle-borns. So it's not surprising that they would form groups or that they would do daft things."

Rose bit her lip, concern etched into her features, "I know that but hearing him say they are dealing with this type of stuff right now," she shook her head, "I don't know, it just threw me off. There hasn't been anything about unrest or rebel groups rising in the papers. You would think that some reporter somewhere would have caught on a few times, yeah?"

Albus gave her an unconvinced look, "I don't know about that. The Ministry has really been cracking down on keeping reporters in the dark, especially about the Aurors. My mum said that after that one incident last year in Diagon Alley when they were trying to catch that cursed objects dealer, the Ministry basically closed off the whole Aurors wing. No one is allowed to speak of cases outside of that wing."

"But torture and murder? Albus, that isn't a small thing. If the rebel groups are turning to such extremes, doesn't that mean they are becoming more dangerous and bold? They aren't just sneaking around muttering about the end of the Ministry or handing out shrinking kettles to unsuspecting witches anymore. They are killing the people who disagree with them, and our dads are in the middle of it. Aren't you just a little freaked out by that?"

"Rose," Albus leaned forward a bit, "our parents are the ones who ended the most notorious wizard of our time. I think they can handle a few of his followers."

The redhead left out a sigh and leaned back against the window, not feeling up to arguing more about the subject. The sod in front of her had always viewed their parent's achievements with rose-colored glasses, thinking it made them indestructible. While Rose could understand how he believed that, she's also had enough conversations with her mother to know that everything wasn't always so black and white when it came to that war.

Things had not been easy. People were lost on both sides. And Rose couldn't help but think that it was this kind of mindset that allowed someone like Voldemort to rise in the first place. The underestimating of restless groups and the overestimating of the Ministry and its ability to control revolutionaries. It was the masses thinking that nothing so horrible as what happened before could happen again that might just allow another Voldemort to flourish. It all led people to become complacent and for people like Albus to believe that there were those who had and always would be able to stop evil from rising.

But it was going a bit far even from Albus to brush off murder so quickly. And to brush off that things seemed to be stirring in the magical world, and their fathers were right there at the front.

The clock chimed twelve somewhere in the house, the deep echoing sound floating to them through the halls. They had been up here for a while, and Rose was starting to feel the threads of tiredness.

"Let's go to bed. There's no point in going over this again and again."

With this statement being met with nods, the three stood, brushing off dust from their clothes.

Rose stooped to grab the lantern, walking over to the trunk it was stored in a placing it gently back in its place. Behind her Albus started a hushed conversation with Scorpius as they padded barefooted to the hall, leaving Rose to weave back through the crowed attic alone. She heard their quiet voices moving down the hall as she stepped into it, only remembering after a few steps that she should close the attic door. Her hand reached out and grabbed the cold brass, pulling the heavy wood forward, and just as it was about to shut, she saw something move.

Her eyes snapped up and to the movement, and through the darkness and moonlight streaks, they locked on a pair of brown eyes.

James stood there, clad in only a shirt and jeans that were dusted in snow, eyes large like a deer caught in headlights. The window he had just come through let in the freezing air from outside before it shut itself with a soft click. Rose blinked, her brows furrowing slightly as she took in her cousin. It wasn't really that he had been up on the roof that was concerning her or that she was now catching the lingering smell of herbs around him. It was the fact that he had been out there for at least the two hours Rose had been up here, and it was way too cold outside to just wear a t-shirt.

Rose made to take a step back inside the room, opening her mouth to say something, what she didn't know, but the look that flashed through James's eyes stopped her dead. He was just standing there, still as the grave, looking at her in horror. She noticed with no small amount of concern that his hand were shaking quite hard. There was a beat of silence, both of them just starring at each other and then James seemed to lose all control and his face crumbled. Rose inhaled sharply in a small gasp at the look of utter pain and hopelessness that filled his eyes.

Completely confused, she watched as he stepped back, shoulders hitting the wall and a little hiccupping sob escaped, quiet but so deep and mournful that Rose felt her own heartache. As he bent his head, arms wrapped his arms around himself, she saw the tear streaks down his face and the shaking that was taking over his whole body.

"I knew something was wrong with him." Flashes of thoughts about how he had been acting lately flew through Rose's mind and she couldn't help but wonder if he was finally cracking.

She took a few steps forward, her feet causing the floor to creak, feeling the panic rise and needing to go to her cousin as he stood there, shaking and looking so broken.

"Please don't," he didn't look up at Rose as he spook and his voice was raw and shaky.

Rose was just about to go anyway, to ignore that quiet plea but something strange happened at that moment, something that caused Rose to go completely still and her thoughts to stop. As that want and need to comfort and make sure he was okay ran through her she felt something respond to it. Something that should not have. Her magic started shifting, a deep movement from within her. Rose became acutely aware of her core of magic, its warmth, and the utter power that had grown and changed so much since the bond. She rarely took time to focus on feeling that core, but now all her thoughts were trained on it and James. And as Rose's thoughts turned to James, she felt her power flow gently from her hands.

"What the hell?!" It wasn't visible, at least that Rose could tell, but her magic seemed to have a want and need to move just the same as she did. And it did move, directly towards James.

She stood still, transfixed and watched as it felt, actually felt James's magic. It moved to circle the crying boy, drifting in swirls and ripples of power that Rose felt deeply. She let out a little sound as she was hit with waves of emotions that were not her own and felt and acted differently then anything she had experienced before. Her eyes grew wide as she realized she was feeling James's emotions, even if they were muffled as though through a static radio. So dim and broken up, but she felt his despair and pain.

It was so much, so overwhelming that Rose almost started crying with him, the aching in her chest felt almost unbearable. And it hit her at that moment, as she stood there, what it was she was feeling.

She was feeling his broken heart.

The room was silent, save for James's quiet, quick breaths, but Rose's insides were anything but quiet. Inside she had turned into a rolling mess of conflicted thoughts and feelings. Because some of those thoughts and feelings weren't her own and everything seemed to be battling each other. Her brain was going crazy, and she needed to know what was going on.

But then Rose met his eyes again, and she took in those tears and pain, and everything else seemed to still, and her attention focused on him.

Through those faint beats of emotions, Rose knew what James's needed at this moment. He didn't need a speech or words of any kind, and he didn't want regular comfort, didn't want a hug or soothing touch. Rose could feel that this hurt went too deep and was too complex for that to help or work. And while there was nothing Rose could do to actually help him with this pain, her magic seemed to have grasped what he needed.

So Rose gave James a small, sad smile while she reached out with her strange waves of magic and physically enveloped him in a wash of warmth while also sending feelings of comfort, peace, love, and calm. His eyes widened when she did so, and Rose watched the snow in his hair and on his clothes melt away, leaving dry warmth behind.

Her magic moved and seemed to cradle his broken heart for just a moment, seeming to say that it understood and washing the sharp edge of the pain away. It took the fragmented pieces of him and placed them back together, mending and soothing it. She knew James felt it when he closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath, surrounded by that comfort, his panic, and angst melting into a peace that would last.

And when their eyes met again, there was an understanding between them. Rose wouldn't ask questions or pry, for now at least, because the type of hurt she had just felt needed time.

In return, James wouldn't ask what had just happened with her magic.

The two cousins stood there a moment longer, looking at each other and speaking through that mutual understanding. Then Rose's magic retreated, unwinding from around James like a gentle wind, drifting back over to her and settling back into its place. Even with its presence gone through, James didn't feel that panic anymore, instead, the calm stayed, moving through his body and pushing away the overwhelming hopelessness.

She realized that for now at least, James would have some peace. And as though the thought was not all her own, Rose suddenly felt that it was time to leave, that James needed a moment alone now.

So Rose gave him a gentle smile and turned to leave the room.

The darkness of the hall became absolute as Rose closed the attic door behind her, the creaking from the floors sounding loud as she turned. Down the hall, Rose felt the figure before she saw them. Scorpius was standing stock still, almost hidden in the shadows, gaze trained intently on her.

She realized then just how tightly her mind was closed off from him and how cold that distance between them was.

"What the fuck just happened?"

Rose sighed.

~oOo~

December 24th

Tuesday Night

Will's POV

William Theodore Benedict Clarkson.

Will made a face as he looked down at the name placeholder sitting in front of him, eyes moving back and forth as he read and reread his ridiculous name.

He had never told anyone his full name, only the teachers knew it, but they had never needed to say that whole mess aloud. And none of them questioned it when little eleven-year-old William started going by Will Clark instead of Clarkson. What was it to them if a random boy in their class hated his family name and everything that came with it?

Will rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension in them but failing miserably. The wizard's suit that he had been unceremoniously shoved into by his valet pulled snuggly across his shoulders, restricting his arm movements far too much to allow for comfort. The long tails that fanned out behind him made him feel all the more stupid as he stood in the servant hall of his home.

The room was not overly large, but Will knew it was far superior to other manors' servants' halls. Lightly decorated walls surrounded a large oak dining table in the middle room and besides the two cabinets to his right, there wasn't too much to look at. But the ceiling was shorter than those in the rest of the house, causing the room, even in its bare state, to feel comfortable and cozy.

Sometimes he felt more at home in their corner of the manor than in his own room. The noise and bustle that never seemed to stop reminded him vaguely of ordinary families. They also seemed to actually be alive, the house's servants, often laughing and joking as they went about their work, unlike everyone else beyond this room, who never seemed capable of anything that wasn't a stern smile or controlled laugh.

Just as his bitter thoughts began to crowd his mind, the door behind him cluttered open. Amelia came bustling out, many a candle hovering around her. They were all polished to perfection and shining, causing her pretty face to glitter in the reflected light.

"OH!" Amelia shrieked, almost losing her focus and dropping them all.

"Lord William, you scared me half to death!" Then, placing her hand on her no doubt thundering heart, she seemed to take in that he was, in fact, not supposed to be in here.

Raising his hands to stop her already narrowing gaze, he gave her a sheepish smile. "I know, I know I shouldn't be in here, I was just trying to avoid mother and her party planning rampage, and you know she would never check in here."

Amelia, barely a few years older than himself, was a full-time servant at the estate, tending mainly to house chores and helping in the kitchen for special events. The first time Will met her, he'd instantly liked her, especially when she had started sneaking him extra dessert from the kitchens after dinner. They had just hit it off, something his mother seemed to hate, but sometimes her company was the only thing that kept him sane during the long summer months.

He often found himself conveniently in the rooms she was cleaning, and if there was no one around, he would read to her as she cleaned. They had gone through many books together and had bonded over a love of stories, both dreaming of different lives filled with different people. Since the time she had started here, they had spent hours upon hours together, sometimes sneaking out into the gardens after supper and sitting in the grass, enjoying the last rays of evening light.

Things between them were easy; they fell into a rhythm without trying and felt comfortable in each other's company. No smiles were ever forced, no soft giggle faked just for appearance.

They often flirted back and forth, gentle teases and jabs ending in winks and smirks. She was almost the only thing in his life that wasn't complicated and one of the few people he was truly close to.

"Maybe the only one." He thought bitterly, realizing that she might be just that.

"Can I help with that?" He asked, motioning to the candles and the other things laid out on the table between them.

Amelia rolled her eyes at the offer, flicking her wand and making the candles land neatly in a row. "You know full well you can't even be seen in here, let alone helping me with my tasks."

He grimaced a little bit, always hating when she pointed out that, in this house at least, they were not on equal ground. But it turned into a smile when she looked over at him.

"Maybe I don't care. Maybe I wanna be seen in here with you." He took a step closer, eyes tracing over her.

She blew out a choking breath, stifling her laughter as she rearranged things on the table. "Only home for a few days, and you are already starting in with that nonsense."

"What nonsense?" Will asked innocently, moving around the table to stand next to her.

But it seems William Clarkson was fated to never have a carefree or straightforward life. Because at that moment, when Will was standing far closer to a girl than he should be, the doors across the room leading out into the main house opened.

Will's jumping step back did nothing to help the situation seem more casual as the last person he expected to see walked into the room.

The woman was tall, her sharp bob of blonde hair ending just about the shoulders, flat ironed to perfection. Her face's soft, round features were a harsh contrast to the strict hairstyle. Full rosy cheeks, gentle button nose, full lips, and eyes that had every potential to look kind if it weren't for the person behind them.

Will's mother had the face of an angel, and she was one to anyone but him.

"Theodore!" The words, though not loud, cut the air.

Will cringed inwardly at the use of his middle name, hating the sound of it coming from her,

"Mother," he said in a light tone, "I was just coming to find you and see if there was anything I could help with before everyone starts arriving."

His smile felt so forced it hurt.

Cold eyes sliced between the two standing in front of her. The silence stretched on and in that time Will knew his mother was contemplating whether or not she should make a scene in front of the servant girl.

Even in front of the servants of her own house, she wanted to seem like she had the perfect family.

"There will be no need for that; everything is already arranged. Your father and I would like to speak with you before the guest starts arriving so let's leave the staff to finish up."

Will merely nodded, knowing his mother did not expect a response.

And with that, they both left Amelia standing straight-backed, eyes on the ground, without a word of farewell. Will fell in step slightly behind his mother as they walked, focusing on the ground and trying not to step on the golden train of his mother's dress. The cold halls of the manor seemed to pass in blurs of color and light as the two walked towards what Will could only guess was his father's study. Gentle Christmas music floated to him from the Great Room, and the soft rustling of last-minute tasks being fulfilled mixed into it all, but the largeness of the house caused it all to sound hollow and haunting rather than festive.

They had indeed been heading to his father's study as they turned the corner and came upon the large oak doors and Will felt a sense of dread as he was ushered inside by his mother.

Not surprisingly his father did not look up from his desk as they entered, his head bowed over a piece of parchment that he was finishing. Not needing the prompting from his mother, Will took a seat in front of the desk, feeling the warmth of the fire burning in the hearth just behind his father hit his cold cheeks.

Time seemed to slow and speed up as he waited. The silence in the room was only interrupted but the cracking of fire and the scratching of a pen. Will tried to sit still but the urge to fiddle with things and move around was getting to him. His hand brushed through his hair, pushing the loose curls off his forehead for a moment. His mother had long ago given up trying to get him to gel his hair into a presentable style, so he was allowed to wear his hair natural even to events like tonight.

Dropping his hands to his lap at the disapproving look his mother was giving him Will tried not to move anything but his eyes.

The room he sat in was huge for a study, the desk taking up only a tiny portion of it. The rest was filled with ornate furniture and bookshelves and another fireplace on the other side of the room, and multiple doors leading in and out. One side of the study was almost entirely made of large ornate windows, showing a beautiful view of the grounds.

"And this is considered one of the more humble-looking rooms in the house." Will shook the thoughts off bitterly, training his eyes to the falling snow outside.

It was the Weasley's Christmas eve party tonight and Will's chest ached a little at the thought of the warm happy environment he was missing out on. He had tried to go, had begged his mother as much as he dared to let him miss dinner tonight so he could go. But his mother had been more strict than normal, going on and on about his duty to his name and the estate. How he wasn't to just go off at any chance and leave his responsibilities just because he wanted to see his friends.

It had all been a load of bull.

After what felt like forever of Will looking out those windows, his father finally put down the pen.

Will's father was the opposite of his mother in everything. From appearance, all stern features, dark hair, and brooding looks, to parenting style. Will felt like he looked nothing like his father, but he also knew parts of the man reflected in him. Features and personality.

"Did you tell him why he's here?" Speaking as if Will wasn't sitting right in front of him was something his father seemed to love doing.

"No," His mother answered sharply, looking Will in the eyes, "I didn't get the chance. He was a little busy when I found him."

And that was a threat, one that would get Amelia kicked out of this house so fast he wouldn't even be able to take a breath in protest. And Will knew he would hate himself more than he ever had if he was the cause of Amelia losing this job. While Will hated the relationship between the family and staff he knew working at the manor was a coveted job for many people. The pay was exceptionally high for this area, the work was not grueling and while his mother was harsh towards him she was relatively kind toward the servants. It was no easy task to get a job working on the estate and Will knew Amelia would not be able to get anything better for miles and miles. And she had people relying on that paycheck.

Will broke his gaze with his mother, dropping his eyes in defeat, knowing she was challenging him and that he couldn't fight it.

But his father ignored the odd answer and tenseness and simply nodded.

"Well, William," he stated, leaning back in his chair, "it seems you're mother and I have found you a match at long last. She will be coming here tonight, and her family will be staying in the west wing until the New Year."

Will's eyes snapped up and met his father's. He felt his jaw go slack and thoughts didn't seem to be a thing Will was capable of anymore, that and breathing. His hands turned limp in his lap and he felt every beat of his heart ring in his ears.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no! But his silent protests were not heeded as words kept being thrown at his unhearing ears.

"You will be expected to propose before she leaves on the 2nd of the New Year. Her parents would like a spring wedding, but since you are still in school, it will happen in the summertime, which they have agreed with."

His mother's words sounded hollow in his ears, and every breath felt like it was inhaling water. Tears suddenly threatened to overtake his throat and eyes, but he had become too good at suppressing those far too long a go for them to actually fall.

"You can't be serious." The words slipped out before he could help it and he winced inwardly.

His mother's eyes flashed at his tone, "I would never joke about something like this, Theodore. We have been looking for a match all over Europe and have finally found a suitable family. They are well-born, and their daughter has gone to an excellent finishing school and knows her role exceptionally well. She is well-spoken and will run a household agreeably with a little guidance and be a splendid woman to give you sons. You two will make a fine match."

God, his mother, spoke of this girl as if she was nothing more than livestock to be traded. He was starting to feel ill.

"We have plenty of time before you graduate to plan and settle everything. I have already started the process of clearing the east wing out for the both of you" His father's dark eyes surveyed him as he spoke, no doubt seeing the faint greenish tinged his son had turned.

It kept getting worse. They expected him to live here, here in the same house with them and his new-

Will swallowed, his new wife.

Thoughts of wedding days and white flashed before his eyes, but his heart clenched when instead of seeing a faceless girl walking down an aisle towards him, he saw beautiful lips and gentle soft eyes framed by thick dark hair and hands he longed so desperately to wrap around his own and never let go.

Panic rose in his throat as he was presented with a life that would never and could never led towards that vision. A life of lies and loneliness in which he would waste away in this house working with his father and going to sleep every night with a woman he wished with every fiber of his being was someone else.

And having children with her? The thought closed his throat and made him icy.

He never thought this day would actually come. At least not before he was finished with school. His parents hadn't been able to find him a match for years, and he had begun to hope no one would ever meet their high standards. But it seemed someone finally had, and he couldn't help hating the girl that seemed acceptable in his mother's eyes.

But just as soon as that thought went through his head, he despised himself for it. That poor girl was no different from him. What she had been turned into by her parent's expectations was not who she was, just like who he was around his parents wasn't real. For all he knew, she could be madly in love with someone else and was being forced to go through with this anyway. Just like him.

"No," he thought, eyes meeting his parents in turn, the proper place for his anger lay in them and their stupid, backward way of thinking of the world and how it should be run. Their foolish beliefs that the only way to continue strong bloodlines and wealth was through arranged marriages and tradition. Through strong male leaders and humble, submissive females.

That vision of his wedding day flashed through his mind again and his chest ached so badly. He couldn't let that day never come to pass and live only in his memories.

As that thought left his head and the absurdity of his current situation hit him, Will felt an odd calm come over him, like a realization.

He had two choices. It didn't matter what he lost or gained in either option. All that mattered was him, him, and what he wanted out of life, not his parents, not others, not nameless, faceless people, him. What life did he want?

And that really wasn't a choice for him at all.

"Of course father." The words felt robotic but Will felt his face pulling into his practiced calm saccade, he knew how to play the perfect son. "Since I will be meeting them tonight may I be excused to go freshen up in my room? I'd like to be more presentable."

His father nodded, "Of course, we will discuss this more after we have all formally met. You may leave."

Will stood, not needing any more prompting and after nodding his head to both of his parents he sweep from the room, back straight and head raised. The trip to his room was short, or maybe it wasn't but it seemed that all Will had to do was blink and he was there, opening his door. His room had been cleaned since he had left it this afternoon, all of his belongings straighten or packed away.

The blonde stood there for a moment in the quiet, closing his eyes and taking calming breaths. His body was tense and his hands shook, the anticipation of what he wanted to do buzzing through him. But the clock ringing in the new hours on the wall set him into motion, making him realize just how little time he truly had.

Within moments he had quill to parchment and was scribbling, not bothering to use the pretty penmanship that had been beaten into him. The note was short and impersonal, but he knew his words could not be mistaken.

Folded and with the words, for mother and father, still drying on top Will threw the letter onto the bed, removing his tight jacket and placing that next to it. And then he was moving, grabbing anything and everything that he would need and that would fit into a knapsack. Five minutes later there Will stood, his top buttons undone and his shirt untucked, hair messy and wild, wand tucked neatly into his knapsack with the rest of his earthly belongings, and a determined glint in his blue eyes.

The fireplace burned brightly in front of him and he took one last deep breath before he opened the jar of green power in his hand and tossed it into the flames. And William Theodore Benedict Clarkson, knapsack and all, stepped into the flames, two words falling from his lips as he did so.

"The Burrow."