After Mezrielda and Bagsy had told Professor Wattleseed what had happened, he had instantly sent word to the school about Blythurst's condition. Later that day, as Bagsy gathered her things to head to the acting troupe's tent, Eldritch fluttered in through her private room's window. Landing on one of the owl perches she'd installed, he proudly held out a talon with a message.

Professor Fitzsimmons was informing her, given Bagsy had seen the incident earlier that day, that Professor Blythurst had been taken to St Mungo's hospital and was recovering from his illness. His condition was uncertain but the healers were doing everything they could to help him.

Letting out a sharp breath, Bagsy fell back onto her bed and tossed the letter to the side, not wanting to look at it too long. Was Blythurst going to die? Had the conversation stressed him out so much that his heart had failed?

Was this all Bagsy's fault?

The bed shifted as Eldritch landed next to her and nudged her cheek with his beak.

'Want a treat?' Bagsy asked, offering one to him. Eldritch ignored it in favour of hopping onto her belly, fluffing his feathers out as he settled down, and tucking his head in as his eyes drooped closed. Glancing out the window, where it was still rather bright, Bagsy decided she could stay like that, giving Eldritch small pets, for a little while before heading off.

'Did you get a letter?' Bagsy asked when, an hour later, she reached the main entrance to Hogwarts. Mezrielda had been waiting for her there.

Mezrielda nodded. 'I'm sure he'll be fine.'

'Are you?'

Mezrielda hesitated, pushing off the wall she'd been leaning against. 'Actually. I'm not. Frankly, he's old, he's tired, and he's very ill. Only time can let us know if he'll be alright.'

'I shouldn't have tried to get him to talk to Pepsini.'

'He was already ill, Bagsy. If the fault lies with anyone, it's with Pepsini.'

'If you say so. Either way, I have to be focussed now.'

'That's the spirit,' Mezrielda said. 'Use that brain of yours. I know you have one in there, somewhere,' she teased. 'Are you sure you don't want me to wait in the clearing?'

'Yeah,' said Bagsy. 'Otherwise you won't get to enjoy the episode with everyone else.'

'Enjoy is a strong word.'

'I'll see you after it's done,' said Bagsy, pushing the door open and exiting.

'Yes. See you,' Mezrielda responded as if she was standing on ice that would crack if she spoke too loud.

Pushing her apprehension down, Bagsy set off for the tent. No sooner had she pushed through the tent entrance, double checking she had her permission slip to stop the tiles letting out loud noises or scents, than Three had reached her and was pulling her to hair and make-up.

'This episode is going to be just amazing,' said Three.

'Yep.' Bagsy nodded in false agreement as she was pushed into a seat so Three could begin their work. Soon, she 'had her face on', as Three put it, as well as Rose Deprive's ridiculous dress.

Lastly, Three plastered the indents in Bagsy's shoulder, whilst Bagsy clenched her fists and tensed her muscles against the pain.

'Three!' another stunt worker called from across the tent. Three paused, a tsunami of foundation brushes hovering behind them, waiting to be used to finish blending the foundation over the plaster she'd shoved into Bagsy's scars.

'Yes?'

'We need some help with the final scene's set – do you have a second?'

Grumbling, Three waved their hand so the brushes collapsed into a large pot. 'Sure,' they said, waving politely to Bagsy and mouthing 'be right back' as they left.

Not quite believing her luck, Bagsy checked around herself, pulled her wand from her robe that was folded over a stool, and darted like a fish between cervices towards the hidden passage. She hurried past a live picture productions capture machine that whirred its distracting noise as if excited for the episode.

Bagsy pushed through the tent flap and, forcing her breathing to remain slow in the small space, hurried to the locked door. It was the same as before – a cold, metal thing with a padlock.

She pressed her ear against it, hearing the whisperings. For a moment, she considered that there might be a dreadful creature held behind the door, and she was about to let it free.

Deciding she didn't have time to worry about such a thing, and that finding the identity of the breathing blight was more important, she dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. Mezrielda may not believe the breathing blight was hidden amongst the acting troupe, but Bagsy still held out hope, maybe only for the fact that all her efforts in joining the troupe and spying on them couldn't be for nothing.

Making sure she was pushing her muscles enough that she could cast a spell, she dud far more push-ups than she needed. Standing back up, her breaths coming in quick gasps, she pointed her walnut wand at the lock.

She felt a feeling within herself that she'd felt so many times before; resignation. She already knew what would happen, she'd move her wand, she'd say her silly little incantation, and then she'd be left to stand and soak in the silent humiliation of her failure. Nothing but the dark space around her would congratulate what a pitiful attempt it would be.

Closing her eyes from a deep desperation to not have to watch herself fail, she moved her wand as precisely as she could, imagining that bubble within her chest Starrett had spoken of. She felt it instantly –a giant balloon expanding against her skin.

Straight away, she knew she'd done something very wrong.

She crumpled to the floor, grimacing as pangs of sharp stabbing needled up and down her arm and inside her lungs. The balloon was bursting, trying to find space to expand but finding only her ribcage.

Struggling to breathe, she pointed her wand at the lock, imagining she was pushing her entire body weight against the balloon and forcing it down her arm. It just needed to reach her wand, where it could break free.

She felt an awful squeezing sensation as the bubble within her was forced down her arm. It moved slowly and reminded her of that one time as a child when she'd swallowed an avocado pip and it was stuck in her throat. Thinking about how Bontie had saved her, pulling the pit from her throat with a well-cast sursum, only made a different kind of pain join the crescendo of misery she was currently wallowing in.

With a cry she tried desperately to fight down, she felt the force reach her wand and leave her body.

Exhausted, she fell forwards, her head resting on the ground. Her breath tasted wrong against her tongue.

There was a click.

Bagsy moved her head onto the side, her eyes looking blearily up at the padlock. Her spell-casting arm felt as if someone was grating her skin and bones.

Using her left arm to get up, her right hanging uselessly at her side, her wand lying on the ground, she stood back up. The padlock, now unlocked, fell with a thud to the floor, and the metal door swung open.

Picking her wand up with her left hand, her right arm swinging with her movements, Bagsy shuffled to the door.

She found herself staring at a dark space that felt colder than the deepest depths of the underlakes. It was filled with wisps of blue smoke. Upon straining her ears, Bagsy realised they were the origin of the whispering noises. They darted in a circle like a shoal of fish, surrounding a pulsing light where the noises were the loudest.

Bagsy tried to touch one of the wisps. When she did, she leapt back in shock as it expanded into a hovering diagram, complete with detailed writing and precise measurements.

She was looking at the blueprint to a human body.

Blinking, she took the sight in, from the title of puppetry foundations, to the black pinpricks marked on the human's hands, shoulders, feet and head that were each connected to lines as thin as a strand of hair. The strands stretched above, travelling beyond the confines of the diagram and into the darkness. After a few moments, the diagram shifted back into a wisp of light, and joined the rest as it swum through the air.

Her heart in her throat, and her curiosity banging against her skull, Bagsy reached out again. She touched what she hoped was a different wisp of smoke though it was hard to tell with how quickly they moved.

All the same, she found her co-ordination was as reliable as always, and when the wisp of smoke expanded it displayed something different; a bunch of writing.

Bagsy glanced over it but it was old-fashioned and she couldn't make sense of it. Eventually, that wisp of smoke faded and Bagsy, hurried on by an awareness of how long she'd been missing from the main tent, touched another one.

She kept going, peering at the different information; there were documents in languages she didn't understand, drawings of creatures she hadn't heard off, and visualisation of objects she couldn't comprehend.

Eventually she came to a set of documents that seemed like contracts. They were in the same old-fashioned language but she knew a signature when she saw one. These were agreements between the acting troupe and others.

Squinting at the writing, she tried to decipher it. One of the documents was signed by someone whose first name was Samuel and second name was unrecognisable due to the final letter, that looked like an n, that curved around and crossing back over the words. The other signatures weren't legible except for one that was written in very neat cursive.

The Living Pestilence

Bagsy took a step back, her skin turning as cold as the room her breath was misting into. 'The breathing blight,' she murmured with cold certainty. What else could the living pestilence mean?

Bagsy tried to grab at the smoke, tried to take the evidence into her hands, but her left-hand fingers only passed through the image before the smoke dwindled.

'Don't you have something solid?' she pleaded the air.

Strangely enough, a piece of mist came forward in response, solidifying into a small piece of paper and falling onto her outstretched palm. Bagsy peered at it in the dim light, trying to make out the words.

That's when she finally realised the silence.

The whispering had stopped.

Slowly, Bagsy looked up. Every single wisp of smoke was motionless. Though they had no faces, she knew they were looking at her.

She backed towards the exit, but felt the cold press of the metal door against her back.

It had shut.

The wisps of smoke rushed at her, warming in a blurred frenzy. Bagsy squeezed her eyes shut and held her hand in front of her face. She felt pricks on her hands, feet and shoulder blades, and a pins and needles sensation across her skull, but she wouldn't have described it as painful.

She forced her eyes open. The wisps had left her in favour of thrashing around the slip of paper in her hands.

'No!' Bagsy tried to batt them away from it.

They left, suddenly uninterested, and returned to floating around the light. Bagsy look at the scrap of paper to see that whatever had been written there was smudged beyond recognition. She was certain her evening couldn't get any worse when she heard footsteps approaching from beyond the metal door.

'Now, why'd you go and be such a poor guest like this?' Philip's voice carried to her. 'We've been waitin' for the star to get all set up for the big show, and now we find she's gone and poked her nose in business she ain't got no business pokin' her nose in.'

Bagsy spent a minute frozen in fear, until she felt the metal door her back was pressed against shift.

'Let us in, dearie. We just want to talk.'

Thinking about the man approaching wasn't productive, even if it was all she felt capable of doing, so instead Bagsy tested her right arm. It hurt, but she was able to control, even if only stiffly.

With gritted teeth, Bagsy grabbed one of the bits of plaster that had been pressed into her scars, struggling to make her right hand work correctly. She peeled the filling back, biting down on her lip as pain shot up and down both of her arms, and pushed the piece of paper below the plaster.

Just as she had to stumble away from the opening door, she forced the plaster back into her shoulder, tears pricking her eyes.

Philip towered over her, looking down with his one green, one blue eyes, his deep red hair and bushy moustache like slashes of blood in the darkness. He reached out a long limb, resting a gloved hand on her face. 'Let's just get along, now, shall we?' He smiled down at her with more teeth than Bagsy thought a human should have. The next time Philip spoke, it was as if several voices were speaking at the same time. For a moment, Bagsy thought one of them might even be her own. 'Good.'