Ilaria Greengrass, the fifth-year Slytherin girls' prefect, was a figure both admirable and vexing. As a witch, she possessed a magical acumen 'beyond her years', and as a girl, she was strikingly attractive, with a small, foxlike face and piercing, bright gray eyes. Her honey-hued hair was cleverly charmed or lotioned to ripple like silk in the wind. The only other Slytherin girl who could rival her in both beauty and popularity was Seleste Syrril, the seventh-year girls' prefect. Both had throngs of admiring but jealous peers, and both possessed eminent boyfriends; Syrril had Jean-Mérode Bremer, a promising new chaser of The Delicate Dementors, while Ilaria had none other than Arcanius Fawley.
Though favoured by the older girl, Mary wished she had Ilaria's commanding presence and the affections she received from Arcanius. But she knew to conceal her jealousy.
On the Saturday morning before the first Quidditch game of the season, the Slytherin Common Room was busier and more colourful than Mary had ever seen it. Her housemates enchanted and transfigured for each other costumes, props, and all sorts of trinkets to sport in the pitch later that day. Mary herself sat before a mirror, and Ilaria stood behind her with wand and comb, braiding her hair, transfiguring her braids into snakes. Mary was to become Medusa, a celebrated ancient Greek transfiguress.
Mary's eyes were captivated by the beautiful gem that rested on the collarbone of the older girl in the mirror. Bright and blue like the summer sky, it was clearly the product of very elaborate charmwork. Even in the Slytherin Dungeons where darkness reigned around the clock, it looked like a huge raindrop that absorbed all of the midday sun. It made Mary conscious of her ruby-encrusted gold heart, which felt very much like a toy for a little girl when compared with such.
"Your necklace is divine," Mary murmured, her lips curling into a gentle smile. "How did you come to get it?"
"It was a gift," Ilaria intoned reverently, as though she got so many gifts that they were beyond counting, yet still knew the precise value of each and every one of them, "from my grandmother. It's been passed from grandmother to granddaughter for generations, ever since the great Cartismandua Sturgeon, the first of its wearers, was granted it by a goblin warlord in the fourteenth century."
Just as Ilaria herself was a living monument to the glory of history and heritage, so was the jewel around her neck proud and timeless. Neither Mary nor her small ruby necklace had any apparent background. Yet Mary knew she was more powerful than Ilaria, not absolutely so, not yet—but she would outdo the older girl someday. Everyone knew it. She would have a better necklace, and the whole world would see.
Just as Mary was lost in thought, Arcanius approached her with a playful grin, patting her head affectionately. "Ah, my little siren, how fierce you are!" he exclaimed, completely oblivious to Mary's internal rancour against his girlfriend.
Mary grinned back, baring her teeth at the handsome older boy. One of her braids even snapped at Arcanius, but he only chuckled in response.
"Your charmwork is truly exquisite, Aria," Arcanius complimented Ilaria. "You've managed to make this sweet little thing look absolutely terrifying."
Ilaria simply smiled, stroking Mary's hair. "Well, she does have an important role to play today," she remarked.
"You haven't told her yet?" asked Arcanius.
"Told me what?" asked Mary, turning her head from girl to boy. "What must I do?" She imagined this was what it was like to be a child in a family, doted on by parents—quite unlike being just one of many scrappy urchins under the watchful eye of a stern and overworked matron.
"I had a little chat with Bassenthwaite," Arcanius said with a languid smile. "We agreed that Slytherin needs a new standard-bearer, and who better than you, Mary?"
"Really?" Mary gasped in excitement, instinctively clutching the older boy's arm. "I would be honoured!"
Thus, at her first ever Quidditch Game, Mary stood in the front row of the Slytherin stand and waved their house banner while cheering wildly. Most of the Slytherin boys approved wholeheartedly of their house's new standard-bearer. Mary was much prettier, smaller, and therefore a much more compelling 'mascot' than her predecessor. Yet, as is often the case, with great admiration comes great envy. Many of the older girls, in particular, were not so taken with Mary's charms. They whispered venomously amongst themselves, their eyes like daggers as they watched Mary bask in the attention of the boys.
The banner, meanwhile, was a spectacle all on its own. Towering above Mary, it was broader than she was tall, its scaly silver snake hissing menacingly whenever the Ravenclaw players drew near the Slytherin hoop, and proudly, whenever the Slytherin players threatened the Ravenclaw one.
"LIKE FATHER LIKE SON," yelled Augustus Sallow, the seventh-year prefect whose face was all veins, "WE WON'T BE OUTDONE!"
"WE WON'T BE OUTDONE!"
"GO AND THROW YOUR SHOTS, WE'LL ALWAYS OWN GRINGOTTS!"
"WE'LL ALWAYS OWN GRINGOTTS!"
"FIRST WE'LL TAKE THE SNITCH, THEN WE'LL TAKE YOUR WITCH!"
"THEN WE'LL TAKE YOUR WITCH!"
Such was the nature of the Slytherin 'war-cries', as Mary learned they were called: allusions to the social eminence of Slytherin families; reminders that even if the game was lost, Slytherin would still forever and always be champion beyond the pitch; and the eternal vulgarity of teenage boys.
Though she cheered heartily and waved her house's giant flag whenever they scored a goal, Mary was unnerved by the fervour of her housemates. A screeching throng of adolescents, most of whom were boys, unanimous in purpose and intention—it all rather reminded her of Wool's, of Isaac Booth and his evil little entourage six years ago. But they cheered her flag-waving as well; realising she was adored rather than persecuted, the beauty of the game began to reveal itself to Mary. Her heart belonged not to either team but to the great choreography of it all. She saw two troops of birds, one green and the other blue, engaging in a ritual that was a combat between dancers. It was especially delightful to watch pairs of chasers flying in synchrony through the pitch, seamlessly sending the quaffle back and forth, back and forth, like unravelling silk ribbons bouncing an enchanted speck of dust off each other.
At last, Dorea Back, the Slytherin seeker, caught the golden snitch—the game was won.
From the moment of their inaugural lesson in broomstick flight, during which most of the first-year students, including Tom and Mary, had clumsily clung to their brooms like monkeys riding invisible bicycles, Mary held a negative impression of the broom. But now, she understood the essence of broomstick flight. It was not merely a means of escape from the bonds of terrestrial existence, but also a sacred ritual, whereby one unites, whether in harmony or hostility, with one's fellow mage.
As they made their way back to the castle after the Quidditch match, Mary shared a newfound aspiration with Florence.
"Flo, you've got a broom, haven't you? Do you think you could teach me to fly? Maybe Tom could join us too."
Like a rose unfurling its petals, Florence Travers' face lit up at the mention of Tom. "Certainly, Mary. We can start tonight, after dinner. Flying under the moonlight will be lovely."
For the rest of the day, Mary was consumed by thoughts of soaring in the sky, of freedom from the constraints of the earth. She was unable to concentrate on anything else. In the afternoon Tom reprimanded her for neglecting her homework, and all but dragged her to the library with him. Having already completed all of his homework, Tom brought a book to read, from which he only occasionally looked up to ensure that Mary had not spontaneously fled.
"Tom, Tommy... Thomas!" Mary sang in a lilting voice, tapping her brother's immobile nose with a quill. "Do look at me, won't you?"
Tom lifted a finger lazily, causing the quill to burst into flames and disintegrate into a pile of ash in mere seconds.
"Thomas, you unbrotherly cow! That belonged to Lucy!"
"And?" Tom drawled, unimpressed.
"You've destroyed it."
"What will she do? Cry over it?"
"She most certainly will. And Walburga will make sure she never lends me anything ever again," sighed Mary, wiping the ashes off her hands.
"Why not nick it from her?" Tom suggested, as if it were the most obvious course of action.
"Would you nick it for me?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Blessèd hell, Tom, you've become such a bore!" Mary exclaimed, snatching her brother's book away. "We beat Ravenclaw today, but it wasn't all that impressive. Not when they spend all their time buried in books wormwise."
Tom raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat amused and disinterested at the same time. "The difference between Ravenclaws and me, is that I actually use what I learn. I don't waste knowledge."
Tom spoke the truth. Mary was aware that her brother never idled, treating life as though it were a great potions lesson, carefully calculating the intervals for everything he did in pursuit of a greater purpose, and always striving for perfection. Mary recognized that she possessed this quality, but it was not until they both attended Hogwarts that she realised just how much their compulsiveness was abnormal, even for magically-endowed children. It had only been three months, but already they were speaking more the English of Hogwarts than of Southwark (or rather, of their bedroom at Wool's Orphanage)—and it was beginning to feel natural, too.
"Dorea Black snatched the Snitch right under the Gryffindor Seeker's broom," Mary gushed. "It was a sight to behold, Tom. You simply must come to the next Slytherin match with me."
"I don't care to waste my time watching a bunch of students flit around on broomsticks and chase after a ball."
"It's so much more than that, Tom! Quidditch is like poetry in motion. You'll understand once you see it," Mary pleaded.
"No, I won't. And I refuse to go to any matches with you."
"Fine," Mary spat, crossing her arms. "But on one condition."
Tom arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"You join me tonight for a flying lesson with Florence," Mary declared, her eyes gleaming with a sly glint. "She's been riding brooms since she was was small, and I'm certain she'll make us just as good as she is."
After dinner, where the mood on the Slytherin table was particularly heated—a man named Leonard Spencer-Moon had nominated himself as a candidate for Minister for Magic, and was gaining support from every sector of Wizarding Britain's social strata, even from those families of the highest crust who traditionally only supported men like Hector Fawley—Mary and Tom retired to their respective dorms. Late into the night, when the corridors of the castles quietened and their peers were already in bed, did they and Florence tiptoe to meet in the common room.
Florence greeted Tom softly, her voice barely above a whisper, though it seemed unnecessarily contrived. "Good evening, Tom. Let us retrieve my broom."
Rarely had Mary ventured out into the castle's corridors so late at night, but the excitement coursing through her veins was enough to dispel any misgivings she may have had. Accompanying Arcanius on his little supper voyages to the kitchens was one thing, but going out exclusively with other first years was entirely different. Florence had fixed her Cleansweep Two, a long, pleasingly smooth black pole, under an ancient stone bench in one of the courtyards by the Entrance Hall. She took it. They narrowly avoided a pair of prefects as they tiptoed out the castle.
"The first step to understanding broom flight," Florence said, "is to experience it as a passenger. Allow me to fly you."
Mary understood that Florence desired Tom to occupy the position behind her, which is why she hastened first to sit behind Florence. Then, Tom sat behind her, his firm arms wrapping around her waist. "Are we all ready? Everyone's arms locked around another's body?" "Yes ma'am." Without further ado, Florence rapidly ascended in a beeline into the sky. Mary felt her heart racing as the wind rushed past them, tugging at her hair and clothes. Then, without warning, Florence dived down, using the acceleration of her dive to fly in a quick circle, pushing the drift of the wind against them. Mary, overwhelmed with exhilaration, cheered as the bitter winds washed away all her drowsiness and sent shivers down her spine. However, once she gazed below, Mary realised that they had barely left the ground and that Florence must have been flying rather slowly; not half as quick as any of the Quidditch players had flown earlier that day.
"Now it's your turn. Don't venture too far, I need to tell you if you're making mistakes."
For a while, the first years only whispered, fearing that any noise would attract the attention of lurking professors or prefects. But, as they confirmed their solitude, they rapidly forewent all discretion.
"Arch your arms, Mary," Florence shouted from the ground. "Like a butterfly, you see. Only then will you be able to navigate with your whole body."
They practiced in this manner, taking turns to hover slowly in circles a few feet above the ground, with Florence providing instructions from below.
By the time they returned to their dormitories, the castle was shrouded in silence, save for the snoring of the portraits. Mary and Florence struggled to stifle their giggles as they tried to get into bed without waking the others. The morning brought with it a heavy weariness that clung to their bones, and though Mary's appetite was usually modest, it was now ravenous.
"Perhaps we'll do this once a week," she said, stifling a yawn. "I've never felt so sore in my life."
"It shall take some time for our bodies to heal," concurred Florence, as she slumped over the table with her head on her plate (Walburga Black glared contemptuously at both of them, but said nothing). "I don't want to go to class today."
But after a nap during History of Magic, the girls resolved to embark on another clandestine excursion that very night. And so, a new routine was born: they would indulge in hearty feasts in the mornings, nap in the afternoons, and imbibe pepper-up potions in the evenings, all in preparation for their midnight flights.
Though Mary's proficiency increased with each practice, she remained uneasy on the broomstick, unable to consider it an extension of herself as Florence said she must. Mary still feared falling off if she flew too high or too fast, though she knew well that Tom would yell Arresto Momentum if that were to ever happen.
For three weeks, their excursions remained undetected. But one day, a pair of prefects, perhaps lovers, strayed from their usual patrol route and stumbled upon the first-years.
"Prefects!" Florence shouted frantically, pointing at the pair of silhouettes that were rapidly closing in on them. "RUN!"
With her long legs and graceful physique, Mary was the first to reach the broomstick. Florence made no protest at Mary being the flier, perhaps because she finally got to be hugged by Tom from behind. With all three atop the Cleansweep, Mary took off.
"Stop!" yelled the male prefect. He was much closer than Mary had anticipated.
"Faster!" commanded Tom. "Even if he can't catch us, he'll see our faces—FASTER!"
But it was a struggle to fly faster; Mary was not unused to flying with both Tom and Florence on the broom. The added weight and unfamiliar sensation made it difficult to steer.
"Get back here! The further you flee, the greater the points we'll deduct!"
"SSSERPENSORTIA FLAGRANTĒ!"
"PROTEGO!"
Heat and light filled the cold midnight air. Shocked, Mary looked back and—both to her relief and awe—beheld a huge snake made of fire surge out of Tom's wand to strike the prefects. The male prefect managed to conjure a shield and maintain it against the raging, pounding snake, which only delayed rather than prevented their pursuit.
Tom would burn someone, blister their skin and melt their flesh, just so that Mary would not be seen. Mary felt tenderness overcome her. Rather than continue to fly forward, she flew up. She lifted herself higher and higher into the sky, her veins pulsing with a thrill she had never experienced before. She felt like an angel, attuned to the will and reality of the divine, and she flew over the castle in a state of pure ecstasy.
She could finally fly.
But the bliss was short-lived. Over the next few days, Mary found herself confined to the castle at night, afraid that the prefects she had violently eluded would take further measures to capture her. Without a broom between her legs, her days became stagnant and dull. She longed to be in the air once again, to feel the wind rushing through her hair and the freedom of flight.
After two weeks of deliberate and mundane idleness, the twins and Florence planned their next excursion. But as they tiptoed their way towards the usual courtyard exit, they were suddenly immobilised by a pair of invisible walls that fell and suspended them in a solid vertical sandwich.
Around the corner, a pair of silhouetted prefects emerged, their forms looming ominously in the darkness. The girl's wand was pointed directly at the twins, and as she drew closer, Mary could see a shiny silver-blue gem adorning her chest. At night, it was even more beautiful; it refused to let the darkness subdue it while also not letting itself shine too brightly. It concurred with everything—its luminescence was perfectly harmonious, like the reflection of the moon in a still lake.
"Aria!" Mary exclaimed. "Good evening."
Ilaria Greengrass lowered her wand, freeing the trio from her jinx, and greeted them with a cool tone. "Good evening, girls, good evening, Tom," she said, noticing Florence's broom. "Going for a little moonlit jaunt, are we?"
Ilaria's partner, a brown-haired boy bearing the badge of Ravenclaw and whose bright but nonetheless unremarkable eyes betrayed his admiration for his female colleague, exclaimed, "The Riddles! They must be the ones who attacked Macmillan with the fire-snake!"
"Without a doubt, Franklin," Ilaria affirmed, "but you shall tell this to no one."
Franklin protested, "They deserve to lose two hundred points for—"
But Ilaria cut him off, saying, "No! They must understand the danger they have placed themselves in. Two first-year girls, wandering the castle alone at night with only a first-year boy for protection. Have you any notion of the peril they face?"
Florence interjected, "Tom's no ordinary first-year boy!"
Ilaria raised an eyebrow and said in a stern tone, "Do not play the fool, Travers. Your father would be mortified if he were to learn of your behaviour this evening."
Mary was entranced by the gleaming jewel on her chest and barely registered Ilaria's words. Nonetheless, she offered a reflexive response, "I'm sorry, Aria. We didn't mean to cause any trouble."
"Then let this be a lesson to you. As Slytherins, your virtue lies in cunning, not thoughtless bravado. Nevertheless, I shall permit you to fly after curfew once a week, but only when I am patrolling. Attempt it outside this allotted time, and you'll forfeit the right to fly at Hogwarts, entirely."
Mary hugged Ilaria. "You are too kind, Aria. Thank you."
"I hate Ilaria," Mary whispered to Tom as he leaned over a cauldron during potions the following day. "She's always sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. First, she monopolises Caney's attention, and now she insists on controlling when we can fly!"
Tom, however, was grateful for the older girl's nosiness. Though he cherished the night flights with his sister, the comfort of wrapping his arms around her warm form as they soared through the cool spring air, he was relieved to be able to return to a proper sleep schedule. Furthermore, he held a certain fondness for Ilaria herself and was grateful that she had become the beloved of Arcanius, if only that such spared Mary from pursuing such a liaison.
"Why do you care so much about Caney?" asked Tom, grinding the bezoar into dust with increasing force.
"Caney is the crème de la crème of Slytherin wizardry. Most of the boys in our house reckon him highly too. Whereas Ilaria… she struts about like there's a perpetual corkscrew lodged in her wand holster."
"You fancy him."
"He's the Minister's son!" Mary exclaimed, as if that fact alone provided ample explanation. "And he's clever and kind. He ought to be mine."
Tom raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild disbelief. "Then why stop at the Minister's son? Why not pursue every living scion of former Ministers and Ministers yet to be?" he quipped. "You need to relinquish this obsession."
"He already likes me," Mary protested, her voice rising in pitch. "His love is the next step."
"Don't delude yourself into thinking you have any hope of severing his bond with Ilaria. He is utterly infatuated with her. You are nothing but a trifling diversion."
Mary's cheeks flushed with anger. "I am not a 'trifling diversion'!" she all but yelled.
Tom's expression softened, his tone gentler as he sought to soothe her. "Perhaps I phrased it too strongly," he admitted. But what he could not admit was the jealousy that was rapidly consuming him. He remembered the curve of Mary's slender body, the way it had felt pressed up against his own as they bathed together on his birthday. The thought that Arcanius Fawley being privy to the same filled him with rage. "But the fact remains, there is nothing you can do to tempt Fawley away from Greengrass. She's sixteen, seventeen? You're twelve. Move on."
Mary's eyes narrowed. "I can still hurt her."
"What is the purpose of such vindictiveness?"
"She deserves it!"
"Perhaps so," Tom replied, "but what do you stand to gain from starting a feud with a fifth-year girl?"
"She won't even know it was me. And you're always harping on about how I need to practice my magic more."
"And how do you intend on exacting your revenge so covertly?"
"You'll see."
Mary continued to stir the cauldron with fervour, her passions stirring within her. Tom wondered how she intended to hurt Ilaria, for in the weeks that followed, Mary was nothing but kindness personified when they went out to fly under Ilaria's watchful eye. When he asked, Mary simply told him she was biding her time. Her secrets were her own, and Tom could not blame her, for he too had secrets that Mary would not approve of. He was the leader of a group of boys, including William Wilkes and Banius Avery, who terrorised weaker first-years from other houses with spells he had taught them. Mary was unsympathetic to their victims, but she despised the way Wilkes and the other boys desirously watched her.
One night, as they flew out of the castle, Mary's intentions became clear to Tom. With a graceful motion, she retrieved something from her pocket.
Ilaria's necklace.
Mary ceremonially set the stolen jewel around Florence's neck. It looked like a shrunken little moon; where at day it was a deep, pensive shade of blue, at night it became so silvery and glowing that it was almost lifelike, like the white eye of a ghost.
Mary's own shining eyes then turned to Tom. He suddenly recalled a Thursday night wherein she spent an unusually long time practising the switching spell, with bracelets. The only thing that surprised Tom was that Mary had stolen the trinket not for herself, but for Florence.
The next day at breakfast, Tom leaned over his plate to peer down his house table. To an inattentive observer, Ilaria Greengrass was composed and proud like she always was—but Tom observed that her thin lips were more drawn than usual; the corners of her eyes were creased; and there was nothing but a single slice of toast on her plate that had been oddly folded in half but otherwise left untouched.
Throughout the day, news of Ilaria's misfortune spread. By the afternoon even the first-years were talking about it. Tom was decidedly annoyed. Muggle girls and women fret over jewellery because there is little else for them in life. That magical girls, and even boys, made a great fuss out of a missing necklace, disgusted him. Why did it matter? Was it even enchanted? No one talked about its enchantments if it was. It was so little compared to magic. But they cared little for magic after all—otherwise Tom wouldn't have been superior to them—they who grew up under magical roofs, with magical parents, and magical toys.
As the days passed, Florence grew increasingly bold, her confidence buoyed by the stolen necklace. She would chatter more with Tom during their night-time flights, as if the bauble—which she hardly ever wore anyway, scared as she surely was by the prospect of its discovery—made her worthy of his company. But she was mistaken. How could she not see that Tom cared not a whit for her or her purloined necklace, and tolerated her only because of her friendship with Mary? How could she not see that she was, in every way—power, intelligence, charm, and beauty—inferior to Mary?
As he returned from herbology one day, Tom hurled a rock across the Black Lake, watching as it bounced like a potion-crazed grasshopper upon the water's surface, each impact sending ripples in its wake. Just then, Tom spotted Walburga and Lucretia Black frolicking by the lake. Walburga appeared to be in a foul mood, her face all scrunched up like a wilted rose.
"Can you believe it? A Slytherin stealing from one of their own? It's outrageous!" she grumbled.
Lucretia nodded in agreement, although her eyes were wandering, watching some students flying on broomsticks in the distance.
"And to make things worse," Walburga continued, flipping her long, flat brown hair with a haughty air, "the thief hasn't even returned it yet! Stealing for the thrill of it is one thing, but to steal out of greed? Why they're no better than a muggle!"
Tom's mind was struck with an idea, and he caught up with Walburga, tapping her rigid shoulder. She spun around and was met with Tom's friendly smile.
"Apologies for butting in, Walburga," he spoke, his voice slow and deliberate, ensuring she would catch on to his implications, "but I happened to spot Florence Travers sporting a necklace the other day—one I hadn't seen her wear before."
"Travers!" Walburga hissed, her upper lip curling in disgust. "Tom, describe it to me."
"The chain was silver," Tom replied coolly, "but the pendant was a bewitched sapphire. I assumed it must have been a present from her father."
"Torquil Travers has no eye for such things! Tom, that was Greengrass's stolen heirloom!"
"Perhaps you're right, but I'm afraid I must be off. Professor Slughorn is expecting me."
Tom hastened to the castle, but he had no appointment with Slughorn. He was headed to the library.
What will happen now, I wonder? Trifles, trifles, trifles. Walburga hated Florence. The two embodied different worlds. Walburga sought to make the whole world 'proper', while Florence believed the fulfilment of her own desires the only proper thing in the world. Walburga would self-righteously reveal to Ilaria that Florence stole her necklace. She would not mention Tom, whose offhand observation she would render into verdict—she wanted only to implicate Florence, as well as gain Ilaria's undiluted favour.
Where Walburga and Florence were heroines respectively of manners and desire, Ilaria Greengrass was a goddess of wrath. Indeed, Tom had always felt something violent and repressed in the older girl, even before the theft of her necklace. She liked being in control, but she rarely had control. Arcanius Fawley, disregarding the fact he was a year younger than his formidable girlfriend, was very much her opposite—he was always acquiescent and tempered—a necessary complement to her, the garden to her fortress. More than a fortress, Ilaria Greengrass was a hot kettle; one could use her to pour tea, but if one touched her, one's hand would burn. Thus she would wage nothing short of war against Florence; she would banish her from the interlocking circles of gossiping, calculating Slytherin girls.
Mary, too, would become a victim of Ilaria. Tom accepted this. Walburga had no way of inferring the means of her theft, but Ilaria would; Ilaria would know that the greater girl was complicit in the crime of the lesser one, and discern at once the true nature of the situation. That Ilaria was both wand and wizard of her relationship (Arcanius was the fancy robes and hat) meant that she would, if not turn her boyfriend's heart from Mary, at least put an end to their perverse consorting. It would be as easy as turning off a tap that had been left on for too long.
Then Mary would have to return to Tom. She would infer that it was he who tattled on her. She would chide him privately, but publicly they would be together again. She had no other choice. It would be like Wool's again. The two of them against the world. Mary would have to set aside her trinkets and cherished older boys for true magic—they would need magic and each other to defend themselves. And just as cauldrons required fire to make dirt and herbs into the glowing, potent substance known as the potion, so would the twins amplify in power under heat.
As the weeks and months came and passed, all that Tom speculated came to pass.
