With the smoke of the cursed fire still clinging to his robes, Evan twirls his wand in his hand before flicking the aspen wood to the open doorway. The sensation of the bumps of his wand handle pressed against his palm fades as his senses extend. His magic, his half-soul, slips down the hall, snagging the bottle of firewhisky in the summer home's cellar.
When the summoning spell drags the bottle to his outstretched hand, feeling returns in this body he wears. The stench of sweat and smoke curl in his nose as he stretches out again, snagging a glass from the kitchen before slipping back into his wand and through the palm that trembles against the wood.
His heart throbs in his chest, the lack of breath that he hadn't taken while spread thin through the house straining the organ as he takes in air before following it with a full glass of firewhiskey down his throat.
He doesn't want to replay that mudblood's death again, doesn't want to think about hiding in the comfort of one of the Rosier summer homes while Felix undoubtedly festers in the Ministry's clutches for a murder he didn't commit.
He wants to be somewhere else, in some other time, and maybe enough firewhiskey will help achieve that.
Nott kneels in the dirt, the lacewing fly encased in his hand glows faintly even with the bright daylight of the late spring sun beating down on them both. Edgar Rosier eyes the scalpel in Nott's other hand. The blade glints in the sunlight as it slips past Nott's loosening fingers and cuts through the captured insect.
Nott tips his hand and the severed wings tumble into the vial by his side. Full to the brim with glowing bug pieces, Nott seals the vial closed with a whispered spell and a twitch of his fingers. Even with the dozens of wings within that vial, the bushes around the two boys are still saturated with the glow of countless flies.
Edgar reckons it'd take the entire Slytherin House and several days of labor to make even a dent in the endless clusters of insects that cling to the bushes not far from the outer gates of Hogwarts. But with summer so near, why would any of them try?
"You know the last of our exams were yesterday, right? There aren't going to be any more potions classes until fall." Edgar drawls to the back of his friend while leaning against the stone wall a few paces away.
Nott straightens, looking back at Edgar with those ocean-like eyes of his. Everytime he catches Edgar's gaze, it's like getting a glimpse of the summer seas the Rosier family visits. The warm waters tend to be more green than blue, just like the stare that holds Edgar's own.
"Potions is one of the few magics that we can practice over the summer," Nott shrugs as he tucks the glowing vial out of sight into his robes, "I'm not going to let running out of ingredients stop me from that." With that explanation, Nott tucks some of his loose black curls behind his ear before walking past Edgar who rests against the half-wall.
Edgar grins, leaning close as Nott passes him. "There's always flying."
They'd have to nail Edgar to the ground to stop him from flying his way through the summers. But Nott shudders at even the suggestion of broomsticks, sparing Edgar a brief glare as he walks by.
Edgar's most treasured memory will always be their very first flying lesson where Nott went rolling off his own broomstick when it was only hovering a few feet off the ground. The burning, red flush of the boy's embarrassment had paired wonderfully with the grass stalks in his hair as Nott stalked off, getting himself the first detention of their year when he refused to come back as the professor demanded.
"If you're a lunatic who likes broken bones and pain through the holidays," Nott says as he treads down the dirt path that leads to Hogsmeade, the tightness of his tone giving away his irritation.
"Since you and Riddle are the only ones in our entire house who don't like flying, I'd say that proves that it's only the lunatics who don't enjoy the sweet rush of the wind." And Edgar fully believes that. You don't spend four years with a boy like Tom Riddle in your year and walk away from that believing that abomination is anything close to sane.
At least Nott's the more subtle sort of insane. Not many boys would get detention every few months from being caught sleeping in the library after curfew. Or have the burning need to stock up on a few months' supply of potion ingredients when their mandatory studies are finally over.
Magic is wonderful, absolutely wonderful, and Edgar hates that he has to keep his wand tucked away all summer because the Ministry says so. But even so, there's nothing as boring as standing over a slowly, simmering cauldron that might turn the right shade of lilac if you just stir the third time clockwise instead of counterclockwise.
Nott's quiet as the dirt path briefly gives way to a stone bridge, his head turning slightly towards the forest that looms off to the side. The leaves of the Forbidden Forest rustle along with the gurgle of the creek underneath their feet. Edgar eyes the dark shadows that seem to flash with the occasional glow of eyes.
Edgar knows what Nott's thinking. That maybe they have time to slip just past the tree line. It'd only take a few minutes, really, to pull the poisonously red mushrooms out of the ground beneath the trees and to snatch a few venomous spiders from their webs.
"I'd reckon everyone's already in town by now." Edgar says pointedly, knowing from the falter in Nott's step that the boy definitely stopped himself from turning towards the Forest.
"Hmm." Nott hums. His back to Edgar as his sea-green eyes are no doubt fixed on the trees that they pass.
However, when they reach the fork in the path that leads into one of the more well-travelled paths into the forest, Nott stops, his cloak swaying with the abrupt motion.
"Cantankerous," Edgar snaps, the mouthful of a first name that his friend despises striking out in warning, "we are not going into the Forbidden Forest."
It's broad daylight for one. No one, not even the dumbest Gryffindor would prance right in while in full view of everyone walking from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. The summer holidays might only be a handful of days away, but that's certainly enough to spend on detentions.
Nott ignores Edgar, pivoting on his heels to walk straight towards the trees. Even as Edgar calls the idiotic boy's name again, Nott refuses to stop his long strides forward. But he can't ignore the strong grip that Edgar gets on his shoulder, jerking Nott to a halt several feet from the crumbling stone archway that marks the last chance to turn back before being swallowed up by the forest.
"I said–"
"It's gone." Nott isn't even looking at the trees. Instead, his gaze is fixed upon an empty patch of dirt a pace away from the arch itself.
Edgar frowns, glancing to the spot that draws Nott's stare. There's nothing there, just some scraggly grass that oddly grows in a circle around a small patch of dirt. It's not that large, the patch, barely bigger than a clenched fist.
"What's gone?" Maybe Nott's referring to one of the warning signs? There are a few too many clustered around the entrance to the forest itself. Jagged letters and sketches of some of the nastier creatures deter most students from even thinking about heading in, but maybe some idiot grabbed one as a souvenir.
"The Floo Flame is gone. They took it." Nott's voice is tight, the shoulder Edgar snagged tense under his grip.
He's right. The person-high stone obelisk that's always sat by this path into the Forest is gone. The Floo Flames around Hogwarts and the neighboring lands aren't quite like the floo network that connects wizarding homes to Diagon Alley and to other dwellings. Edgar's certain that he's never seen any of the Floo Flames designed like a fireplace for one. They're usually free-standing obelisks or carved directly into the walls of the school itself. Either way, they always host a bust of the witch who invented floo travel in the first place.
Edgar's never used the one by the Forest himself. Again, only an idiot would announce his presence to sneak into the Forest with a bright flare of green fire tumbling out of an obelisk, but he's used the Floo Flames that spread throughout the school. While the exercise of running up and down the moving staircases helps keep him in shape for the quidditch season. There's simply no way Edgar could take four electives without being able to travel through the school instantly.
It's odd how noticeable the presence of this particular Floo Flame becomes once Nott's pointed it out.
"Maybe someone stole it?" Edgar shrugs, a faint frown on his face. It's not clear who would even try to steal the obelisk of a Floo Flame, not when they make it so convenient to travel around the place.
Nott twists in Edgar's grip, pulling loose and pushing past. The shove causes Edgar to stumble, but he catches himself before he falls.
"Hey! What was that for!"
Nott's already back on the path to Hogsmeade before Edgar can even think of catching up to him. Nott is never that fast, with his slow strolls through the halls of Hogwarts that somehow never make him late for class.
By the time Edgar catches up, Nott's already to the small cluster of trees that shade this part of the trail. His black robes blend well with the shadows as the dirt path widens, giving way to a larger road of cobblestone.
"Cantankerous, slow down." Three times, that's three times that Edgar's used Nott's first name. The other boy despises it. Made his opinion quite clear far back in first year when he insisted that any true friend of his would avoid using such an awful mouthful of a name.
So, it's more than surprising that Nott doesn't even glance back at Edgar while walking forward in an eerie silence.
"I don't know why you'd get so upset about a piece of stone," Edgar tries, irritation and apprehension making his tone rough, "It's probably just a stupid prank someone pulled. The professors will have it sorted out in no time."
"They can't be removed." Nott's voice is quiet, like the faint murmurs of wind that bring in the storms from the seas, "Not by a student. And certainly not by someone who isn't a professor."
The strange tidbit of knowledge isn't that surprising. The little histories of the various aspects of Hogwarts and the surrounding wizarding communities are tucked away in the pages of all the books Nott pours over.
"Alright, so some professor removed them. Why's that important?" The staff probably got sick of all the idiots who tried to sneak into the forest in the most obvious manner possible. It's more surprising that the obelisk wasn't removed sooner.
"Because they're there for a reason. You can't just remove them." Nott's irritation nips the air, a sharp bite of cold on the warm spring day.
Silence rules over the rest of the walk up the winding road to the town. Slytherins don't needlessly talk to fill up awkward silences. Yet, that doesn't stop Edgar from carefully watching the tense line of his friend's back. Nott rarely gets irritated, let alone this much.
It leaves a sour taste in Edgar's mouth, because Nott isn't supposed to be the one who storms down roads in anger.
The minutes stretch with the length of their strides, yet it also feels like no time at all until their walking into Hogsmeade itself. The many shops and houses press tightly against each other, a wall of buildings broken up by random alleyways and the larger streets that lead to the different parts of town. The traffic is almost as crowded as the buildings themselves. Every student from third to seventh year seems to be out and about today, rushing to Honeydukes to load up on enough candy to last the summer or strutting by in quidditch gear to shove their way dramatically through the doors of Spintwitches Sporting Needs.
There are adults roaming about too, even if the population of Hogwarts rules the streets today. A middle-aged witch with a green pointed hat and a dress that swirls with the pattern of autumn leaves nearly bumps into Edgar. The glare she gives him is returned with his own before his gaze slides back to Nott who takes a turn on one of the main streets and into Hogsmeade Square.
"Have you heard-"
"–the Minister's offered to take in some of the Beauxbaton students–"
"Grindelwald was sighted not too far from–"
The last tidbit of conversation from the clusters of wizards and witches around the square makes Edgar want to stop and eavesdrop. But he can't otherwise he'll lose sight of Nott who rushes past the statue dedicated to the founder of the village itself.
The statue looms over Edgar as he hurries by. The copper likeness of Hengist of Woodcroft stands with his wand outstretched as if to strike out at the muggles who chased him from his home centuries ago. His metal-made traveller robes flowing as fluidly as fabric rippling in a gust of wind.
The long-dead man is one of the few Hufflepuffs that Edgar can admire, but he doesn't have the time for that now. Not with Nott standing rigidly in place, staring right where the Square's Floo Flame resides.
Or where it used to reside. It's still there, except the stone bust that allows for the flash of flame and wizard to appear any place they please is lying on the ground. The normally animated stone face of Ignatia Wildsmith frozen into silence as she stares in the two Slytherins' direction.
There are men, Ministry officials from the formal look of their robes, who stand around the lifeless bust as they converse with a red-haired professor. It's easy to recognize Albus Dumbledore, with his sky-blue robes trimmed by gold. But the solemn frown on his face, unfamiliar in its severity makes Edgar doubt himself for a moment. Even when teaching Slytherins Transfiguration, the professor never looks that grim.
"What did you do?" Almost unrecognizable, Nott's voice curdles. Not quite a shout but a demand just the same.
Professor Dumbledore looks away from the men he was speaking with. The twinkle's absent from his eyes as he catches sight of Edgar and Nott. The professor's expression looks even more unfamiliar head on. He looks fatigued, there's a tightness to the corners of his eyes that doesn't fit at all with the professor that Edgar knows.
"Mr. Rosier, Mr. Nott," Dumbledore greets, his focus flickering between the two boys as if uncertain which one of them spoke. He hesitates, as if considering how to respond to the odd question but Nott doesn't give him time.
"Why did you…" The words seem to tangle in Nott's throat. The boy's shoulders tremble, Edgar notices only because he's standing close enough to practically feel the vibrations.
"Professor Dumbledore," One of the Ministry men tries, but the professor waves off the attempt to resume their conversation.
"I believe we are done here, Mr. Greenwich," Dumbledore's tone is firm but polite, "seeing as we are still in the midst of the school term, my students' questions take priority in my duties as their professor." The professor smiles at the man before turning back to the boys and walking towards them.
When the professor stops before them, that grim look has been tucked away behind a visage of pleasant expectation. Dumbledore even has the same glimmer in his eyes he gets when someone manages a particularly impressive bit of spellwork in class.
Edgar's mouth feels oddly dry. It's strange, Gryffindors aren't supposed to be the type to switch faces so thoroughly. Especially when that involves hiding their disquiet.
"Professor," Edgar gets out with Nott standing eerily silent beside him, "we noticed that the Floo by the Forbidden Forest was gone." It's mostly true, except Edgar wouldn't have noticed a damn thing if Nott hadn't pointed it out first.
"I see." Somehow, even with the bustle of the Square pressing in, Dumbledore's voice comes through clearly. "Well, I suppose I owe an explanation on why its removal was necessary."
"I don't see how." Nott's tone is uncharacteristically sharp. Edgar stares at him in surprise. Showing such to a professor…it's not like Nott at all.
"They are there for the students. To assist them in travelling through the school and wherever else they need to be." Nott's words weigh heavily on Edgar as if they have a presence of their own. Which they don't, they sound just like facts, probably something that Nott is quoting from his readings.
They shouldn't feel so important.
The professor's pleasant look fades back to seriousness. That glimmer in his eyes dims into solemnity.
"That is true, the Floo Flames were put into place for the benefit of the students. Although, I'm sure some would question why they extend beyond the castle itself and into the communities beyond." Dumbledore pauses for a moment before switching tracks. "Even with the dedication and concentration devoted to studying for your exams, I'm sure you've still heard that Beauxbaton was recently attacked by Grindelwald's loyalists."
The quick intake of breath besides Edgar matches his own. Of course they've heard about it. The whole of Hogwarts was abuzz with the news that the second of the three greatest magical schools of Europe had fallen under the dark lord's control.
It certainly kept most of the Slytherin House up into the night, debating among themselves on what this meant for them and for those who had family abroad. Edgar would be surprised if the other Houses hadn't had their own midnight meetings.
"Like Hogwarts, Beauxbaton's own floo network extended through the school and into the city around it. Unfortunately, this allowed for a few…enterprising individuals to use this natural bypass of the wards for their own means." Dumbledore's voice grows grave as he speaks. "A simple batch of polyjuice potion and a few hairs of a professor was all it took to trick that weakened point of the Beauxbaton's defenses into letting them and their comrades in."
Edgar's ears buzz with the muted background of the Square while the sun beats down hot upon his head. The war with Grindelwald…it's something that's far away from Hogwarts, far from magical Britain itself. It's an idea more than something that's real. It's not real enough to make a Hogwarts' professor remove a piece of the school that's been in place for centuries. It can't be.
"I full-heartedly agree that the Floo Flames have provided an invaluable tool for the students of Hogwarts. However, Mr. Nott, sometimes what was useful before can mask unseen dangers that can harm us in the now." The professor's graveness softens as he focuses his attention solely on Nott.
"Unfortunately, since we have no way of knowing the location of all the countryside's Floo Flames that connect to the interior of Hogwarts, the Headmaster and Minister of Magic wishes to have the entirety of the network removed from within the bounds of the school itself. Even if Grindelwald himself has not set foot into Britain, it's likely that one of his fanatics could attempt to sneak their way into the school grounds," Dumbledore's voice briefly hardens, "not that they would get far in such an attempt."
Edgar should say something, he should. But it's hard to think when…It's ridiculous. Hogwarts is the safest place there is. It's always been, especially since the days when the Founders finally decided to create a haven where those with magic didn't have to worry about some muggles trying to burn young witches and wizards for the power they were born with.
It's absolutely ludicrous that someone would even think of attacking the school.
As the unbearably warm sun presses down on them and the bustle of Hogsmeade still murmurs from so far away, Professor Dumbledore gives Edgar a look that could only be described as pity.
"Perhaps," the man says gently, "when the war waging through the rest of Europe is over, we can reconnect the old network back into the school. But until that point, I urge you to try to put the concerns and worries of your professors aside. Don't let our old fears trouble your holidays and try to enjoy the summer ahead."
With that, the professor nods at them. The conversation done as Dumbledore turns on his heel, vanishing in the whirl of apparation.
In a vague whisper of realization, Edgar notes that this is the first real conversation that he has ever had with Albus Dumbledore, not counting the occasional praise in class he sometimes gets. Four years of Hogwarts, and his first real talk with Dumbledore himself leaves him feeling just like he's been hit in the head with a bludger during quidditch.
Something tugs at the sleeve of Edgar's robes, Nott's fingers curled into the green trim at the edges. His friend is staring at him, studying him with those strange blue-green eyes of his that feel as if you look too long, they'll drown Edgar in their depths.
"The others are waiting for us, like you said," Nott's voice is calm, as if his earlier irritation was a delusion, "We shouldn't linger here any longer."
With that, Nott tugs Edgar along towards where Abaraxas Malfoy and the others are waiting.
With the past drifting through his head, Evan gulps down another glass of fire whiskey. Maybe if he drinks enough, he'll manage to conjure a better memory. A quidditch game or something. Anything that doesn't have the aftertaste of war lingering at the edges.
It's only when the predawn hours of morning eat away at the edges of the second night that a realization burns as much as the last of the firewhisky in the cellars. The Ministry should have been done questioning Felix by now.