The Whomping Willow stood silhouetted against it, branches swaying gently despite the stillness of the air. Almost waiting.

You'd scouted this spot earlier in the week. Fluxweed grew in a thick patch near its roots, silver-green and ripe under the moonlight. Perfect for the Draught of the Living Dead you'd be brewing next week.

You took a step closer.

Then another.

The Willow's branches twitched.

You stopped. Held your breath.

Nothing.

You were almost close enough to reach for the stems when—

A howl.

It rose from somewhere deep, somewhere close. It wasn't like a dog's howl, not quite—there was something wrong with it. Something that made the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

The sound died away. The Willow's branches went still.

For a long moment, there was only the wind.