The hallway was dark, lit only by the faint moonlight through the tall windows. Your mother was already at the top of the grand staircase, her wand held steady in one hand, the other tightening the belt of her silk robe. Her face was pale, all sleep gone from her eyes.

You didn’t listen to your mother. You were down the stairs and across the marble foyer before she could grab you, your own wand finding your hand as you threw open the front door.

The night air was cool. The wrought-iron gates at the end of the long drive were shimmering with the faint gold of the activated wards, and two figures were silhouetted against them.

One was standing, holding the other up. Theo, his sandy hair dishevelled, his shirt torn at the collar. The figure leaning into him was taller, broader, but crumpled, head hanging low.

As you and your mother rushed down the drive, the details sharpened. Theo’s knuckles were split and bloody. The person he was holding—Mattheo—was trembling violently, a full-body shudder that looked like it would shake him apart. Blood streamed from his nose, down over his lips and chin, soaking the front of his dark jumper. A deep, ugly cut sliced across his cheekbone, glistening in the ward-light. One eye was already swelling shut.