Chapter Text
When Sophie Kincaid was five, magic meant fantasy. The water-spirits at the bottom of the garden were magical, and terrifying, but the fire her father stoked each night to keep those spirits at bay was magical, too. When Filius Flitwick knocked on the door of Craig Castle, of course, he gave a new meaning to the word ‘magic’. Also to ‘witch’, ‘Hogwarts’ and ‘Transfiguration’ (not that ten-year-old Sophie had ever heard of those last two). Magic didn’t just course through streams and rivulets. It coursed through every vein in her body.
And sometimes it created more problems than it solved. Magic of the wands, broomsticks and Quidditch variety had killed Cedric Diggory, laid to rest in an apple orchard somewhere in Devon. Back in Dundee, all the magic in the world couldn’t cheer up her best friend, Cho Chang. Magic had brought Cho and Sophie together – had given them Jem and Anna, the twins, and Lee. But magic had stolen one of them away forever.
Come to think of it, Sophie rather preferred the fairy-tales and folklore sort of magic. She was thinking about her father’s sort of magic as she watched the salmon wriggle in the stream. All was silent, except for the odd splash. She might have been the only person left on earth.
“What are you doing down there, chick?”
She shielded her eyes against the sun with her wrist. Sure enough, she saw Angus silhouetted, wild grey eyebrows furrowed. Of all their neighbours, Sophie liked Angus best. He’d been the one to tell her about the water-spirits, all spooky voice and great big eyes. Those eyes would have popped out of his head if Sophie had told him those spirits were real: she’d studied them in Care of Magical Creatures.
“Hi, Angus. Just making the most of the weather. You off fishing?”
It was the first really nice day they’d had all summer. The sun only shone on Craig Castle for a few days every decade, and Sophie was determined to make the most of this one. She had a damp patch on the back of her shorts from the dew, and her feet were all muddy, but she refused to budge. Besides, this was the best spot in the whole village to watch for owls. And she was pretty keen to receive today’s letter.
She was thinking about owls and OWLs as Angus told her the same story he’d told her for sixteen consecutive summers. He interrupted himself just as he got to the bit about tickling trout.
“Look at that. Ten o’clock in the morning and they’re out. My mam always said it was bad luck, seeing an owl in the daylight.”
“Oh, Angus, you’ve reminded me.” Sophie was up in a flash, shuffling into her flip-flops. “I promised my mum I’d help her with something. For Dad’s birthday. I’ll come over and see you tomorrow, alright?”
A more suspicious man, remembering that Michael Kincaid’s birthday was last week, might have looked at Sophie askance as she sprinted up the hill. Ever-trusting Angus let her go with nothing more than an “alright, chick”. She’d always been a funny one. Hadn’t the foggiest about rods or flies, but whenever he took her out on the lake, she reeled in fish after fish. As if by magic.
“Shoes, Soph,” her mother called, as she ran full-pelt through the French windows. “I’ve just cleaned that floor.”
Magical mothers must long to use that threat. Their children must know all too well their mess can be cleaned up in an instant – no point in their worrying about them. It was probably why the twins had so few qualms about doing experiments in the bedroom. The Weasleys’ domestic disquiet faded into the background as she examined the owl, looking for distinctive features. Jem shared one with her brother, Jonathan, that had amber markings round the eyes – but no such markings here. It hadn’t tried to bite her yet, so it wasn’t Cho’s. Then Sophie spitted the Ministry tag around its ankle, and she knew this was the owl she’d been expecting.
Something in its proud stance made her nervous. She kept fumbling with the seal, and her eyes couldn’t focus as she read her results. Even after they focused, nothing made sense. She had to check the discarded envelope, to make sure it really said her name. She wondered briefly whether Weasleys’ Wizards Wheezes were stocking counterfeit results cards. But it was no joke to get –
“All Os and EEs.” She said it again, a relieved laugh bubbling out of her. “I got all Os and EEs.”
“Soph!” Her mother cupped her face in her hands, getting soap suds all over her cheeks. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Really good.”
An EE in Potions! After Snape had looked at her like she was something particularly nasty on the underside of his shoe for all these years! An EE in Defence Against the Dark Arts, when her best teacher had been Jem! An O in Charms – she could just picture Flitwick’s happy little face.
“Go tell your father,” said Louisa, flicking her with the end of the dishcloth. “That’ll put a smile on his face.”
“Is he in bed?” Sophie asked, wrinkling her nose. For a man who’d spent so much of his life on his feet and out of doors, Michael Kincaid was starting to spend an awful lot of his time flat on his back, cursing whichever muscle was twinging now.
“Something about a fox trap,” said her mother, raising an eyebrow. “What shall I tell Grandpa? All As and A*s?”
“Something like that.”
She felt half a stone lighter. Finally, she could discuss her NEWT options with some clarity. Even though Michael hardly knew the difference between Divination and Transfiguration, he wanted to have his say. One thing he was in favour of, however, was DADA.
“That’s the stuff you want to get good at, chick,” he said, peering down at her from his stack of neck pillows. “I know you like your theory, but there’s no point in being able to transition things –”
“Transfigure things –”
“If you can’t hold your own in a fight.”
Not that Sophie had been in many of those, so far. She was practically allergic to confrontation. But Cedric had been a peacemaker, too. Perhaps, she thought uneasily, if Cedric had had more at his disposal than ‘Expelliarmus’, he wouldn’t be where he was now.
And she’d liked DADA under Lupin. He’d been a breath of fresh air. Quirrell had made them copy sections out of the textbook all lesson long; Lockhart had felt more at home talking about Sleekeazy than Cornish Pixies; and Moody had scared Sophie long before he’d been unmasked. Maybe DADA could be fun with someone like Lupin, interesting and interested.
But all that was trouble for term-time. She had only one thought as she dashed off a note for the owl’s return journey. Your girlfriend is a genius, she wrote on the back of her report card. Come celebrate with her.
Of course, she didn’t know quite where her note was headed. At the end of a long review of Percy and Arthur’s blow up (Dad had a great line about Perce’s head and Crouch’s arse, but he fucked the delivery), Fred had told her they’d be away from home all summer, but hadn’t said where they were going. He gave her a different, more ridiculous answer each time she asked. As of last letter, he’d run off with Winky the house elf. She added a postscript – Winky cordially not invited.
Another owl arrived shortly after the last flew off, crashing straight into the French windows. The poor thing had travelled nigh-on five hundred miles, starting in London with Jem and Anna. Jem attached a copy of her results, overjoyed to be one step closer to Auror training. Even Snape couldn’t turn away an Outstanding student. Anna was happy with everything except for Care of Magical Creatures, which she revealed she’d never liked anyway.
From London, the owl had trekked all the way up to Cho’s in Dundee, then onto Craig Castle with little more than a pit-stop. Cho’s note was short but relatively sweet. She’d even made a joke about beating Anna. Most importantly, it was smudge-free, a notable improvement from her earlier letters.
Which brought Sophie back to what she’d been thinking about all summer. She’d produced her fair share of smudged, crossed-out, scratched-up letters in the last six weeks, all in a bid to get onto the Prophet internship scheme. Competition was fierce. She knew two Slytherin boys had submitted before school was out, and Katie Bell had been talking about the sports post way back in May. But Sophie had come up completely dry. Law and order was done to death. She was wholly disinterested in the fate of house elves or centaurs or whoever else Hermione Granger had taken under her wing. What she wanted was to write about Cedric, but she’d cried so hard when she first tried that Michael had suggested she put it to one side.
She didn’t think of Cedric so often now. His name was off the front pages, wouldn’t be brought back until another boy died before his time. Even Dumbledore had spoken about Cedric with great gravitas, but not much feeling. The Prophet obituary had written about how clever he was, how handsome, how well-mannered, but they could have replaced Ced’s name with any other student’s without having to alter another word.
She remembered the impromptu wake they’d held in the dormitory on that last night, telling stories about Cedric in Hogsmeade, in the hospital wing, at the breakfast table. Picking up her quill for the first time in weeks, she was thinking of those stories.
Every September, she began, someone falls into the lake. It was Gillyweed Gethin in our year. We still call him that, five years on. You had a Gethin, too. You prodded him along with your oars, laughed when he screamed, helped him ring out his robes. But there were no Gethins when Cedric Diggory was in charge. Cedric hauled you out of the water himself, sneaking you the special prefects’ chocolate to buck you up a bit. Because Cedric Diggory was nice, in a way that most people aren’t, anymore.
Once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. She recounted his graciousness with the press, how polite he’d been to Rita. How, when he passed his apparition test, the first person he went to see was his father.
Cedric Diggory died on June 24, 1995. He was killed, in cold blood, by Lord Voldemort. And if we cannot bring him back, then we can at least remember how he went.
The third and final owl of the day smacked against the window just as she set down her quill.
“They’ve a shocking sense of direction,” said her mother. “I think this one’s Errol.”
Quick, if so. Then again, Sophie wouldn’t have put it past the twins to put a turbo-boosting charm on the family owl. She passed him a dead mouse as she prised the letter from his beak. Or, rather, photograph, with Fred’s message scribbled on the back like a postcard. He and George waved madly at the camera, hair standing on end like mad scientists. They were surrounded by bits and pieces of product: half in shot, Ginny eyed items from the Mary Poppins range appreciatively.
Kincaid,
If the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder hadn’t already knocked my socks off, then your news would have. George says well done, clever clogs (I concur). Gin doesn’t have a message, she says she doesn’t really know you and it would be weird. Mum is not on speaking terms with us at the moment (broken vase not pictured), but if she were, she’d say well done too. I say you’d better be waiting for me at eight o’clock on Saturday. And if you don’t have a kilt for me in Kincaid tartan. I will be bitterly disappointed.
Love,
Fred
“Mum? Where do you keep Dad’s old kilts?”
“Under the bed in the spare room,” said Louisa, eyes narrowed. “Why?’
Sophie grinned. “No reason.” She swept back out into the garden, but not before she fetched another dead mouse. If ever an owl deserved a treat, it was Errol.