Dawlish didn’t hate holidays. Of course not, that would be ridiculous. He just hated fun.

It made him nauseous— frolicking, gallivanting, or any sort of festivities. Did so many people really have so much to smile about? The answer didn’t really matter. Either they did, and their lives were just that much better than his, or they were faking it, and lying like criminals. Neither option did anything to tamp down on his utter distaste.

“Portkey sickness, Mr. Dawlish?”

Dawlish glanced across the ostentatious oaken desk separating his rickety chair from the man of the manor. Vincenzo Coscatelli, mayor of Rome, was a large wizard in a lot of ways, from his robe size, to his booming voice, to the flowing mustache that engulfed three sides of his mouth. The man’s bushy black eyebrows were knit as he took Dawlish in, completing a perfect politician’s look of concern.

“It’s just been a long week, Mr. Coscatelli,” Dawlish said. “I’m only eager to do my job and get home.”

“Please, call me Vincenzo. Staying in my house, in my city, I would have it no other way.”

Dawlish inclined his head, but made no verbal reply. In the silence that followed, Vincenzo lifted a peacock feather quill from his desk, beginning to fiddle with its edges.

“About this… work of yours,” he finally began. “Do you really think such a criminal could be here? Hiding in my home?”

“My superiors do, and I’m not inclined to disagree with them,” Dawlish said. “I’ll give it to you straight, Vincenzo. Mulciber is a dangerous man. He fought in not one but two wars, and escaped Azkaban as many times. His skill with the Imperius Curse was bettered only by the Dark Lord himself. There’s a reason that he’s still on the loose now, after so many of his Death Eater friends have been caught and kissed, and it’s that he is better at this than they were. Far better.”

Vincenzo swallowed before giving a smile. “I don’t doubt that. But I live only with my wife, our son and daughter, and two servants. No one else is allowed in, even to visit, with only rare exceptions such as you. There is simply no chance that your criminal could be among us.”

“Then why did you allow me to come?” Dawlish asked.

Vincenzo’s smile grew strained. “Pardon?”

“If you believe that there’s no chance Mulciber is here, you had no reason to allow me in, let alone allow me to stay for a night while I investigate. You’re one of the most powerful men in Italy. You wouldn’t have felt pressured by a request from a foreign ministry. So why let me in?”

Vincenzo’s expression clouded over. “Why of course it was because… Because…” As quickly as it came, the expression melted back into a smile. “Because I felt pity for the poor, British Auror working on New Year’s! Nobody celebrates like the Italians, and nobody has so good a view of the festivities as I do. If you had to go on a wild owl chase, I might as well make sure you have a pleasant one, no?”

“Of course,” Dawlish said. “Your consideration is duly noted. Celebrations are my favorite.”

Vincenzo didn’t react to the dryness in the Auror’s voice, if he even noticed it. Perhaps he thought that was simply how the British spoke.

“Our traditions here are much older than in your England,” Vincenzo went on. “Their roots lie with the Romans of old. I think you will find it rather more colorful than what you are used to.”

“Looking forward to it,” Dawlish said. “You’ll have to forgive me if I do snoop around a bit, though. Wild owl chase or no, I’ve a report to file when I return. Have to look busy.”

“Of course, of course!” Vincenzo waved a hairy, ring-bedecked hand through the air. “Whatever you need, we will cooperate. Within reason, of course!”

“Lovely.” Dawlish smiled thinly.

Vincenzo pulled his wand out of his robes, giving it a wave, and a ringing noise echoed through the room and beyond. A moment later the double doors opened. A witch in white robes appeared at the threshold, her hands linked at her waist.

“I have work to finish before this evening’s celebration,” he said, “but Giulia here will show you to your room. She can answer any questions you might have. I hope you find your work here very pleasurable.”

He winked at Dawlish. The Auror rose with another thin smile, accepting his dismissal.

As the doors banged shut behind him, Dawlish followed the servant down a cream carpeted hallway. Portraits tracked his every step with their eyes, each sporting versions of the eye-catching mustache Vincenzo himself displayed.

The mayor was under the Imperius Curse.

It was rather obvious, and not just because Dawlish suspected as much before ever arriving.

A month back, the man abruptly sold off every house elf in his employ before hiring two servants, including the one leading Dawlish to his room. He had turned his home into something of a fortress, adding to the already-impressive ward array it boasted, and becoming absurdly strict about who was admitted as a guest. All this came just weeks after Mucliber, one of the few remaining Death Eaters at large after the Battle of Hogwarts, was spotted on the streets of Rome. Clearly, something had been done to the Coscatelli patriarch.

The only reason a British Auror was the first one on the scene to investigate, was because the locals in power were perfectly happy to let Vincenzo, for all intents and purposes, disappear. The Italian Head of Magical Law Enforcement, an old political rival, had been quick to dub the changes nothing more than eccentricities.

That meeting wiped any remaining doubts about the man’s fate, and it had nothing to do with any midlife crises. Vincenzo had allowed Dawlish into his home, but didn’t know why. Because it wasn’t his decision.

Dawlish was forced from his thoughts as he nearly collided with a small girl coming around a corner.

“Watch it, kid,” he said, barely holding back a curse.

The girl was about ten, with the same black hair and brown eyes of Vincenzo. She regarded Dawlish in silence for a moment, before a Kneazle’s meow sounded. A fat tabby just in front of the girl eyed her, before marching down the hallway. Without a word the girl navigated around Dawlish, trailing the cat and disappearing from sight.

“Not a talkative one, is she?” Dawlish said.

“You will have to forgive the young Carlotta,” Giulia said in a thick but understandable accent. “Unlike the rest of us, she does not yet speak English.”

“Eh, forget it,” Dawlish said, watching the spot the girl disappeared. “Let’s see this guest room.”

The rest of the walk wasn’t long. A flight of stairs later, they entered a medium sized room dominated by a four poster bed. Dawlish could tell from one look at the sheets that it would be too soft for any decent sleep. He hated beds like that.

“Have you any luggage you would like help with?” Giulia asked.

“Not exactly,” Dawlish said. “I travel light.”

Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a shrunken suitcase small enough to fit in his palm. One charm later, it was expanding to its full size.

As it grew, it tumbled out of Dawlish’s hand. He made a snatch for it but missed, and the full weight slammed down on the arch of Giulia’s foot.

“I’ll get that,” Giulia said, reaching for her wand to cast a levitation charm.

“No, no! Sorry, that was a stupid mistake. I’ve got it.”

Dawlish hefted the suitcase, grunting with exertion as he did so. It was as heavy as he’d remembered it.

“Was there anything else you needed?” Giulia asked neutrally.

“I’m alright,” Dawlish said. “Sorry again. Guess I’m more tired than I realized.”

“Very well,” Giulia said. “I or my husband will be by to bring you to dinner. A traditional outfit has been prepared for you, it’s in the armoire by the window. It would please Signore Cascatelli greatly if you wore it.”

“Oh, I guess there is one thing,” Dawlish said, before she turned to leave. “The other servant. He’s your husband?”

“He is,” Giulia said.

“What’s he like?”

She gave him a curious look, but answered the question anyway as Dawlish laid his suitcase on the foot of the bed.

“Marco is a kind man with a strong appreciation of manners and tradition. A pureblood, from a minor house. A great Quidditch enthusiast as well. He was the best chaser in our year at Stati Magia. I don’t know what else to say. Do you wish to hear more?”

“That’s plenty,” Dawlish said. “Just a bit of curiosity on my part. You’re free to go.”

Without pause, Giulia strode from the room. Dawlish watched her go. She walked without a hint of a limp.

He popped his suitcase open, but left it splayed across the bed, instead wandering the armoire. The dresser was positioned next to a wide pane of glass, and Dawlish found himself stopping to look out.

Hundreds of ridged rows of limestone formed narrowing rings around a sandy center far below. To the eyes it seemed weather-beaten and aged; a ruin. Three quarters of the center was opened up, revealing brick rooms and passages that had once been hidden beneath the sand. But as one looked higher, color returned. The upper rings were a completely different, brighter beige, and one could see men and women walking the pathways, moving between marble room’s before disappearing inside in numbers too great for the apparent size.

It made Dawlish smile sardonically. He was actually fond of the Colosseum, but preferred the way muggles saw it— ancient, beat up and broken, but enduring. The Upper Stands just made him sick. Enchanted to look exactly as they had the day it was created, layered with enough Undetectable Extension and Muggle Repelling charms to house all of magical Rome’s elite and hide them from view, it was nothing but a pretty cesspool.

“Can’t believe I used to want to visit this place,” Dawlish muttered, shaking his head.

He turned away from the view, instead pulling open the armoire.

Hanging inside, a bright lavender robe swayed in front of him.

Dawlish barely held back from slamming the dresser door then and there.

O-O-O

“Mr. Dawlish, I presume?”

Dawlish looked up. Literally.

Lying on the floor of the guest room, he studied the pale middle-aged man that had opened the door. The man stared down at him, a frown forming.

“So you're Mario,” Dawlish said.

“I am. Are you… ready to go?”

“Sure, sure.” Dawlish sat, using one of the bed posts to yank himself to his feet. “Lead away.”

The servant hesitated. “Might I enquire as to what you were doing on the floor?”

“Napping,” Dawlish said.

Marco raised an eyebrow. “Next to a bed?”

“Yes,” Dawlish said. “For about, oh let’s say ten months, I only slept on floors. Wasn’t my choice, but I got used to it. Never could go back afterwards.”

“If you say so,” Marco said. “Well, Signore Coscatelli is waiting.”

They walked a different direction to the one Dawlish arrived from. Marco guided them down a new hallway, lit by marble torches shaped similar to ice cream cones. They were well enchanted. Despite how the fires flickered, the hall’s lighting was perfectly even.

“Signore Coscatelli was very hopeful you would wear the robes he prepared for you,” Marco said, glancing over from the corner of his eye.

“I am wearing them,” Dawlish said. He pulled his robes forward with two fingers to show as much. “Just took a few liberties with a color changing charm. I don’t do purple.”

“The color is an integral part of the occasion,” Marco said severely. “Bright colors represent one's outlook, and Romans have always considered the New Year’s to reflect how the rest of the year will go. To spend the day happily is key to spending the rest of the year happy, and that all starts with the garb, making color one of the most important features.”

“I don’t do purple,” Dawlish repeated.

“I see.” Marco was now doing his best not to frown, and just about managing it.

Dawlish studied him. The man was tall and thin, with pale skin and a brown goatee. Dark circles stood out underneath his eyes. In the orange lighting, he almost looked like a ghost rather than a living wizard.

“Your wife said you cared a lot for culture,” Dawlish said. “I see she wasn’t lying.”

“She was not,” Marco agreed.

“What about Quidditch? Said you were a hell of a chaser. You don’t look it, frankly.”

The man looked as if a passed Quaffle would knock him from a broom as surely as any Bludger.

“My health has been poor of late,” Marco admitted as they reached the base of a staircase. “I have not played for a while, no.”

“Think it's an illness?”

“I’ve no idea,” Marco said. “Come on now. They’re waiting just up here.”

At the top of the staircase was a wide open doorway. A Veranda stood laid out with seats, food, and drink, positioned at the top of the Colosseum to overlook every part. Vincenzo Coscatelli was there, lounging in an ostentatious deck chair with an attractive witch in the seat beside him and a teenage boy leaning against the deck railing. Giulia stood quietly against one wall, her white robes exchanged for bright yellow ones, and Marco quickly moved to join his wife.

“Sit, sit!” Vincenzo cried when he spotted Dawlish. “Have some wine, some crackers! We even have something special for you. Giuseppe, give it to him.”

The teenage boy turned away from the view. He approached Dawlish, pulling something from his pocket and holding it out.

It was the tip of a tree branch, one with three oblong leaves sticking off of the end.

“It’s a twig,” Dawlish said.

“Olive,” Vincenzo said proudly. “Go on, take it!”

Dawlish did, pinching it between two fingers.

“What do I do with it?” he asked.

“New Year's gifts are symbolic,” Mario said from his place by the wall. “It’s a tradition dating to the times of Caesar. That is Olive, the most popular wand wood across Italy. To be gifted a branch is a gesture of deep respect. You do not do anything with such gifts. That’s why they’re valuable.”

“Of course. How silly of me,” Dawlish said.

He stuffed the wood into his pocket, taking a seat in a woven chair.

The Veranda’s floor was red brick, all the furniture pure white. It reminded Dawlish of a bad splinching accident— bone standing out against pooled blood.

“I like your decor,” he told Vincenzo.

The man beamed. “The view is the best part,” he said. “Especially tonight.”

Beneath them the Colosseum was beginning to fill. Under the night sky witches and wizards in robes as bright as the ones Vincenzo’s family wore entered as a steady stream. Gone were the muggle tourist’s from earlier. A fresh floor was being carefully transfigured at the Colosseum’s center, milling bodies pressing in on it. In the upper stand, other activity had begun. A band tuned instruments atop an erected stage, and on the opposite side of the rim a red-robed wizard levitated stacks of crates taller than he was. Fireworks. Dawlish hated those as much as he hated fun, possibly more. Only someone who’d never felt a blasting curse could enjoy the sound of explosions.

“John— I can call you John, Can’t I?” Dawlish inclined his head slightly, and Vincenzo beamed. “Lovely! John, meet my wife, Agnese Coscatelli. She’s a lovely one, isn’t she?”

Agnese smiled at Dawlish. “How do you do.”

She was a gorgeous witch, which stood out more starkly against her heavyset, older husband. Her black hair was tied in a bun, and her robe for the night was an electric blue. Dawlish had met the type.

“A real pleasure,” Dawlish said. He glanced at three wine bottles set up on the opposite side of the table, surrounded by cheese, crackers, and thin cuts of meat. “Mind if I drink?”

“Help yourself!” Vincenzo said. A redness in his cheeks said the half-empty glass in front of him wasn’t his only of the night.

“Get me a glass,” Dawlish said over his shoulder.

He meant it to Mario or Giulia. They were the servants in this situation. But it was Giuesseppi, the mayor’s son, who leapt to action.

Receiving his freshly poured glass, Dawlish glanced at Vincenzo. “Who needs servants with a son like this, huh?”

“I must make you feel welcome, Signore Dawlish,” Giuseppe said.

Dawlish took a sip of the wine, swishing the sourness around his mouth before swallowing. “I’m honored.”

“Giusseppe has just finished his fourth year at Stati Magia,” Agnese said. “At Hogwarts, the English study for seven years, no? I do not think I could handle such a thing. Our children only go for five, and already I eagerly await his graduation next year. It is so long to be separated from your child.”

Giusseppe was blushing slightly, still standing at Dawlish’s side like an attendant. Dawlish eyed him while sloshing his wine in a slow circle. “A mommy’s boy, are you?”

“Yes, Signore Dawlish,” Giusseppe said, his blush remaining.

“Oh, go on, kid. Get back to looking at the view.”

Right away, Giusseppe turned and returned to the bannister, leaning over the railing the way he had been when Dawlish arrived.

“So, I hear you are chasing a criminal?” Agnese said. “A dark wizard, who you believe could be here?”

“Just following a lead,” Dawlish said. “He’s a slippery one. Somehow came out of Azkaban less loopy than any of the others, like he had some way of shielding his dark little mind. The Imperius is his trademark. That’s what makes him so difficult.”

Agnese gasped. “An unforgivable! It must be dangerous, chasing such a man. You never know whom he might have controlled! Anyone could be an enemy!”

“Oh, there can be tells,” Dawlish said. “Sudden changes is decision making. Strange behavior, when something conflicts with a command the victim’s been given. With poorly cast curses, the victim can even fight for control, although it often doesn’t work and takes a real toll. I suppose I’m something of an expert on the curse these days.”

“You’ve cast it?” Vincenzo asked with interest.

Dawlish sipped his wine with a grimace. “Yes, although that wasn’t what I meant. My experience is mostly on the other side of things.”

“What does it feel like?” Vincenzo asked.

“Like heaven,” Dawlish said, “until it's gone, and you’re left in hell.”

Agnese and the servant couple winced sympathetically. If they noticed Vincenzo’s small nod, they didn’t react.

“If this dark wizard was in the manor,” Agnese said in the silence, “how would he go about keeping hidden?”

“Well,” Dawlish said, “he would probably curse someone, and use them to hide himself. They would be his slave, and there would be nothing they could do about it.”

In the silence that followed, Dawlish drained the last of his wine. He smiled. “Your alcohol is absolutely delicious. I think I’ll take a second glass.”

“Hah!” Agnese laughed, shaking her head and reaching for one of the bottles. “I think I will be needing more than that.”

A creaking stair heralded a new arrival. Colletta stepped into view, her face blank and her robes now magenta. She walked silently to an empty chair near where her brother stood. A moment later the tabby cat she had been following trotted into view, immediately making for Agnese.

“Here’s my little girl!” Vincenzo said. He spoke something to her in Italian, and she faced him and smiled, but didn’t answer.

A sneeze drew Dawlish’s attention. The tabby had jumped up, settling on Agnese’s lap.

“Bless you,” Dawlish said.

“Thank— achoo!”

Dawlish raised an eyebrow at the woman. “Allergic to your daughter’s cat?”

“Oh, no,” Agnese said, giggling and sniffing. “He is my cat, not Colletta’s. My parents brought him home when I was just a baby.”

The cat meowed again, rubbing the chair’s armrest and wafting more long fur into the air, making Agnese sneeze harder in turn. As she brought her arm up to block her mouth, Dawlish spotted thin red lines standing out against her olive skin.

“That’s a lot of claw marks from a cat you’ve known so long,” Dawlish said.

“What can you do?” Agnese said between sneezes. “I think he has a bit of Kneazle blood in him. He’s always been feisty.”

On the stage, the band was performing last check preparations before starting their performance. The Colosseum center was now full. A dry, chilly breeze wafted over the balcony, making colorful robes flutter.

Immediately, Carlotta grabbed her sleeves, holding them in place.

“Do you have cat scratches too?” Dawlish asked her.

The girl stared blankly back at him. “As I said earlier, Signore,” Maria said, “the girl does not speak English.”

“Then tell her for me,” he said. “Tell her to show me her arms.”

The balcony went quiet. Vincenzo smiled, leaning forward slightly.

“John, what does it matter if the girl shows her arms?” He reached for the wine. “Come, Drink another glass and forget.”

“Giusseppe,” Dawlish barked, “raise your sister’s sleeve!”

Like a man possessed, the teen ripped around and snatched desperately for Carlotta’s arm. Carlotta was just as fast. She sprung into a full cartwheel, escaping her brother.

And stopped in front of Dawlish’s wand point.

“Petrificus Totalus,” Dawlish said.

“What is the meaning of this!” Vincenzo stumbled to his feet, fumbling for his wand. His wife and servants followed his example. Only Giusseppe remained still. Even the cat leapt forward, landing on the floor hissing.

Dawlish didn’t spare a look for the wands trained on him. He stood and yanked up Carlotta’s, revealing a nasty network of wounds.

Fresh cuts interwove with old scars. Hardly a speck of skin was unmarred, from her wrist to to her shoulder blade.

“Like I said,” Dawlish said, “Mulciber is a sadist. The modified Blood Quill is a trademark. One enchantment to let it affect the whole body, because why limit the fun to the hands, another to keep it from healing, because once it's gone his fun goes with it.”

“You’re saying this Death Eater did that?” Vincenzo demanded.

“Sure,” Dawlish said. “But you already knew that. Diffindo.”

A severing charm ripped from his wand, bearing down on the orange tabby. It never got close. Five separate shields materialized in front of the feline, even Giuseppe joining in this time.

“Course it wouldn’t be that easy,” Dawlish said. “You going to show your face, or keep pretending, you Boggart-like bastard.”

The cat cocked its head at him. Then it began to change. In moments a pale man with gelled brown hair and a pug nose was crouched on the Veranda bricks, smirking into Dawlish’s face.

“I’m quite clearly cat-like,” Mulciber said. “Magic itself proves me right.”

“A right bastard is what you are,” Dawlish said. “An unregistered animagus, on top of everything. You’re more of a piece of work than most people, and that’s a hell of a thing to say.”

“That isn’t any way to talk to a friend,” Mulciber said. “How long is it since we’ve seen each other? I almost thought you were avoiding me, after all we went through!”

“Call off your little attack family,” Dawlish said, nodding to the five witches and wizards with wands trained on him, “come back to England with me, and we can have a nice, long, casual chat.”

Mulciber laughed. He leaned back, and began to clap. “Look at the swagger! The verve! Now that’s an Auror! If anyone could figure me out, it was you!” His eyes glinted with humor, and a touch of curiosity. “How did you get it, anyway? I thought for certain that controlling all of them would throw you off at least a little.”

“There were signs,” Dawlish said. “Vincenzo—”

“Vincenzo doesn’t count,” Mulciber said. “That one was free.”

Dawlish took a slow step back, toward the door, as he said, “Fine. The first thing you got wrong was your commands. Giulia was instructed not to show any reaction to pain between sessions with you, so she wouldn’t give your presence away, but that was too broad. She didn’t even flinch when her foot was crushed. Same with Giusseppe. He was told to make me feel at home, but the wording made him do whatever I asked, no strings attached.”

Mulciber clicked his tongue. “And Mario?”

“He’s been resisting,” Dawlish said, sneaking another step. “A healthy man like him, worn out with no explanation? You cast the curse badly on purpose, to give him the illusion he could escape. You do that.”

“I do,” Mulciber agreed. “You’d know. I can see how you got Carlotta. The way she wouldn’t show her arms, and of course the cartwheel. Those under the Imperius do have a way of pushing past mental limits, it’s almost like they should thank me. But Agnese! How did you get that one? Of all of them, I thought she was the least obvious.”

“Because you used her as a cover story,” Dawlish said. “She had the cat since she was a baby? She’s thirty-five. I checked before I arrived. Even with Kneazle blood, cats don’t reach that age.”

Again, Mulciber clapped. “Well done. Well done! I mean it. Who would have expected so much from Dumbledore’s punching bag? You’ve changed since you were our little charmed-up errand boy. Have you bought as much time as you wanted to with those generous answers?”

“We’ll see,” Dawlish said.

Mulciber smiled. “We will, won’t we?”

Five wands opened fire at the exact moment the band began to play.

Severing charms dug trenches into the Veranda as Dawlish dove for the doors. While in the air he flicked his wand, transfiguring his chair into a snapping dog. The mutt sunk its teeth into Vincenzo’s wrist, hanging on.

Dawlish reached the entryway and yanked one half of the double doors closed for protection. The wood ate stunners and at least one nastier spell that hissed against its surface. At the exact moment a new wave of spells was intoned, Dawlish leaned out of cover and sent three stunners with pinpoint aim. With no time to cast shields, Giuseppe, Mario, and Giulia dropped.

A blasting curse ripped the door off its hinges, but Dawlish was already moving. Retreating deeper down the staircase, he banished the splinters from the door as projectiles.

Agnese and Vincenzo — who had freed himself from the dog — got shields up in time, but Dawlish used the gap to close in. At point blank range, each took a stunner to the chest and dropped.

Eyes widening, Mulicber went for his wand. Too late. Dawlish was faster, summoning it from the man and snatching it with his free hand.

“How?” Mulciber stammered. “That isn’t possible! You’re nothing! You’re just Dawlish!”

Dawlish spat out a small glob of blood from his impact when diving for cover. He leveled his wand at Mulciber, sleeve riding up to reveal old thin crisscrossing scars.

“All anybody ever remembers is Dumbledore toying with me,” Dawlish said. “Well, Prophet headline for you, he would’ve toyed with you just as easily. Then the ministry was attacked, and I fell fighting Voldemort. He trussed me up, turned me over to you and your little friends, and you filled me with enough charms and curses to bumble around like your puppet. Like your toy. But you’re not the one who beat me. You never were. And now, I’m finally going to show you what that means.”

Mulciber didn’t hesitate. He vaulted the bannister, landing twenty feet below and running.

Dawlish conjured a hooked rope, latched it on the bannister, and slid down after him at a controlled pace.

Mulciber had hurt his knee in the drop. He hobbled along the high rim, seemingly without a destination except away. Dawlish followed, keeping his pace slightly faster than the man could flee.

They made it halfway around the Colosseum before Dawlish caught up.

“Stay away!” Mulciber shouted. He was all but dragging his bad leg now, backing away. A few dozen feet below, the wizard in red began his fireworks show. Rockets whizzed past the Auror and Death Eater, exploding high in the air to oohs and ahhs from the celebrating crowd.

“It’s over, Mulciber. You aren’t getting away,” Dawlish said.

Mulciber stumbled. He landed on his butt, sneering. “Fine! Take me in! I escaped Azkaban twice you know. I’ll do it again. And when I do, I’ll control you again. See how much catching me does for you then!”

“Catch you?” Dawlish said. “But I haven’t caught you. The Death Eater Mulciber wasn’t here.”

Mulciber’s expression froze. “What?”

Dawlish nodded somberly. “There were no clues. As if he disappeared completely.”

“No, you can’t—!”

“Good bye, Mulciber,” Dawlish said. “When the haze wears off it feels like hell, doesn’t it?”

With a jerk of his wand, he banished the man off the lip.

He didn’t fall far. A firework whizzed past, and a precise sticking charm fused the man to it by the arm. Dawlish watched the firecracker rise, a wild scream running like a soundtrack to its ascent. When it exploded, the crowd cheered louder than usual, and it took Dawlish a moment to realize why: the clock had struck midnight. A new year had dawned.

Dawlish stared up, watching glowing red sparks form an owl that snatched a mouse before dissolving back into empty night air. It was a long time before he realized he was smiling.

If more holidays turned out like this, he might even get used to them.

Ah, who was he kidding. Probably not.