An Unlikely Coven

*

It was one of those days.

One of those days when you know that something odd is going to happen, but you have no idea what, or when, or how. You just know. Sometimes it's good; sometimes, it's bad. But one thing's for sure- it's always interesting.

It was July 14, 2016. The Northeast United States was in the middle of the worst heat wave in thirty years. Malls were packed with people that hadn't shopped in decades. Sears' air conditioners were out of stock. And if you had a pool, you were the most popular kid in the neighborhood. To hell with the Seven Deadly Sins- sloth was the prevalent state of mind. No one in their right mind was overtaxing their brain.

Of course, no one ever said that Linda Patrickson was in her right mind.

At a time when most Bostonians were concerned solely with the Red Sox's prospects that evening, the occupant of the rear bedroom at 27 Carlton Boulevard was stretched out on the floor of said bedroom, trying desperately to shake the deja-vu like feeling that had been tickling her brain since eight o' clock that morning.

She was having one of those days, she thought as she attempted to work on her summer reading project. But, unfortunately for Linda, the tickle was turning into a full-fledged itch, and she realized that she had just read three whole chapters of Mansfield Park without processing the words of Jane Austen in her mind.

"That's it!" she cried, throwing her notebook across the room. "I'm finally going out of my friggin' mind. There is no other possible explanation for this. I may as well be shipped off to the state mental hospital right about now."

"Dear, we may have no choice if you continue to talk to yourself."

Linda's stream of rants was temporarily dammed up by her mother's comment.

"Ma, I'm losing it. I just have this terrible feeling that something is going to happen, and I don't know what it is."

Helena Patrickson leaned against the doorframe of her only child's room. "Again? Didn't this happen last week?" she inquired, a trace of an English accent detectable in her voice.

Linda stood up, and pulled her favorite Old Navy baseball cap over her long, straight, dark hair. "No, Ma, that was just PMS. The only major thing that happened was that I wound up completely embarrassing myself by asking Joey Manchester if he had any Midol."

Helena chuckled. "That poor boy. As if you haven't harassed him enough this summer."

"I'm not harassing him, he's harassing me! I think I may shove ice cream down his pants if he doesn't stop asking me if I'll go on a date with one of his creepy friends!" Linda started pacing the floor, her sandals producing an audible shuffle on the beige carpet. "This is different- I feel like something major is going to happen to me, something.....life-altering." She changed direction as her mother walked over and sat at the foot of her bed. "Something that will change my whole life around."

"Nothing bad, I hope. We really can't deal with that these days....." Helena trailed off.

"Linda stopped pacing. "Ma, what are you talking about?"

Helena started toying with her daughter's field hockey stick, which was leaning up against the bedframe. "Nothing. In any case, Linney, it's almost four o' clock. If anything life-threatening has happened today, it'll be on the news in an hour. And if it hasn't happened yet....."

"We'll let Dad deal with it when it does." Linda grinned; it was customary for her mother and herself to unload all the troubles of the world on Jim Patrickson, leaving him very confused and unable to speak a word of what had conspired at work that day. They had an ulterior motive for this; Jim was the co-president of Almost Magic Computer Systems, and while his job paid well, his days were almost terminally boring, and would often put Helena and Linda to sleep.

"Precisely. He should be home any minute, so he can deal with whatever life-altering situation comes up. I just hope he eats his supper first." Helena stood up and straightened out her daughter's bedspread. "Speaking of supper, how do you feel about barbecue? There is no way we're staying inside any longer. We're becoming potatoes."

"Mmm.....spare ribs.....count me in, as long as we've got lemonade. I have this unquenchable thirst for the stuff lately; the pink is the best." Linda's mouth watered at the thought of her favorite food.

"Barbecue it is, then. Come out in about a quarter hour and help me set up, doll?" Helena left the room.

Linda turned, to find herself facing her full length mirror. She examined her reflection. Her hair was long, an inky shade of black; it took an hour every morning to make it as straight as it was now. She had taken a liking to baseball caps that past spring; they were so functional. Her clothing strongly contradicted her choice of headgear, however. No one would ever mistake her for a boy. No doubt about it, the fifteen year old girl was stunning, a hybrid of her mother's understated elegance and her father's rugged good looks. This fact had not occurred to her yet; all she saw when she looked in the mirror was a short girl with too-thick hair and an upturned nose.

Her vision was terrible; she had her father to thank for that. Jim Patrickson couldn't tell the difference between a computer and a television screen without his glasses. Every morning, Linda would blink her contact lenses into her large, round, eyes. Linda especially liked her eyes. They were a magnificent emerald green, with a ring of blue around the pupil. The innocent appearance of her eyes belied the cynical, smart-alecky, feisty personality within.

Linda had lived on Carlton Boulevard for as long as she could remember. Her mother, Helena Rigby, had grown up in Liverpool, and moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, at the age of eighteen to study at Harvard University. She now held a bachelor's degree in English Literature, and spent most of her time at home, wearing flowing, hippie-style clothing and writing spellbinding stories, none of which she ever seemed to finish. It didn't matter if she made any money, however, as her husband seemed to overachieve in that department.

Jim Patrickson had grown up in London, England, and had also moved to the United States upon graduation. He had been accepted to MIT, and after being awarded a Ph.D in computer systems administration, had started up a company with his best friends, Roger Waltham and Dave Manchester. These days, Almost Magic Computer Systems was thriving in the hands of its employees, and Jim was almost always home early, in time to play a few games of hockey with his daughter. Unlike in Linda's early years, when she could recall her father returning home at one in the morning.

The two Brits had met in 1999, and fell in love at first sight. They were married the following year. In 2001, Linda Felicity Patrickson had come screaming into the world, and life at 27 Carlton Boulevard had never been normal since. It's hard to be mainstream, Linda thought, when you're the child of an Ivy League-educated hippie-wannabe and a computer-genius hockey player. Especially when they're both British.

Linda sighed, and turned away from her reflection. This odd feeling is enough to deal with, she thought, I don't need to go off and recall my entire life story. She readjusted her hat and walked out of her room, into the main hallway.

The hall was covered with framed photos. One showed her parents, just nineteen, hugging each other in the middle of Boston Common. It had been a warm, rainy day, and they were both laughing under an umbrella. Linda stopped to examine the picture, as she often did. Her parents looked so young, so happy. Helena's hair was soaked, and Jim's glasses had droplets running down the lenses. They often said that, just as Roger had pressed the button on the camera, a bolt of lightning had struck, not a half-mile away. If he'd taken that picture a half-second later, it would have shown Helena jumping into Jim's arms, and dropping the umbrella.

There were other photos- many of her parents, with Roger and his wife, Cassie, and with their son, Bobby. Bobby and Linda had been best friends, literally, since birth- they'd been born on the same day (Bobby was ten minutes older than Linda, as he continually reminded her), in the same hospital wing. Cassie had once told her that she and Helena had matching contractions, and that Jim and Roger had fainted at the same time.

And then there were the photos of her, alone. Linda at her christening, in a long, white dress that probably had enough material to make one for Helena, too. Linda at four, holding her first field hockey stick. Roger commented that it looked like a misshapen wooden spoon. Linda on her first day of school, Linda swimming, Linda playing the trombone, Linda at the state track meet.....her whole life was on display, on that wall.

There were pictures of her maternal grandparents, Bill and Miranda Rigby. They had moved to Boston at about the same time as Helena had entered Harvard. They were both very intelligent people, and Linda delighted in having her grandfather help her with calculus, and having her grandmother give her tips on the introduction to her essays. They lived just down the street, at number 23. In between the Rigbys and the Patricksons were the Walthams at 25, and at 29 were the Manchesters.

About twenty-five years ago, back in England, there was a group of three boys that rarely separated. Although all three were extraordinarily smart, they never failed to get into trouble as often as possible. They were all later accepted to MIT, and shared dorms there. These three boys were Jim Patrickson, Roger Waltham, and Dave Manchester.

Dave was the PR man for Almost Magic Computer Systems; he had a disposition needed for the job, unlike the sarcastic Jim or the high-strung Roger. Dave was Roger's brother-in-law; he had married Genevieve Waltham, and their son was Joey Manchester, born ten minutes before Linda on that same day.

Linda could best describe Joey as the example of polar relationships in her life. One moment, she would be threatening to kill him with a plastic spoon for being obnoxious; the next, she'd be amazed at some of the schemes he could dream up.

In truth, the three teenagers were the post-generation versions of their fathers before them, as two photos in an adjoining frame showed. In the older picture, taken while the boys were at school and about seventeen, Roger was on the far left, shaking a finger at the photographer (Linda had always suspected that it was Helena, and she had been making some comment), Dave was on the right, leaning against a tree, looking like he didn't have a care in the world. And in the middle was Jim, smiling bemusedly at his two best friends and their opposite demeanors.

In the second, more recent one, Bobby was on the left, trying to avoid smashing his head on the low-hanging branch of the weeping willow in the Patrickson's backyard, yelling at Joey to push over. Joey was on the right, arms crossed, smirking at the camera, unmoving. Linda was between the two, throwing her arms up in the air at the goofiness of the situation.

Bobby was the tall, gangly kid with a short fuse; Joey was the cool, collected boy with people skills; and Linda was the mediator between the two, the clever one.

Linda continued down the hall, into the kitchen, and out the back door, just as her father's 2014 Pontiac Grand Prix pulled into the driveway. Oddly enough, Dave's Honda Accord zipped up the drive on one side of the house, and Roger's Ford Explorer barreled into the garage on the other side. All at the same time.

Helena looked up from the grill. "That's strange. What's going on, I wonder?"

Bobby Waltham and Joey Manchester had both wandered into the backyard as soon as they caught a whiff of supper, complaining about the heat. Undoubtedly, the picnic table in the Patrickson's backyard would be set for nine that night. Both pulled themselves off the ground when they heard the cars pull in.

Jim leaped out of the car. This surprised Linda. Roger was the one who would leap out of the car (and leave the keys in the ignition, as Cassie would say), but never Jim. He'd always pull himself out, and then prepare to be tackled by his daughter, who would beg him to play hockey with her before supper.

"Helena! Linda! Oh thank God, you're all right! Thank God!" he yelled, running across the yard. Linda was puzzled; what did he mean, they were all right?

Dave had pulled Gen out of the house, and into the Patrickson's backyard. "Joey, your mother was worried sick! Why didn't you tell her where you were going before you left? And with what happened today....."

"What happened?" asked Joey, with considerable interest.

"Bobby, there you are! Thank God!" Inevitably, Roger had come running over, trailed by Cassie.

"Dad, for Christ's sake, what are you talking about?" Bobby's eyebrows were raised.

"Dad, I haven't seen you act like this since the Bruins won the Stanley Cup last winter!" Linda was staring at her father and his friends, convinced that they had all lost their minds.

Suddenly, Helena gasped. "You don't mean.....HIM?"

Gen's eyes grew wide, and Cassie covered her mouth with her hand.

Jim nodded.

"Oh, God....." Gen's face went white. "No....."

Linda, Bobby, and Joey stood rooted to the ground. "What the hell is going on?" whispered Bobby.

"I have no idea," replied Joey. For once, he was at a loss for a snide remark.

Linda's mind was racing. Is this it? Could this be what I've been worried about all day?

"Oh, no....." Cassie collapsed in Roger's arms. "This can't be happening.....I thought it was all over....."

Helena looked at Jim. "Do you think we should tell....."

"Yes." Jim's voice was shaky. "Linda. Run over to your grandparents' house. Tell them to come over. It's urgent." He stooped down, and enveloped his daughter in a hug. "Hurry!"

"Yes, Dad....." Linda trailed off. "Come on, guys, let's go!" she yelled to her compatriates. The three teenagers ran down Carlton Boulevard, to the Rigbys' bungalow. Bill and Miranda were sitting on the front porch.

"Ah, hello Linda dear, Bobby, Joey. What's the matter?" Miranda set down her glass of water.

"Surely the heat can't be affecting you too much?" asked Bill with a grin.

"Gran, Gramps, Ma and Dad and Roger and everyone are in the backyard, and something really bad must have happened today. They're all talking about someone named Him, and they said to get you, it's urgent." Linda stopped to catch her breath.

Bill stood up. "My God, I thought this was.....never mind. Linda, get back to your parents. Tell them we're on our way." Miranda was already halfway down the walkway.

"All right....." Linda said, still puzzled. She, Joey, and Bobby ran across the lawns, back to number 27.

"Ma, Dad, they're on their way," Linda said. The adults were sitting in a circle of lawn chairs. They appeared to have regained their composure, but all of them were still visibly shaken. What is going on? Linda thought. This can't be good at all.....

"Mom, what's going on? What's the matter?" Bobby pulled a chair up near his parents. "Why?"

"We can't begin until Miranda and Bill have joined us," replied Cassie, who appeared to be taking very deep breaths. Helena was clutching Jim's hand tightly, and Gen was still white. Roger and Dave sat quietly, and they were obviously thinking very hard.

"Did someone say our names?" Bill and Miranda pulled chairs over to the circle.

"Thank God you're here! We can begin to plan now, I guess....." Jim looked over. "Linda, Joey, sit down. No need to stand over there."

"Dad, are you sure you don't want us to go inside?" asked Linda. "This seems pretty serious....."

"Nonsense, Linney." Helena spoke. "In any case, you three need to hear this more than anyone else."

"You don't mean you're going to tell them, do you?" asked Miranda. "It might not be wise....."

"We have to." Dave said. "They need to know this. Hell, they might be the only ones that can stop it."

"Dad, what are you talking about? What is this all about?" Joey appeared to be losing his cool demeanor.

"Sit down, kids, and we'll tell you." Cassie drew another deep breath.

Linda and Joey pulled up chairs next to Bobby.

"All right. Now we can start....." Bill said. "Would anyone like to volunteer?"

The adults were all quiet. "I think I will, as I'm the reason we're all in this mess," Jim finally said.

"Nonsense, it's not your fault. It's no one's fault.....except for his." Helena squeezed his hand tighter.

Jim turned to the three teenagers. "None of you are going to believe a word I say, especially you, Linney. You're such a skeptic. But you have to trust me, everything I am now going to say to you is 100% truth."

He closed his eyes, in deep thought, and then started a story that would cause Linda, Joey, and Bobby to seriously question their parents' sanity.

"My name is not Jim Patrickson. Her name is not Helena Rigby Patrickson. Dave Manchester, Roger Waltham, Cassie Waltham, Genevieve Manchester, Bill and Miranda Rigby- none of these are their real names, and neither are yours.

You may think that we have betrayed you all these years, but we haven't. It was for your own safety that we change our names, live like this.....

Tell me, kids, do any of you believe in magic?

No? None of you? You don't think it exists?

It does. Magic is a real, tangible thing. Some people have it, some people don't. We happen to be some that do have it, and so are you."

The man formerly known as Jim looked at the woman formerly known as Helena. "Do you want to tell the rest? You can explain this better- you are the writer in this group."

The rest of the adults nodded in agreement. The kids sat, awestruck.

Helena took a deep breath. "All right, here goes.....

My name isn't Helena Rigby Patrickson. It is a made-up name, one to protect myself, my family, and my friends. My name, in actuality, is Hermione Granger, and I'm a witch. No, Linney, not the kind of witch that won't let you hang out late on Saturday night. I'm a real witch. I can cast spells, make strange things happen. I even have a magic wand." Hermione pulled a piece of wood from her handbag. "We all are, except the men are wizards. Linda, your father's name is not Jim Patrickson. His name is Harry Potter. Your real name is Linda Felicity Potter, and you, too, are a witch."

Roger broke in. "Bobby, your real name is Robert Charles Weasley. My name is Ron Weasley, and your mother's name is Lavender Brown. You're magic, like your mother and myself."

Dave sighed. "As long as we're all being so damn truthful and melodramatic about this, I may as well join in. Joey, you're not Joey Manchester. You're Joseph Lucius Malfoy, and your mother is actually Ginny Weasley. I'm Draco Malfoy, and I must admit, I find Dave Manchester to be a much more pleasing name."

Linda's head was spinning. "What the hell are you all talking about? Have you lost your minds?"

Miranda looked at Linda. "If you can handle some more surprising information, dear, my name isn't Miranda Rigby, and I'm actually not even your grandmother. I'm Minerva McGonagall, and this man is Remus Lupin."

"Oh my God....." Linda felt like she was going to faint. Bobby and Joey quickly propped her back up in her chair.

"Relax, dear. It's not as bad as it sounds. We're still your parents, and we still love you. Our names are just different. And Minerva and Remus still treat you like a granddaughter." Hermione smiled. "Now that that tricky business is out of the way, shall I tell the more interesting part of the story?"

Linda smiled weakly at her mother. "Yes, please."

"Very well. As Harry said, magic does exist. Some have it, and we are fortunate enough that we do. However, due to tragic circumstances, we've been living like Muggles- the magic word for non-magic folk- for almost twenty years. It is these circumstances that form the story I am about to tell.

I did in fact go to Harvard, and Harry, Ron, and Draco did go to MIT. But, we have known each other for far longer than we have let you know- since the age of eleven, in fact. However, our English school was not any ordinary school. Harry, Ron, Draco, Ginny, Lavender, and I all attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We were all considered to be exceptional students, especially Harry. Although all of us have magical powers, his surpass all of ours." Hermione squeezed Harry's hand. "You see, when he was just a year old, his family was attacked my the most powerful, evil, Dark Wizard of all time. This wizard's name was Lord Voldemort, more commonly referred to as You-Know-Who. Many in the magical community are still afraid to utter his true name, even after his downfall. Anyway, Voldemort killed his parents, but he was unable to kill Harry. In fact, when he tried to attack him, he lost most of his power. At the time, no one knew exactly what it was that stopped Voldemort. All anyone knew was that the Dark Lord was essentially defeated, and they rejoiced. Ironically, the person who got the least out of the deal was Harry.

With his parents gone, and no magical relatives left, Harry was sent to live with his aunt and uncle, Vernon and Petunia Dursley, and their son, Dudley. Professor Dumbledore- the greatest wizard in the world, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts- left a note with the Dursleys explaining what happened, but....."

"The miserable prigs had long ago decided that magic was evil, and therefore I was evil," Harry cut in. "So, I spent ten years with them, not knowing anything about my background, anything about my parents."

"Until his eleventh birthday," Hermione started. "Then, he was told of his magical abilities, and received an acceptance letter from Hogwarts."

"To make a very, very, very long story very short," Ron started, "Harry went to Hogwarts, where he met Hermione, Draco, Lavender, and myself. Ginny was a year younger than the rest of us, she didn't start the same year. Minerva McGonagall was the deputy headmistress, and the head of Gryffindor House. At Hogwarts, students are sorted into a house, according to what skills they possess. The four Houses are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. All of us were in Gryffindor."

"Except for me," put in Draco. "I, like the rest of my family, was put into Slytherin. Gryffindors and Slytherins detested each other, and that was certainly true of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Lavender, Ginny, and myself. Especially Harry and I. We were mortal enemies, right up until our seventh year."

"Which is where this starts to get interesting," Lavender added.

"Every year at Hogwarts, I encountered Voldemort or one of his disciples. It grew to be somewhat of an annual event- 'When Will Potter Meet The Dark Lord Next?'. Every time, I managed to hold him off. Until our seventh year. Everyone was pretty sure that this would be Voldemort's big attack- it being my last year, and his last chance to get me while I was still a student," said Harry. "We spent the whole year plotting various counterattacks. We were prepared for anything he could give us. But, still, we were unsure. Voldemort had once been the most powerful wizard in the world. And sure enough, he pulled something totally unexpected."

"What?" asked Joey, mesmerized.

"He killed himself."

"WHAT?" exclaimed Linda.

"He committed suicide, a month before the end of the school year. Most of the students were celebrating-they thought he'd emulated Hitler, and killed himself rather than face certain defeat. Everyone was rejoicing. Except for three people." Harry paused. "Myself, Hermione, and Draco Malfoy."

"Why?" asked Bobby. All three of the teenagers had forgotten to be skeptical, and were instead immersed in the yarn their parents were weaving.

"Well, I was sure that Voldemort had something up his sleeve. He wasn't just the type to give up. Hermione was just skeptical about everything those days. If she hadn't have been magic, she wouldn't have believed it." Harry ducked a playful swat from his wife. "It's true. And Draco....."

"I may as well say it," interrupted Draco. "My father was deeply involved in the Dark Arts, and he was right in Voldemort's inner circle. I knew things that others didn't. He expected me to follow in his footsteps, become a powerful Dark Wizard like himself. But there was something inside of me that stopped me short of it. I don't rightly know what it was- I just don't think I was evil. But, I knew enough to not voice this to my father, and I was able to obtain information about Voldemort's plans.

I knew why he killed himself. It wasn't to avoid defeat. He invested all his powers- and those of some of his followers- in a single person. Someone who would never be suspected."

"Who, Dad?" clamored Joey.

"The person that we'd least suspect. Voldemort had performed an immensely complex spell, that would transfer all of his powers to another when he died. He had it performed on a number of his followers, also. I was shocked when I discovered who it was. It wasn't an adult, it was a Hogwarts student. It wasn't a pureblooded wizard, either. This person was a Muggle-born, and they weren't even in Slytherin House. They were in Gryffindor. This person was even counted in Harry's circle of friends, somewhat.

This person's name was Colin Creevey."

"Ever since he was a first year, Creevey followed Potter around like a lost puppy," said Minerva. "It was sad, really- he hero-worshipped him. In about his fifth year, though, he realized that he'd never be like Potter and Granger and Weasley. It was then that he decided that if he couldn't be like Potter, he'd have to destroy him."

"He devoted himself to the Dark Arts, even changed his name to Lord Nilock. Rather unimaginative- simply 'Colin' backwards, with a 'K' added," put in Lavender. "Voldemort was pleased as punch that he had a disciple in such close proximity to Harry. Colin's location and his undying devotion to the Dark Arts were the main reasons that Voldemort decided to go ahead with the plan."

"We were all a little suspicious when Draco started being pleasant to us. We thought that he had some dirty trick up his sleeve," said Hermione. "But he didn't. It's actually thanks to Draco that we're all here, alive, today."

"He was the one that tipped us off to Creevey," Ron added. "At first, we were all very skeptical, but after observing his behavior, we decided that Draco was right."

"They told me, being the head of the House," Minerva continued. "I, in turn, told Albus Dumbledore, who instructed us to keep mum about the matter. But before we could do anything, Voldemort's last disciple bound by the spell committed suicide, and Creevey was at his full power."

"There was only one thing left to do," said Harry. "And that was to run. Creevey was at the point of absolute power, and if I had tried to stop him, I'd have wound up dead. He knew that we were on to him. So, after graduation, the six of us- Hermione, Ron, Lavender, Draco, Ginny, and myself- fled England. Minerva came with us, and Dumbledore sent Remus along, to help out. Dumbledore himself stayed on at Hogwarts- he's still there, as a matter of fact. He is the only one in the wizarding world that knows the true identity of Lord Nilock. No one these days associates Lord Voldemort's successor with the sweet kid that followed me around at Hogwarts. They all just assume that Colin Creevey is back in the Muggle world, that he got tired of sorcery and is helping his father deliver milk."

"Our parents don't know what happened to us," said Ginny. "It's for our own safety. Nilock has them all under close surveillance, and if they knew, we'd be dead faster than you can say 'cauldron'. I never even graduated."

"They essentially assume that these people fell off the face of the earth," said Remus. "Obviously, this is not the case."

"We thought that that would be the end of it," said Hermione. "When we got here, we attended college. I married Harry, Ron married Lavender, Draco married Ginny. Sure, we're living like Muggles, but at least we're living, and we're happy."

"Or we were happy, until this afternoon," Harry cut in. "At work today, I recieved word that Nilock is regaining interest in finding us. We assumed that he'd been too preoccupied with gaining disciples of his own to bother with us. Unfortunately, he not only wants to find me, he wants to find, well, our children."

Linda, Bobby, and Joey gasped. "Why us?" Joey choked out.

Ron drew in a deep breath. "We couldn't send any of you to Hogwarts. You all look too much like your parents, making it exceedingly easy for Nilock to find out who you are," he said, looking at Linda's long, black hair and green eyes, Joey's silvery-blond hair and pale complexion, and his own son's height, flaming red hair, and freckles. "So, we decided it was easier to raise you as Muggles."

"The year that you were all born, Dumbledore sent us word of a strange prophecy. The disordinately close proximities of your birth, your parentage, and the alignment of the stars on May 25, 2001, all give heed to one thing." Hermione turned to Harry.

"You three are the most powerful wizards in the world. The most powerful wizards since Godric Gryffindor and Company founded Hogwarts, over a thousand years ago," Harry said. "And Linda, because you are the daughter of the most powerful witch and wizard after Nilock, you are the most talented witch in history."

Linda almost fainted again. "What?"

"You three are the most powerful coven in the world at the moment." Draco looked at the three shocked friends. "Led by Linda, you could crush Nilock with one simple spell."

"Unfortunately, Nilock knows of this also. He's realized that you are all fifteen, and he sees this as the right age to attack," said Remus. "He plans to find you, and attack before you've had much training."

"That means that we can't wait for him to find us," said Harry. "We've got to find him first."

"Wait a minute, Dad, Mom." Linda turned to her parents. "You're telling me that magic exists, that you're extremely powerful wizards, and that because of this, I'm the most powerful witch in history? And that my friends and I have to be trained up, and then we have to find the most evil sorcerer in the world and defeat him?"

"Yes, honey," replied Hermione and Harry simultaneously.

This time, Linda really did faint.

*