A/n: I hadn't originally planned on uploading this, but seeing as it keeps getting plagiarised and posted anyway, I suppose I had better. I'll take the relentless theft as a compliment. Thanks to the crew of the good ship #write for the motivation to put pen to paper on this one, especially to my boys Zombie and Halt. I'll have a drink in your honour tonight. And then a second drink just for me. For anyone interested, the cover art here is Matt Miller's Journeying Spirit Deer. I have a print of it on my wall. His artwork is fabulous.

There is a wand in a hand which is black with rot.

A tree in a forest which is black with rot.

A wand made from its wood, made black from rot.

There were no travellers this deep in the forest. A fell shadow has lingered over the trees for nine hundred years, driving away human encroachment. The only signs of mankind were scarce and scattered; the foundation stones of a water mill which had long fallen into disrepair and been swallowed up by the trees, the great iron wheel having rolled away to collapse on its side, caving in one side of the only bridge which crossed this span of the river.

He watched the bridge for a time, standing in a broad patch of weeds which must have once been the village square. Dark shapes flitted between the trees on the far bank of the river. The glint of moonlight on amber eyes was the only sign of colour.

This was the edge. Running water fed from a mountain stream cut straight across the outermost bounds of the curse. The magics of earth and sky were wild here, a leyline drawn above ground to follow the contours of the river from the peak to the sea. It would take the directed will of a wizard to push any malice past this natural barrier, and the curse had not been tended in over a decade. Even so, the unseen neighbouring enmity had driven away all former occupants of this ruined village.

A jewel-bright adder slithered across his boot. He stood there, waiting until the snake had passed on before stepping forwards.

Debris crunched under even his light footfalls. The adder hissed in alarm, and buried itself into the undergrowth.

As he left the safety of the bridge, his foot coming down on the distant bank, howls tore into the air. They were too raw, too angry to be ordinary wolves.

He had no choice now. This was their territory. It was too dark to trust his eyes, so he closed them altogether, trusting instinct and magic to steer him straight. He breathed deeply. The foulness in the air was not still; it moved to its own rhythm, dancing like the wind, but against its currents. He tensed. The howls were growing closer now.

Exhaling suddenly, he broke into a sprint. His eyes were still closed, but the arcane craft woven into his task this night would not let him stumble. Tree roots and leaves made for an uneven surface, occasionally broken up by wide paving slabs; a remnant of whatever forest path had been laid here over a thousand years ago.

The wetness of the foliage underfoot made it difficult to keep a solid purchase on the ground, but every time he slipped it only added momentum to his sprint. With his goal so close the only thing which could make him fall would be if he tried to stop.

The hot huff of breath signaled the approach of the werewolves. With his scent so near, they would not waste breath on howling. The next thing he would hear from them would be his own screams as they tore into his back.

There was no more time. And yet, he had not reached his destination.

He dove to one side.

The werewolf crashed through the empty air a moment later, a slavering mass of rage and hunger. It struck a tree headfirst, and rage replaced hunger as its sole driving force. The beast tore at the trunk of the tree with its claws, letting out a scream of fury, before turning back to the chase.

But that one moment was enough.

He opened his eyes again, feeling the guiding tug of ambient magic around him rise to a crescendo.

A yew tree stood before him, standing somewhat apart from all the surrounding trees. The earth at its base was dark and oily. The trees nearest to the yew were all sickly and deformed.

This was what he had come here for.

Ignoring the werewolf which was even now catching up, he drew a wooden dagger out from the inside pocket of his robes. Carved from mistletoe and enchanted on a moonless night, he had carried it for a year and a day until the magic within had matured.

The runes drawn alongside the blade began to glow, and then a sharp, acrid scent filled the air as the markings ruptured into blue fire. He drew the dagger up high, and then forced it into the trunk of the yew tree.

The bark split like the skin of an overripe fruit, sending rancid sap spurting outwards. He ignored the sting as it ate away at the exposed flesh of his hand, and pulled the dagger in a long line across the circumference of the trunk. The same blue fire burst out wherever the dagger's blade went, drawing an incandescent ring around the tree.

At the sight of the unnatural flames, the werewolf vanished into the trees.

When the circle was complete, the flames roared higher, sending spots flashing before his eyes. Sparks shot out from the tree, and the putrid, oily sap hissed as it burned. The furthest branches of the nearest tree were in the path of the flame, but it passed through them as if they were immaterial, burning only the yew.

Over time, the flames calmed, retreating back down to the original circle with only dead wood left behind. Eventually there was just a narrow band of blue light encircling the tree like a slender chain.

"The root of the wand is the tree," he murmured, tones heavy with the cadence of ritual. "And the root of the wizard is the wand."

He reached back into the pocket of his robes, and pulled out the broken halves of a wand. A red-gold phoenix feather could be seen from between splinters of holly. He placed them reverently at the foot of the yew, and then stepped back.

"First," said Harry Potter. "I took your wand. And then I'm going to take your magic. And then I'm going to take your life." He looked up at the sky. Smoke coiled languidly in the sky above him, blocking out all the light of the stars.

Chapter One

The mushroom, smooth and corpulent, lay on its side at the bottom of the basket. It was the last one, as big as a baby's head and almost the same colour, for all that it appeared to have been caved in on one side.

Harry picked it up, and sniffed deeply. A sweet pine aroma filled his nostrils, and as he breathed the colours of the world began to deepen. The edges of reds and purples broaden and stretched into shades normally unseen.

And then he exhaled.

"That's disgusting," he said, dropping the mushroom back in the basket.

A filthy hand darted out of the shadows, snatching the basket back. The skin was mottled with red and grey, every bit of it covered in that unclean marbling save for the green swell of a boil where the thumb and forefinger met.

"Fresh, that is!" screeched the figure lurking on the other side of the counter. It wore a heavy cloak with the hood pulled up over its head despite the awning overhead casting half the street into shadow. In the depths of the stall two un-candles burned away what was left of the light.

"You promised it was picked fresh by a hag," accused Harry. "It should have turned rancid the moment her hands touched it. Where are the blue scales, the shimmer-rot, the toxic spores? What could I possibly do without any toxic spores?"

The creature shrieked, startling nearby patrons of the other stalls set up in the impromptu market of Knockturn Alley. An unshaven man nearby with several missing teeth shivered, and pulled his cloak closer around himself despite the summer sun overhead.

"I picked it, I did!" the creature said. "Fresh two nights gone! Scrabbled through thorns and muck!" It hissed through its teeth, stepping forwards to lean over the countertop.

Harry sighed.

"Yeah, but you're not a hag. You're just a very ugly woman."

She swiped a hand under the counter, fingers curled inwards like a claw, and then pulled out a short, stubby twig of a wand which looked as if she'd made it herself. The tip of the wand flared with red light.

Harry's hair rustled in a momentary breeze, and then settled back down.

"See, you're just proving my point. What kind of self-respecting hag uses a wand?" he asked rhetorically. She gestured with the wand again, cursing loudly as she did so, and once more nothing happened.

"I'll give you a hint," said Harry. "The Disarming Charm works best on somebody who is actually armed."

The hooded woman spat in his face, cutting him off. He blinked, and brought a hand up to touch his cheek. It came away covered in a thick, sticky mucus. His skin began to itch where it had landed.

Harry looked at his fingers. They were beginning to swell, his fingertips already having changed to a desiccated umber colour.

"Ah," he said faintly. "Maybe just half of a very ugly woman. Could I trouble you to introduce me to your mother?"

A little while later, Harry had successfully navigated the winding streets to the address marked down for him on a scrap of parchment by the reluctant woman. He found himself on a terrace of narrow Victorian townhouse looked much like any other on the street, but every window was decorated with wide-bottomed flower boxes. Ivy ran up the face of the house on a loose trellis, covering almost half its surface in greenery. Chipped pots of painted-leaf begonias stood at either side of the doorstep.

Dusk was just beginning to fall, and the orange hues of street lights only added to the colours of sunset.

Behind the flowers, Harry could see the whitewashed silhouette of heavy wooden shutters. He checked the house number again. Three hundred and thirty-three. Three threes. This must be it. He crumpled up the piece of parchment he'd scrawled down the directions on, and absently dropped it on the floor.

As it fell, a gentle breeze picked up, pushing it along the street. As it moved across the pavement a crisp packet was caught in its wake and pulled along. A metre or so later, a cigarette butt joined them, circling in a gentle orbit of the parchment.

By the time they reached the end of the street some gum had unsealed itself from the paving stones to join the litter together into a sticky ball. It impacted against the outside of a black rubbish bag which lay at the foot of an overfilled green bin, and it stuck fast to it. This whole time, the breeze had never risen above the height of Harry's ankles.

He raised his hand, and knocked upon the door three times.

The door cracked open. The smell of fresh bread baking and warm spices - cinnamon and nutmeg - flooded out into the street.

"Oh! My Tulip mentioned that you might be stopping by," exclaimed a woman from inside. Her voice had a rich West Country burr to it. She tugged on the door, but the latch chain pulled tight, and it caught with a heavy thud. The woman clucked her tongue, and pushed the door back closed again. "Hold on a moment, love, where's that catch gotten to?"

The door clicked shut, and then again as the woman hauled the door open. Illuminated by the door, she had a stout frame topped with brown curls which were only just beginning to fade to gray at the roots. Her skin was creased the the laughter lines of somebody who like to smile, but not with the wrinkles which came with age.

"Well isn't that lovely of our Tulip, sending gentlemen callers to her dear old mother. Such a pretty girl should be keeping them all to herself. Don't just stand there," she said, tutting in mock disapproval. "Come in, come in!"

She dusted her hands on the least frilly part of her apron, cleaning off just part of the flour which clung to them, and grabbed hold of Harry's arm. The flour felt as coarse and gritty against his bare skin as if she was wearing sandpaper gloves.

All of the furniture was lovingly made from wood and gleamed with fresh polish. Harry couldn't see a spot of dust on any surface, but there were scuffs and spots of wear on all the furniture, showing heavy signs of use despite their cleanliness.

There was a single pair of shoes tucked underneath the cabinet at the door, and a single black umbrella leaning beside it.

"I confess, Mrs Guinevere" said Harry slowly, allowing her to lead him to a seat at the kitchen table. "You're not at all what I was expecting."

The kitchen was open and brightly lit. The table was a square large enough to seat three on every side, and partially covered by a pristine white cloth. Incandescent bulbs sat in sconces on every wall, lighting the room brighter than Knockturn Alley had been even in the middle of the day.

"Was that girl of mine telling stories again?" She laughed loudly, her voice both clear and delighted.

"Not at all," said Harry. "I may have made a few assumptions on my own."

"Now, then. Let's us clear some of them up for you, shall we?" She put her hands on her hips, giving Harry a stern look. "I'm to be called Gwen, not Mrs Guinevere."

Harry smiled, and nodded in agreement.

"And my name is Harry, if your daughter didn't mention that as well." He paused, and held up the paper bag which he'd been carrying around. "I know a guest is supposed to bring wine," he said apologetically. "But I brought tea from my garden instead."

Gwen snatched it quickly out of his hand.

"Oh how lovely!" she cried. "I always have the kettle ready for a good cup, don't you know. Here, take one of my biscuits," she said, shoving a large copper bowl across the table to him. It looked to have been a fruit bowl, once, repurposed to a gigantic heap of treats. "You have as many of these as you like, love, and I'll take care of the tea."

Harry picked a biscuit from the top of the pile. It was wide and fat, nearly the size of an open hand and as thick as the meat of his thumb. He turned it over, inspecting both sides. The dark shapes of chocolate drops could just about be seen hidden under the surface.

The kettle must have been boiled recently, because it was only a moment later that Gwen set down a steaming mug in front of him. She cupped hers in both hands, and lifted it level with her chin, breathing deeply.

"Go on, then," she urged. "Try a biscuit."

"Alright," agreed Harry. "I will so long as you try my tea."

She nodded her head in agreement and made a soft noise of amusement, holding the cup to her lips.

Harry took a bite. The outside was crunchy almost to the point of being hard, but on the inside his teeth closed on something softer which swelled and burst when he put pressure on it, sending a spurt of tangy liquid into his mouth. He swallowed, and licked the crumbs from his lips.

"Is this oatmeal and raisin?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He leaned forward and whispered. "That's actually my favourite."

Gwen placed her mug back down on the table, its contents untouched.

Something wriggled between Harry's fingertips. He looked down out of reflex.

It was not a biscuit.

Seven legs waved furiously in the air around a fat, hairy body. The spider squirmed in an attempt to free itself, but could get no purchase in the air to move out of Harry's suddenly tightening grip. He let it go, and as soon as it struck the ground it scuttled away, unhindered by its missing leg or even the bite taken out of its abdomen.

The bowl writhed with a dozen more, each the size of a human fist, and as he gazed at it Harry saw that none of the sconces on the walls were lit; the spiders were illuminated only by a sputtering candle in the centre of the table.

"Do you think you can trick a hag with poison?" hissed Gwen. Her face was unchanged in shape, but her expression had taken on a sallow cast, pulling the lines of her face into a cruel mockery of a smile.

She stood up, and took three steps to the kitchen counter where a block of knives lay. Her fingers danced across the handles, and she chanted aloud in a sing-song voice.

"Eenie, meenie, miney, and…" she reached up, away from the kitchen knives to where a tarnished meat cleaver hung from a hook. "..and mo," she finished, crooning at the knife as if she was cradling a child.

"I could smell that vile concoction before a drop passed my lips, wizard," she said, taking eager steps towards him.

Harry cleared his throat when she was just a pace away.

"Well," he said. "I'm not a wizard."

Gwen snorted in derision, and motioned to lift the cleaver above her head. She let out another laugh, this time shrill and painful to hear, but then flinched suddenly. She coughed. Even wrapped around the handle of the cleaver, her fingers began to shake uncontrollably.

It struck the tiles with a deafening clang.

"And," continued Harry. "This poison is supposed to be inhaled."

The hag screamed as Harry tugged on the loose loop of cord he had draped around her neck, and then she stumbled forwards.

"I'll eat your eyes!" she shrieked. "The eyes of your children, and your children's children for a hundred generations!" She screamed again, even louder. A cat sitting atop a wall on the other end of the street vanished through an open window.

Although it was growing very late, there were still a few people walking past on the street outside. None of them looked at what was happening here, just outside Gwen's home. A few signs of the struggle left a trail behind them; the door scuffed and jammed ajar with her umbrella, and one of her begonias lay on its side in the remnants of a smashed pot.

Harry yanked on the cord. The hag fell to the ground, landing heavily on her knees.

She wailed pitifully, clawing at the cord. Although it was only a few strands of thread loosely woven together, it would not break. Gwen's wails continued for a little time, and then she lunged forwards to clutch at the coat of another woman as she passed by.

The other woman absently stepped to one side, not even turning her head to acknowledge Gwen, and walked on without breaking her stride.

"They can't see you," said Harry. "Get up. We're not going far, but I'd rather not drag you all the way."

"Your children's eyes!" said Gwen with another wail, but she stood up nonetheless.

Only a few minutes of walking later, and they were in a park sparsely filled with trees. An asphalt path cut a winding ribbon across the centre of the park. The path was the only lit part of this park.

Harry stepped off the path, Gwen following wordlessly in his footsteps. His lips moved slightly as he counted the trees he passed.

"Here we are," he said quietly to himself. "Twelve trees in, ten paces across." He turned his head, casting about in the shadows until he spotted three trees standing close together. One of the trees had branches hanging low with growths of mistletoe. "And here we are, at the junction of oak, and elm, and mistletoe." As he said the name of each tree, he touched its trunk.

He sat down on the ground, motioning for Gwen to do the same, and took out a drawstring bag.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked. "I bought it from your daughter. Bloatwort mushrooms."

Harry upended the bag, tipping out a fine black powder onto his palm.

"I don't object to her pretending a real hag picked them to add some silver to the price. None of the shopkeepers in Knockturn have ever told a customer the whole truth." He placed his hand, palm down, onto the earth in front of him, pressing the black dust into the ground. "But I needed real hagbloat."

Harry leaned forwards and blew gently on the mushroom spores he'd collected earlier from the useless bloatwort caps. They swelled up in uneven lumps, a blue-green discolouration spreading across the surface as the mushrooms grew. Within seconds, there was a patch of a dozen mushrooms lying in the crook of the tree roots, each one bigger than Harry's closed fist.

"I don't know if you've realised which poison I used yet," Harry said, his mouth twisting upwards into something which wasn't quite a smile. "I'll give you a hint. The key ingredient for the antidote is growing right in front of you."

He stood suddenly, and shoved Gwen forwards with the sole of his foot pressed onto her back.

"Go on," he said. "Pick up your cure."

The next day Harry found himself in one of England's quintessentially grim market towns, in a store as devoid of personality as the shoppers within. Fluorescent tubes sputtered over a display stand of pot pourri which stretched from the Back to School racks of blazers to the shelves of panini presses. Shoppers carried baskets around the store with one hand with their children in the other.

One particularly snotty child was wiping a bogey onto a stack of neatly folded tablecloths. When nobody was looking, Harry gave him a kick.

The store was crowded enough that nobody even turned to look at the child's sudden yelp, and Harry slipped further into the aisles of kitchenware.

Right at the back of the store, a section of wall opened into a nook the size of a cupboard. It had been partitioned off by a small length of red rope, and a brass plaque was fixed to the wall beside it. On the other side of the rope lay a crumbling well made of old stone, covered in a canopy of red tiles. Only a few were missing, but almost all were scuffed and chipped.

The Humberton Wishing Well - 1467

Found on this site during a planned expansion of Dalton & Francis Ltd, this wishing well is thought to date back to when the Dalton Department Store was still a functioning mill. To preserve the architectural heritage of our family-run business, we've decided to keep this little piece of history open for everyone to see!

Please don't throw anything in the well!

Harry glanced over the plate, fighting off a laugh as he read the last line. He unhooked the rope and squeezed into the nook beside the well.

He reached up his sleeve, fingers scrabbling for purchase until he found a knot, and then began to unwind a long, thin piece of homemade cord; the same one he'd used to bind the hag Gwen only a day before. Around his neck he had a similar looking cord, but this one was much smaller - just the length of a single loop around his neck. A weathered rock hung against his breastbone from this crude necklace, the cord passing through a hole in its centre.

In a series of short, deft motions Harry fastened the two cords together until the rock was secured to the end of the longer piece, and gave it a few experimental swings in the air. He paused when he felt it move slightly, and re-tied the knots.

Once the rock was held fast in place, he leaned forwards over the open mouth of the well and dropped it down.

A faint metallic clink echoed back up the shaft.

"Hey!"

Harry looked out into the aisles. A staff member in a red polo shirt was walking up to him; a young woman with a nose stud and dark bags under her eyes. He yanked on the cord hard, pulling it hand over hand to bring it up faster.

"You can't be back there. What are you -" she paused as she came closer, taking in the scene in front of her. She snorted with a burst of repressed laughter. "Are you fishing?" she asked, voice high with incredulity.

With one final tug, Harry pulled his rock back up, catching it one-handed. Mottled coins, tarnished green and black, adhered to its surface. He plucked two off, and swept the rest back into the well with a brush of his fingers.

One of the coins disappeared into Harry's pocket. He flicked the other towards the girl, and she snatched it out of the air.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked.

"I'm grateful that you're such a cheap bribe," said Harry dryly, picking crumbs of tortilla chips off the surface of the table and flicking them back onto the plate.

"Oh please," said Natalie. "I wouldn't have grassed you up anyway. I skipped lunch today, though. So, nachos."

Harry knew her name was Natalie because it was emblazoned on a name tag pinned to the ugly cardigan which made up half of the store's uniform, together with a red polo shirt. She had tossed it on the table as soon as they had taken their seats.. It had a faint dusting of nacho crumbs.

"You sure you don't want any?" she asked him. "You did buy them, after all." She ran a hand through her hair. Her hair had been cropped closely on one side of her head, making a prominent display of yellow appear where nacho debris caught on the shorter patch.

"No," replied Harry. "I can't say that this is the kind of food I usually make." He prodded at a lump on the plate where two squares of cheese singles had melted into one another, the seam covered by grey beef mince.

"What, are you a vegetarian or something?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Harry paused.

"Or something. I suppose I only eat meat when it's a full moon," he said.

"So," said Natalie, leaning forwards. "Are you going to tell me why you were fishing for old-timey small change in the back of the shop?"

"I needed a wish," said Harry. He took out the old coin he'd pocketed earlier, and spun it on the tabletop. It was bent out of shape, and had barely been a passable attempt at a circle beforehand, so it careened wildly on its side for a moment and then fell over. Harry frowned at it. "A shooting star would have been best. They gather up the wishes of everyone who sees them as they pass through the stratosphere and compress them tight together. You can get thousands of wishes in a rock this size of your fist."

He set the coin spinning again. This time it fell over even faster, and he grimaced once more.

"It's a right bastard finding where the rock fell, though," he said.

Natalie snorted, eyes bright with mirth. The corners of her lips tugged upwards as she struggled to keep a serious expression.

"So there's a wish in this old penny?" she asked. "Is just one wish enough?"

Harry nodded.

"It's just a token," he said. "Even the single smallest wish in the world would do. In fact," he said, pausing to squint closer at the patina of grime on the disc of metal lying on the tabletop. "This is probably the pettiest wish I've ever seen."

"Well you can't say that and not follow through," urged Natalie. "What's the wish for?

"This coin was thrown by a man who married a muggle. He wished that the Statute of Secrecy would be lifted so he could tell his wife who he really was."

Natalie blinked in confusion.

"What's the Statute of Secrecy?" she asked.

"It's a law. You're going to help me break it. Magic is real."

"You still haven't shown me any magic tricks!" complained Natalie, only a couple of hours later.

They had moved to a local pub after she had finished her plate of nachos, and a number of empty pint glasses covered the tabletop. Harry drummed his fingers on the surface, regretting it only a moment later when his fingertips were caught in a smear of something unknowable and sticky.

"I told you," he said. "I'm not some two-bit charlatan with a deck of cards up my sleeve."

"Oh, I'm onto you, Potter. Do you think you're the first person to try making my clothes disappear by offering to show me the art of prestidigitation?" She snorted back a laugh, and took a long pull from her drink.

She swung her leg, tapping her knee against Harry's thigh meaningfully.

"I could be into it," she said. "But pull a coin out of a girl's ear or something, would you?."

Harry laughed, and then began to stand, gathering up some of their glasses.

"Alright," he said. "One more drink, and then we can find somewhere suitable for me to show you a piece of my magic."

Natalie slid the dregs of her pint across to him. Harry juggled the other glasses into the crook of his elbow, and managed to grasp the final glass between his thumb and forefinger. He paused for a moment, one leg still trapped between the table and the bench he'd been sitting on.

"What was it you ordered, again?" he asked.

"Doom Bar," she replied. Harry nodded, and managed to twist his leg out from the table without dropping any of the glasses.

"Isn't that auspicious?" he muttered to himself as he walked away.

Almost an hour had passed by the time they finally left the pub. Harry had suggested that they take a walk to clear their heads, and so they had strolled down towards the harbourside.

It was only early evening, but there were few other pedestrians on the street. The illuminated signs of shops and bars were just beginning to stand out prominently in the dimmer light. Over towards the waterfront, where lights were less frequent, an orange glow could be seen behind the thin curtains of several houseboats.

Natalie crossed the cobbles to the very edge of the water, held back only by a low rope half a foot from the ground, strung between metal posts which had been painted black. She stared out over the water for a long moment, with Harry close behind her.

Their conversation had tapered off, and now they were just quietly enjoying one another's company. Hesitantly, Harry reached forwards, placing a hand on her upper arm.

At the touch, Natalie spun around wearing a mischievous grin, and pulled Harry forwards into a kiss.

Her lips lingered on Harry's for a long moment. He savoured it for a short amount of time, and then placed a hand on her sternum. He could feel her heartbeat quicken under his palm. She moved a fraction away, letting out a started gasp.

"Was that your card?" she whispered, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"No."

Harry shoved her away, putting enough force behind the movement that she fell backwards over the narrow lip of the walkway. The back of her ankle caught against a low-lying metal bollard, but it wasn't enough to halt her fall.

She tumbled down towards the murky water. It rose up to meet her, a shape forming out of the water. The indistinct outline of a head appeared first, rising higher above a long body dripping with fronds of green and purple kelp. The water which made up the head coalesced into teeth like glaciers in miniature which closed around Natalie.

The creature dove, dragging her down beneath the surface. Bubbles flared from within the water for only a moment, and then an unnatural calm stilled all motion from within. The moon moved out from behind a cloud, and briefly Harry could see clear through to the silt base of the harbour.

There was nothing there.