On Tuesday morning, Marlowe slowed down as he approached Benson's office on his way in. This time, he was expecting to be stopped, and sure enough, when Benson caught sight of Marlowe standing there, he said, "Morning Mr. Finnegan."

"Morning," Marlowe returned.

"Why don't you come in a minute. We can catch up about Sunday."

So Marlowe, who had had plenty of time to anticipate this but still didn't feel ready, stepped inside and sat down in the same seat he had occupied only a week ago. His heart was beating rather quickly.

"Tell me," he said, "how do you feel like you did?"

Marlowe swallowed. He hated questions like these. It was like being in school again and the teacher asking if you thought you'd done alright before showing you the mediocre grade on your essay.

"I think," Marlowe began. His mouth felt very dry. "I think I did okay. I was able to kind of forget about everything else and focus on the match and that was the one big goal I'd had. To just not get too in my head."

Benson stayed quiet, waiting for Marlowe to go on.

"But I didn't feel as strong as usual. My shoulder was really bugging me and I think you could probably tell. I know I can do better than that."

"I think that's an accurate assessment," said Benson.

He paused, considering Marlowe.

"I wasn't unhappy with your performance," he said. "I thought you did alright as well. And you went ahead and did it, even though we could all tell you weren't feeling top notch. I appreciate that dedication. What I'd like to know is how we can help you to be at your best, even on those days where you aren't feeling all that great. I'd like you to feel confident stepping in on any given day, but I need to know how we can support you so that's really possible. We obviously don't want to do anything that's going to take too great a toll on your body, but I'd also like to start testing you more. I see something in you and I want to push it. I want to see what you can really do."

Marlowe had not expected the conversation to go this way. He had thought they would discuss the match in great detail, picking apart each of his plays and critiquing it. Perhaps they still would, too. It was what he had done with Shep Porter, the coach who usually worked with the beaters and keepers after the other two times he had played.

"I don't-" Marlowe said. "I don't really know. I guess... I just need to figure out how I can feel stronger. I felt like... on Sunday, I felt like I didn't have as much power as usual, but if I pushed myself to be where I usually am, it hurt and the more I did that, the less I'd be able to keep it up. I don't know if it's figuring out how to pace myself, or building up my strength so I can keep it up or... I don't know. I have a lot of trouble with my joints around that time of the month."

It felt very vulnerable to be saying all this. He had rarely opened up to anyone except Caiti and his mum about what the full moon and the days around it were really like for him.

"We'll have to set something up with the healers. See if they can evaluate anything and maybe make some suggestions."

"That would be helpful," said Marlowe.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Better than Sunday," said Marlowe. "A little sore still."

"Mention that to Shep, will you? He might be able to pick up on something you do to compensate when you're tired or sore. We can work on how to perfect your technique so you get the most power without overexerting yourself."

"Okay," said Marlowe. "Yeah. I'll ask."

His heart rate was starting to slow down.

"You're a good player," Benson said, sitting back. "You've got a future if we can learn how to deal with this together."

Marlowe left the office a few minutes later feeling so grateful he was almost flushed.

—-

Caiti had read enough about transfiguration in the past two weeks to have taken over for Professor Westwick, she was pretty sure. She had now made it through eleven books, but her stack was still sizable and the thought of opening the twelfth made her want to throw them all out the window, which she would not do only because they were checked out under Evelyn's name and that would probably risk her job.

Instead, Caiti lay on her back on the office sofa with her arms over her face, hoping some brilliant idea would fall into her brain.

It was very bright in the room, late morning sun streaming through the window. Caiti opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling and it was as she did so that something hit her. It was possibly a very stupid idea, but then, maybe not. Maybe it would work.

Caiti sat up. She looked at the table, currently strewn with library books, looked at her three cauldrons lined up on the shelf.

She cleared the table off, stacked all the books back on the desk, pulled her out her pewter cauldron, and looked around for something she could use for a little experiment, but there was nothing she didn't need. Outside, she collected a number of twigs and brought them back in, scattering them on the table.

This was probably stupid, but it was better than wasting another day reading books she barely understood.

She opened her notebook, dated the corner, and then started water boiling in the cauldron. While it was heating up, she went into the greenhouse, selected one petal from her sun violets, and brought them it back with her, then she dropped the petal into the cauldron, gave it a few stirs, and waited until she could smell a light floral scent wafting out of the cauldron. When she'd mixed the sun violet petals with other ingredients, it had always turned bubblegum pink, but on its own, the water turned a sunny yellow, the same shade as the petals themselves.

Caiti considered mixing it with something else. Potions were never just one ingredient after all. But she was so curious what would happen, she decided not to. Not just yet anyway. She could always add something in after a little while.

For now, she gave the cauldron a few more stirs and then scooped up a bit of liquid, sprinkling a few drops on top of one of the twigs she'd collected.

Nothing happened, but she hadn't expected it to.

Caiti pulled out her wand. She held it aloft over the stick and she held her breath and she sent up a silent prayer that this would do what she wanted it to do, which was to not do anything.

She tried a simple spell to turn the twig into a spoon.

All evidence of the wood melted away and in its place was a shiny silver spoon. Caiti sighed and sat back in her chair, biting her lower lip. She'd hoped that by pouring some of the liquid onto the stick, it would resist transfiguration.

Of course, she hadn't really expected it to work just like that. If the sun violet was the key ingredient she thought it was, it would probably be in combination with everything else that it would work. Still, it would have been nice confirmation if it had just cooperated.

Everything she did felt like a dead end.

—-

That evening, she and Marlowe sat in the glassed-in porch on the back of her house. The windows were open and Caiti was back to her books, apparently hoping to come across some sliver of information that would make things click into place.

Marlowe sat in a large cushy patio chair beside her with a small stack of letters he'd received that week. He got a kind letter here and there from a Chudley Cannons fan, but he didn't usually play enough to be on anyone's radar. This week though, having played in the last two matches, he'd gotten a small stack that HR had deemed worth passing on.

They'd offered to just have him sign a photo and they'd duplicate it as much as needed, but Marlowe felt bad about that. It didn't feel very genuine, and given his circumstances, he felt he should be a little more appreciative towards anyone who supported him in any way.

He'd written brief responses to half a dozen letters already and had just opened another. The handwriting looked like it was from a kid which made him smile.

Dear Mr. Finnegan,

Marlowe had to laugh at that. He'd only been called Mr. Finnegan by professors and usually only when they were disappointed in his antics, as in Would you care to share whatever is so funny with the class, Mr. Finnegan?

He started to read again.

Dear Mr. Finnegan,

My name is Jack and I'm eight. My mum showed me a thing about you in a magazine cause you are a werewolf and now so am I. I think it's really cool that you're still a quidditch player.

Love,

Jack

Marlowe's heart stopped. An eight year old. He wanted to say something to Caiti but he couldn't find his voice.

He looked at the envelope, noticed a second piece of paper inside, and pulled it out. This one was clearly written by an adult.

There was no salutation at the beginning of this one.

My son Jack was bit by a werewolf last weekend. He's eight years old and we'll be spending the remainder of the month at St. Mungo's while he recovers. I don't think he really understands what's happened to him. If I try to talk to him about it, he gets scared, but then he goes back to pretending he doesn't know what's going on. He will say he's a werewolf now, but he won't talk about that means. I don't know how to explain to him what's coming. We are so relieved he is okay, but struggling with how to move forward.

When I saw an article about you listed on the cover of Quidditch Weekly in the waiting room the other day, I brought it and read it to him and now you are all he talks about. We've found every article we could about you. I want to thank you for being open about what happened to you. I think you've provided a lot of hope to a little boy who is scared and confused and maybe in denial. Knowing you are out there means a lot to him. I hope you don't mind he wanted to write you this letter.

Leona Martin

"Marlowe?" Caiti asked. He looked at her. She was sitting up now, eyes on him with her brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"

Marlowe still couldn't speak. He just got up so he could sit beside her and handed her the letters. He didn't watch while she read. He stared out the window instead. His brain had stalled.

"Oh my god," Caiti whispered.

With no warning, Marlowe started to cry.

He'd never cried in front of Caiti before. Just his mum.

As soon as Caiti realized, she wrapped her arms around him tight. It was a safe hug. He put his own arms around her low back, but just loosely.

"He's eight," he managed to say.

"And you were seventeen," said Caiti gently.

"Almost eighteen," Marlowe sniffed.

"That doesn't make it any better."

Marlowe tried to take a deep breath. How could this happen to a kid? His whole life he'd have to deal with the stuff Marlowe was dealing with as an adult. He'd have to go to Hogwarts and deal with the stuff the other kids would say. And the pain Marlowe was seemingly constantly battling. How would an eight year old cope with that?

Caiti held on to him for entire minutes without saying anything. Finally, Marlowe started to let go of her, hands sliding from her sides. He sniffed, blinked a bunch of times, brushed under his cheek with the back of his hand and looked up at the ceiling.

"I have to write him back," Marlowe said. "I have to say something that will help, but what am I supposed to say?"

Caiti pulled her knees up to her chest, rested her chin on top, and stayed quiet for a while.

"I don't think you should write back," she said.

"Caiti, I have to. I can't just pretend I never saw that. It's a kid. He's eight."

"That's not what I'm saying," she said.

Marlowe stared at her.

"I think you should go see him. At St. Mungo's."

Marlowe's heart started pounding at the very thought. If he didn't know what to say in a letter, how would he know what to say in real life? "I can't do that," he said. "They probably wouldn't let me in anyway. I'm a stranger."

"So do it through the team," Caiti said. "Have them set it up for you. You could bring him a Chudley Cannons blanket or something."

Marlowe put his hands behind his head, folded his elbows around his face.

"Just think about it," Caiti said quietly.

Marlowe could only nod.

—-

The following morning, Marlowe sat at the kitchen table with his parents. Elliot was rarely awake before Marlowe left for work these days. He was really taking advantage of being on summer break.

His dad was reading an article in the Daily Prophet and his mum was scrolling her phone, coffee in one hand. Marlowe picked at the eggs he'd just made. He couldn't stop thinking about that kid. All night long he'd laid awake thinking about the letter. Caiti had offered to stay with him, and he had been tempted, but he felt like he needed time by himself to think. Processing this was proving difficult.

"Mum," he said.

She looked up at him.

"I got this letter yesterday. From an eight year old kid." He swallowed. "He's in the hospital 'cause..."

But Marlowe couldn't say it. The thought was still too horrifying.

"Oh gosh," his mum said, and he thought she probably knew what he meant anyway. She reached out and put a hand on forearm. His dad was looking at them now, too.

"Caiti says I should go there and see him."

"Well, she's absolutely right."

Marlowe rolled his lips together. He'd been afraid she might say that.

"I'll go with you if you want," she added.

Marlowe thought this over for a few seconds. He took a deep breath. "That might help."