Evie glanced back as the new guy stumbled in—shaggy black hair, round-rimmed glasses, staff clutched like he wasn’t sure whether to fight or trip over it. She blinked, did a double take, and for the barest heartbeat the corner of her mouth twitched.[sub][color=#697DFF]“Holy shit! Harry Potter?”[/color][/sub] she almost muttered, but the thought died quick. Nobody here would get it. The joke curdled before it reached her lips, leaving only that coin-sized ache of remembering a world gone.

Then the mage’s voice rolled over them, thick with sorrow, and the air itself pressed like wet stone against her chest. Evie faltered, the head of her bat sinking into the water like a brace to keep her upright. Roscoe whined sharply, paws skittering against the slick floor as he shoved his body against her hip. The weight of him was solid, grounding, but the mist was everywhere, dragging her down into the marrow of memory.

Marcus. The folded letter. Body unrecoverable, presumed dead. Her throat locked. Her eyes burned. She could hear herself screaming again in that sterile office, swearing she’d get him back, even if it meant ripping through every regulation in her path. And Roscoe—the Army’s stamp on his papers. Weapon. Disposable. She’d nearly lost him too.

Her vision blurred. The chamber shuddered. And when the shards of water screamed out of the mist, Evie yelped, instinct seizing her body. The bat clattered from her hand, forgotten. She dropped, arms cinching around Roscoe’s thick neck, curling into him like she could make herself a shield. Roscoe growled deep, teeth bared, his mismatched eyes never leaving the mage. But he stayed pressed to her, a wall of fur and muscle and loyalty.