Her brows narrowed as she looked at Skeeter—well, the strange facsimile of Skeeter that stood before her now. Where was his malice? His snideness? Merlin, she could practically see the love in his eyes. This was not the Barney Skeeter that she knew and loathed.

One by one, the gears in the auror’s head ground slowly into place as the puzzle began to paint a picture of what must have happened. It was, as far as the witch could see, the only logical explanation, though how in the hell it had happened, Maeve could not yet say. The why, too, was equally troubling—who the fuck would play a joke so cruel?!

“Skeeter, come to your senses,” she spoke softly—a feat, given how badly she wanted to rage against someone right now. He was now a victim of a crime, and though Maeve hated him, she would treat him as such. At least, until he returned to his right mind. “We’ve been dosed with a love potion, Amortentia, likely as not. Come now, surely you must see it?”

If he didn’t, well, maybe a slap upside the head could do the trick.