This was not quite sailing with her father. This had, however, like many a sailing trip with her father, been a spontaneous decision, taking a boat out in Hogsmeade. Porphyria had had enough bad experiences in Padmore Park to be suspicious of the thought, but it was a fine morning, blue-skied and calm and deserted, and so she had rowed out - without magic; she hadn't wanted to lose her wand in the lake - past the lazy inlet in the park, out further and further, towards the widest part of the Black Lake, to a place where she had a splendid view of the castle across it, standing vacant and silent for the summer.

Her gaze was currently turned up toward the skies, having been sprawled on her back on the boat's little wooden seat, using a book of poetry as a pillow, her feet kicked up over one side. She may have been dozing a little, because she had not noticed the oar loosened from its lock, and now floating off halfway to the bank. Nor had she noticed, yet, that the boat's stern was gradually dipping lower and lower in the water, lakewater seeping into the bottom through a worn hole in the boards.

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