Someone had tried to poison him, of that he was convinced — and Arven was resolutely not a conspiracy theorist. He left that to witches who insisted there were ghouls in the Ministry and amortentia in the tap water. He tried to forget about it as he took some fresh air along East Founders Way by the forest’s edge, tucking his hands into the pockets of his longcoat despite the golden sun as it hit high noon above the treeline. Arven had survived the trials and ills of the world, but a drop of something in his firewhisky had landed him at St Mungo’s.

He felt better now, improved under the care of the healers, but he still felt uncharacteristically dour. He felt… mortal.

Just then, Arven was hit by a bleak wave of dizziness and reached swiftly for the shoulder of a passer-by, thoughtlessly grappling for support.