Great work, Tyb: he’d arrived at his quidditch match and forgotten his broom. Or maybe it wasn’t a quidditch match – but a one-on-one race, because there was a coach there giving them instructions, and Tyb wasn’t listening because he was frantically looking for a stray tree branch to levitate – and then he’d forgotten the broom racing competition entirely because he’d found himself bitten by angry bowtruckles and there were more and more of them, like a tide of giant ants, until they were hanging off him in hordes, and he couldn’t shake them off his limbs fast enough and if you could believe it, someone was standing a few paces away, just watching –

Tybalt rolled over in his sleep, feeling like the bed had doubled in size. There was some kind of light or movement in the room, but it must just be Hallie the kitten on a night-wandering, because it was the middle of the night, his body would know it if he didn’t. The moment of half-awakeness had magically dispersed the bowtruckles, though, so Tybalt’s head sank back into the pillow, happily braced for a more relaxing dream, and the only evidence of consciousness he gave was a mumbled “Sshh, Hallie, we’re sleeping,” in case the cat thought to come in and wake up Elsie.

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