Frank Longbottom stood to one side of the Auror Training Center's main room, stretching and listening to McKenna Johnston talking. She'd gone on a particularly awful date the night before with a muggle man that was, as she put it, "threepence short of a shilling". McKenna sighed heavily as she got to the end of a long winded description of the entire evening, "And so I just fell into my bed and tried like hell to sleep but my brain would simply not shut off, whatever I tried, so I'm tired as bloody hell today! And of course its our first day with this training."

Frank nodded, "Well the bloke sounds like a tosser anyway, you're better off knowing it up front and not years from now, when you're stuck in some relationship you're not happy in, yeah?"

"It's just so difficult, dating," McKenna replied. "You're so lucky you found Alice in school. You avoided all this rubbish."

Frank nodded, "I know."

McKenna was about to reply back when the doors of the training room banged open and Mr. Underhill entered, magically towing along several life size fighting dummies that he sent levitating about the room so they seemed to be standing like actual men. He cleared his throat and the aurors lining the walls of the large room turned to pay attention, stopping their various forms of stretches to prepare for the training session.

"Morning everybody," he muttered, voice amplified magically. There was a general mumbled reply back and he waved his wand at a large board at the front of the room, a bit of chalk running boldly across it. "All of you know what we are here for and why, the circumstances and who ordered this, so there's no reason for me to get into all of that. Instead, let's get right to business." He drew a deep breath.

"The incantation that we will be learning today and training for over the next week is an intense curse, created specifically for the purpose of this administration, and can only be cast by registered wands, preventing it from being unchecked and uncontrolled. When a trainee has shown sufficient understanding of the spell, his or her wand will be registered and any use of the spell will be traced by the Ministry and the use of the spell will automatically be followed up by a Ministry investigation." Underhill recited this as though he had memorized it, one hand in his trouser pocket as he paced nervously across the front of the room.

"The spell is legal only for the purpose of killing known criminals as labeled by the Ministry for Magic as kill on sight offenders. This is not something to be used in all self defensive situations, nor against just any criminals, even known Death Eaters. This curse is not intended to replace a fair trial. It is a killing curse - and just as heinous as the avada."

McKenna frowned, and Frank shifted uncomfortably.

"Not all of us in the Department feel that this curse is necessary - or even that it should be taught - but here we are." Underhill shrugged and the chalk clicked as it hit the eraser tray and it spun over magically for the aurors to see.

Mortesfinite.

He stood staring at the spell written out on the board, then turned 'round to face them again.

"This is a silently performed curse. Points will be taken away for speaking it out loud as well as for any movement of the lip while casting. You will not be registered as having completed this mandatory training until the spell can be performed satisfactorily without any outward indication of the magic being worked. This spell will remain confidential by penalty of the dementor's kiss."

Underhill waved a palm around the room. "The dummies you see floating about are the only things in the room that will accept the curse. In each dummie there is a sensor which will report if the magic was strong enough to take the life of the theoretical human being being executed."

He emphasized human being as he spoke, and Frank felt his stomach twist.

Underhill wasn't going to let them be desensitized to what the spell work was doing.

He wanted them to remember precisely the cost of using the magic they were being trained to perform: the life of a human being.

"Let us begin."

James Potter was not in attendance at the Auror Training Center - as Underhill's assistant, he was not technically an auror and therefore not under the clearance for the new killing curse. Besides that, it was a flight training day at Hogwarts and he had other places to be.

He sat, straddling his broom stick about five feet off the ground, waiting for the first years to assemble, a quaffle under one arm.

There was a commotion rising up by the broom shed, then, and James swept over to break it off. He found Angus Bulstrode at the center of the crowd of first years, his Gryffindor tie knotted around the tiny and largely ineffectual looking fist of Pyxis Black, whose grey eyes were glaring sharply into Angus's face, her lips curled in a sneer. Ciaran Greengrass stood a couple steps away, wand raised and aimed at Pyxis's back.

"OI!" James shouted, "Ciaran - wand. Down. NOW. Pyxis, you to!" James yelled and watched the wands hit the grass at their feet, and Angus's palms went up to show he didn't have his wand in his hands either as James landed and marched over. "What in Godric's name is going on?"

"Pyxis attacked Angus!" shouted Ciaran.

"I was provoked," Pyxis hissed, turning 'round quickly, defensive.

"Provoked my arse," snorted Angus, and Pyxis launched herself at Angus before James could catch her and her fist found it's mark in Angus Bulstrode's jaw.

Even being Head Boy, James had managed to never assign a detention but to only threaten to. So he felt a bit guilty, a bit like a traitor, when he lumbered up the stairs after the flying lesson had ended, and knocked on Minerva McGonagall's office door.

"Potter!" she said in surprise when she opened it to find him standing there.

James grinned, "Hullo Minnie."

She paused a moment, then said, "It certainly is a wee flashback seeing you at me door!"

James laughed. "Don't worry, you've not travelled back in time. There's only one me."

"And thank the heavens for that," she responded, though inwardly she thought the world could do a good deal worse than having multiple James in it. "Come in, come in," she directed, stepping back to allow him entry. "Tea, Potter? Biscuits?"

"Yes please," he replied, sinking into the chair by her desk.

Her kettle flew to the hook in the hearth as she sat across from him. "What is it that brings your shadow across my door, Mr. Potter?" Minnie asked, settling herself and reaching for the old tartan biscuit tin, which Sirius had once given her as a birthday gift. "I don't think in all of the years I have known you that you've visited me in my office without having received a detention."

James chuckled, leaning forward to take a couple biscuits, and he said, "Then you'll get a real kicker out of the fact that I'm here on account of having given a couple out."

McGonagall looked up at him, eye raised, as she drew the tin back and selected her own biscuits, the tea kettle sweeping over. Two cups came from the shelf of them along the wall - one was James Potter's own and the other was a pretty one with Scottish thistles. 

"You've still got my cup, Min?" James asked, smirking.

"I keep all of my favorite students cups," she said mildly, as though the statement was not as important as it really was.

James's smirk turned into a grin of appreciation.

"James Potter... handing out detentions!" McGonagall said, shaking her head. "And why, exactly, would you be doing such a thing? I should expect you'd find any marauding about the castle amusing, rather than problematic?" 

James shrugged, eyes glinting, "There's a difference between harmless jokes and bullying - at least that's the lesson I've learned over the years."

McGonagall sipped her tea. "What happened?" she asked.

"A few of my first year flying students went up in fisticuffs," James explained. "Pyxis Black, Angus Bulstrode and Cirian Greengrass."

"Ah yes," McGonagall's lips pinched with understanding, "I wish I could say I was surprised by this combination, but I've witnessed a bit of trouble among them myself..." She frowned. "Are... all of those involved... alright?" she asked, and she reached for the sugar, stirring in a bit more than she'd already done.

James replied, "Well, it seems Mr. Bulstrode was calling Miss. Black names and Miss. Black didn't want him to do that, so she threatened to hex him, which Mr. Greengrass then offered to be Mr. Bulstrode's second... and... well, no one offered to be second for Miss. Black."

Minnie stared very hard at her tea.

James chewed his biscuit, waiting.

"And how did you handle it, Mr. Potter?"

"Detention all around," replied James, "But --" He hesitated. "Who is Pyxis? I mean, in relation to - you know - our obvious members of the Black family that I would be interested in connecting the dots to?"

Minnie said, "Cousins only. Though closer to Sirius than Dora... Sirius's Great Uncle Marius was a squib. He had a son, Leo Phineas Black, also a squib, who married a muggle woman. Their daughter, Pyxis, is therefore a muggle-born member of the direct line of the House of Black."

James's eyebrows raised. He could imagine the implications of such a family history for Pyxis. 

"I spoke with Dumbledore about placing Miss. Black in a different house because of the trouble she was certain to face in Slytherin - especially from some of the elder students - but Dumbledore insisted that she be placed as the Sorting Hat chose for her. Now, it seems that she is not immune, even from other houses regardless," McGonagall sighed.

James nodded slowly.

"I shall certainly speak with the students in my house about this issue." McGonagall eyed James carefully, "However, it would not be the first time in which headstrong Gryffindor students bullied a less than fortunate Slytherin student."

James flushed and looked down into his tea cup.  Then he looked back up, "Doesn't make it right."

"I agree, Mr. Potter," McGonagall nodded. "You are among my favorite students, but that by no means made you immune to making poor decisions now and then while you were in school. No one is. It is what we do to make it up when we realize that we've done wrong. There are some who realize the error and they do little to correct it, and others who, seeing what evils they have done to others, strive to make it right in anyway possible, and encourage others with the lessons which they have learned." 

James nodded. Then, "I think it sounds like Pyxis needs a friend."

McGonagall nodded. "It does. Doesn't it, Mr. Potter?"

James was determined. He was sitting on the couch in the living room of the Potter house, legs crossed, balancing a book on his knees, brow tight in concentration. He moved his fingers, carefully trying to knot them into the different positions, sighing with exasperation with himself as he moved through the motions, the learning process frustrating and tedious to a young man used to learning quickly and naturally. He groaned loudly, throwing himself backward against the couch. "Muuuuuuuuuuuum," James's voice echoed through the living room. "Mummy!"

Dora's head propped 'round to look at him from the kitchen. "Jamesy?" she asked.

"I'm never going to learn this bloody sign language stuff," he said miserably.

Dora came out to the living room, rubbing her hands on her apron. Her gait was slow, James thought, watching her. Once, if he'd called her like that she would've been to his side before he ever could've explained what his matter was. Now, she shuffled a bit and her breathing strained even for the short walk across the room. When she reached the couch, she sat on the arm of it delicately, as though side-saddle on a horse, and ran her palm over his five o'clock shadowed chin and cheek comfortingly. "You will get it," she countered, "Because you're passionate for it and you care too much to fail."

James said, "It's just hard though, mum. My fingers don't want to bend in some of these ways."

"You're still learning, my dear. It will come easier the more you practice it. Just like any other skill does. The more you work at it, the better your coordination will be, the more practiced your muscles will become. The more natural the motions. Just like when you learned to play Quidditch. What if Oliver Kent was here and he said to you that it was too hard to learn Quidditch moves the way you're teaching him?"

"I'd tell him to keep learning."

"Well there you have it."

James laughed, "No, there I don't have it, rather. Quidditch is different, mum..."

"How?" Dora asked. She raised a brow.

"Because..." James shrugged, "It just is."

Dora shook her head, "I don't think it is. I think Quidditch would be harder for me." She reached for the book from his lap and looked it over, then looked at him. "Show me what you know so far," she requested.

James drew a deep breath, then said the letters as he spelled them with his fingers, "H - E - L L - O, S - A - R - A - H. No H - did I do that right the first time? H - H - H?" He did three variations of it and looked up at Dora questioningly.

Dora looked at the book, then slowly made the sign for H - two fingers, index and middle, straight and stacked.

James copied her motion. "H," he said again, "S - A - R - A - H."

Dora nodded, "So you can say hello to her in her own language. That is a very good start."

"Yeah but I should be way beyond that."

"Can you spell your name?"

James sighed. "J - A --" He swept his pinkie into a J, looping his fingers back into the A and paused, trying to remember the M. He frowned.

Dora held up her hand, doing the M sign.

James copied it. "M," he muttered,  then, "J - A - M - E - S."

Dora smiled, "There you are."

James sighed.

"Honey, you're trying and it can take years to learn something like this."

"I haven't got years to learn it, Mum, she's in my class now. And she deserves at least one teacher that knows how to speak the language. Sarah needs a friend." He paused, then sat up a bit more and looked up at Dora. "May I see the book again, mum?" 

"Of course..." she handed it over to him.

James fingers ran over the page - his free hand dragging across the sheet. "P - Y - X - I - S," he murmured, moving his fingers, stumbling a bit, and repeating it again.

"Pyxis?" Dora asked.

James said, without looking up, "I have an idea."

Dora ran her hand over his hair, smiling as she slid off the arm of the couch. "I see. Well, don't be too hard on yourself, my dear," and she bent down, kissing James's forehead, and then shuffling back to the kitchen, singing quietly as she went.