Maybe it was supposed to happen.
The branches scratched at George's robes, but it was familiar. The pale sky was fading back into darkness.
George reckoned he heard centaur hooves. They were alright, the centaurs; always left him and Fred to their own...
George knelt down. Crying wouldn't help.
Anything was worth a shot.
He started to dig, bare-handed, face wet. Scraping at the base of the biggest tree, they'd squirreled everything in it as first years, so excited with everything, careless...
...and when his knuckle scraped the ring in the dirt, there was a flash of something just behind