Michael was trying very, very hard to keep his breathing steady. One hand clutched the strap of his bag, the other made a fist around one of the flyers. He’d pulled it from its place on the wall, and he couldn’t fucking believe it. Frankly, he didn’t know what to think: that this year’s DA was braver than he’d thought, or goddamn morons trying to get themselves killed. But he knew at least one person responsible.

Michael stepped through the door into the Ravenclaw common room, and his gaze zeroed in on Anthony. Warring thoughts pushed and pulled at him like a rip tide. The best he could do was set the flyer down firmly in front of his best friend and bloody try to keep his voice steady.

“We need to talk.” The paper was face up on the table, Michael’s palm placed neatly over the dangerous words.