“Hello!” A boy wearing a long fake beard, a pointed hat, and a sparkly muumuu waved from the stage, microphone in hand and a stuffed bird on his shoulder. “I see we have another Death Eater! Put your entry money in the Goblet of Fire and pick a team!”

Esther looked down at her T-shirt in confusion. The skull and snake logo was that of a band called Victuals, who had a reputation for throwing rubber snakes into the crowd during the chorus of their cult hit “Snake-rifice.”

Death Eaters, goblets . . . She took another look around the room, at the scarves and broomsticks and cloaks and preponderance of people in round glasses.

This was not Rock Night. It was Harry Potter Quiz Night.

It was Ed Gemmell’s fault. Tapping someone on the shoulder while they’re getting money out is never a good idea.

Still, Daisy was profuse in her apologies as she followed the map on her phone to Late-Night Pool Club. After her fiftieth variation of “Sorry,” Daisy switched to reassuring. “You’ll be able to breathe in a minute—a chop to the windpipe is more about shock than damage.”

Ed Gemmell gave a small, nervous nod and pointed along the road before miming a very strange dance.

“Ooh, are you going swimming, too?” Daisy gave the small record bag he was carrying a doubtful look. Hopefully the fancy leisure center that the Pool Club used would offer their patrons towels. Walking along, Daisy wondered aloud about what to expect. Was this going to be competitive? Or perhaps it would be like one of those parties with inflatables? That would explain why the meeting was being held so late . . .

All the while, Ed Gemmell made frantic flapping gestures that betrayed a very poor technique.

The leisure club was so exclusive that there wasn’t any of the usual ostentatious glass, just a set of plain black doors under a backlit sign indicating the entrance to The Club.

“Two for the pool, please,” Daisy said. The man behind the desk was an unorthodox but effective advertisement for whatever personal training was on offer, since he looked as if he regularly ground bones to dust. “And can you tell me where the changing rooms are?”

“Change is through there.”

Concluding that despite his Yorkshire accent, English must not be his first language, Daisy thought better of correcting him and pushed open the double doors.

At which point it became abundantly clear that it was Daisy who’d gotten things wrong.