October 30th 1993. Outskirts of Edinburgh.


It was the night before Samhain on the Spectre Estate, and most of the clan were gathered in the drawing room - flames blazing wildly in the fireplace and Wireless static plaguing the background. Nobody had thought to change wavelengths, they were too occupied with the commotion between Balfour and his father. William Spectre grabbed the young wizard by the arm as the rest of the family back away in an instant, forming a circle around the wizards. Heads of auburn and red, of gold and dirt, turning in concern to the centre of attention.

"Tonight? Of all nights you want to do this tonight?" he growled, blonde mane looking particularly untamed above the blunt features of his haggard face. They looked nothing alike in their anger. His son was all sharpness and acute anger, softened only by his youth and curls. He was hardly a year out of Hogwarts. Balfour grabbed the arm back with surprising vehemence.

It made him bristle to be touched. "I'm going, I'm leaving now." He took a step back, nearly stumbling right into an armchair occupied by their gaping Aunt Prudence, but managing to navigate it in reverse. "You can't stop me."

"The hell you are!" William advanced a step only to stop abruptly - his wife's hand had landed gently on his shoulder, sterner in its silence than any word spoken. Instead, jabbing a finger towards the great windows, he glared at Balfour. "Listen here, you're going to bloody kill yourself out there if yo--"

But his son was two steps ahead, ready to deliver a line that had been fifteen years brewing inside his gangly frame. "Why in Fenrir's name do you even care?" he took another step back and drew himself together. "You can go bed another pureblood, can't you?"

An instant silence. Nobody could quite describe the look of shock on William's face, who'd never heard a single complaint of his infidelity from the child that it had borne - who'd accepted his lot meekly. They hadn't even known there was a line to be crossed. Stood on the edge of the crowd of family members, Nathaira stared at her brother. "Balfour!"

His grandfather was apart from the gathering, lingering at the archway leading out of the drawing room. He quietly watched his grandson turn to leave. Balfour stopped before him, gazes meeting across the generations between them, identical in intensity. Balthair seeing himself in the recklessness of youth and the determination that had kept him alive long enough to see this very moment at least.

"Seanair." The young man offered by way of farewell - and then he was gone, pushing past the older wizard tersely, while they all pretended not to see the frustrated tears building in his eyes. Balfour didn't look back: he was bent on never coming back to what had been home all his life.


Knox shot after him just as resolute, disregarding the cries from her parents to leave it be. She crossed the entrance hall in long steps, caught the main doors before they slammed shut and followed Balfour out into the cold air of the night. They were small figures against the sprawling background of the nighttime countryside. Starlight was scarce and the woods were dark in the distance, looming like a reminder of what was waiting for them out there in the wider world.

"Balfour!" she yelled and he stopped. Looked around, breathing hard, cheeks wet.

"Honestly!" Knox went right up to him, grabbing him by his boney shoulders. "Wait. Wait here. I'm going to grab your things for you. You're not even dressed to leave. For heaven's sake don't go anywhere." He swallowed as he nodded at her, mouth dry of words. She kissed his cheek quickly before going right back into the manor.

Balfour waited. He breathed, slowly, calming down as he considered the vast Spectre home from the outside and realised concretely what it would mean to turn his back from their familiar stone walls. Would he ever come back? If he did, it might be years. He'd never sleep in his bed again, or spend lazy afternoons building fires in the drawing room. No more evenings in father's parlour, taking tea and listening to Quidditch over the Wireless. No helping his mother air out the room over Easter, rolling up thick rugs to hang outside as the bairns scrubbed the floors by hand. Not even the late nights that they used to sneak out and listen to the portraits telling ghost stories from centuries past. All of it behind him. Perhaps even if he stayed - never again those sweet, golden moments.

Every good memory hurt him. Keenly. Balfour laid a hand against his chest and felt for the steady heartbeat. There was something out there in the world: a siren call. Perhaps whatever lay beyond it was worth never seeing this again.