Ever since Lily taught James how to drive, he’s been borrowing her car and insists on driving me everywhere. Often, I question the sanity of the person who gave him a driver’s permit; then I remember the existence of confounding charms, and sigh.

“Y’know, Moony,” James says, a maniacal glint on his hazel eyes as he narrowly avoids hitting a Ford Anglia, “We should form a band when this is all over. The four of us.”

“What?”

James ignores me. “It’ll be called—”

“A lot of things,” I say, leaning back on the passenger’s seat. “Mostly by angry audiences."