They are first sighted on the night after the final battle. Hogwarts' remaining professors oversee the clearing of the fields, assisting where they can with the covering of corpses. At one point, they insist that this is adult work, that the children have done their part. The faces that answer them are hard-lined and humorless, indistinguishable from those of their mentors. The matter settles when one sixth year blankets the face of her prefect: there are no children here.
So it is this mingling of familiar anguish and precocious bitterness that infuses the crowd; and it is this same cocktail draws the infantile creatures from the womb of the Forest. One precedes the hoard, stumbling out from the treeline like a newborn animal following after its mother. Merlin knows what the one saw, but driven by a specific hunger, it passes by the teachers that approach thinking it an injured child. Uninterested by fresh blood or living flesh, the tiny beast falls to its knees before an exposed body and howled as if gripped by inconsolable heartache.
It then proceeds to feed, biting the corpse's face, sobbing all the while.
Confused revulsion shudders through the onlookers. Then a primal understanding passes through them, asserting that it was doing necessary work. A few students turn away from it and continue with their business of conjuring sheets. They move quickly, feeling on some level that only the uncovered bodies were to be eaten.
There is a ritual to the feast. Within a few minutes, the creature obliterates the young man's face. Paltry conversation and spell casting accompany the sounds of wetness, ripping, chewing, and muffled crying. It moves down to the feet; once done there, it targets the hands, then the ankles; and alternating from top the bottom, it eventually dives into abdomen, peeling back skin to show a redness so deep as to disturb the thing itself and ending its
They take the shape of children when they eat. Appearing first hazy, even when in one's direct line of sight, the wraiths are more outlines of rabid, moaning grief until they set upon the bodies. As they consume the flesh of the casualties, their diminutive shades grow thicker and more resolute.
They are not unlike the realization of the finality of death and dying in that they eat away at one's concept of respectability: a soldier, however willing to serve and valiant in such service, cannot die an honorable death once swallowed and turned to shit.
A stunted wraith staggers from the misty deep of the wood and stares, empty-eyed, with its mouth stretched long in a parody of a scream. It is the smallest one yet, and the others fall in around it as it shambles toward the nearest naked face among the fallen. It devours the last body left exposed.
The rest of the students march en masse to Hogwarts' doors, seeking safety. Soon enough, a buffer of sheeted dead separates them, the living, from the hungry multitude. Professor McGonagall sifts through the castle-bound crowd, taking attendance, and notes blank expressions. No one raises an alarm as the last body disappears into the changeling's grubby maw; a few even seem glad to see their work done in such quick order. Soon enough, a buffer of sheeted dead separates them, the living, from the hungry.
Once inside, the worn fighters look around themselves at the charred skeleton of Hogwarts' interior; a tightness around their eyes remember fire and pain.
Yet still, some gaze out over the grounds. Whispers break out in the fringes when one Hufflepuff seventh year points to restless motion in the Whomping Willow. The tree itself shivers while the last, tiny wraith finishes its meal a hundred yards away. In time with the creature lifting its head from the viscera, the tree heaves its branches skyward. Then, with a great crashing, it pummels its trunk, and rocks with a force enough to disturb the earth.
Twigs snap and fly off in all directions. Its thunderous blows echo across the grounds, and Students gasp and cringe at the wildness of the display.
"Cor, would you look at that? The damned tree's gone mad!"
"Why now of all times? We could've used a bit of that aggression, hey? During the heat of battle?"
"Well, it's of no use stomping Death Eaters when it's carrying on against itself."
"Ron," Hermione says, grabbing him by his sleeve, "would you just look at it? It's absolutely raving."
He pulls his girlfriend closer, equally transfixed."Never seen a feral tree, that's for sure. Imagine climbing that."
"That's a broken neck, that is," Dean affirms off to the left. Several students murmur agreement. The tree below them spasms with a shuddering groan.
"Those things from the Forest figure different, then. The little one's having a go."
Hermione frowns at Seamus.
"What do you mean?"
Seamus nods at the Willow. She glimpses a speck of gray flesh navigating its fury. The flailing only intensifies as the creature clambers up its height with frightening agility. The tree, torn between attacking its trunk and its canopy, throws itself into a tantrum of twisting and creaking and shedding leaves; the ground beneath undulates with the heaving; finally, it relinquishes its hold on the Willow's roots, and the tree flings itself down the hill.
"Sweet Circe...i-it..."
Professor Sprout's breathy exclamation rebounds through the silence in the Great Hall; similarly, there is a sense of its unspoken conclusion.
It has...
Stunned disbelief passes over them as the Whomping Willow rolls over twice and sags into perfect stillness.
Between one beat of silence and the next, a wave of gray flesh overtakes the wreckage. Like with the human dead, the students watch as the Forest's children devours the body of the Whomping Willow. The tallest creatures throw itself on its roots; meanwhile, a corps of the smaller ones swarm the unguarded tunnel.
Remembering the remains still laying uncovered in the Shrieking Shack, Hermione shoves forward to gaze wide-eyed at the feeding frenzy. Sure enough, a few wraiths re-emerge from the tunnel entrance, streaked with gore. The last to emerge—again, the smallest—does so while gripping a length of black cloth. She squints and leans closer, pressing her nose against the glass. The tiny creature cloaks itself in the swath of torn robes. Its makeshift cowl is stiff and unyielding, and the thing takes on the appearance of a dismal monk.
Unoccupied wraiths wander back through the staggered rows of sheets with a new intent. It is obviously not by chance that the cloaked wraith leads the approach of its hoard up the castle grounds.
"They're coming," Hermione whispers, unaware of Ron's proximity. He looks down at them from the same window and grows inexplicably cold. If only through their featureless, round faces and juvenile limbs, the tiny vermin resemble the offspring of a recurring nightmare. If Dementors were ever young, he thinks, would they look a little like that?
"Attention, students! If you would be so kind as to move away from the windows." Professor McGonagall motions for silence with impatient flicks of her wand. It takes her clearing her throat to inspire action. The crowd moves in a frightened pack toward the center of the room, stepping over more bodies as they huddle together by the summoned tables.
"Do stay calm. Trust your professors and myself to handle the current situation, strange as it may seem. Please avoid any foolish curiosity that may suggest leaving the castle as being an advisable course of action. As you might understand, the Forest is unleashing its stranger horrors this evening and we've not the resources to combat them."
"Should we prepare ourselves to fight?" The students parrot their fears, both at the Headmistress and at each other. All save the core of Dumbledore's Army admits to having reached their limit for encounters near death.
"That stands as a marked possibility, Miss Patil, with Hogwarts' defenses such as they are. It is also possible that these things have no interest in the living. This is why we ask that you stay in this room until we resolve the issue at hand. Winky?"
A house elf appears with a soft 'pop'; she is immediately uncomfortable with the room's nervous attention. "Y-yes, Professor, ma'am?"
"Provide the students with rations and whatever else they require until the Ministry's arrival."
"As the Professor wishes," and she vanishes to the kitchens below.
Wringing her hands, Winky averts her eyes and dashes through the idle and whimpering kitchen staff. Large ears drooping and eyes brimming with tears, she relays the Headmistress' message to the head cook. This elf sits curled in their spot on the floor, wrinkled and draped in a singed, tasseled pillowcase; upon hearing the order, she opens a bleary eye and glares at the younger elf with unbridled disdain.
"No is food in the castle, stupid elf," she croaks, kicking out at Winky's spindly ankles. "No rations to feed the childrens with!"
Winky squeaks and flinches away from an otherwise feeble attack. "Winky can't say no to professors, Noona. We needs food for the little witches and wizards."
"What food?!" The elderly Noona slaps away Winky's pleading hands and returns to her place on the damp floor. "There is no food. Evil wizards burnt the stores. Hogwarts, she starves!"
Reanimated house elves take up the exclamation between bouts of sobbing, "There is no food! No food for the castle! She starves! She starves!"
"She starves! She starves!" Noona crawls forward and claws at Winky's bare feet, writing it into her skin. "No food for the childrens!"
The timid elf protects her face with both hands, crying into her palms, "Winky knows! W-winky couldn't refuse!"
Noona continues as if she hadn't spoken. "No foods in the pantries. No foods in the stores. No wizard-towns for wizard foods. All of it is smoke!"
Winky crouches down and wraps her stick-thin arms around her knees. "The castle," she sniffles, "she starves. She starves."
It is hours before the professors return with news from the Ministry. Minister Scrimgeour, with the whole of his prestige, orders that Hogwarts guard against either forced entry or forced exit. Aurors must first deal in the damage to the rest of the wizarding world; the apprehension of Dark wizards takes precedence. Once the men can be spared, the students Hogwarts can be interviewed and returned home. Until then, he asserts, they must all stay put.
When appraised of the situation with the child-like war wraiths, which now paw at Hogwarts' feet, the Minister speaks plainly."Consider the school under siege. Stay strong and protect its students at all costs."
"This isn't a crime scene, Rufus. It is hardly even a school, as it is a war zone. Please, allow me to send the students home to their families. Surely interviews can wait."
"Surely not, Minerva." Scrimgeour's face in the fireplace is worn but firm, with his stubborn drawn out in the coals. "We can't afford anymore random variables out among the public than absolutely necessary."
"'Random variables', indeed! These are children, Minister, not anarchists! We have no means of feeding them, nor any suitable accommodations for the night, much less for however long your Aurors plan on dawdling-"
"Well, whether or not your definition of 'dawdling' includes apprehending murderers-"
"You needn't teach me about 'apprehending murderers'-"
"-is your concern and not mine. As Minister of Magic, I am burdened with the well-being of the entirety of magical Britain, and it is my understanding that Hogwarts has never needed this administration's help with sorting out its rather peculiar emergencies. Now, while I do my job in securing the woeful balance of our society after this great triumph, I ask that you do your job, Headmistress, and if you meet with any other difficulties, I suggest you figure it out.
"The lock-down is only meant to hold for a short time until the Aurors can make the trip to Scotland. I can promise that this will happen within the week."
Minerva resists the urges inside of her, whether they be to scream or cry. She hisses her plea through clenched teeth.
"You are putting me in an impossible position."
The man in the fireplace appears grim and unamused. "This sounds suspiciously traitorous. Do tread lightly."
"I didn't watch children die in battle only to watch more die from neglect!"
"I have heard quite enough! I will visit the castle personally in three days. Trust and believe that if I find it empty, then every legal adult associated with this treason will be arrested and sent to Azkaban. Do not test me," and so the fire extinguishes, a curt dismissal.
It is hours before the professors return with news from the Ministry. Headmistress McGonagall, with the brunt of her austerity, orders that Hogwarts and all her students prepare for an exodus. Flanked on either side by the solemnity of her colleagues and lit by the birth-water gray of early dawn, she rings of finality. Without argument, the students gather what little remains of their possessions; and in place of friends—who now lay dead or devoured—they hug themselves to their memories of home.
Professors oversee the boarding of the Hogwarts Express; some can be seen swallowing their grief at the sight of the empty castle on the hill. In her barrenness, she appears static, voiceless. Like never before, she affects the impression of stone.
At noon that day, the train leaves Hogsmeade. By then, the wraiths set upon a place now fled of its soul. They eat stones as easily as wood or flesh; it is all bodies to them.
A tiny figure, cloaked in black, scales the walls of Gryffindor Tower. The Headmistress of nothing sighs upon seeing it, and it, the thing, it howls.
Only two days pass before Ministry officials arrive on castle grounds. A meager half of the Auror Corps progress in a diamond holding pattern, guarding Rufus Scrimgeour and two senior members of the Wizengamot. They are swollen with their borrowed power, blissfully unaware of their transient control. Likewise, they are ignorant of the fact that the land they survey has gone wild; that the school they are looking for will not now-nor ever again-materialize out of the mist.
After the wraiths have had their way, the only bodies left lay under sheets, strewn across the ruined grounds. Where the wind has thrown back their sheets, the wraiths gnaw on the uncovered faces. The Minister sputters with rage, thinking the scene a grotesque trick. His peers whiten considerably, and the Aurors swear, draw their wands, vomit or draw away from the savagery.
"What is this perversion?! That woman and her brood, to drudge up such disgusting imagery," he blusters and gestures to his guards. "Don't just stand there and quiver, you idiots! Undo this horrible illusion at once!"
Drawn to the noise after days of stillness, the war wraiths watch the figure of Rufus Scrimgeour. To them, he is a mess of color like most anything else living. In any other occasion, his colors like would repulse them, and they would seek nourishment elsewhere or return to their woods. However, the Minister of Magic maintains a special quality in that he—or she—functions as the face of a world. Superimposing his aura of life is the image of the body he personifies: colorless and starched with dried blood.
The corpse he identifies, abstract though it is, is no harder to devour than stones or wood or flesh.
As such, it is without much ceremony that the smallest of the wraiths approaches the Minister of Magic; and with little regard. The man reaches forward, meaning to wave it away like a tail of smoke.
To the surprise and horror of present company, the wraith opens its mouth and howls with detestable sorrow; and according to its mysterious nature, it eats, and eats, and eats.