Written for the Quidditch League, prompt was: scared (forbidden: scared) Seeker for Wigtown Wanderers.
Mary sat at her table in the library, her quill scratching away at the parchment with a ferocity only managed through a desperate desire to finish the essay on time. Sixth year work was proving a lot more difficult that Mary had anticipated. She shivered, but did her best to ignore the icy tendrils of the winter that surrounded her. She would have to head back to her dormitory soon; curfew was crawling up to greet her, but she still had time. Even so, the moon was glowing ethereal through the oriel window and the candle flickering softly in front of her was barely enough to see by. She finished the sentence she was writing, concluding her paragraph on the importance of the Cornish Pixies during the Goblin Rebellions, and admitted defeat.
Placing her quill down and pushing her frizzy red curls from her freckled face, she sighed. The expulsion echoed around the room, bouncing back from the ceiling and along the aisles. Mary realised how deathly quiet it had become and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The librarian was still sat at her desk, cataloging new arrivals, but she didn't seem to notice even Mary's presence.
She began to gather her things, hastily shoving them into her bag, thinking she perhaps should have stayed to work in the common room alongside Lily. The harsh scrape of the wooden chair against the stone wall made Mary wince. The librarian looked up and cleared her throat.
"Sorry," Mary said, noticing the dryness of her mouth.
As she began to make her way out of the library, she could not shake the feeling that there was something, someone watching her. Mary McDonald, she thought to herself, stop letting your imagination run away with you. There are no monsters, this is School, and you're a Gryffindor.
She took a deep breath in and angled her head a little higher before pushing the door and stepping out into the corridor. At the same time, she pulled her wand out, holding it high as the best line of defence she knew. She was marching as quickly as she could, knowing the Gryffindor Common Room wasn't too far away, but it was still a few minutes' walk. Her footsteps echoed around the corridor as if to remind her how wholly alone she was. She turned the corner and headed towards the stairs, down a hallway lined with bright tapestries and suits of armour. The torches shone bright but danced in the draft, sending black gauntlets and cuirasses swirling across the limestone, as if Mary had just stumbled into the middle of a glorious battle. The hollow steel plates took on a new, menacing quality as Mary looked at them, as if they had a sentience she had disregarded until now.
She was halfway down the long corridor when she heard it. Hidden in the echoes, between her footfalls, a second set of the regular thuds of shoes on stone. She ground to a halt, aware for the first time that she wasn't imagining monsters in the dark. She was not alone.
Both sets of footsteps faded into silence as movement ceased. Mary tried to calm her breathing and slow her pulse as her ears strained for the slightest sound - anything that might give a clue. Where were they? Who were they? She glanced around the space, pointing her wand this way and that, ready to attack at the hint of a sight of a person. It was no use; there didn't seem to be anyone there.
Reluctantly, she began to walk again, looking around the corridor for a hint of a shadow. The second set of feet were heard again, matching the rhythm of her walk. The echo created by the stone walls, the oriel windows and the arcading combined to create an acoustic devoid of direction. The footsteps did not seem to be in front of her or behind her - they were surrounding her.
They grew louder as she neared the end of the corridor. As Mary quickened her pace, so did her elusive companion. The draught felt stronger by the stairwell and the torches were pulsating and flickering with a greater ferociousness. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears like a clock, counting down the half-seconds as if to tell her of how her thoughts were racing. Her breath came ragged and short.
As she neared the end of the corridor, she felt certain that her assailant was behind her, right behind her, and was close enough to touch her. Her Gryffindor courage in her heart as her wand was in her hand. She halted suddenly, spinning around to face them.
She stared at the empty space, fear and annoyance rising up in equal measure. When she felt the thin tip of a wand press into her back, her blood ran cold.
"Is the Mudblood afraid?" came a voice thick with arrogance and derision. She recognised the voice instantly. Mulciber, a Slytherin, and an enemy of hers since her very first year. A cold sweat broke out over Mary's palms. She wanted to spin around and face him, look into his cold blue eyes and laugh at him. She knew that nothing she did now would make her situation any worse. She may already be dead.
"Obstringa," he spoke, and her throat began to constrict, tightening against her control. She heard his laughter while her fingernails clawed and scratched at her own throat, attempting to loosen the bindings that were not there. Her breath began to leave her, her thoughts clouded and her sight blurred. She knew she was close to falling into the blackness attempting to claim her. As she felt her muscles give up the weight of her body, a blissful freefall to the floor, the spell was suddenly lifted. She drew in a gasping, ragged breath before sleep claimed her as its own.