1943, June the Fourteenth, 02:23:57 || Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mount Greylock, Massachusetts, USA
Blood dripping on the walls, splattering on the chandelier...
The silver whip, coiling, striking, snake-like...
Icy, sharp pain...
Screams and shrieks and wails and pleas that were not her own...
The glassy eyes of the dead staring blankly into space...
Lyra awoke screaming and thrashing, her voice already hoarse. Cold sweat trickled down her neck and back, and as she looked up in the near darkness, she could see Valkyr peering down at her, worried.
How fare thee, little one?
Valkyr helped her sit up as she drew gasping breaths and loosed her dark hair from its unraveling crown braid, smoothing the strands with shaky hands. Standing and brushing the hay from her clothing, she tucked the portal globe into her cloak pocket and walked to the curtain. After a moment's hesitation, she pushed it aside, walking out stealthily as Valkyr noiselessly padded behind. Lyra could hear the soft snores and breaths of the other riders and their dragons.
So her silencing charm had been strong.
Good.
The castle was quiet and peaceful, deathly so for the time being.
Lyra inhaled deeply, memorizing the fine scent of the castle she called home. She closed her eyes, seeing again the grandeur yet homeliness of the halls and corridors; the benevolence of the white marble statue of Isolt Sayre that they all called Mother; the sweet, bubbling, laughing Midas water that sang as it trickled and spraying from the fountains of the houses and turned what it touched to gold; the smiles of the students and teachers she had called her family; the feeling of magic as it coursed through her, uninhibited by a wand. She remembered the moats of dust floating through the library that smelled deliciously of parchment and ink and old books, rivaled in size only by the library at Hogwarts; the soft light that entered the Cathedral of Spirits from the stained glass windows; the richly colored banners of the houses that waved proudly in the wind during the Quodpot games and the Dragon Tournament and the cheers of her housemates as she lifted the emerald banner of House Horned Serpent.
Sometimes, Lyra wondered whether the castle knew things. When she reached out with her conscience to brush the walls, they seemed to hum with warmth, not unlike the folds in the mind of a living being. And though she heard no thoughts, the walls seemed to sing a beautiful melody that told of a story of love and revenge, pulsing magic and pride through her veins as she heard it.
Tonight, the walls were strangely silent, the castle seemingly dead. The Grecian fire in the chamber seemed to sputter, and Lyra shuddered with dread as she saw that one of the eternal flames had gone out. Then another one hissed and spat and died. She glanced out the archway...and froze.
The dragon keep, she recalled, was under a concealment charm, the doorway enchanted to appear as part of the stone wall of the keep to those who did not know of its existence. But there was a company's worth of cloaked men astride brooms outside the curtain, firing spells at the wards that protected the walls. Lyra's only consolation was that the curtain was similar to a one-way glass; she could see them, but they could not see her.
Dementors, she noted grimly as more torches began to flicker and go out. They must have used them to find us. Let's wake the others.
Agreed.
Lyra opened her mouth and let out her best imitation of a banshee wail just as Valkyr roared with all the might he had.
A few moments later:
"I'm up! I'm up! Jeez, dame will you shut it?" groaned Dae-seong from the stall on her right.
"Bloody buggerin' hell! I'll kill you sis!"
"TURN THAT RACKET OFF NOW! IT'S HORSEFEATHERIN' TWO-THIRTY IN THE MORNING!"
"Who's dying?" asked Rhianne, calmly striding out of her stall as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Lyra retired the use of her vocal chords and Valkyr crouched quietly. Looking Rhianne straight in the eyes, Lyra jerked her head toward the archway. Rhianne squinted as the last torch snapped out, leaving the chamber illuminated only by the moon and giving a clear view into the air beyond. Though pale in the moonlight, Rhianne went whiter than bleached bone.
Clearing her voice, Lyra commanded in a sharp tone, "Knights, assemble now."
She watched as Rhianne bowed her head in a salute and the other riders stumbled out of their stalls, their slightly irritated expressions going slack and ghostly with terror as they stood before her.
"Collect your things and prepare to depart. Aramis, Rhianne, wake the students and teachers, make sure they find a way to stay safe. Dae-seong, strengthen the wards and seal all entrances. Honoura, secure the dragon eggs. Take care not to be seen by the enemy; flee if you find yourself in danger. Otherwise, evacuate as soon as you have finished your tasks."
"And you, my lady?" asked Dae-seong.
"I will guard this archway and hold off the enemy as long as possible. If they breach the defenses and you hear fighting, you must leave at once. I will contact you as soon as I can. Now go forth, my knights. Remember that we are lights in the darkness."
Lyra watched the four rise and move with purpose as she turned to face the enemy, cracking her knuckles and rolling her neck. It was going to be a nasty fight.
1943, June the Fourteenth, 07:29:02 || Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Highlands, Scotland
An elderly man with shoulder-length white hair and a full beard stepped up to the eagle podium in the Great Hall. He smiled to the students sitting quietly at the four long tables.
"Students," he began somberly, "yesterday, a student by the name Myrtle Warren was found dead in the girl's first floor bathroom, following numerous attacks on students during the past month. Our hearts go out to her family in hopes to ease their grief.
"Justice has been served, however, and Ms. Warren's killer has been found. Her death, and the petrification of many other students, was due to an Acromantula." Much whispering broke out at this statement.
"Quiet!" The noise abruptly ceased. The man smirked slightly before clearing his throat and continuing.
"For finding the culprit and preventing the closure of Hogwarts, we are greatly indebted to Mr. Tom Riddle, Slytherin's fifth year prefect. Mr. Riddle, if you would please join me on stage." A slender boy with black hair and dark eyes rose from his seat at the Slytherin table, walking with grace and confidence toward the podium.
"Headmaster Dippet," he acknowledged, his pale, aristocratic features molded carefully into a sympathetic expression, though his eyes were cold and glinted of both irritation and triumph.
"The entire school thanks you, Tom, and it is with great pleasure that I present you with a 'Special Services to the School'," the headmaster said, smiling fondly toward the boy. Applause broke out from the entire school, cheers and hoots and whistles, as Dippet handed him a small silver trophy.
"Oh, it was my duty," said Tom, his cheeks flushing slightly with perceived modesty.
"Nevertheless, a great thing you have done!" Dippet exclaimed, clapping the boy's back. Tom nodded his head slightly. "Now students, breakfast is served!" The plates piled with food, and the chatter began as Tom strode back to his table.
Upon returning to his seat, he was accosted by a fawning Araminta Meliflua.
"Tom," she crooned, leaning over with the intent to place her hand on his arm. "You're so brave." He evaded her politely, instead flashing her a stunning smile and swirling his cloak as he sat on the mahogany bench.
"It was the least I could do, to save Hogwarts. Such a pity, the girl's death."
"Yes," sniffed the boy next to him, platinum blond hair slicked back and cold grey eyes looking down his pale, sharp visage. "But surely you must have noticed the attacked students and the dead girl: mudbloods, all of them. Hardly a waste of life, if you ask me; it would have been better indeed if all of the lot had died."
Tom's eyes flashed with anger, a startling ruby color filling his irises for a fleeting moment. "Do not insult my intelligence, Malfoy," he hissed. "And it is imprudent to speak thus in public."
The Malfoy heir blushed slightly. "Yes, of course, Tom."
"Vile, filthy creatures, those mudbloods and muggles," spat Araminta. "Of course, if I could have my way in the Ministry, muggle hunting would be a sport for purebloods—make no mistake of that, Abraxas. Those vermin have no purpose but to slave and serve us."
"My father does have connections," said the Malfoy. "But it is best to be subtle at times like this; there is strong opposition to Grindelwald in the Ministry. It would not do to make our support of his actions or beliefs public."
"Cheer up, Minty," said another fair-haired boy, grinning as he slid into the open seat next to Abraxas Malfoy, four more boys following him. "Grindelwald's gaining support all across Europe. It'll only be a matter of time before he takes over the Ministry and all those mudbloods and blood traitors will get their due." He turned to face Tom. "Congratulations, Riddle." The other four boys voiced similar salutations.
"Avery," Tom acknowledged the fair-haired boy who smiled gently. "Rosier," he said to the brown-haired one who grinned playfully. "Lestrange, Dolohov, Black." The last three—all tall, lean, and dark—smirked and nodded back with gravity and respectfulness in their demeanors. The five of them filled their plates and began conversation with the Malfoy heir, talking quietly as Araminta continued to lavish herself upon Tom. They paused briefly to acknowledge two more boys.
"Nott, Mulciber."
"Congratulations, Tom."
The boys sat, inclining their heads to the Slytherin prefect. Conversation resumed.
Without warning, a blazing heat scorched through the Great Hall, all noise grinding to an abrupt halt as the students looked about confusedly. A chilling coldness followed, and the sky outside went pitch black, as if the clock had suddenly struck midnight. The next moment, the darkness receded to a twilight, and the whole of the Great Hall turned their faces upwards, looking at the ceiling that was enchanted to look like the sky outside. A small figure seemed to be falling slowly towards them, and a dark, tumbling mass pursuing it before the sky went dark again.
1943, June the Fourteenth, 02:41:46 || Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mount Greylock, Massachusetts, USA
Lyra had been flinging wards toward the curtain, trying to hold the enemy off. Her limbs were now sore and she was growing tired, perspiring and drawing her breath in desperate pants. There was only so much she could do against the two hundred and twenty-seven could see the effect of her powerful magic, the floor near the curtain growing cracked and hot. The nightmares, the dehydration, the amount of energy it took for her to perform the magic—they all bore down on her, and she found herself seeing black for a brief moment.
But that brief moment of falter in her concentration was enough to give the men outside what they so desperately needed: a chance to break through the enchantments. Lyra was blasted across the chamber as she heard the explosion, dueling for her life as she prayed that her friends and family—all those at Ilvermorny who had given her something she could call a home—had reached safety. Together, she and Valkyr roared, fire spewing from their jaws and mixing with the tortured wails of men and the hissing of burning flesh.
Use the orb now! cried Valkyr.
Lyra summoned the orb, throwing it as she yelled, "HOGWARTS!" She saw the mist in the orb explode out, swirling in a riptide vortex, swirling and sucking and pulling her and Valkyr towards its center, like Charybdis drawing in a great gulp of water. She felt the curses hitting her, felt the searing pain in her limbs, felt the blood trickling down her stomach and her limbs giving way. She heard furious words roared at her, saw cold eyes glaring as a jet-black light soared toward her and struck her full force in the sternum.
"SANGUIRE RUT KARTALAS!"
Then she was falling through the air, the morning sun blinding her before Valkyr's wings spread and he was caught upward in a rush of air. Night followed his wings, the gentle touch of darkness embracing her. She was choking, her lungs burning with the need for air, as if she had been submerged into a deep pool. As the world began to fade, she saw Valkyr roar and dive for her, but she could not sense or feel him, her vision burning and obscured by blood, her nostrils and throat clogged by it, her ears filled with nothing but the screaming, thundering beat of her impossibly fast pulse, her dying conscience blank except for the word Anapneo that she chanted and held to like a fading lifeline as she clawed and clutched at her throat...
1943, June the Fourteenth, 07:43:22 || Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Highlands, Scotland
It took a moment for someone to notice. But not ten seconds had passed before all in the Great Hall saw the black blur approaching. Those who had seen death saw the thestral, plunging through the large window for the morning owl post; those who had not the black lump that the thestral carried on its back. The thestral landed, galloping straight for the head table, before stopping abruptly, dropping the lump on its back before the headmaster. It briefly nuzzled the lump, before turning it over and flying off.
Then the shouts and gasps began. The reactions of the professors would have been almost comical if not for the blanched looks of horror on their faces.
"Oh my Morgana!"
"Bloody hell!"
"Merlin's beard!"
There were thumps as some of the professors, notably a plump man who quite resembled a walrus and a shrewish man with grubby clothes and a small goatee, fell out of their chairs, nearly fainting from shock. The auburn-haired man sitting next to the headmaster stood so quickly that his chair collapsed with a loud bang, which he entirely disregarded. This fact alone sent the Great Hall into a new state of general confusion.
Indeed, it was both the first and the last time any of the students or professors would see Albus Dumbledore jump over the Head table.
The Transfiguration professor reached the thrashing black lump, squatting to pick up a small envelope. His already shocked face went several shades whiter, his blue eyes widening.
Another professor approached behind him, her black hair mostly streaked with grey.
"Albus?" she queried.
"Galatea," the professor rushed, "have Madam Celandine brought in, with her whole stock of blood-replenishing potions; tell her to owl St. Mungo's for their best healer immediately. Not a moment to lose."
The woman nodded, turning to a student and barking, "Fetch Madame Celandine! Get all of the blood replenishing potions. NOW!" After the student rushed out of the Great Hall, she turned back to the transfiguration professor, who was waving his wand frantically and muttering what sounded like every counter-curse he knew. The woman shuddered as she saw the lump more clearly. She was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but this was by far the most gruesome application of curses she had ever seen.
The lump took the form of a starved, dark-haired girl, whose limbs were bent and twisted at unnatural angles and spasming violently. Blood gurgled from every orifice, dripping from her eyes, running from her nose and ears, spurting from her mouth. Her chest was caved in, her ribs no doubt broken, and her features bloated in a grotesque distortion as pus ran from huge boils on her skin. Residual dark magic poured off of her in waves.
"Anapneo!" the DADA professor shouted, pointing her wand at the girl's throat. The professor winced as the girl's airway cleared and the coughing turned into shrill screams.
But the unintelligible shrieks abruptly faded as more blood gurgled from the girl's mouth and her twitching began to slow.
"ACCIO BLOOD-REPLENISHING POTION!" bellowed the Transfiguration professor, too rushed to see a woman rushing into the Great Hall. A large flask flew out of the woman's arms and towards the professor. He caught it deftly in his left hand, opting to break off the mouth of the flask instead of unscrewing the lid. Kneeling, he lifted the girl's head and forced nearly all of the potion down her gaping mouth. Again, he tried to remove the curses, this time with the joint effort of the infirmary matron, the DADA professor, the headmaster, and the now-recovered walrus man.
Time passed, the students murmured in confusion as they attempted to stand on the tables and see past the circle of professors. A man entered the hall, bearing the insignia and colors of St. Mungo's on his robes.
"Stand back!" he yelled, running towards them. He entered their circle, and stood frowning down at the shuddering girl, casting diagnostic spells at her. "Counter-curses wont work. I must use a runic spell. I'll need a circle of seven casters; we have five in the circle so we'll need two more." The small man with the goatee and a stern, bird-like woman flitted down to join them. The healer murmured among them for a few seconds, then they all stood straight, pointing their wands at the girl.
"On the count of three," said the healer, "one...two...THREE!"
"ESTIERREN NHA MORDEN!" the seven of them chanted, watching the blue heptagon form from their wands and settling like a blanket over the girl. The blood flow slowly began to stop, and the disfigurement of her features melted away, though they remained indistinguishable under the coating of her blood. The healer bent to heal her chest, the loud cracking of her rib cage regaining its structure eliciting winces from everyone in the immediate vicinity. She twitched and coughed, but did not regain consciousness. The healer produced a shrunken stretcher from his pocket, enlarging it. He levitated the girl gently onto it, noting that her breathing was still very shallow.
"Take her to the Hospital Wing," the healer told Madam Celandine. "She should recuperate fairly quickly, though her body and mind still need to recover from the blood loss and trauma. Do not hesitate to send her to St. Mungo's if she does not wake by the end of the day." He then strode out of the Great Hall.
"Poor dear," said Madam Celandine. She knelt, and running her wand along the girl's form, repeated, "Scourgify."
As the blood cleared off, the Madam got a small glimpse of the girl's face before the Transfiguration professor ran off, levitating the stretcher toward the hospital wing. It was a gaunt, pained, bruised face, a face that belonged to someone who had seen the epitome of suffering. The girl wasn't considered particularly pretty by the standards of the day, with her low cheekbones and narrow face. But the regal lines of her visage, only complemented by her heavy-set hooded eyes and the small, silvery, crescent scar on her left cheek, gave her a proud sort of beauty and an air of elegance and sophistication that many Hogwarts pureblood girls tried but failed to achieve.
As she walked back to the Hospital Wing, Madame Celandine wondered who the girl was, the roar of the students behind her reflecting her own bewildered state.
