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CHAPTER 10: The Gorgon
Birka, Sweden
A Fortnight Past
August the 3rd
"It's a bit odd, idn't it? Seeing werewolves out when the moon isn't full." Ron Weasley, a nervous though fun–loving child, had learned over the years to repress or deflect his fear through irony. While certainly not as savvy as his entrepreneurial brothers, Ron was nonetheless the wittiest among the new Aurors.
Professor McGonagall took note of the observation—one that she and Shacklebolt had discussed previously. As a personal favor, Shacklebolt had requested of the lauded professor her expert appraisal of the newly–christened Aurors. Without formal N.E.W.T. exams, there was much the Ministry still didn't know about Harry's abilities, beyond the protection of his mother and his proven courage against Voldemort. "Yes, Mr. Weasley. It is odd indeed. What can you surmise from this, Harry?"
Harry cleared his throat and attempted a clear, focused voice in the presence of the massacred creatures splayed across ancient megaliths. "The werewolves must have been turned magically, Professor."
"Right you are, Mr. Potter." McGonagall said without a hint of partiality in her voice. "I do not know of a method of doing this in such large numbers. Mr. Longbottom, what does your herbological training tell you?"
Neville was already standing over one of the corpses, taking samples for later examination. "Rigor mortis has already set in and past. This is consistent with the report we received in London. This happened about three days ago."
Heloise Güring interrupted, "Professor, I obliviated the few locals who keep up the property, and the area has been protected magically from muggle observers."
McGonagall smiled briefly in Heloise's direction, never taking her eyes off Neville. "Thank you, Frau Güring. I'm sure you've been quite thorough in your preparation, and we appreciate your assistance. Minister Shacklebolt and Dekan Christiansen have been friends a long time now. We are happy to oblige Herr Christiansen's request, given all that is happening at Durmstrang these days."
Harry turned to Heloise, "How is the investigation at Durmstrang going?"
"The plot against the Dekan and his dosenter remains unsolved. Many recent graduates and even a few upperclassmen have been implicated. Several of the students and alumni most interested in the Dark Arts have gone missing. It's been a growing problem."
Neville raised his voice over the discussion, "Professor, you're gonna want to come see this."
"What is it, Mr. Longbottom?" asked McGonagall as she briskly walked over to the cadaver Neville had been studying.
"This werewolf has no blood in it. Something bled the thing dry to the bone."
"Vampires?" asked a half–smirking Ron. Neville silently rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure why Ron was out here except that he had been Harry's best mate in school. Neville had spent the last six years researching herbology under the supervision of McGonagall. It pained him to see others acting informally around his respectable master.
"Not this far north," reassured Heloise.
"Let's not rule anything out just yet," chided McGonagall. "But your point is well taken." McGonagall stared off into the lake in the distance. "There are many magical creatures in the north."
"Shh! What's that noise?" asked Harry as he turned his head and put out his hands.
"What?" asked Ron, oblivious to the fiendfyre spell roiling its way toward he and Heloise.
Harry looked up when he detected a slight change in the moonlight on the ground. "Ron, look out!" Ron dodged forward to knock Heloise out of the way, but he was a moment too late. The two wizards would have been hit directly by the fiendfyre, if it weren't for McGonagall's quick thinking.
"Aqua Eructo!" cried McGonagall. Huge waterspouts out of Lake Mälaren suddenly reached out like giant tendrils, gripping and hammering back the fiendfyre travelling over the land toward the party of wizards and witches. The lake water took most of the damage, but both Ron and Heloise sustained second–degree burns. Just then, a small army of Drow descended on the Aurors, firing their rifles and swinging their machetes high in the air.
"Stupefy! Stupefy!" Harry cried, as bullets flew past him.
A scalded, shaking Ron took aim of the red–robed conjurer who had cast the fiendfyre spell. "Deprimo!" The laughing dark wizard began to choke as his ribcage compressed in on itself, crushing his internal organs. His accomplice threw him to the ground and began administering counter–spells. Ron was not deterred and began to advance while Neville, Harry, and Heloise were attacking the Drow.
This will be a hard–won fight, but one the Aurors are equal to, thought McGonagall, when out of the water came what could only be a Gorgon. The Drow cheered as the mighty serpentine creature rose out of the water and began to move toward the Aurors. McGonagall knew this would be the end of the battle—that they would all doubtless share the same fate as the werewolves here. The eructo spell must have alerted the Gorgon to their presence. McGonagall knew what had to be done. She turned to Neville. Quietly she intoned, "You're in charge here, Neville. Find the truth and report back to Shacklebolt." And with that, she raised her hand and her wand to direct the water–encased fiendfyre toward the Gorgon. The Gorgon laughed a deep, menacing chuckle, for the Gorgon did not know what was coming next. McGonagall was not sending the fiendfyre at the Gorgon—that would have had no effect. Instead, McGonagall took hold of the roiling fiendfyre ball and, leaning back for a moment's momentum, she fired both herself and the fiendfyre into the Gorgon in a massive cloud of white smoke as a missile might descend into a large green tank.
The thunderous clash of gorgon, fiendfyre, and master wizard produced a violent explosion of water, air, and flame. The gorgon subsumed the fiendfyre as soon as it reached her. Though exquisitely painful, the fiendfyre could not kill her. As the two wrestled underwater, McGonagall did her best to drag the gorgon to the bottom of the lakebed.
The gorgon continued to claw and wrestle with the witch, the two writhing and wriggling as they continued to descend into the darkness. McGonagall had worked her way behind the gorgon, holding the gorgon's arms up as she stood on the creature's back. The snakes along the gorgon's head were not active underwater, and nestled benignly against the gorgon's skull. Their surroundings were becoming increasingly dark. McGonagall wasn't sure how long she could survive underwater after the first few minutes of descent.
Underneath the fighting pair, seven water nixies could be seen swimming up and toward the gorgon. McGonagall attempted to yell toward them and exhausted the last of her breath doing so. The nixies were expert swimmers and shot toward the gorgon with amazing precision and speed. They took the gorgon by the limbs and swam with great ferocity toward the bottom of the lake. As McGonagall drifted into unconsciousness, she could hear the distant banshee lamenting her fall.
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