Chapter 22: Toss a Wand to Your Witch, Oh Clearing of Unresolved Spats
"Black Pack, attack!" Black Jacob roared.
The party scattered as the sea of fangs and claws came crashing down. Elf Lord's riding outfit shredded apart as his muscles expanded. Ribbons of green-grey silk spiralled through the air like wisps of smoke. He pounded on his enormous chest like a gorilla and, bellowing, leapt into the fray, swinging his massive arms into the oncoming tide of werewolves. Juanita's white stallion reared, striking an approaching werewolf in the chest. Deanrice's hardy pony bit another on the nose.
Delores shrieked as Yuuma lurched forwards. She knotted her fingers in his mane as he galloped away from the surge of werewolves. The clearing became a blur as the horse prince evaded werewolves with characteristic equine grace, sharp nose flared with alarm and chestnut sides slick with sweat.
Defence Against the Dark Arts had not prepared Delores for the utter chaos of non-magical fighting. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to block out the noises: the tearing of fabric and, presumably, flesh, the yips and howls of bloodthirsty werewolves, her own ragged breathing as she clung for dear life to Yuuma's mane.
Her new friends, screaming.
Delores opened her eyes, guilt warring with fear and vertigo. She had to do something, but what?
You're a witch, for Harambe's sake. Work some magic! Spells, hexes, and jinxes rushed through her head. Nothing useful, nothing formidable.
"Delores!" Yuuma shouted, releasing her from her prison of panicked over-thinking.
A grey werewolf lunged for Yuuma's exposed throat. For an instant, time slowed to an ebb, every movement coated in transparent molasses. No time to think.
"Stelleus!" Delores screamed instinctively, with a savage jab of her wand.
For a nauseating second, nothing happened. Then, the grey werewolf staggered and wrinkled his scarred snout. "Ahhh... ahhh...
"CHOOOOOOOOOO!"
Yuuma tore away from the werewolf just in time. The resulting sneeze erupted out of his nose and mouth, throwing him violently backwards. Two of his allies became nothing more than furry bowling pins as the grey werewolf knocked them over with the power of a category four hurricane.
"That was close," Yuuma panted. "Thanks!"
Delores allowed herself a small smile. "No problem."
Feeling empowered, she sought out her next victim as Yuuma galloped across the clearing. A white werewolf circled Deanrice and his pony.
"Ebublio!" shouted Delores.
The white werewolf yelped as it suddenly found itself suspended inside a large bubble. The bubble slowly floated skywards. Deanrice whipped his head around wildly, searching for the source of the bubble. When he saw her, he offered her a grateful smile.
The following minutes felt more like hours, and passed in a bloody flurry of hooves and wind and claws. Fur, blood, and scraps of jorts and white tank-tops littered the Clearing of Unresolved Spats.
Delores frenziedly searched for her friends amid the fray. Elf Lord's majestic figure was unmistakable, even surrounded by a wall of enemies. He spun and knocked them aside. Garnette's pink skin sparkled as she aimed an excellent uppercut at a werewolf, who immediately lost consciousness on impact.
Delores heard Juanita before she saw her: laughing and taunting in equal measure. Self-defense was not an official course taught at Hogwarts, but students had arranged an amateur wrestling league in Delores's fifth year. Admittedly, she had only attended the matches to see Tom's muscles. The Lady of Summerstand fought better than any fifth year amateur wrestler – even better than Tom. Juanita and her sword performed a deadly dance, fluid as water and graceful as an eel. She was the surging tide, advancing and withdrawing with steel-sharp precision, leaving pain in her wake.
Delores watched Juanita swing her sword in a wide white arc, steel reflecting snow. Her opponent fell and curled into a miserable ball on the ground, whimpering and bleeding. Without silver, she couldn't kill them, but she could make them wish she could.
"Play dead," she heard her say. "Good dog!"
She's dangerous, Delores thought. Remind me never to cross her.
Suddenly, Yuuma neighed, and Delores found herself falling. The world spun around her as she was thrown from Yuuma's saddle. The ground approached with startling speed. Twisting at the last second, Delores wrapped her arms around her middle to protect Mr. Cuddlesworth, who was still tucked inside the front of her coat.
Landing hard on her back, Delores saw stars as the impact rattled her skull. She lay on the ground in a daze, breathing raggedly and staring up at the pale expanse of wintry sky above her head. The sounds of battle faded, seeming far, far away.
"Are you okay, Mr. Cuddlesworth?" she heard herself whisper, disturbed by the windless air of her own voice.
Mr. Cuddlesworth's white head, followed by his body, emerged from her coat. His tail was spiked with alarm and his ears were flat against his head. She shuddered gratefully – her beloved cat was safe.
He licked her face worriedly. "Meow? Meow, meow?"
"I'm okay," she assured him breathlessly. Her body protested as she pressed her palms against the cold, hard ground in a weak attempt to prop herself up.
Yuuma. Is Yuuma okay?
Fear for his safety won the battle against the pain her body was experiencing. Sitting in the snow, she twisted left and right, searching for Yuuma. Her spine spasmed with pain with her every movement. "Yuuma?"
No response. Anxiety lapped at her gut. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's –
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a brown form slowly rising from a snowdrift. She nearly sobbed with relief as Yuuma gingerly raised his horse neck and turned his human face towards her.
"I'm fine!" Delores cried out. She gave him a thumbs-up to further illustrate her fineness. He nodded before his attention was rudely stolen by a werewolf.
Uncurling her fingers, she frowned. Her wand. It must have flown from her hand as she fell. She felt around blindly in the surrounding snow until her hand made contact with a familiar stick. Wiping snow off it with her sleeve, she smiled gratefully. It wasn't broken. Thank Harambe
A growl. She looked at her cat. His green eyes were the size of saucers and his fur was so puffed up that he resembled a small cloud.
"What is it?" she asked warily.
Mr. Cuddlesworth growled again – no, not again. In that moment, Delores realized that the second growl she heard had not come from her cat at all. Panic replacing pain, she whipped around.
Black Jacob, lips peeled back and teeth stained red – with the blood of her friends, or perhaps Kool-Aid.
Delores shuffled backwards in the snow. "Back off," she spat with surprising venom, channeling her Japanese namesnake.
Snow crunched underfoot as Black Jacob approached. His eyes were twin amber pits, flaring like hot coals. His breath curled in the air like smoke. "Are you scared, little girl?"
She was, and he could probably smell it on her. Delores shuffled backwards again.
Another step.
Another shuffle.
Step.
Shuffle.
Step.
Bump. Delores's blood ran cold as her back met with a something solid. A tree. She was trapped. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
"My master said it was of the utmost importance to find you," Black Jacob drawled.
He was almost on top of her. His stench, of rotten meat and wet fur and dirty laundry rolled over her. Her eyes watered.
"But he didn't say in what condition I was to bring you to him. Delores."
She must have responded in some visceral way, because his wolfish smile widened. "Ah, I was right. I knew it was you all along—"
Suddenly, a screeching streak of white launched itself at Black Jacob's face. The werewolf roared furiously as Mr. Cuddlesworth clawed at his face with feline ferocity.
Delores's delighted cheer caught in her throat as Black Jacob grabbed her cat by the scruff and plucked him away from his face. Blood welled and dripped from a series of deep cuts on the werewolf's silvering muzzle and stained the snow at his feet. His tongue darted out of his mouth to lap up the blood wetting his lips.
"That was rude," he growled at Mr. Cuddlesworth, who writhed as he dangled from the werewolf's claws.
Delores watched in abject horror as Black Jacob licked his lips again. "I haven't eaten cat in a while."
"Stop! Let him go!" she begged. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, but they proved no match for the permafrost taking over her heart. Panic consumed her thoughts. "Put him down, now!"
"I don't think so," he replied, giving Mr. Cuddlesworth a rough shake.
Her cat, in his slavering jaws. Her confidante. Her best friend. She had failed Tom, let him be taken by a no-nosed villain, and she was about to fail Mr. Cuddlesworth, too.
No, you won't, a small part of her urged. You can still act. You can still make a difference. Tom told you he thought you were brave. Don't prove him wrong.
Delores pointed her wand at Black Jacob. The tip wavered as her hand trembled, and she tightened her grip until it hurt, knuckles white as snow, teeth gritted until her jaw ached. She didn't have silver, but she had magic aplenty, and nothing left to lose.
Her heart hammered in her chest, her ears, her throat. "I said, put him down."
Black Jacob ignored her and sniffed Mr. Cuddlesworth. Delores didn't dare blink. If she did, in that millisecond of darkness, he could strike.
Terror gave way to cold rage as his fangs neared her cat's neck. Her wand jerkily traced a forbidden shape in the air as she choked out two words that left the taste of ash and sulphur on her tongue.
"Avada kedavra!"
Delores closed her eyes and screamed as a nauseating flash of green light illuminated the clearing. A sickening silence fell, broken only by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground in front of her.
Mr. Cuddlesworth nudged her arm with his nose. Delores opened her eyes, wet with tears of relief: her cat was alive. She had saved him.
Relief quickly transformed into dread as her gaze travelled from her cat to the body of Black Jacob lying in the snow at her feet. His eyes were wide open and glassy, but no life stirred behind them. He was dead. She had killed him.
It took everything in her not to vomit. She couldn't look away from him. His eyes, his face, his teeth that had been so, so close to Mr. Cuddlesworth's throat. Now, he couldn't hurt anyone ever again, because of her.
A symphony of mournful howls pierced the still air as the Black Pack learned of their leader's death.
He deserved it.
Someone hauled her to her feet.
Didn't he?
"Delores." Two firm hands settled on her shoulders and turned her so that she no longer faced Black Jacob's body. She found herself face-to-face with Juanita.
Her eyes are so blue, like the ocean she calls home, Delores noted detachedly. The all-consuming anger was nothing more than smouldering ashes. She was so very tired. "I killed him."
Juanita's muscular arm wrapped around Delores's shoulders. "Let's go."
She strained her neck, trying to catch one final glimpse of Black Jacob, but his pack had gathered around his body, obscuring it from view. The Black Pack didn't follow them as they walked to the centre of the clearing, where Elf Lord, Garnette, Yuuma, and Deanrice waited in front of the Calzone. Deanrice held two sets of reins, one for his mount and the other for Juanita's.
The fellowship looked worse for wear. Elf Lord's perfect body was adorned with claw marks. Garnette's sunglasses were cracked. Yuuma was bleeding from a concerning-looking cut on his side, and Deanrice had managed to attain yet another facial injury that would likely scar, adding to his impressive collection.
Elf Lord's crimson eyes followed her as she and Juanita rejoined the group, Mr. Cuddlesworth at their heels. The Elven Lord's disappointed gaze burned hotter than the glares of the werewolves, plotting their revenge and her slow, painful death.
Maybe it's what I deserve.
"Whatever you find on the other side of this Calzone," Elf Lord was speaking, "stand your ground and remember your divine mission: rescue Tom. I am unable to follow you beyond this point, but Garnette will guide you, and Delores can use a tracking spell once on the other side of the Calzone."
Delores's hand found the pocket that housed Tom's hair. Potions class, the Winter Ball, and failing to track Tom in the first place felt like a distant dream.
Elf Lord continued. "Leave the horses. I'll keep them safe for you."
Yuuma neighed, offended.
"No, I didn't mean you, Yuuma. Now, go. I'll make sure no one follows you in."
Nods of assent all around. Garnette approached the rippling air of the Calzone and disappeared. Elf Lord motioned for Yuuma and Deanrice to do the same. Eventually, only Elf Lord, Delores, Juanita, Mr. Cuddlesworth, and the horses remained in the Clearing of Unresolved Spats. Mr. Cuddlesworth leapt into Delores's arms.
"Let's get your Tom back," Juanita said, giving her what she assumed was meant to be an encouraging smile. It looked forced, almost uncomfortable, like her face wasn't used to the motion.
"Okay," Delores replied with a robotic nod. Her feet were moving towards the Calzone, towards Tom. All of this was for Tom, her one true love. He was worth it - he was worth everything, even sacrificing her own innocence. Wasn't he?
"Good luck," said Elf Lord.
Delores didn't - couldn't - look at him. She let Juanita lead her into the Calzone, where guilt and darkness swallowed her whole.