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A/N: Hey, I got this one out faster than I thought. Just so you all know, typing with a broken arm is NOT EASY, especially when it's your main writing arm! Word of advice--NEVER run to catch the train, especially when you're wearing open-backed sandals that have a tendency to fly off your feet when moving at high speed.
Chapter 20Severus Snape had accepted the treatment for Vulcan's vine infection with typical ill grace. He downed the hot, bitter brew even as the atrium changed once more, taking the rain and wind with it.
Her arm still outstretched to hand the cup to Snape, direct beams of sunlight struck Hermione squarely in the eyes. The bright, cloudless void overhead created an instant, rhythmic throbbing behind her watery eyes.
"I don't suppose you could have made it taste more foul, Ms. Granger? A pinch of sulfur, perhaps? You might have tossed in one of Mr. Longbottom's dirty socks to increase its palatability."
"Which would you prefer, Professor?" she asked even as he tossed the small pewter cup to the ground. The lingering effects of the potion fumes over which she'd hunched in order to protect their fire from the storm winds did nothing to ease her aching head. "Pleasant taste or fast recovery?"
Snape grumbled but said nothing more about the rancid taste of the drought.
"How do you feel, sir?" Neville asked.
"How do you expect me to feel, boy? Stop asking foolish questions and let's finish what we started. At the moment, I want nothing more than to be done with this entire incident and sink into my own bed for a weeklong sleep."
Snape levered himself off the ground, settled his now-filthy robes around him, and marched down the walkway with only a hint of wobble in his long stride. Behind him, the two students hurriedly gathered their belongings and trotted to catch up.
Hermione caught the Potions Master fingering his wand. Ignoring her own illness, she asked, "And your magic?"
"Weakened, obviously." A hint of begrudged gratitude slipped into his voice before he could stop it. "But not gone altogether." He looked around at the newest landscape. "Arid. Desert environment. Not very promising. Mr. Longbottom, does anything here look familiar?"
"No, Professor. I was never in a desert section."
Snape called a halt at the next junction, this one almost as large as a Quiddich pitch, with small pedestals of decorative plants and floral-bedecked gazebos scattered around the area. Hermione sank onto one of a decorative stone bench and rummaged through her pack until she came to a mild headache potion. By the time she'd downed enough to erase the throbbing behind her eyes, Snape had climbed onto the tallest visible bed to study their surroundings. He carefully avoided the thorny arms of various tall cacti as he turned in a tight circle, hands raised to shield his eyes from the harsh sun.
One minute later, sweaty and covered in fine, wind-blown sand, he was once more at ground level.
"That way," he said, pointing toward a crushed shell pathway on their right. "I saw a series of beds some three intersections away. They look to be the right climate to grow Dawn's Glory."
The Potions Master took three steps, and his smaller companions seven each, before he stopped and muttered, "What's that?"
Snape's question, voiced more to himself than to his young cohorts, still drew their attention. Hermione followed the professor's gaze but saw only blue, open sky. A moment later, something moved--blue on blue against the late afternoon heavens. She listened in vain for any sounds.
"Whatever it is," she commented as she shaded her eyes against the slanted rays of afternoon sunlight, "it's perfectly camouflaged."
"Maybe we should find some shelter until we're sure it's gone," Neville said, his own attention bouncing between the seemingly clear sky overhead and the expanse of space around them.
"An excellent suggestion, Mr. Longbottom, except for one point. Note the position of the sun. We have at most one hour to begin brewing the antidote. We don't have time to hide from something that may or may not be dangerous."
Hermione, her attention still cast skyward, turned to study the air behind them. A hint of movement and a growing pressure were her only warnings.
"Get down!"
Hermione threw herself toward the sod even as something large grabbed her backpack. Within moments, she dangled a dozen feet off the ground, her feet kicking open air, rising higher with every passing second. The rush of wind pushed back Snape's angry roar and Neville's horrified cry.
The young witch struggled to look up, to see the thing that carried her aloft. Her own hair hampered her efforts, whipping unrestrained across her face. She caught a glimpse of blue, thin, leathery wings, laced with thready veins. At each joint was a clump of curled appendages, possibly rudimentary fingers. The creature had a draconic neck that bobbed with the capricious wind currents. She could see only the underside of the slightly darker jaw and the protrusions that marked very long, serrated teeth.
Sobbing, Hermione struggled to think around her terror. Should she cling to the pack to keep from falling dozens of meters to the ground or slip free in order to escape from a beast she thought quite likely to be a carnivore? She had two choices--die in a fall or be ripped apart as a meal.
The aerial hunter's fight path carried it toward one of the higher growing beds--not directly over but close enough to raise her hopes.
Frantic, Hermione worked her left arm free of its backpack strap, even as she clung desperately to the right strap. The beast squawked, its cry worse than rusty nails against sheet metal. Wings beat hard to bring them back level. Hermione's swinging weight shifted the creature's flight path enough to bring it over the target tower.
Though still a dizzying distance above solid ground, she was unlikely to get a better chance. With a cry of blended prayer and terror, Hermione released the strap and let herself fall.
TBC