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The Mysterious Visitor
Spirit, lovely guest, who are you?
Whence have you flown down to us?
Taciturn and without a sound
Why have you abandoned us?
Where are you? Where is your dwelling?
What are you, where did you go?
Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky
(Abridged for the purposes of this story)
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09. Questions Abound
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"Bernard! Stop!" Hagrid bellowed in rising dread, his legs failed to move as he stood frozen to the spot in shock.
Ron landed on top of Harry and Hermione in a tangled heap of limbs.
"Ouch!" "Ow!" "Sorry, sorry!"
The trio clambered to their feet in time to gape horrified as the bugbear reared up again, this time at the tiny American blonde.
Buffy resolutely stood her ground, her fiery undaunted gaze fixed on the towering bear. Bernard roared again but didn't move to attack. For several tense minutes, the two seemingly engaged in a staring contest. At last, Bernard dropped back down to all fours and crept unobtrusively into a corner, whimpering quietly.
It was then that Hagrid and the rest of the class snapped out of their daze. The worried wizard hurriedly checked Ron for any injury, immensely grateful when he found none, before stopping in front of the veteran Slayer.
"Yer hurt!" the half-giant cried out in alarm.
Buffy glanced down with a frown. Her right upper arm sported four angry gashes from which rivulets of blood liberally trickled down to drip off her fingertips. Funny, she hadn't even noticed the pain.
"I'm okay, Hagrid," she reassured the panicked professor in a disconcertingly calm voice. "It's just a scratch—I'll go have it checked out by Madam Pomfrey."
"Oh—righ' then," Hagrid blinked a couple of times, clearly at a loss for words. "Terribly sorry abou' this, lass. If I'da known—"
"It was an accident, Haggard. I'll be fine," Buffy quickly cut him off.
Hagrid and the rest of the class watched in bewilderment as the petite blonde ascended the stone steps as if her arm wasn't currently dripping a bloody trail behind her, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
-
"I can't believe she did that! Bloody hell, she just stared that bugbear down like it was nothing but a puffstein! Eliza's my new hero!" Ron gushed, excitedly juggling a precariously balanced stack of chocolate frogs with the beginnings of what looked suspiciously like hero-worship sparkling in his eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And I knew that taking Care of Magical Creatures again would be a bad idea! In what other class would you ever almost get killed on the first day!"
"Don't swear!" Hermione snapped, per usual. She ignored Ron's complaint about Hagrid's uncommon standard of classroom safety, since she had been the one to suggest their return to the subject.
"That was pretty brilliant," Harry chimed in. "And the way she acted about her wounds, like they didn't even hurt."
The more he thought about it, the more impressed the black-haired Gryffindor became. Recalling how badly Professor Umbitch's quill had hurt, he couldn't help but be deeply impressed by Eliza's apparent high tolerance for pain. Most of the Hogwarts girls he knew would have come away shrieking and wailing hysterically had they been in her shoes... most of the guys, too. As yet, Eliza hadn't so much as whimpered. It was all very strange and unsettling.
Hermione skidded to a sudden stop as something suddenly occurred to her. "Did you guys hear what Hagrid said to Eliza?"
"Was too busy looking at the bugbear to notice," Ron intoned lightly.
"Cowering, more like," Hermione grumbled under her breath. What's so great about tiny blondes anyway? I don't see what could possibly be so appealing about looking like a Barbie.
Harry frowned in consideration, "I think Hagrid said something about finally meeting one of 'her kind'... what did he mean by that?"
Hermione shook her head as her brow furrowed. "I don't know, but I'd bet ten Galleons that he didn't mean Americans. Hagrid also said he thought she'd be bigger. Why would he say something like that?"
"Well, she is rather short," Harry shrugged in dismissal, thinking nothing of it.
Ron dragged Hermione forward by the arm, becoming impatient. "C'mon, let's just thank the girl and worry about all that other stuff later."
They found the petite blonde sitting on a hospital bed, munching merrily on a chunk of chocolate no doubt issued by the resident mediwitch.
Ron held out the stack of chocolates awkwardly, "Er, these are for you... for saving my life earlier."
"Oh for heaven's sake, Ron! Stop being so melodramatic," Hermione scolded.
Buffy set down her piece of chocolate on her bedside nightstand to accept the handful of even larger pieces of chocolate. "She's right," she said to the redheaded wizard, "the sitch was hardly dire."
'Sitch'? Ron mentally questioned, but plowed on ahead anyway. "Well, you still saved my arse. I mean, you didn't have to push me out of the way back there," he gushed, a look of pure adoration shining in his face.
Buffy replied in a nonchalant manner, as if saving young wizards from murderous bugbears were an everyday activity of hers. "It was nothing. But thanks for the yummy chocolates! You sure know the way to a girl's heart!"
It was the truth. Chocolate had always been her tragic flaw. The veteran Slayer was very happy that her enemies had never caught on to this fact and devised to use it as a diversionary tactic, or else the world would have been in big trouble.
Ron felt himself flushing hotly at her comment; he looked desperately to Harry for help.
"How's your arm, Eliza?" Harry quickly asked. Her gashes had looked rather nasty. He could certainly commiserate, what with his own extensive history of injuries from Quidditch... and worse.
"Good as new," she answered, absently fingering the offending bandages.
"Eep!" She started as the chocolate frog from the cardboard container she'd just peeled open hopped out in a great, bounding leap.
Harry snatched the magically animated frog while it was still airborne with his Seeker reflexes. Grinning at Eliza's stunned reaction, he handed it back. "Don't worry. I had a bit of shock the first time around, too." His fingers tingled where they touched hers, causing his cheeks to tinge as well.
Hermione rolled her eyes at her two best friends. Boys, show them a pretty face and they all turn into blubbering idiots, she thought sullenly.
Buffy stared at the frog-shaped piece of chocolate now struggling weakly in her hand, wide-eyed. "Wow, candy that moves—this is new—and kinda gross," she muttered.
Ron, having recovered from his flushing episode, now looked positively scandalized. "You've never eaten a Chocolate Frog before?"
"Nope." The tiny blonde wrinkled her nose daintily. "I strictly kept to food of the inanimate variety up until now."
"So you're a Muggle-born, then?" Hermione finally joined the conversation, curiosity getting the best of her.
"Um, I grew up Muggle," Buffy answered uncertainly.
"So did Harry and I," the Gryffindor Head Girl shared. She surveyed the girl closely, "How did you know how to handle Bernard, anyway?"
Buffy shifted slightly on the hospital bed. It's official, she thought wryly, Hogwarts is nosy-parker central. "Well, Hagrid said bugbears feed off of fear. So I figured that if I put up a brave front, it would back off. I was really lucky it worked."
It was only half a lie. The truth was, for a split-second she had wanted the bugbear to strike her down. For one glorious moment, Buffy had looked onto Bernard with complete resignation and acceptance at the prospect of meeting her fourth, and hopefully final, demise. The Slayer considered it rather ironic that that was what made the bugbear retreat with its tail between its legs.
Hermione looked skeptical about the explanation, but refrained from voicing that opinion. An awkward silence descended upon the group. Buffy poked her chocolate frog idly, just then her sharp ears picked up incoming footsteps from down the hall.
"I think I hear Madam Pomfrey," she warned them hurriedly, "you guys better high-tail it out of here before she throws a hissy fit."
The Gryffindor Trio left quickly not wanting to get on the mediwitch's bad side, despite the boys' reluctance.
-
"Ron! Are you alright? Neville told me what happened to you in class," she shrieked, checking him over hastily for any bruises or broken bones.
"Ginny! I'm fine, get off!" Ron batted away her prying hands, mortified by the thought of being fussed over in public by his little sister.
The youngest Weasley bristled at the treatment. "Fine," Ginny retorted, tilting up her chin in response, "then I won't tell you what I heard about the new girl." She started to walk away.
"Wait!" Ron took the bate instantly. "Sorry Gin, what'd you hear?"
Ginny grinned broadly and plopped down on an armchair in front of the three eager-faced Seventh-years. Harry gulped as their eyes met for the first time since their breakup. She had elected to stay at the Burrow instead of spending the last days of summer at number twelve Grimmauld Place with him, Ron, and Hermione. Though Harry had resented her avoidance then and on the train ride to Hogwarts, he now realized the prudence of her decision. The black-haired Gryffindor found that he could not properly look her in the eye as a lump formed in his throat. Ginny, however, seemed to recover more easily. When Harry shook himself out of momentary daze, she was already in the middle of her tale.
"—Luna told me that she heard Blaise tell Millicent that he overheard Elizabeth tell Draco she's seventeen years old, from California, and graduated from an American wizarding school other than Salem Institute."
An expression of confusion spread across Hermione's face at that last bit of information. "I'm almost positive that Salem Institute is the only wizarding school in America."
Ron and Harry shrugged helplessly.
"Fancy a trip to the library then?" Harry suggested.
-
"The heavens shine upon you, Ms. Ashbery," greeted the tall, palomino-bodied centaur, bending low in a formal bow as he trotted to a stop beside her hospital bed.
"Chocolate?" Buffy offered, waving her hand in the direction of the large pile of chocolates that looked about ready to topple over on her nightstand.
"No thank you," he politely refused.
"So, what's up?" she asked, taking a nibble out of the Chocolate Frog that had finally run out of magic as it sagged against her fingers.
"I heard news of your noble rescue of Mr. Weasley this afternoon," Firenze began.
Buffy leveled him a look. "I'm not noble, Firenze. That was just reacting to instinct."
"What is nobility but the instinct to deny one's self for the safety of another?" countered the centaur.
"And what is a visitor doing here when I gave specific instructions for undisturbed rest?" a third voice joined into the conversation as Madam Pomfrey poked her head out of her office.
Buffy grimaced as the angry school matron strode into the room. Madam Pomfrey had not been a happy camper when the Slayer had come in with her mangled arm earlier in the afternoon. It was silly, really, how the mediwitch still seemed to be nursing a grudge against the blonde for sneaking out several days ago.
"Apologies, mistress healer," the centaur bowed politely, regarding the matron. "I shan't hinder your treatment with my presence any longer. Until later," he bowed again before taking his leave.
Sighing, Buffy turned to face the fuming mediwitch, and bit off a sizable chunk of chocolate in dejection.
The twilight shone high above as the Slayer sat on her perch amongst the treetops. She had been staring into the inky darkness with her sharp and keen sight for hours, it seemed when her ears picked up a mighty bellow accompanied by the tingling sensation at the back of her neck that signaled the presence of her most natural enemy. Squinting, Buffy make out a large creature crossed with the torso of a man and the body of a horse, which she deduced must be a centaur. Even from afar, she could see that it had a pale, silvery-blonde mane and rippling muscles that most guys would have killed for. The stately palomino centaur reared up on its hind legs to buffet a trio of vampires at a distance. Three against one, that's not fair, she frowned. Pulling out the crossbow that hung against her back, she moved slowly into a crouch before leaping down onto the ground and landing softly on her feet.
Taking off at a run, the petite blonde came upon the small skirmish to see the centaur stamp down heavily the chest of a vampire just as another latched onto his neck with razor-sharp fangs. With another deep bellow of rage, the majestic creature flung the second vampire off, sending it crashing into a nearby tree trunk. Aiming her crossbow, Buffy let fly a wooden bolt with deadly accuracy into the chest of the first vampire who had been struggling to his feet as the centaur turned his attention on her. She noticed the centaur scrutinizing her critically for a fraction of a second before reaching for his elegantly crafted longbow and notching it with an arrow from his quiver. Without missing a beat, he dispatched the second vampire with a well-placed shot and whisked around to confront the last remaining vamp only to stop dead in his tracks as the vampire disintegrated into a plume of ash by her hand.
As Buffy dusted off her pants, she became aware that the centaur was regarding her with an inquisitive stare. Not sure how to respond, Buffy straightened and gazed into its astonishingly blue eyes that seemed to hold an ageless, otherworldly wisdom as they glistened like pale sapphires under the moonlight.
"Well met, Warrior of the Light," the centaur spoke at last in a deep, rumbling voice as he bent his front legs to greet her with a far more formal bow that she had ever received before. "It has been an age since a Slayer last walked amongst these woods."
"How... oh." A look of confusion Buffy's face before her gaze flitted down to the crossbow still clutched in one hand. Just call me discreet girl, she rolled her eyes in annoyance.
"I guess the cat's out of the bag," she sighed. "But it's supposed to be a big secret and all, so if you could not tattle tale, that'd be great."
A small frown of confusion pulled at the centaur's magnificently defined features as he attempted to decipher her odd speech pattern. "We speak the same language, yet your dialect is strange and perplexing."
"Surprisingly, you're not the first one who's ever mentioned that." She shook her head, pushing back the urge to roll her eyes at the comment. "Can you not tell anyone that I'm a Slayer, please?"
"I shall be honored to guard your confidence with my life, warrior," he vowed solemnly.
Buffy's eyebrows shot upward in surprise at his vehement response. "Um, thanks?"
"I am Firenze," the centaur introduced with a slight nod of his head.
"Oh, hi," Buffy waved her hand rather awkwardly. "Eliza Ashbery." She fell silent for a moment as she studied the proud creature before her. "Why were you fighting with the vamps by the way?"
"Because their accursed race is my kind's natural enemy. We are opposed as the darkness is to light."
"Oh."
That explained their unnatural shortage in the forest. To date, the night's showing had been the most the Slayer had ever encountered at one time.
Firenze gazed up into the star-strewn night sky as a pregnant silence settled between them. After several long moments, he lowered his gaze to regard her once more. "A convergence of Mars and the sun draws near. Facies shines brightly on you, Ms. Ashbery."
Okay? "And that means—what exactly?"
"War is upon this world, Chosen One. Soon, you must make a choice," replied Firenze enigmatically.
Crypticness had found a new spokesperson, Buffy decided.
"About what?" Pumps or stilettos? the veteran Slayer thought hopefully.
"That, I cannot say," Firenze answered with an apologetic shake of his head.
Exhaling in relief as Madam Pomfrey finally swept out of the Hospital Wing after shouting herself hoarse, Buffy thought back to the impromptu friendly archery contest that had followed between herself and the centaur. That little experience would forever go down as one of the most surreal moments in the veteran Slayer's life, ever. And that was saying something.
"May I examine the craftsmanship of your bow?" inquired the centaur as he eyed her crossbow curiously.
"Only if you let me see your bow and arrow," she returned, glancing at his choice of weaponry with equal interest. "I've never used one of those before."
A furrow creased the magnificent creature's strong brow. "Surely you jest?"
"Nah, they're too outdated for my line of work. Can't argue they're not pretty though," Buffy remarked as her keen eyes traced over the graceful arch of his dark brown yew bow, lingering appreciatively on the delicate, hand-painted gold designs.
Firenze stamped a hoof. "The longbow is a far superior weapon to that modern contraption you carry."
"What? I had this custom made! It's got a fifty meter range and 150 pound draw weight. Plus, it's small and light and has almost zero reload time. No way is your shiny bow and arrow better than this baby!" she defended, resisting the silly urge to cradle her favorite crossbow.
"You make a valid argument, Slayer. But what my longbow lacks in agility, it more than makes up for in balance, accuracy, and distance."
"I'll give you the balance and distance, but accuracy?"
"I stand by my assertion," the centaur stated sedately.
"Fine, you and me, that tree over there. Three shots each, two rounds." Buffy pointed to a tall birch some thirty meters away.
"And what is the prize?" He raised a pale eyebrow in question.
Defending my crossbow's honor, duh! "Satisfaction."
"Your terms are acceptable. I must warn you that all centaurs are naturally gifted in archery."
Buffy rolled her eyes in response.
Firenze repositioned his bow and withdrew an arrow on from his quiver. With a courteous nod of acknowledgement, he lined up the first shot and released his hold, setting up a target at the shorter blonde's eye level in generous consideration. The petite blonde watched closely as Firenze fired off a second arrow, which struck directly on top of the first and then the next on top of the second so that the shaft was embedded into the bark piercing what resembled a flower of wood trimmings.
"Not bad," she conceded before quickly eyeballing the target and letting three bolts fly from her crossbow in rapid succession, creating the same shearing effect as Firenze's arrows.
"It is a draw, a second round is unnecessary," Firenze concluded deferentially.
"Yes it is. Now, we switch bows," Buffy grinned up at the centaur who had been caught unawares.
"Very well," he acceded, recovering fast enough to impress the jaded Slayer as they quickly traded weapons. "You first this time."
Shrugging, the Slayer tested the weight of the longbow in her hand and flexed its string to check for the tension for a few seconds. Feeling reasonably uncomfortable with the foreign weapon, she notched on an arrow and took aim at the target. The arrow sailed through the night air to land a hair's breadth away from its intended destination. Frowning, she took aim again. This time the arrow struck true, as did the next.
Firenze commended her admirable efforts before firing from her crossbow, which looked pitifully dwarfed in his large hands. Buffy pulled a face when she saw all three of his shots land directly on target. With smiling eyes, the centaur returned the crossbow to the irked Slayer.
"Your bow's balance is a little off to the left," she groused.
That elicited a small chuckle from the regal centaur. "If you insist."
-
The stares she had received this morning had been even more obvious than before. The Slayer suspected it had something to do with the bugbear incident. She shared a quick smile with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as they walked in. The gesture wasn't lost on Draco.
He turned to her with an icy glare. "It was your own bloody fault for jumping in front of the Weasel!"
"You're mad at me about that?" she asked incredulously, scrunching up her nose at the nerve of the guy.
"I would've been happier if he'd be clawed to death, personally," the Prince of Slytherin sneered coldly.
"You're acting like such an insensitive jerk, Draco," Buffy pushed her chair roughly back, making its wooden legs scrape loudly against the stone floor. "Let me know when you grow a heart."
The Prince of Slytherin experienced a strange sense of loss as he watched the petite blonde stalk away in a blaze of anger. Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously when he saw where she was headed, until his line of vision was obstructed by one very amused and smirking Blaise Zabini.
"Hey, got room for one more?"
The Gryffindor Trio glanced up in surprise as the small blonde plopped down on the empty chair next to Harry's.
"Draco and I had a slight difference of opinion," she explained at their inquiring gazes.
"Malfoy's an evil, ferrety git," Ron snarled.
"It was only a matter of time before he showed his true self," Harry added darkly.
Buffy frowned. Apparently the feeling was mutual.
-
"Hey, watch where you're putting that!" Ron yelped, halfheartedly trying to pry his parchment from underneath.
Harry was quick to notice her sour expression, "What's wrong 'Mione?"
Hermione lifted the top volume's cover to show them the title inside. "This is the current directory of every wizarding school ever recognized by its respective national Ministry of Magic in the world. There's only one recorded for America."
"Salem Institute," Harry finished for her upon seeing her grim-set face.
The three of them exchanged an uncertain look.
Ron spoke up first. "You don't suppose she lied on purpose, do you?"
Hermione turned to Ron. "That's why I decided to do more research. The bottom book is the American Ministry of Magic's official registry of all practicing witches, wizards, and squibs born in the United States in the past century. Her name wasn't there either."
"Maybe she wasn't American born?" Harry offered.
Hermione looked pensive. "I could check all the other national records, but that would take weeks."
"Or, we could just go ask her about it," said Ron.
Harry jumped to his feet. "I'll get the Marauder's Map. It'll be faster than trying to search around for her on a Sunday afternoon," he explained, already at the foot of the stairs that led to the boys' dormitory, leaving Ron and Hermione behind to wait with bated breath.
The black-haired Gryffindor returned moments later with the piece of unfolded parchment in his hands. He gazed at his two best friends with a perplexed expression.
"Alright, Harry?" Ron asked.
"She's not on the map. Where did she go?"