A/N: Thanks so much for the patience and kind words I've been receiving.
Apologies for my Google Translate Spanish.
I feel like this chapter is a bit of mess, but they can't all be awesome! I hope it's enjoyable enough, though. :)
Please R&R! Thanks!
Chapter 39: The Horn
Wizarding Seville
Hermione's feet hit sturdy, polished wood, and her knees buckle. To stable herself, she leans on the stone railing beside her for support. Snape arrived them on a bridge, and there's a wide, sluggishly flowing river beneath it.
Snape tugs on the crook of her arm. "We arrived illegally and don't have travel papers. We have no intention of presenting ourselves to the ministry tonight."
The bridge is densely populated. Others wearing cloaks, robes, and Muggle attire seem to be disappearing and reappearing. Official looking wizards in charcoal robes stop people at random asking for identification.
Gas lamps provide Hermione enough of a view to see a mass of people ahead along a broad cobble street. Music consisting of violins, fiddles, button accordions, and drums assault her ears. Red and gold paper lanterns are being thrown into the air. Crucifixes and dragons are etched into the delicate thin sheets. A cluster of lanterns float upwards, high above a cathedral not unlike the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See.
Wiggling through the mass of people—the ones who aren't busy with lanterns are shooting sparklers from their wands—Hermione and Snape come to the middle of the broad, cobbled pathway that is more sparsely populated. Children of various ages using paints and brushes smear their imaginations onto the smoothed rock beneath them. Hermione makes out dragons, the haloed Virgin Mary, and perhaps a reenactment of a Quidditch scene.
The illuminated letters, jesucristo, trae la victoria a nuestros jugadores, is hard to miss.
A group of wizards fly over them on brooms, all of them pumping their fists, their cloaks billowing behind them. The crowd shouts in reverence. At least half the population as well as the players cross themselves.
From the throng of people, a gnarled fist shoots out and grabs Hermione's face, paint-stained fingers gripping her chin.
"Lo siento, senorita," the older man connected to the hand says. With is free one, he gestures to his easel. Hermione peers at what could've been painted by DaVinci himself, and she relaxes. He means her no harm. What he needs in inspiration, and she sees a faceless haloed woman wrapped in a royal purple tunic holding the Holy Child. Said Holy Child shoves two pudgy fingers into his drooly mouth, sucking earnestly. Behind the two figures are green, hilly landscapes and an elderly woman dressed in a light blue tunics a chunky toddler hitched on her hip, and a red ribbon around his neck.
"Necesito tu cara," he tells her. "Tu cara es perfecta."
Hermione blinks at him as Snape tugs roughly on her arm. "Gracias, senor." She's about to explain she can't sit for him when he takes his wand and carelessly waves it at his canvas. Paint-soaked brushes attack it and within seconds, a scarily perfect rendition of her face stares back at her.
He even captured her chaotically startled expression.
The Holy Child cranes his head to look at the new face of the Holy Mother, pensive. Chunky fingers still lodged in his mouth.
"Bueno, bueno," he gleefully tells her before kissing her on the cheek and letting her go His release is so abrupt, and Snape's pull is sharp, she stumbles clumsily.
"Don't dawdle," hisses Snape. Like she's a child. He frowns at the easel now ten feet behind them.
They walk alongside the river for several minutes and slow at the appearance of a docked, cartoonishly big steamboat crowding more than half the canal. Underneath the fourpeak in golden lettering titles the vessel Lady Dorothia.
Boarding the ferry is like entering a grand museum or palace. Marble flooring, nude and robed statues made of cobalt, gold-framed paintings all over the walls, glass-encased artifacts perched on cushioned pedestals. Towards the ceiling, above the levitating, crystal chandeliers, is a starry night sky. Some stop to admire the area while others queue up the curved staircases leading to the second level. Snape is one of them, and she follows. Their ascent is slow, and Hermione is able to soak up more of what's around her. Everything is unlike anything she's ever seen, and she's never been around this many magic people before.
And it's not just people.
Ahead of Snape is a cluster of cussing goblins. Behind Hermione, a young man no older than twenty invades her personal space and dips his nose to inhale deeply from her neck. Hermione jerks to face him. He stands alongside another man. Identical twins. Hermione takes in their all-black attire which clashes with their gray-ish black skin. Their lips are pale, cheeks and eyes sunken. Their black hair sleeked into ponytails. When they smile at her, eight elongated canines catch the gleam from the chandeliers.
The one who sniffed her, from his pocket, he extracts two cellophane-wrapped red lollipops and offers her one. She hesitantly takes it and watches him tear off the wrapper and give the candy a good lick. A strong scent of honied copper hits her nose. At his expectant expression, she hesitantly removes the wrapper and dabs the red disk on her tongue.
"It's…unique," she offers. "Thanks."
Satisfied by her reaction, he starts up a conversation with his twin in a language that sounds completely made-up which hardly matters. They're talking about her, and she knows it.
Hermione starts to go up the stairs sideways, uneasy and on the defense. Less than a year ago, vampires were myths to her and laughable. The last decade, with books and films and television shows, the notion of them went from dark and moody Anne Rice novels to in-your-face, teenage angst. Taking western pop-culture by storm.
True Blood, Twilight, Buffy, and The Vampire Diaries never interested Hermione. What she's unintentionally picked up on through aggressive media promos are that they are strong and fast.
Hermione doesn't know about real vampires. Are they strong? Are they fast? Are they eight hundred years old? Spent seven hundred of them training in martial arts? Fucking hell, do they turn into bats? Do they drink only human blood or do they occasionally dwell in self-loathing and brood whilst pilfering from blood banks and feasting from the livestock? If they decide here and now to make a meal out of her, would she be able to fight them off.
The candy is moderately disgusting but bearable. She worries on it, avoiding eye-contact with the twins and internally breathes a sigh of relief when she and Snape reach the top. Seeing a ladies' room, she b-lines towards it. Like many women, and Hermione isn't the exception in this case, hiding in a bathroom from a potential predator is like a built-in instinct. It also helps that the lavatory is crowded and there's a security witch right outside of it and a bathroom attendee inside.
Hermione does use the toilet and wash her hands, impressed by the load of goodies the bathroom attendee is handing out to witches. Breath mints, thin cigars and cigarettes, mini bottles of brandy and vodka, chocolates and champagne truffles, cheese cubes, bags of candied and savory nuts, and perfumes. Vials of lotions and perfume-y potions as well as panty-liners and scented tampons.
Hermione grabs a cigarette, and the attendee gestures to a set of heavy velvet curtains where several women disappear through. Hermione follows them and sees it's a cushy lounge area, complete with mini bar. She eyes the other women and female creatures who are all glammed up and fancy. She's not even sure what this place is or what's going on?
Clocking several, dainty binocular cases hanging from gloved-covered wrists.
Hermione sits down on a sectional, listening in on the two chatting women beside her with who she's sharing an ashtray on a coffee table. Perhaps they could shed some light on where Snape dragged her to.
"You can't deny Jacobi's agility," said the one in blue, her accent revealing her Austrian heritage.
"Jacobi's agility." The one in garish orange snorts, her accent South African. "Filipe never tires, and he's resourceful."
"Truthfully, I put a sum on Black Demon."
The woman in orange, her face drains of color. Her fingers tremble as she takes another lady-like puff from her cigarette.
"It terrifies me, I almost didn't want to come tonight when I found out it'd be here. I can handle everything and everyone else."
"It's a she," says the other woman, smirking.
"Barely."
"The ship is now embarking. Estimated travel time to Port d'Yvoire is six hours."
A vague lurch followed by a sensation Hermione likens to a rapidly descending elevator. Her stomach hits her ribcage, and she grips the armrest. Pressure builds inside her head, and she pops her ears.
Okay.
Okayokayokay.
That's fine.
The ferry is underwater, and that's just fine.
The women have stopped socializing, and all the other women start to leave the lounge.
Snape loiters further down the corridor. Like the floor below, there are portraits along the wall. These ones not depicting polished and poised portraits akin to Renaissance art, but of bloodied and bruised beings. Men and women of various ages. Creatures of both humanoid and nonhumanoid variety. Their clothes torn, their beaten faces weary as they sit on the ground or woozily stand. A motionless body or being beside them. Crowds in the background cheer and clap at the victor.
Painting after painting show similar scenes. Soon enough, it's no longer paintings but moving photographs. Others admire the work, speaking to each other and gesturing animatedly. These paintings and photos move and may even emit sound, but unlike other magical portraits, the depicted warriors pay no mind to viewers.
Coming up on Snape's side, he hands her a thick, laminated booklet and then gestures to the poster-sized photograph of a bloodied young woman, her face contorted in feral fury. The scraps of cloth on her body are hardly recognizable as clothes. They are shredded beyond repair, and one of her breasts are bare. Various scars litter her person, and tribal tattoos mark her right upper thigh, under her left arm, and another at her waist. Hermione looks down at the cover of the booklet-more like a magazine. The title of it says The Warriors 200.
The cover depicts the same person as in the poster but completely different settings. The woman peers gently out to the viewer, her clothing modest and plain. A beige ensemble with black and blue dyed fringes which fall from the lapel by her collar bone and long sleeves. Sturdy crisp leggings and shapeless, sheepskin boots. Onyx black hair falls passed her hips. In her hand, she holds a sharpened spear with a thick, round shaft. Runes and bear-carvings etched into the polished wood. The cover's edit is done in such away, a shadow of some four-legged creature is cast on the light-gray wall behind her. The caption beneath the woman says Black Demon.
"What do you think?"
Eyeing Black Demon's serene and pretty face on the magazine, Hermione sees a woman's face not too dissimilar to Pansy. The only thing else the two have in common is that they are human, have black hair, and are of the female variety.
"I'm reading between the lines here and assuming you mean to have this woman be a double for Pansy. If that's the case, you're out of your goddamned mind."
"Mmm."
Her brow furrows, and she looks around them. "Snape?"
"Hm?"
Several questions came to mind, and she'd be lucky if he'd answer just one of them. In his eyes, she's not his equal and hardly worth giving any information to. She is a pawn to him and to the Order like she is Soo-jin and Bloodless. At least, Jesus Christ, at least Soo-jin was forthcoming on Umbridge and her misdeeds. She's been open on Draco Malfoy and his family's sins, and why they deserve the wrath of Muggleborns. The Order and whoever else are trying fight Bloodless won't win if there isn't the smallest amount of trust. And Snape is making things more difficult. This trip to Spain is personal and couldn't possibly be sanctioned by the Order. He has his own agenda. He's playing by his own rules and not telling her upfront, before they left England, on how to play the game.
"Why am I here?"
His expression remains impassive, and she glares at him. "I'm here for a reason, so I need to know something if whatever your plan is, is to work."
He scoffs. "It's hardly complicated enough for me to tell you much more than what you've already concluded yourself."
"But fucking complicated enough to need a second person."
"Calm yourself."
Hermione's not an idiot. She's smart and can spot a problem a mile away. They are sailing in a floatable, blood-sport arena. Snape is after a highly qualified and famous warrior witch for his own use. If he thinks Hermione's going to be able to somehow incapacitate her and drag her off this boat...
In the non-magical world, she was confident in herself. There were so few like her. Here, especially here on this boat, she's hardly noteworthy. She got nervous from a couple of vampires for Christ's sake, and this woman won't go quietly. Hermione doesn't know her and doesn't have to. The witch didn't grab the front page of magazine meant for warriors by being a dainty flower child.
"Refrain from causing a scene," says Snape.
"I haven't done anything," she hisses.
"Trust me."
"Hell, no."
"Trust me in this."
"Tell me what you expect to happen."
"I hope to not need you." He lets her go, throwing her a look of revulsion. Like he's disgusted. As if she were child who threw herself to the ground demanding a toy and attention. He thrusts a teeniest nesting doll into her hand. "Take this. That way you can scurry back to England if needs be. It'll set off at midnight."
Hermione thinks it's good he's has no real pull in the Order, and that Weasley hasn't given him more of a voice. He's all about his own agenda. He doesn't care about genocide against Purebloods. The reason why he's here instead of a nobler Order member is because this isn't a real mission, therefore, Snape isn't a real leader and doesn't really call the shots.
And yet, she and him are alike in some ways. His dangerous behavior reminds of her of her own recklessness in Kabul.
God kill her, she gets it. She gets him.
"I…will go along with it," she says through clenched teeth, pocketing the portkey. "For now."
And even if everything goes perfectly and the three of them do make their merry way back to England without a hitch, she'll be having a nice, long debrief with Weasley about this. It could cost her the memory lessons with Snape, but that's a price she'll pay if needs be.
"The opening ceremony of tonight's Warrior 200 will begin in fifteen minutes. The doors are opening now. Please locate to your seat in a safe, timely manner. All wands must be scanned and logged at your designated entrance," a woman announces as if over intercom.
"Do we at least have good seats?" Hermione sarcastically asks.
Further down the way, ushers dressed in teal robes open various double doors along the left. Mages and creatures alike filter through them. Snape throws her one last, distasteful look for good measure and shuffles along. They arrive at the third door down. Snape removes two tickets from his pocket and shows them and his wand to the hovering attendee relieving visitors of their various bulky items. Hermione gives him her own cloak and displays her wand, as well, ignoring the man when he goggles at her legs as she removes it from her thigh holster.
Upon entering, Hermione's eyes bulge at the gigantic arena. At least hundred thousand people could fit in the space, but as she descends closer to ground level, she notices there are actual long-back, cushioned chairs as opposed to hard, narrow folding ones.
Jesus, how much were the tickets to this thing?
The rules of the arena are simple. No Unforgivables and no death blows. Everything else is fair game.
A warm, splash of blood splashes across Hermione's face for the fourth time in a space of two hours. Crimson droplets streak down her cheeks and onto her dress. Most of her section leap to their feet and jubilantly screech their approval. Stomping and clapping send vibrations up her legs and spine.
Blinking the blood out of her eyes and dabbing a red-soaked cloth along her eyelids, she watches the Hell Hound take his wand and shape himself a molten silver prothesis. The glossy appendage flexes, and the digits wiggle normally, and the almost everyone in the audience goes wild at the impressive display of magic.
Remnants of his true hand lays a small distance away from the incapacitated body of Hyena.
"Is there a reason you got us so close?" she asks Snape who is also blotting his face.
"Are you not enjoying yourself?" He removes his pocket timepiece from his cloak, checking the time. "And here I believed you would, considering…"
The last word hovers. He never elaborates, and truthfully, Hermione doesn't dislike the event. She's curious about the complexity of magic performed by each warrior. Even when she and everyone else in the arena had to bust out the provided charmed-magnifying glasses to watch a Cornish Pixie beat the shit out of a Leprechaun three times its size.
"At least tell me your plans don't consist of me doing anything like this."
Snape hesitates before speaking out in a sigh. "You may need to prove yourself in a private show as a trade for Black Demon."
"What?"
He sneers nastily. "I speak in jest." His eyes narrowed. "But if I didn't, and I told you up front that was the plan, would you have done it?"
"I would've considered it."
"Is that so?"
Hermione's used to people being exploited. Being used for others' own fucking pleasures. But very rarely was ever she dragged into an assignment she didn't know her purpose because that's how mistakes are made.
Snape checks his watch and then the tonight's program. "It's time. Keep alert."
"For?"
He gets up, dropping the program in her lap. They're right next to the stairs, so he just turns and ascends. He gets halfway to the doors, and Hermione loses interest, turning attention back to Hell Hound who's pumping his brand-new fist in the air while waving his whole one. The cleanup crew rushes out and starts scrubbing up the gore.
A witch in a flamboyant hot pink, glittery cloak flies over the crowd, her two fleshy legs slung over one side of the shaft, and a wand placed at her jugular.
"Give another round of applause to Hell Hound and Hyena for putting on such an exquisite show. We will now have a twenty-minute intermission," she announces, her Swedish lilt booming throughout the arena. "Please visit the lavatories and gift shops. Show your membership card at the shops and concessions and receive a twenty percent discount."
As people around her rise and exit the stadium, she remains in her seat, damp and sticky and wondering why such a gala requires a black-tie standard. The woman on her right, who looks about fifty in age and three-fifty in weight, positively shivers in perverse delight whilst inspecting the fresh, matted meat chunks on her chinchilla fur wrap and Burmese silk, cream-colored gown. With gloved fingers, she massages Hell Hound's blood into the fleshy folds of her neck like an expensive body lotion.
"Such a conundrum to pit Hyena and Hell Hound together. I'm so keen on them both," she says, grinning. From her coin purse, she extracts a silver cigarette case, her gloves leaving smudges on the exterior.
"Smoke?" she offers, flipping the lid open and revealing short, thin cigars. A powerful wave of sickly-sweet hemp and a light influx of tobacco hits Hermione's nostrils.
"I thought I saw a no smoking sign before coming in." Hermione takes one, lighting the tip with a flick of her thumb and middle finger. The practice of smoking eases the tension in her shoulder blades more than the actual hemp and tobacco do. She can't get high, so it's a damned shame when the woman winks at her and lifts the false bottom beneath the cigars. Underneath is about twenty grams of what looks like cocaine.
"This stuff works miracles," says the woman. "I've lost ten pounds already using it. My son studied abroad," she finger-quotes the word, "as in he spent some time there. You know, in the Muggle world. Brought this back with him. Better than most potions if you ask me."
Hermione stares. "Is that right." Not so much a question as a statement.
"He's single," she supplies, winking again. Her smile twists into a grimace, and her fingers does a vague wave. "Sort of. It's complicated."
The woman puts the cigarette case back in her coin purse and then extracts a wrapped, square wedge. "Chocolate?"
Hermione is famished and accepts the candy. "You're German. I caught your accent. Which part, if you don't mind me asking, Mrs…?"
"Mueller and not at all. Dresden is home."
Oh, the irony. Hermione almost tells her she is, too. Instead, she touches her chest, hesitating because she's not really here to socialize. "I'm…Hermione."
"Lovely name. And you're from America?"
"...yes..."
"I absolutely adore the States. Which part? Don't say Salem."
"Baltimore."
"How interesting, and Ilivermony is delightful, I hear. Ballad is about your age. Did you two know each other while attending?"
Hermione has no idea who Ballad is but falls elegantly into the façade she's building. It's been so long since she's done alias work. She's forgotten how, in a way, it can be cathartic. Pretending to be somebody else. Someone who isn't rotten.
"You may think me terribly dull. I was homeschooled." Hermione continues spin a tale of a young witch who never attended wizarding school because her passion was ballet. Ten minutes into their conversation, Mrs. Mueller excuses herself to the restroom and promises to return with a pouch of piping hot jamon croquetas from concessions.
With no one to talk to and no entertainment, Hermione flips through the pages of the program Snape left on her lap. The first few pages are advertisements from various broom business and international confectionary companies. Following that, are the dates and locations of the remaining tour of the Warrior 200. On page ten, brief yet fascinating histories of the tonight's warriors are laid out until page 30. Out of the two hundred, only twenty will fight tonight. Ten against ten.
Coming to page 28, Hermione lets out a soft oh when seeing the paraphrased biography of Black Demon aka Nita Ballad. Nita Ballad like half of the Warrior 200, is an Animagus. Born a Pureblood in the Northern Midwest of the United States. Received education at Ilvermony where she excelled in all subjects, especially the Defense of the Dark Arts and, oh yes…there's a folded piece of parchment wedged into the crease of page.
Hermione opens it and reads:
Wait at the fountain on the first level. If you see a white doe approach you, follow it and be ready.
"I'm back," announces Mrs. Mueller, two paper pouches of steaming croquetas in each hand. Offering one to Hermione with a motherly, "Here you go, dear."
A moment of warmth hits Hermione's chest, and she accepts it graciously. "Thank you, Mrs. Mueller."
"Call me Klara."
Hermione mistakenly allows herself a couple of minutes to enjoy her first bit of real food since lunch. In that time, the seats begin to fill up again. People watered and fed and toting gift bags. The witch who announced intermission returns, a wand to her jugular once more.
"Who's ready for the second half of our evening? Up next we have our very own Aqrabuamelu and—"
A green beam of light from the seats directly beneath her shoots up and hits the woman directly in the chest. She falls and awkwardly hits three seats, breaking them upon impact. Gasps and screams echo throughout the stadium.
Hermione rises to her feet as do many others within the stadium. A security team and medic rush towards the fallen witch. Something's not right. There's a shift in the air. Her heart rhythm speeds up, and her instincts kick in. She looks up at the closest door. Others are trying to get through it without any luck. Looking around, all the doors have been locked. No one can get out.
Two hooded figures in crimson robes meet the team of security and medics head-on, Stunning them in seconds. They are quick and well-trained. Hardly ruffled. One of the figures shoots their wand upwards, a blinding light paints a white image in the middle of the arena, and the Bloodless brand burns fire-hot beneath Hermione's sleeve. From the familiar, crescent moon image, a blaring sound of a horn emits from it. What feels like an earthquake rattles the floor, chair, and walls. Witches, wizards, and creatures are brought to their knees. Hermione's no exception. Seats are broken, and cracks stemming from the arena spider their way outwards. The two in the red robes stop in the middle of the arena.
"Who are they?" Mrs. Mueller weeps from the floor, attempting to get to her feet.
"Are you Pureblood?" asks Hermione.
Mrs. Mueller's brow furrows further. "We all are, dear." She gestures weakly to nothing in particular. "With the exception of the half-breeds and such—"
Hermione grabs the woman's hand. "We have to get out of here." She clocks the arena. The two cast a spell around them, a shimmering and gelatinous capsule engulfing them.
As Hermione ascends the stairs, Klara in tow, she sees attempts at Disapparating, but there's a sharp and jagged energy coating the air that wasn't there minutes ago. Gashes slice in the pits of her arms and apex of her thighs and legs, so she refrains from pressing further. Others don't. They try to Disapparate as well as cling to nonsensical items that must be portkeys. Bodies combust. Limbs and severed heads fly all around her. Hermione is drenched. Warm copper fills her nostrils and mouth. She gags and coughs.
"Don't try to disappear," she manages to croak to Klara.
On the way up the stairs, Hermione sees a plethora of brave, noble souls descending towards the arena. Wands erect and ties and gloves off. Several women tear the skirts of their dresses from their bodices and kick off their heels. Hermione recognizes the one in blue from the bathroom.
Hermione takes several more steps upwards before slowing, her conscious weighing heavy on her. A memory resurfacing of the time she killed seventeen men in less than a minute during her first round in the Middle East. She thinks of the fight in Iraq, battling alongside the United States military elite and saving lives. Men who were able to return to family. She helped in saving Agent Ross' life. An imperfect but genuinely decent man.
There are decent enough men and women here.
She looks back at Klara, squeezing her hand even tighter before letting go. "Try to get out and when you do, swim to Morocco if you have to."
"What are you doing?" Klara attempts to grab her. "You get back here, young lady."
When Hermione's foot touches the mat of the arena and then stops. There are only two of these hooded figures and thousands of everyone else. Eventually, that shield will fall. There's no battle. There's no fight. It's just a bunch of witches and wizards clustered…
Fuck!
Hermione's seen this tactic before. Muggle military wouldn't fall for it, but magical civilians would. The notion of suicide bombers would be unfamiliar.
Hermione stops, unholsters her wand, and cups her throat. Channeling her magic towards her vocal cords, her voice envelops the arena. "It's a trap! Return to the exits! Take cover!"
She turns to head back up the stairs. Not two seconds later, a deafening kind of thunder engulfs the arena and blasts apart the foundation of the ship as easy as shredding tissue paper. Fiery heat smelling of sulfur and napalm billow outwards, ravaging everything in its path. The quake makes everyone on the stairs fall, including Hermione. The ceiling splits and caves from the bomb's impact. Violent waves of water eject from everywhere, and in milliseconds, there is only the sea.
The moment Hermione breaks the water's surface it, a gurgled scream straggles out of her mouth followed by vomit. Paddling over to a broken piece of board, Hermione holds onto it. She sees shadows in the night doing the same. Someone even comes and joins her. It's a sizeable piece of wood, and she's not feeling greedy.
"Th-thank you," says the shadow. A young man, maybe. "I'm Zale."
She sniffs, resting her head on her arm. She shrugs even though she knows he can't see the gesture. "I'm Hermione, I guess."
"Like daughter of Helena of Troy?"
"…yeah…"
The next few minutes are spent with Zale crying and calling out for his daddy in Greek. Languages from everywhere surround Hermione. There are those who mourn for their loss loved ones while others call out in desperate hope. To break up the monotony, a select few remind people they mustn't try to Disapparate as they are in water and many of them are now without a wand.
"My wand," mumbles Zale. Hermione watches his shadow disappear into the water and return waving said wand. "I still have it. I still have it. Expecto Patronum!"
A white, near translucent thresher shark blooms up from the tip, creating light, and Hermione gets to finally see Zale. He's young. Maybe eighteen with a nasty gash across his forehead and a bloodied, broken nose. His hair is black and curly, his deep eyes a greenish-blue.
The thresher shark somersaults in midair, coming close to Zale's face.
"Go to Spain's Ministry of Magic. Announce there's been an attack on Lady Dorthia. There are survivors, but they must hurry. Go!"
The wispy creature nods and swims off into the distance. A murmur of approval sweeps through the air and within thirty seconds, eight mammals and critters, both fantastical and not, scour their surroundings. Instead of calling out for lost family members and friends, requests for help becomes a trend as does igniting the tips of the handful whose wand didn't perish.
"Did you lose your wand?" Zale asks.
Hermione grabs it from her holster. She gives it a shake and ignites the tip. "I can't do what you did,"
"You have to think of your happiest of memory."
Oh. Well, in that case, that does sound easy. Hermione is just bursting at the brim with happy memories. Whichever one should she choose?
"After tonight," she starts, rather blandly, "I doubt I'll be able to conjure one of those anytime soon."
Zale's frown his troubled, and his chin trembles. That doesn't stop him from tapping his wand on their shared piece of wood. The wet, polished oak expands and curls upwards. Soon enough, they are hanging from the side of a humble rowboat. He hoists himself in, and she hesitantly does the same.
"We need to help them," he says. And then more to himself, he mutters, "My papa would want me to help them."
He leans over the side of the boat and grabs two pieces of wood, transfiguring them into ignited torches. He mounts each of them at the far ends, and Hermione can see people in the water bobbing towards them.
She and Zale help sopped, broken people into the boat. Before long, he expands the vessel by grabbing more wooden shards from the water and applying them into its structure. Several rescued wizards and witches help by morphing floating, broken planks into oars and charming them to circle the area, searching for more survivors.
More than once, Hermione and others grab at hands and feet, only to yank up detached limbs.
There are eight-eight survivors.
Snape is the eighty-fourth.
Klara isn't among them.
Warming charms and non-invasive healing charms are cast. Flasks of fire whiskey, bourbon, and brandy are passed around from witch to wizard, vampires to dwarves, and goblins to fauns. Hermione takes a swig and then hands it to Snape who's now beside her. His hands are unnervingly steady as he takes it from her.
Once he has had sip, he passes it to Nita "The Black Demon" Ballad who was the eighty-third person to be rescued.
"What happened?" asks Snape in a low whisper.
Hermione rubs her hands together. The warming spells are doing their magic, yet her insides are cold. She reckons everyone on this boat is. Their skin warming and drying, yet their innards might as well be heavy blocks of ice.
"I don't…" She inhales a shaky breath, "Want to talk about it right now, but I will say…" she pats her forearm. "It's not a karambit or a moon." She swallows thickly, remembering the bone-shattering noise the symbol emitted from above the arena. "It's a horn."
To Be Continued...
