"No," Harry hissed. "I know it's here somewhere."

They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but saw no one else.

-Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, page 210

A Covington Demise:
The Grey Lady

Ninette Covington had been quiet as a girl, preferring to keep her nose buried within he confines of a most excellent book, and, as in the past ten years, her routine had not much changed. Throughout the decade, she had kept to herself, arousing suspicions from the neighbors and drawing curiosities from the nearby school boys. It was scandalous, the village gossips would whisper behind their gloved hands, for such a young lady such as herself to remain secluded for her entire life, unmarried and seemingly alone. A spoilt girl, they called her.

Lord Covington, upon his untimely death, had left a large estate to his eldest daughter. The property had been maintained ever since with the utmost care, though no one could ever discern how. Not once had any being been seen moving inside of the house or anywhere about it. To the oblivious eye, it was the most peculiar thing.

"Netta, put that thing down for a moment and come outside! 'Tis a glorious day!" A young girl appeared suddenly in the doorway of Lady Covington's library with her cheeks merrily flush to match the dainty pink of the roses below the window ledge. She twirled happily about for a moment, her violet skirts billowing in a full circle as she spun.

"Nicky, dear, the sun is far too bright for my taste this afternoon. I'm perfectly content indoors" Ninette smiled warmly at her younger sister from over the tops of the pages belonging to a particularly thickly-bound tome; her eyes never left the page so as not to lose her place.

Nicola wrinkled her nose in disdain. And marched to the alcove in which Ninette was nestled. She snatched the book from her hands and tossed it aside. "Netta," the girl whined, "You know I'll soon return to Hogwarts. Let us enjoy my last few days together!"

The pleading look in her sister's eyes seemed reason enough to give in, she decided. What harm could an afternoon do? After all, Netta hadn't ventured far from the estate in many a day, and while the still silence such a walled environment provided was ideal, she thought that perhaps a bit o sunlight would do her good.

She sighed. "Alright, Nicky. But don't expect me to join any of your games."

Nicola's eyes sparkled with glee. "'Games,' Netta? I'm really not a child anymore, you know. I'm old enough to know not to go running about—"

"Which you do anyway," Ninette reminded her.

"—I mean to say, in nearly a week I shall commence my third year of schooling. That's hardly young, I think." The girl paused, as if to consider this. She twirled a curly blonde lock about her finger thoughtfully.
"You're still younger than I am." Ninette stood and summoned the discarded book with a subtle flick of her wand, setting it neatly beside the window.

"Why don't you teach me to do it like that?" Nicola pouted, pointing. She seemed to have disregarded her elder sister's statement entirely.

"Because, unlike you, m'dear, I am no longer under-aged. I have been for some time now. The Ministry would not take kindly to me teaching you things outside of the wizarding world."

"Posh. You just don't want to take the time from your precious books!" Nicky retorted, placing her hands upon her hips. However annoyed she seemed to be, her lips twitched, threatening to break into a wide smile.

"I don't either!" Netta argued, though both sisters were aware the argument would not be won either way. "Now, do you wish me outdoors or not?"

Nicky grasped her hand in her own and pulled her forward, the elder's turquoise skirts swishing. The hem hid her feet from view, and it looked as though she floated along with her heels mere centimeters above the ground. If such attire was not required of her, she surely would have discarded the gown for something simpler. Nicola took pleasure in the family riches; she had been born into them; pampered from birth. Ninette, whoever, had known the poverty of a poor knight and his country-maiden wife. Only through his invaluable service to the king had wealth come for Sir Covington, and thus to his family. And she had benefitted from this. Netta was humble, Nicky was kept aloft with her head amongst the clouds.

Ninette shook her head, clearing her thoughts. Too many thoughts for one person alone to think, she mused, smiling. She tucked a strand of silvery blonde behind her ear and swept it into the snood atop her head with a flick of her wand.

"I do wish you'd stop showing off," Nicola muttered wryly.

The gardens were beautiful that summer, every stalk and shrub alike bursting in vivacious bloom. The girl had chosen to frolic in the orchards that day, for which her sister was glad; the season's last fruit still dripped enticingly from the trees beneath which they sat. Or rather, where the latter sat. The former had quickly situated herself between the gnarled branches of an old oak. Netta had shuddered at that. Seeing Nicky shinny into the sky had always given her a terrible fright, preferring the ground herself.

"Oh, do come down!" Netta pleaded, placing her palm upon the rough bark.

Nicky laughed; she threw back her head and her curls bounced from their hold joyously. "Are you afraid for me? Well don't be. Honestly, Netta, I do this nearly every day!" She spread her arms wide and embraced a particularly heavy branch, her leg trailing along the trunk and swaying limply as though she meant to leap down then and there.

"Of course, you wouldn't know since you're always holed indoors," she added as an afterthought. "After all-" Suddenly, she fell silent.

"Netta. Netta!" she gasped. The fear in her voice was as evident as though she had written it in the air, and Ninette stood immediately, staring at the branches in which her sister rested.

"What is it?" she inquired nervously. Even from the ground, she could detect the wideness of her eyes and the stiffness with which she held herself. The girl seemed to have been frozen by time; a rare event, as she was never still, and never had been in all of Ninette's recollection. And Ninette's memory rarely lied, for even in her sleep, she recalled the tossings and turnings of Nicola Covington. Something was terribly wrong, she could sense it.

"Come quickly, no, better to return home!" With each word she spoke, the blonde's voice became more laden with panic, until she seemed to be at the point of hysteria. "Netta, our home! They're burning it!" She swayed dangerously atop her perch, as though threatening to fall, and broke into a fit of sobs.

Ninette clutched a hand to her breast in fear. The brilliant colors which had seemed before to leap at her in a bundle of happiness had lost their glory, the world she had suddenly begun to perceive in shades of grey. "What?" she breathed, barely above a whisper. Her ears roared with a loud rushing as though the word were about to come down around her feet.

"We must go!" the girl shouted, and leapt from the tree in such a grace that Ninette could not fathom. Her gown had spread wide, rippling and flowing; like to a fairy, she floated to the earth in a stolen moment of time. And together, they ran.

They were met with a terrible sight once they had emerged from the orchard, a scene so foul and stunning all at once it caused Nicola to fall to her knees and turn her head away. It was too awful for either of them to bear. Their manor–their home–was engulfed in a mass of fire. Flames licked at the ancient stones and devoured vast amounts of precious wood, growing higher and higher until it was an enormous column of crimson and orange. At the base was gathered a group she recognized at once from the village, laughing and jeering and calling to the haunting screams which chilled her to the very core. Formless shapes writhed in agony as the heat tore at their flesh; wolves of fire.

The pair seemed to be captivated in the sight before them. Neither girl moved nor spoke, yet both had tears streaming in silent rivers down their pale cheeks as they wept. "Do something, Netta!" Nicky moaned woefully. "Put it out! You are the only one that can."

It was as though a current of lightning had been shot throughout her body. Her wand! She searched within the folds of her gown with a maddened haste, turning out pocket after pocket to no avail. And then, there it was! She felt her fist close around it, and firmly, she withdrew it. Her hand shook and her mind reeled. She shot a jet of water at the ever-growing flames, yet in her haste, it was misguided and extinguished but a minute section of tower. Perspiration clung to her forehead, and the snood fell free, letting her locks hang wild. Momentarily, her vision became blurred.

"'Ey! There they are!" Her blood ran cold. One of the men had spotted them, and jabbed an accusing finger in their direction, shouting and running with such a speed that in but a few moments, they could have counted the threads hanging loosely from his coat.

"Nicky, run!" Ninette choked, a somewhat maternal need to protect the younger girl surfacing through her fear. She grasped her shoulders and shoved her toward the grove from whence they had come.

"Netta, I'm not leaving you here, they'll kill you!" Nicky sobbed, resisting the force with which she had been shoved. The elder had succeeded in only moving her but a few staggering steps; she was not the stronger or the braver of the two, both knew this well. Nicola glared at her defiantly, her lower lip trembling, though she had bitten in an attempt to disguise this fact. Yet she had still drawn blood. "If we must face them, then we shall face them together," she continued. "The Covington line will not end here!" She stamped her foot upon the weathered earth as if to set her statement in stone. Netta laughed in spite of their dire situation.

"You truly are a Gryffindor, Nicky," she murmured in her ear as they embraced for but a moment. "Godric is smiling upon you today."

"And Rowena is seated right beside him," the latter replied, though her voice wavered slightly as it had before, catching within her throat. Netta's cheeks colored graciously.

"I am afraid that there is little that we may do for our home now, but there is a chance that we can"-Nicky's eyes flashed-"will save ourselves. There is a broom shed near the furthermost edge of Mother's rose garden." It was coming to her, then, the bravery within her blood. Ninette could feel it seeping through her veins, mingling together; her father and mother giving her their strength. "We will fly from there," her tone grew stronger, "and to Hogsmeade. We will be out of harm's way there, for they cannot enter the village." She exhaled a quavering sigh, and Nicky grasped her hand once more, setting off at a run toward the garden.

"Protego!" Netta cried as an arrow alight with flame whizzed at their backs.

"Why are they trying to kill us?" Nicky sobbed quietly, her bravery fading for a moment. "We've done nothing wrong!"

Netta gasped as her foot caught upon a rock and tore at the leather of her boots, yet she did not stop, merely winced and carried on. "I-I do not know," she panted. "When we are safely above the town, I shall think of it more. But we must first escape." The pounding of her shoes upon the ground seemed to mimic the terrible pounding of her heart within her chest, though she could nearly feel it at the base of her throat as she ran. They could hear the angry cries of the village men in their wake, but fear was beyond her. The Covingtons had not wronged the villagers in any way, but she knew they had grown suspicious – and superstitious – though not without reason. Some things their household had let slip, rumors spread by the former help. It was natural; not to be prevented or stopped whilst in minor levels. Yet this… this had been allowed to progress too far.

The pair tore across the grounds, their breathing ragged as they entered the sanctity of the trees. Just ahead, the garden wall was visible, its white stone gleaming as though it were a beacon, calling them to its saving grace. It was as though a shimmer of hope had been ignite within her; the broom shed had come into view. "There!" she whispered, clutching at a stitch in her side whilst pointing with the tip of her want so as to not give away their destination.

It was a dilapidated shack, the wood rotting and the roof beginning to sag with an air of despondent loneliness. Vines curled about the base in a wicked manner as though guarding a stolen prize. The lock had rusted, and so hung open. Yet to them, it was the most beautiful object either had lain eyes upon. With a strangled sob of happiness, Nicola reached for the twisted iron handles as Netta regarded her movement eagerly, sucking in her breath.

And it was empty.

"We are done for." Nicky sank to her knees, defeated, as Netta gasped in horror.

"No." She shook her head slightly. "It cannot be. No one-"

"Someone has stolen them from us, Netta. There is nothing we can do." The younger sibling's voice had grown hollow and emotionless as she began to accept her fate. The elder would not, could not, do the same.

"Nicola Covington, there is enough wood here to transfigure a broom. One broom, for you. It will not take both our weight, so I beseech you to let it carry yours – No, sister, you must listen. Your life has hardly begun, and I? I have already completed my schooling. What is left for one such as I to do?"

"Netta, I have told you, I am not-"

"The Covington line will not end today. Is that not what you so fiercely proclaimed before? Would you betray our father and mother by dying this day?" She plastered a grim smile upon her face and flicked her wand to the dreadful broom shed. At once, it bent and shrunk to a crudely-formed broomstick, the handle sleek for the most part, though from the tail, each twig poked at odd angles.

"You remember creating this spell, don't you?" Ninette laughed in reminiscence, though the sound seemed feeble and forced. She blinked quickly in an attempt to rid her eyes of their swelling tears, yet they would not cease to water. "Mother told us to do something productive, and we did!"

Nicola shook softly, as she was not afraid to stain her cheeks with the unspoken rein of sorrow. "She was so cross with us after we used her favourite chair by accident…"

"And it seems that I still have not perfected it. Would you do that for me, Nicky?" She grasped the makeshift broom tightly and held it for the other to take. "Go."

The latter paused for a moment as though she had suddenly decided against it. Then, she swept one leg over and settled upon it, the device humming as she did so as though she had brought it to life with her touch – and in a sense, she had. "Netta, my sister, I shall never forget you. I love you dearly–"

"Go," the elder urged once more. She kissed her upon the cheek and placed a hand upon her shoulder in a final good-bye. "In another life, perhaps we shall meet again. Farewell, sweet Nicky. I love you with all of my heart." As she stepped backward, Nicola kicked her feet against the ground and was lifted into the air as though her garb were made of down and she herself was but a feather, buffeted about in the blowing wind. And soon, the girl had disappeared into the heavens, soaring away to leave Netta behind.

To die, she thought, suddenly bitter. The selfish, more perverse part of her longed to be the one upon the broom; the one that did not need to be sacrificed so the other could survive. A life had been saved, but did it matter, really? And for how long would the aftermath of her sacrifice last? At that moment, there was nothing which seemed of sense to her at all, and she was numbed by it.

At last, it seemed, the men had found her. She put up not a struggle as they bound her wrist and ankles with coarse ropes which dug into her skin, only wept in bitter silence, and to herself. The rhythmic marching of boots had soon lulled her into a state of dreams; she felt nothing.

"Now, witch, ye shall burn! Burn like yer mother did, may the devil take the souls of ye both as ye rots in the bowels of hell!" Ninette nearly laughed, her features contorting with madness.

"Your threats mean little to me," she spat. "To slaughter me is to damn your own souls." She had begun to panic, the man's words seeping into her mind and through the very cracks which kept her sane as though it were a deadly poison. She did not wish to die. Bravery once more turned to agony and tears.

At a gesture from the leader, Ninette Covington was thrown into the emblazoned depths of her childhood home, with no means by which to escape her fate. She coughed as thick, ebony smoke filled her lungs through the absence of oxygen, and her eyes watered.

Her screams could be heard in the village as flames licked hungrily at her flesh, devouring it greedily. She was burning alive, and with each second she remained upon the earth, it was the only thought present in her mind. Netta covered her head with bubbling fingers, and cried out with one last agonizing breath, her nose filled with the odor of singing hair.

And as at last the pain had subsided and she drifted away, she was but a spectral shadow afraid of death, a lady as grey as the ashes she had left behind.