Pyrrha killed her sister.
The thought screamed through her burning head over and over as she soared through the storm on Ashlin's broom.
A downdraft nearly sent her crashing into the dusky forest rushing below; she yanked the broom upward with numb fingers and leveled out again. Wailing wind clawed at every sodden inch of her and lanced beneath the flesh, froze the blood, splintered it. She didn't dare release her grip on the broom to repel the elements with the earth so deathly distant.
"You can't mend what's ended."
The voice in her ear was impossible.
Pyrrha chanced a glance back, and lightning flashed, illuminating a cloud of black wings closer than before. Thunder boomed and darkness reclaimed the skies, pierced a thousand times by the shining yellow eyes of the murder, sinister spots of light like a malevolent swarm of fireflies. On the horizon behind them glowed a writhing pinprick of orange; the flaming remnants of Pyrrha's home.
She could hear them now, over the rumbling sky and pounding rain; a cacophony of hoarse cawing, calling for her blood to wet their beaks. Adrenaline coursed through her as she leaned further forward, nearly flat against the broom, willing it to go faster. The broom wouldn't heed her. Pyrrha was rigid with numb terror, but she had to act, had to break the jinx and apparate.
The roaring storm tossed her about like a child's doll as she released her white-knuckled grip on the broom handle. Her stiff limbs worked in her favor, keeping her seated while she withdrew her wand. At a gesture the wind and rain parted around her, and flying came easier, the shrill howling in her ears abruptly muffled. Pyrrha took a deep breath and regretted it. Blood and burning flesh flooded her senses.
She turned her wand on herself, redoubling her firm grip on the broom, and said, "Finite." She felt nothing; the jinx held.
"Why even try?"
The cawing escalated by the second. Yellow flashed below, and Pyrrha saw dozens more sets of shining eyes moving silently through the brush. When her eyes met theirs they abandoned all pretense of stealth, unleashing chilling howls and guttural roars; there were bears and wolves and untold other creatures, baring savage fangs that caught the moonlight. They matched her speed, weaving between the foliage with preternatural awareness, never once looking anywhere but directly up at her, waiting for her to slip.
Pyrrha directed her wand steadily in harmony with a mental litany of counterjinxes. A new sound brought a fresh stab of fright; under the storm, under the coarse calls of the crows, was a nearby flutter of flapping wings, carrying with them the sickly smell of decay. The mad cawing echoed in Pyrrha's skull, and she botched a wand movement. She started over. The charm flickered and suffocated like a candle pinched out.
"Another dead end."
They were too close. Throaty cawing and guttural roars sounded from all around her, a clamor of frenzied beasts. Pyrrha's heart thundered as she performed spell after spell, soaring blindly through the dense downpour, through inky darkness deep and black as the depths of the sea. Laughter rang in her ears. The smell of rot was almost overpowering, as if she sat in a mass grave of the plagued. Lightning ripped the sky ahead and burned jagged lines into her vision.
Pyrrha finished another incantation, and the subtle inward pressure on her body vanished. The last thing she heard before disapparating was the sharp click of a beak snapping shut inches from the back of her neck.
Under a clear black sky in a forest clearing far away, Pyrrha emerged with one leg. She toppled to the ground with a grunt.
The torn stump of her thigh poured freely. Her breathing came in quick, ragged gasps. She fought the pain and ran her wand over the wound, stanching the bleeding, sealing the flesh together.
Pyrrha rifled through the pouch in her robes, withdrawing a Blood-Replenishing Potion and a large, ornate silver hand mirror. The bitter potion stung her throat. She cast the mirror aside and summoned Ashlin's Nimbus 3000 from where it had rolled away and stowed it in the pouch.
The wand trembled in her grip as she flicked and twirled it, wrapping the clearing in several defensive charms from where she sat in the bloody grass.
"She sees you."
Pyrrha whipped her head back and around, but there was no one in sight. That didn't mean they weren't there.
Homenum Revelio! she thought with a sweep of her wand. The charm emanated outward and revealed no one—no one human.
The witch wasn't the only threat. She cast another charm, and all around, sparks of life in a range of sizes made themselves known. They shined briefly as tiny, twinkling stars imposed over Pyrrha's vision, then winked out of existence together. Too many to count; not unexpected in the middle of a forest. Most beasts, magical or not, posed little enough threat . . . until tonight. They had proven themselves tenacious pursuers under Morrigan's thrall.
The dark trunk of the nearest tree warped under Pyrrha's direction, parting with a large chunk of wood. It shifted under her wand, and she formed a perfect replica of her splinched leg, complete with a matching low-heeled boot. The substitute sunk into place and melded to flesh with an itchy, tingling sensation at the divide. Running her wand down the limb, she wove charms into the grain. It seemed to shine dimly from within.
She leaned back and tested the limits of her new appendage, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction at the way the knee bent and the ankle rolled at her will. To regenerate the limb was a consideration, but the telltale ache in her heart cautioned otherwise. She would have to be judicious with her strength until she could recover.
The lack of sensation from the makeshift leg was disconcerting as she staggered to her feet. Black forest loomed inward from all sides, shadows layered upon shadows between the trees. Shrill chirping and buzzing of insects cut through a soft, earthy breeze. The moonlit glade appeared the same as Pyrrha remembered; a relatively small patch of grass, dirt, and stones, unremarkable but for its perfectly circular formation, and the fact that Pyrrha had shaped it years past. A refuge once again.
She flicked her wand, and from its tip sprang hundreds of tiny lights which scattered in all directions until they blanketed the dusky clearing like a star-strewn nebula, bathing the area in an ethereal blue-white glow. With an elegant series of waves and whirls she bent the trees and their boughs, shifting their trunks until they lay across each other all around the clearing, forming a flowing circular wall. The branches extended and wove tightly into each other overhead, becoming a thick, latticed canopy. With a sweeping gesture she turned the entire domelike structure to gleaming steel.
That would have to do for the moment. There was no telling when Morrigan would find her again. She needed Wasila's help.
Pyrrha wiped sweat from her brow with a forearm and hissed in pain when she brushed the burn. The last of her adrenaline fled her, and the throbbing steadily intensified. She picked up her hand mirror.
Her coal-black eyes were pinched with pain; the burn emanated from a spot below her right temple, flesh charred black in the center, blooming outward in violent shades of red and purple. It covered the side of her head with dark purple tendrils that crept across the flesh. Every inch of it throbbed, and it felt like a white-hot brand pressed against her skull even now. Her right eye was bloodshot, but otherwise, luckily, unimpaired.
The pain was only noise. It took a minute to convince herself, to allow the agony to sink into the background. With her thoughts in order she turned her wand to the mirror with a sharp tap. "The Lodge."
Her reflection shimmered and went black before resolving into a familiar room; the Lodge's common hall, where the reclusive Cabal congregated. A circular ebony table dominated the chamber, seven high-backed chairs of fine red velvet set around it. Luminescent fungi of various sizes and shades of gold sprouted from the dark walls and ceiling, casting an otherworldly glow over the many cluttered shelves and tables encircling the outskirts. A fire crackled merrily beyond the meeting table, burning within a grand fireplace that could fit three abreast.
Aradia Tavani stood hunched over a desk laden with flowing rolls of parchment, quill twirling between her fingers. She frowned down at a weathered old book. Her dark grey-streaked hair was pulled into its customary tight bun, baring lined olive skin.
"Aradia!" Pyrrha called out.
Aradia turned sharply in a whirl of elegant vermilion robes. "Pyrrha. You startled me." Her low voice had a subtle Italian lilt. She approached the mirror. "What business merits . . . ?" She trailed off as she caught sight of Pyrrha's scar, eyes widening almost imperceptibly.
"My apologies for interrupting your studies. Is Wasila about?" Pyrrha asked in what she hoped was an even tone.
Aradia ignored her. "You've been injured. Cursed." Her eyes narrowed. "How?"
"A duel. How else?" This wouldn't satisfy Aradia. "I was chasing down rumors of an unexplored subsystem of catacombs in Paris, magically concealed. Someone didn't take kindly to my curiosity," Pyrrha lied, trying for an untroubled look. "I sorted them out."
"Indeed?" Aradia said, tone laced with suspicion. "I've never known anyone to get the better of you in a duel. They must have been truly remarkable."
"They were," Pyrrha said simply. Something snapped in the distant woods, and Pyrrha glanced away from the mirror, but she couldn't see past her steel barrier. She fought down the dread rising in her chest and turned back to Aradia, straining to keep her voice placid. "If you could fetch Wasila for me, I would be grateful."
Aradia gave her a knowing look. "Do you require her in particular? Perhaps I can be of assistance."
"Thank you, but I do need her, yes."
Wasila had been the only member of the Cabal to vote with her, and therefore the only one Pyrrha could hope to coerce into providing aid under the table. To be found out so immediately would compound disaster, but the idea of a more hopeless situation seemed such an abstraction that this risk, any risk, felt painless.
". . . How curious. Why?"
The rate of Pyrrha's breathing kept steadily climbing. Morrigan could arrive at any moment. "Because she's—she's uniquely qualified, now will you retrieve her, please?"
"I won't." Aradia's voice was cold. "I think you're lying to me." She leaned forward intently, searching Pyrrha's face. "You released Morrigan."
"I didn't."
Aradia found what she sought. "You did." She shook her head slowly, sorrowfully. "Foolish. We concurred lifting the curse was beyond our capabilities. What on earth possessed you to attempt it alone?"
"I . . ." Pyrrha wanted to fling the mirror away. "I couldn't just let it lie—just leave her to bide her time. Something had to be done."
"That is neither here nor there. If the legends have any merit whatsoever, Morrigan is far too dangerous for a lone witch to engage with, regardless how skilled she thinks herself."
"'Too dangerous' is a craven's evasion. Unacceptable."
"I am no coward, Pyrrha." Aradia's shoulders seemed to bear invisible weight. "I simply have more vital concerns, as you are aware. More vital concerns, and a thorough understanding of my own limitations . . . Now," she said, "tell me what you've done."
"I meant to accomplish what we discussed; I attempted to put Morrigan to rest, to release her from . . ." Pyrrha clutched at her skull as it throbbed like a smouldering heartbeat. "Instead, she overpowered me, fought back, and I couldn't—couldn't beat her . . . I fled. She tracked me somehow, and I led her straight to my . . ." Pyrrha bowed her head, a sharp ache blooming in her chest. "My home."
Her sister was gone, and Pyrrha knew she'd never be home again.
Aradia sighed, looking somber. "I am truly sorry, Pyrrha, but you know what must happen now. You've defied the will of the Cabal, acted against the vote . . . and unleashed a horror on the world."
"Wasila voted in my favor," Pyrrha said, cold desperation sinking in. "With her help, perhaps—perhaps I can—"
"No," Aradia said firmly. "I will not allow you to endanger our lives as you have your own. Pyrrha Clay," she said, straightening up and clasping her bony hands together, "you are hereby excommunicated from the Cabal. You are marked for death; such is the way our secrets remain so."
"You're making a mistake," Pyrrha said, gripping the mirror so tightly her hand hurt. "If we don't stop her, who else—who else will?"
Aradia drew her wand and aimed it at the mirror, her expression carved from stone. "Goodbye, Pyrrha."
Fury and panic coursed through Pyrrha, and she gave Aradia the most hateful look she could muster. "You'll regret this," she whispered. "Your son—"
The mirror cracked down the middle, and the sharp sound rang out unnaturally in the clearing, an echoing noise of finality. Aradia and the Lodge faded from view until Pyrrha stared at her own stricken reflection. She hurled the mirror away with a shout, shattering it against the steel wall. The shards littering the grass reflected all she had left in the world, her own broken self, and it wasn't enough. She'd never been enough.
"You handled that quite poorly."
Pyrrha's heart stalled, and she spun about to see Ashlin.
Ashlin stood there.
Ashlim stood there looking at her with a scornful turn of her mouth. Her bright blue eyes carried an unfamiliar coldness.
Breath abandoned Pyrrha like she'd been struck in the gut by a speeding bludger. Her heart hammered erratically. She took a few halting steps forward, her arm halfway outstretched.
"Ashlin? Is . . . how . . . ?"
Ashlin raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "Will you be finishing these questions, or should I start guessing?"
Pyrrha drew her wand with a trembling hand and began casting, mumbling incantations shakily under her breath. The truth pierced her heart like a shard of ice. There was nothing there . . . but she could see Ashlin standing before her, as real as anything. Her hair—long and auburn, like Pyrrha's—even stirred in the breeze.
"You're—you're a hallucination," Pyrrha said faintly.
"You're—you're—you're—" Ashlin mocked. Her voice dripped with hate. "Of course I am, imbecile. You watched me die, didn't you? Have you forgotten already?"
"No," Pyrrha whispered. Every detail of that moment was seared indelibly into her memory, and would remain so for the rest of her life.
"Good," Ashlin said. She vanished from sight and reappeared inches from Pyrrha's face. Wintry blue eyes filled her vision. "You'll always remember. That's what I want. That's what I'll do. Do you see me, how terribly tragic—dead and gone, but still putting you first, still throwing all my love into this great empty pit—"
"You're not her." Pyrrha closed her eyes. She concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths, attempting to quell the storm in her head—
"No! How dare you try to shut me out!"
The cursed burn pulsed with agony, pain so potent Pyrrha collapsed into a heap in the dirt. It felt akin to bashing her exposed brain with a blazing fire poker, like molten metal pouring into her eyes. Something clawed at her head. Seconds passed like hours. She writhed and screamed and cursed and babbled until, gradually, the pain receded, settling back into a more tolerable, but still excruciating rhythmic throbbing.
"You won't ever try that again, will you?" Ashlin crooned, reaching down with a pale hand. Pyrrha felt icy fingers against her forehead.
She scrambled backwards across the dirt, her limbs like jelly. Her nails were wet with her own blood.
Ashlin's derisive laughter cracked Pyrrha's heart.
"You . . ." Pyrrha began hoarsely.
A sound caught Pyrrha's ear, and Ashlin cocked her head at the same time. A chorus of howling wolves pierced the relative quiet of the night. The sky beyond the steel canopy had begun to lighten, the stars dimming. Dawn approached. Whatever was happening to her had to wait. She had to get moving.
She stood and waved her wand down herself, cleansing her robes of dirt and blood. Next she gestured at her face, sealing the furrows she had carved there. Her robes had ripped where she splinched; a flick saw them restored. She found north with the Point Me Spell and oriented herself in the correct direction, then paused, considering placement of a rebirth mark inside her makeshift shelter.
"Yes, brilliant idea," came Ashlin's voice from behind her. "Return to the middle of the forest, where Morrigan's beasts will surround you. A flawless plan, that."
Pyrrha shook her throbbing head and raised her wand, bending away the steel trees in front of her. She shuffled awkwardly through the gap. After glancing back at the dome one last time, she flicked her wand again and her wooden limb became metal, no heavier than before.
"It's a nice bit of spellwork." Ashlin was suddenly there, ambling through the brush beside her. "I'm surprised you didn't muck it up."
Pyrrha remained silent, picking her way over thick roots with care. She cast out with her wand, sending a ring of pale light outward all around, hovering above her head like a giant halo. Insubstantial, it passed through trunks and branches as it drifted overhead. The first steps of her hike progressed without incident, but she braced herself for the distance to come; her path was long, chosen in a split-second, but free of the risk of collateral damage.
The scents of the forest seemed to cleanse her lungs. Among the saturated earth and decaying leaves, she thought she could detect a hint of something flowery in the air. Less pleasantly, the metallic smell of her blood still clung to her robes. She had neglected to disperse the smell quite on purpose; she hoped the wolves would find her.
The wolf pack of the Forbidden Forest was unique; the result of a moonlit union between transformed werewolves, they were of a kind with mundane wolves, yet distinguishable by their superior intelligence and beauty. These wolves were familiar with Pyrrha and, more importantly, the Forbidden Forest. With luck, they would help expedite her trek through the woods.
"Yes, you're so very clever. Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back," Ashlin said. She stared unnervingly at Pyrrha, never checking her footing on the uneven forest floor. Ashlin scoffed. "Idiot, there's no footing to check. I'm a bloody delusion—this whole physical form business is for your benefit."
Pyrrha looked askance at her, not bothering to conceal her worry. This figment masquerading as her sister had unrestricted access to her surface thoughts, and the ability to cause her immense pain whenever it pleased, not to mention the thing's vindictive temperament. It was nothing like her sister—kind, playful, forgiving Ashlin, who looked at Pyrrha as if she could do no wrong even as she was abandoned. Pyrrha had had experiments to conduct, theories to pursue, progress to make, and Ashlin had been left to summers in an empty house.
In the end, Pyrrha's advancements had counted for precisely nothing. Her incapacity had cost her sister's life. Sickening guilt-laden misery crawled through Pyrrha's insides to rest on her heart.
"I am your sister." Ashlin broke into Pyrrha's black musings, grinning venomously. The burn pulsed. "I'm the sister you deserve. Yes," she said softly, "you'll be making things up to me for a long time to come."
An involuntary chill swept over Pyrrha as she studiously ignored the specter, gaze fixed on the foliage ahead. They covered ground in silence for a while, to the tune of the melodic chirps and trills of unseen birds somewhere high in the towering trees. Dawn began to break, and Pyrrha let her light spell fade as the sun's rays started to spill through the leaves. She cursed softly as her ersatz leg caught another knotted root.
"Why not take my broom and fly?" Ashlin asked with a smirk.
Set so tightly, Pyrrha barely moved her jaw. "I'm useless on a broom. Weaving between these trees would . . . would take me at least twice as long as walking."
"So fly above the trees." Ashlin's tone conveyed an implicit you idiot at the end.
Pyrrha's heart lurched at the idea. She shook her head. "I'd be that much easier for Morrigan to spot."
Ashlin snorted. "And you think she relies on sight to find you?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter; I'm making good time."
Ashlin chuckled, shooting Pyrrha a dark look. "Your estimations don't tend to pan out, though, do they?"
Heart and head throbbed in agonizing unison. Pyrrha had apparated straight to the house and told Ashlin to gather her essentials; she hadn't imagined it possible the witch would find them so quickly . . . if she'd moved Ashlin right away, then perhaps . . . Pyrrha's head pulsed again.
"We'll never know, will we?" Ashlin said. She smiled icily, a baleful look in her eyes. "Why don't you tell me the real reason you won't fly?"
The shade already knew. Pyrrha kept her mouth firmly shut until pain lanced through her head, and she bent double, clutching at her scalp. "Alright!" she said. "I'm—I'm afraid to fly!"
"You're afraid of heights," Ashlin corrected with a fiendish smile. "Rather stupid of you. What danger do heights pose to a witch, even incompetent as you are?"
"Phobias aren't rational," Pyrrha ground out, rubbing her head.
"Shut it. Hear that?" Ashlin stopped pretending to walk and tilted her head. "Scuttling. An acromantula—a large one."
Pyrrha flicked her wand and found its location precisely, a distance away to her left, quickly approaching. She surveyed the remainder of the surrounding forest, looking for loose clusters of life that could denote a wolf pack, but saw nothing in that vein. It was disappointing; the wolves were truly remarkable to witness.
"You'll be seeing them soon enough, I expect," Ashlin said. "With shiny new peepers." She laughed delightedly at Pyrrha's disquiet.
The acromantula burst through the undergrowth in a flurry of limbs, pincers clicking. It was twice the size of a muggle car, and much more repulsive; venom dripped from fangs the length of Pyrrha's forearm, and eight beady black eyes secured her in a hungry stare. Its spindly, furry legs stood taller than she did.
Pyrrha met the massive spider's gaze, struck by sudden inspiration. "Take me to your colony," she called out, "and I won't hurt you."
The acromantula made an outraged chittering sound and bore down on her, legs scuttling with a speed deceptive for their size; Pyrrha raised her wand, the picture of tranquility. The tip flashed a deep red.
The monster collapsed and flew into a fit of spasms; its legs flailed about in a blur as it writhed in agony, massive thorax kicking up clods of dirt in every direction. Tortured hissing escaped its disgusting maw, high and shrill. Pyrrha held the curse a little longer as it bucked and thrashed pitifully, then lowered her wand.
The acromantula twitched and seized, wracked with residual pain. Caked with dirt, its formidable body heaved as it drew quick breaths, emitting a series of odd, hissing wheezes. Gingerly, it rolled over and propped itself up on trembling legs.
"Will you take me to your colony, or must I hurt you again?"
The beast shuddered. "I take . . . I take," it said with a voice like a knife against stone.
"Smart of you," Pyrrha said. "Remain still; I'm going to climb onto your back. If you attempt to bite me or throw me off, your death will come as slowly as the seasons turn. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the monster said. The monosyllabic response conveyed a remarkable undercurrent of rage and fright.
Pyrrha raised her wand again, conjuring a staircase leading up to the monster's back. It flinched violently, then froze, trembling in anticipation. She climbed the stairs, metal leg clanking annoyingly, and her heart skipped a beat as she leapt onto the acromantula's hairy back as gently as she could. It dipped a little before straightening up, turning and bearing her away without further ado.
She situated herself as comfortably as she was able, eyeing the monster carefully, her hand never leaving her wand. The overgrown spider navigated the forest with ease, infinitely more sure-footed and nimble than she had been, even after being subjected to torture. They seemed to glide through the foliage; as Pyrrha watched the trees pass by, she rather felt like she was riding a lumpy, hairy, odorous flying carpet.
As Pyrrha ducked under a low-hanging branch, a light tingling across her skin told her that they had passed into Hogwarts' outer protections. She doubted they would delay Morrigan for long, if at all; the enchantments around the perimeter weren't meant to turn away approaching magicals. It was a school, after all, not a fortress, though the charms throughout the castle itself told another story. With luck, that story involved a foiled Morrigan languishing outside indefinitely.
Ashlin appeared in front of Pyrrha, sitting cross-legged in midair. She remained there at a fixed point as the acromantula skittered along. Her face was set in a sardonic grin. "'Your death will come as slowly as the seasons turn,'" she repeated in an exaggerated, theatrical tone. "How dramatic of you—you should've been a thespian."
"It helps to threaten in terms they comprehend." Pyrrha wasn't certain why she bothered to engage with the fake.
"Oh, you're so very fierce!" Ashlin said derisively. "Perhaps you should try scaring the crows away with that look of yours. Their hearts may flutter as they pluck the eyes from your head."
Pyrrha's stomach squirmed. She looked up sharply, eyes raking over the gaps in the canopy. Birds circled indolently in the pale morning sky, occasionally dipping out of sight. They didn't seem to be following her. Lower, the surrounding forest was quiet and static, strangely devoid of wildlife.
"Not so strange," Ashlin said. "We're quite close to the acromantula colony, after all."
A few minutes later, Pyrrha began to notice black, furry shapes of varying sizes, under bushes and perched in trees, scuttling over distant roots or clinging to webs high above. They stared with beady eyes, mandibles flexing menacingly, but they made no move to attack . . . yet.
Pyrrha leaned forward, one hand gripping her mount's coarse fur, the other aiming her wand. She spoke at the monster's bulky head: "If your brethren get too close, warn them off. I'll have no trouble killing them if they attack me. Actually," she said, "tell them to follow us. I have something to say to the lot of you."
"Yes," the monster hissed with barely disguised hostility.
The acromantula hissed and clicked as it passed its brothers and sisters. They returned the chittering speech in kind, falling into line behind Pyrrha. Their peculiar procession steadily swelled as they ventured further into acromantula territory; the air soon drummed with the patter of countless slender limbs. Wide-spun webs stretched between the trees, each one large enough to ensnare a whole quidditch team. They quickly became so thick that the swarm was forced to split up, flowing around obstacles like a series of revolting tributaries.
Pyrrha scanned the branches and webs above warily, wand at the ready. The webs overhead were so densely woven they nearly filtered out the sun's rays completely, throwing the surrounding forest into a dim twilight. Acromantulas followed from the trees, leaping from branch to web to trunk with disconcerting agility. There was hardly anything untouched by silky white webbing now, and Pyrrha could see the lip of a gigantic pit ahead, lined with clusters of pasty white eggs the size of quaffles.
A particularly reckless acromantula flung itself at Pyrrha from a nearby tree; with two waves of her wand the beast hung suspended helplessly in the air, squealing and spitting as it burned to death. There was an outburst of furious hissing and clicking, but the horde made no further advances.
"They're cowed rather easily," Ashlin observed with contempt.
"They're not cowed at all," Pyrrha said quietly. "They're presenting their patriarch with an offering of prey. They'll wait for the word before tearing me apart."
Ashlin snickered. "But they'd prefer to carry you in their jaws, rather than on their back." She leaned back and cast a bewildered look around at the deadly mass. "Do they all expect to get a piece of you?"
Pyrrha hummed, still watching the high places. "Me, and those who are trampled to death in the feeding frenzy."
"Lovely."
Pyrrha's mount crested the lip of the depression, conveying her smoothly down the slope toward an acromantula with greying fur. It was a colossal thing, with fangs of a height with Pyrrha, glistening with deadly fluid. Even from her perch atop the subdued spider, the grey monstrosity loomed at least a dozen feet over her, its trunklike legs spanning a width that might reach from one side of Hogwarts' Entrance Hall to the other.
All at once, the bowl-like valley pulsed with deafening silence. Thousands of malevolent black gazes appraised Pyrrha from all sides as she was brought to a halt in front of the elder. She stood and dropped off the spider; it scuttled backward and melted into the teeming, twitching swarm barely ten feet behind her. The monster looming above matched her stare, the weight of its eight hateful eyes bearing down, reducing her to an insect.
The grey acromantula's pincers snapped thoughtfully, a morbid sound that made impressive echoes throughout the valley. Its titanic form rested on the forest floor in the midst of a nestlike arrangement of webs. Dozens of egg clusters dotted the network of dense webbing. The beast shifted, creating a noise akin to a landslide.
"You encroach upon our domain . . . by your own free will . . ." Its voice was somehow deep and shrill at the same time, a dry rasp that scraped against Pyrrha's skull. "Before my children feast . . . tell me . . . Why?"
From nothing her wand reappeared and she performed a quick series of twirls and flicks; the nest of webs split apart and twined into dense cords; they wrapped themselves around the elder's body, weaving through its hairy legs, securing it in place. It called out a furious shriek and the acromantulas surged as one, leaping and scrambling over each other, pincers clicking eagerly.
Pyrrha swung her wand, and a howling blast of wind sent spiders spinning away in all directions; she followed the motion through, whipping her arm around again and again. The gale ramped up into a bitter cold winter wind swirling around her, flinging away another wave of lunging spiders. The temperature began to drop.
With guttural yowls the elder struggled against its bonds as Pyrrha stood fast in the eye of the storm, stirring the atmosphere. Masses of spiders struggled towards her, more sluggish every moment as the cold crept in. Snow and hail suffused the cyclone, a blinding white tempest of ice, and it roared outward at Pyrrha's direction and grew into a glacial barrage that swept through the swarm, hurling the nearest spiders like toys across the valley. The air was a downpour of sleet; it shot like a hailstorm of bullets and assailed the horde, clinging to flesh and fur, compacting itself into thick ice against their bodies. Every sound was torn away by the screaming wind.
The swarm had nearly fallen still in the midst of the squall. Pyrrha swung her arm around once more, and the wind wailed as the blizzard swelled further, wrapping the valley in a deathly embrace. The elder was stiff, coated in thick frost, and Pyrrha could barely make out the legions of its children through sheets of white, a collective of dark shapes encased in ice throughout the clearing, from the center to the edge of the storm, frozen through to the last.
When Pyrrha let her arm fall, the blizzard snuffed out in an instant. Her ears rang in the sudden silence. She spun in a slow circle, steady breaths fogging the air as she took in the aftermath; a final blanket of snow floated in the air like stars, falling softly upon countless icebound acromantulas posed in various stages of retreat. Glittering ice encrusted the intricate tangles of webbing about the clearing, coating every strand and tapering out into spiky, crystalline patterns. They were strangely beautiful, like magnified snowflakes.
Pyrrha swept her wand in a wide arc. A booming shockwave of air burst outward in a wave of concussive force, creating a cascade of discordant shattering as it hurtled through the frozen horde, sending innumerable shards and chips of ice flying in all directions. She turned her wand on the massive nests, blasting the many clusters of frozen eggs into tiny fragments. They tinkled as they blew away.
Again her eyes fell upon the elder acromantula. It was almost completely entombed in ice, snow and frozen webs. She raised her wand again; it spat a torrent of flames that licked at the ice, thawing the beast, then engulfing it in ravenous fire. A twirl of the wrist whisked away foul smoke. As the hulking corpse slowly burned, Pyrrha lamented the loss of so much valuable acromantula venom, but there hadn't been time . . .
Time was wasting. Mindful of the forest, she snuffed out the flames with a twitch of the arm. What remained was little more than a heap of melted, blackened flesh with eight legs stuck out awkwardly. Satisfied that Morrigan couldn't raise it back to haunt her, she spun on her heel and headed for the light incline of the valley, back the way she came.
Jagged shards of ice crunched beneath her boots as she strode through the snow. She melted a path for herself up the slope, pausing briefly at the top of the valley's lip to glance back at her handiwork. From where she stood, the former colony looked like an encompassing snow globe, a self-contained, frozen tundra sparkling with ice in the middle of the summertime forest.
Pyrrha turned away and consulted her wand on the direction of true north, orienting herself towards Hogwarts. She set a steady pace, gait still slightly awkward on her surrogate leg, and she trudged over drifts and banks and broken branches. Temperate gusts brushed against her in gentle haste toward the pressure vaccuum left behind.
As snow gave way to dirt, a flash of deep blue in a patch of white caught her eye; she vaguely registered hoofbeats approaching when she knelt in the snow and plucked a half-buried stone from the drift. It was smoothly polished and small as a fingertip, a crack snaking down the center of one side, which obscured a vaguely familiar marking.
"Hey! Pay attention, halfwit. Centaurs headed our way." Ashlin's voice sounded from inside her head.
Pyrrha stood and brushed at her knees, dropping the odd stone into the pouch in her robes. A small herd of centaurs galloped between webs and trees, slowing to a canter as they moved to surround her. Most of them wielded bows, nocked and cautiously half-drawn, though aimed at the ground.
Arms crossed, Pyrrha's fingers rested within close reach of the wand tucked into its pocket. "Yes?" she said, tapping her steel foot impatiently.
The metal limb drew several suspicious glances: her burn, looks of revulsion. One of the centaurs trotted forward, a male with lengthy black hair and beard. He looked down at her with narrowed eyes. "The forest is not yours to walk as you please, human. What are you doing here?"
"Walking as I please, centaur." Ashlin cackled in Pyrrha's head as the centaur's nostrils flared. "The forest is, in turn, not yours to police. Why do you bar my way?"
The black-maned centaur's fingers flexed on the handle of his bow. "One of our number reported a snowstorm in the middle of acromantula territory, and we arrive minutes later to find only you—not a single one of Aglaeca's children in sight. Tell me, interloper," he said, "what have you done to them?" Several armed centaurs subtly adjusted their grips. "What," he said again, "have you done?"
Pyrrha snatched her wand and beckoned; the centaurs reared in surprise as their weapons ripped free from their hands to hover in front of her. She splintered them with a flick and let them fall to the dirt in a pile of kindling.
"That," she said.
The centaurs bridled with rage, kicking up dirt with their hooves. The black haired male loomed over her, red-faced.
"You've wiped out the entire colony, upsetting the forest's natural balance with senseless bloodshed, and you have the gall to turn your magics on us directly afterwards?" Rumbling rage upset the male's cadence. He, like the others, seemed on the edge of retaliation; they all cast frequent, worried glances at her wand. "Do not expect us to withstand an attack without acting in kind!"
"I haven't attacked you. Drawn bows make me nervous. Here," Pyrrha said, waving her wand over the remains of the bows; the splinters flew back together neatly. She transfigured the earth beneath the centaurs in the same moment. "As for the acromantulas—it was necessary. That's all I have time to say. I apologize."
She didn't feel sorry in the slightest when she pointed her wand at the male; a warm, euphoric feeling shot up her arm and into her head. His wrathful expression fell blank. At her mental direction, he knelt, allowing her to clamber up onto his back.
The circle of centaurs bellowed with outrage, but found themselves securely anchored in a thick quagmire of mud. The black-haired one followed commands readily, leaping through a gap between two panicked, thrashing centaurs and galloping off through the trees. Pyrrha kept a firm one-handed grip on his long hair as they rode.
"Not fond of centaurs, I see," Ashlin said, sounding amused.
I detest the arrogant, Pyrrha said. The reply was reflexive, like following any other line of thought, born without her consent. She couldn't avoid her own mind.
"You're quite arrogant yourself, you know."
Yes.
"You're also astoundingly lazy. You just can't seem to resist hitching a ride through the forest—acromantulas, centaurs, whatever it takes, as long as you're not walking . . . or flying."
Pyrrha shot an annoyed glance vaguely upwards. Riding is faster. I'm trying to stay alive.
"If you were really trying, you'd fly. We'd be at the castle by now."
But I wouldn't have thought to exterminate the acromantulas that way.
"Well, that hardly matters. You don't plan to fight Morrigan here on the grounds of Hogwarts."
It's one less horde of beasts for her to send after me.
Pyrrha straightened up when she thought of the wolves again. She was near the edge of the forest, where they were unlikely to dwell, but she cast the Belua Revelio anyway. Dozens of scattered life forms shined through the foliage, and—there. A large gathering of sparks: it was likely either the wolf pack or a herd of old Hagrid's thestrals, and they appeared too low to the ground for the latter.
The moment Pyrrha thought it, the centaur abruptly changed direction, cantering through the underbrush towards where the sparks of light had been. She cast again and watched as their sparks began to move away, no doubt hearing the centaur's drumming hoofbeats. The centaur skidded to a stop and Pyrrha dismounted, leaving him staring blankly forward as she dashed around the undergrowth. The sparks were fast retreating.
Pyrrha stopped, cupped her hands around her mouth and howled long and loud, doing her best to imitate a wolf's cry.
"You failed," Ashlin said, snickering. "Sounded more like a mutt being neutered—but I suppose that makes your distinctive call all the more recognizable."
After a few beats, a chorus of answering howls rang in the air. Pyrrha howled again and waited. She cast her gaze over the brush, listening intently. A bird trilled, answered by another trill further off. There was a stretch of relative silence, a gentle breeze sliding through the foliage in the background. A branch snapped. Leaves crunched. A bush rustled as a lupine head poked around it.
"Hello there," Pyrrha said softly, stowing her wand and sitting on her heels in the dirt. "Remember me?"
Pyrrha sat motionless as near a dozen wolves crept out from between the surrounding flora, stalking circles about her, watching intently with gorgeous silver eyes. Their silvery-white fur shimmered like liquid moonlight in the dappled sunshine that snuck past the leaves. Wet black noses sniffed at the air curiously. Pyrrha nearly jumped as a wolf brushed by from behind, wiry limbs moving in near silence across the leaf-littered ground. It turned and stood before her, head cocked to the side.
Slowly Pyrrha rose, looking around at the gathered pack, a vague sense of warmth inside despite everything. They were the kind of beautiful sight meant for a better witness than her.
"Here we are again," Ashlin said. "Surrounded by dangerous beasts for the third time today, and it's not even noon."
"It's nice to see you all," Pyrrha said, still slightly anxious; they hadn't sat down yet.
The wolf in front of her stepped forward and sniffed at her clothes, making what Pyrrha thought was a curious sound in its throat.
"Yes, I've had quite a day. That's why I'm here. I've got something important to tell you."
The wolf yipped quietly, stepping back. It turned away and padded among its brethren, turned toward her again, and sat. As if on cue, the other wolves sat down as well. Relief flowed through Pyrrha as they stared at her expectantly.
They were more intelligent than normal wolves, but she didn't know to what extent, beyond that they seemed to understand her simple sentences. She hoped she could get the message across.
"There's a bad witch coming. Soon," Pyrrha said, rubbing at her cursed burn subconsciously as a dull pulse of pain went through her head. "She's going to hurt you all. You can't kill her."
The wolves uttered menacing growls, fur bristling. Their eyes were locked on Pyrrha as their claws kneaded the dirt.
"You need to flee. Run away. Leave the forest."
The wolves shot upright and started barking, defiant and livid. The one in the center that had sniffed her before—Pyrrha took it to be the pack leader—turned and, astonishingly, began barking back at them. The following uproar resounded as a few wolves abruptly switched sides, and the woods were a clamor of dissent. Pyrrha surreptitiously drew her wand as their baying escalated in volume.
"Please, just trust me, it's the only way to—"
A wolf swiped a paw across the leader's muzzle with a snarl. The attack incited a series of outraged barks, and the leader lunged, the other wolves following suit, and brother fought brother in a rolling, leaping flurry of silver fur. The air ripped with guttural growls and pitiful yelps; blood splattered across the ground as they slashed at each other.
Torn on whether or not to intervene, Pyrrha watched. The tide of the melee turned; outnumbered, the leader's allies turned on him, and the pack bore down on the alpha in a primal frenzy.
Pyrrha thrust her wand, sending the wolves tumbling into the undergrowth. She pulled the alpha across the ground to her feet with a yanking motion while the rest of the pack regained their footing and charged, barking savagely.
They closed half the distance in a breath. Pyrrha stepped over the prone form of the alpha and swept her wand out; a wall of fire erupted from the earth, and the wolves slid to a halt, baying and howling defiantly. Their eyes glowed eerily in the firelight.
The cursed burn throbbed as Pyrrha urged the crackling flames forward. The wolves backed away with tensed bodies at an angle, still uttering a clamor of booming barks, less angry and more wary. She flicked her wand and the flames flared to new heights, burning quickly across the ground with a rush of fluttering air; the wolves turned tail and fled into the woods. Their howls slowly faded into the distance until the forest's gentle ambiance reclaimed the silence, deceptively peaceful.
Pyrrha let the flames die after a minute of vigilance and spun around, dashing to the alpha's side. It was covered in weeping gashes, but the worst wound was at the throat; the flesh was torn ragged from a bite that bled freely. The wolf's head lay in a puddle of its own blood, eyelids slitted.
"It's alright! I'm going to fix it," Pyrrha said, running her wand over the wound.
As she cast, tracing the bite repeatedly, the flow of blood seemed to slow a little, but it continued to gush forth. The wound remained stubbornly open. The wolf panted shallow, gurgling breaths, whimpering softly.
Pyrrha groaned, still tracing the bite. She pressed her other hand against the flow. Warm blood soaked her fingers and spilled in between. "Damn it, damn it, what . . . ?"
It struck Pyrrha then—these wolves were descended from werewolves; these injuries were cursed. "Ah!" She yanked open her pouch—quickly replacing her hand on the steadily weeping wound—and summoned a brown vial of dittany. With a jab of her wand it unstoppered itself and drifted aside. She cast Accio again, but nothing flew out of the pouch; she had no powdered silver.
Pyrrha flicked her wand at her neck; a necklace snapped off, and she held it suspended in the air before her. It was a simple chain of thin silver, with a small oval emerald dangling from the end. A gift from her mother after her sorting. She waved her wand and watched the necklace grind to dust in the air with a pang of sorrow, but she knew her mother would approve. The emerald dropped into the dirt.
Keeping the silver powder suspended, Pyrrha waved her wand at the dittany. A measure of the brown liquid rose from the bottle to float formless. She twirled her wrist; the cloud of powder mixed with the murky dittany, swirling around to shape a sickly yellow paste, which she hastily directed at the wound on the wolf's throat. It plastered over the bite, stemming the flow of blood. Pyrrha resumed casting, tracing across the wound with steady and precise repetition, over and over. Gradually the flesh wove itself back together, though a vivid scar remained.
She siphoned off excess paste and began to cover the most serious slashes along the body, which had stopped rising and falling. The wolf wasn't breathing.
Pyrrha's heart raced. She stood back, manipulated her wand, and felt an unpleasant tugging sensation in her chest, down her arm to the wand's tip. Her own blood oozed into the air; it undulated gracefully in a cloud of crimson, like a drop of ink in water. At a gesture the blood wafted over the wolf and sank, seeping into the myriad open lacerations across its silvery body. The wolf's lithe frame shuddered.
"Will it work on an animal?" Ashlin asked dubiously.
"I don't know!" Pyrrha snapped, blinking away a bout of dizziness. She jabbed her wand at the wolf's chest. A red light struck, and the body jolted, then fell still. She cast again; the creature's legs jerked, and it stilled. Again. It jolted and stilled.
Again. Again. Again.
Pyrrha's heart sank like a stone.
Again. Again. Again.
The wolf shuddered, and its chest rose sharply, fell as it exhaled.
Pyrrha let out an astonished laugh, bubbling with relief. The wolf's eyes fluttered open, and it squinted at her. It didn't protest when she knelt back down and stroked its beautiful head, still slick with blood.
"You had me worried there," Pyrrha said, returning to sealing the gashes that still bled on the wolf's back and chest. "But I think you'll be okay now."
The wolf made a small noise of acknowledgement and closed its eyes again with a sigh. Pyrrha methodically sealed as many slashes as she could with the available paste. The wolf remained still throughout, but its chest continued to rise and fall. As the final wound closed up, she realized the wolf had fallen asleep. Elated that she had been able to save the beast, a satisfied sigh escaped her.
But what now? It had been cast out of the pack—for defending her, no less. Morrigan would arrive within hours at the longest, Pyrrha was certain. It wouldn't be safe in the Forbidden Forest, and it hadn't the strength to escape in time on its own. Pyrrha bit her lip. She would have to take it with her to Hogwarts.
Ashlin appeared standing over her, eyes a mirror to the clear blue patches of sky past the treetops. She had an eyebrow arched. "You don't look proper thrilled about your new pet—he's gorgeous. It's a he, by the way. I can see dangly bits."
Pyrrha stood and vanished the blood and dirt from herself. "He's not a pet. I'm just taking care of him a short while."
"Lie to yourself if you must, but you can't lie to me." Pyrrha's burn throbbed. Ashlin grinned down at the wolf, then gazed up at the sky through the canopy, shading her eyes with a hand. Caught by a ray beaming down through a break in the branches, her auburn hair shined like fire in the sun. "You really need to get going. Despite appearances, I don't want you dead." She put a peculiar stress on 'dead.' "Don't forget Mum's emerald," she said, then vanished.
Pyrrha stared at where Ashlin had been for a moment, then bent down and plucked the emerald from the grass, cleaning it with a charm and dropping it into her pouch. The black-haired centaur, still enthralled, cantered through the woods to Pyrrha at her mental nudging. His face a blank mask, he gathered the wolf gently in his arms and then knelt for Pyrrha to sit astride him again.
As they galloped toward Hogwarts, Pyrrha pondered the dark mirror of Ashlin. The hallucinations were connected to the curse that Morrigan had struck her with—the targeted activation of the burn's excruciating pain when Ashlin was displeased was evidence enough of that; it was like being struck all over again. What Pyrrha didn't understand was—
"Too many things to list," Ashlin said.
Pyrrha huffed. Why you? she thought. Why am I hallucinating my sister?
"Well, that's rather obvious," Ashlin said. "A curse fried your brain. You're actually a drooling vegetable in St. Mungo's right now."
You know what I meant. Why Ashlin, and not Mum and Dad, or—?
"You are just the deepest well of stupid questions, aren't you? You stood by and allowed that rotting bitch to murder me," Ashlin said, her voice turning lower and more vehement with every word, and Pyrrha's burn throbbed, each pulse more painful than the last. "You must have some shred of humanity left, though, because you feel guilty. That's why the curse brought me back."
"I did not stand by and allow anything!" Pyrrha said, so appalled she forgot to think her response. "I fought as hard as I could and she—"
"Did you?" Ashlin said, voice dripping with contempt. "Or were you only half in it, Pyrrha, hoping Morrigan would rid you of your sisterly burden?"
"That is utter madness!" Pyrrha's burn was pulsing like an agonizing second heartbeat. This delusion of her sister might know her mind, but that didn't mean everything it said about her was true. It had flashes of the real Ashlin—albeit darkly twisted—but now, something other had leaked in.
"Well done," Ashlin snarled. Pyrrha gasped and clutched at her head as her burn seared like smoldering ash poured over her face, the pain nearly toppling her from the centaur's back. "You've deduced that a curse is dangerous."
Pyrrha clung to the centaur's shoulders, vision swimming with tears. She drew deep, shuddering breaths, while little by little the pain receded. Wiping at her eyes, she looked around listlessly at the sunlit forest as it passed, struck by nature's serene glamor, and how wrong it seemed at that moment. In the space of a night, Pyrrha's own world had turned infinitely more terrible, more a hellish nightmare than waking life. She inhaled slowly, exerting her will on her chaotic emotions.
A thin bar of greenish gold shone brilliantly between the trees ahead; the sun-soaked lawns of Hogwarts peeked in beyond the edge of the forest, which was fast approaching under the centaur's power. Pyrrha clenched her knees while the centaur leapt over a burbling stream and burst through clustered bushes to emerge onto the Hogwarts grounds. The morning sun warmed her back as she took in the castle, a monolith of stone set upon a low cliff, lofty spires nearly piercing scattered drifts of white clouds. Ancient stone walls, turrets, and towers safeguarded millennia of magical history.
It was here at Hogwarts she would find refuge, and prepare to unravel the threads of secrecy spun around Morrigan. She would rectify her mistake; the Nightmare Queen would die one way or another, even if it cost Pyrrha everything. She owed it to Ashlin. The curse smoldered.
In the distance, hoarse cawing unsettled the air.