Arista Unleashed
Arista goes head to head with Wrackspur. Severus returns next chapter!
Arista awoke with a gasp, Dirk Wrackspur's mocking laughter still echoing in her ears. For one moment she was disorientated, not knowing where she was. Then she rubbed her eyes and woke fully, brushing away the last tendrils of the disturbing nightmare she'd had. Get a grip, Snape, it was only a dream, she ordered herself crossly. She was no Seer, to foretell in dreams, but the few other times she had dreamed, it had been important. She knew that dreams were her mind's way of reminding her of something, something she had either forgotten or hadn't thought about.
This particular dream had her chasing after Dirk Wrackspur, or being chased by him. He had been smirking at her, mocking her because she had been upset over Drake's poisoning by his evil dog. "No one who meets the Ghost Master comes away unscathed, girl!" he'd cackled, his gold eyes gleaming in triumph. "You might have won a battle, but I and mine shall win the war, little Healer. The Dark Lord's hour is coming, and we will crush all of you pathetic witches and wizards like dirt beneath our boots. No one shall be safe . . .no one! You will either submit or be destroyed."
His last words echoed in her head, over and over.
Submit or be destroyed.
She knew that was what the followers of Lord Voldemort believed, believed to be the simple truth. Their faith in their Dark Lord was absolute. He was like unto a god. To Arista, however, he was the enemy that must be vanquished, a criminal that needed to be hunted down and killed like the murderer he was.
Like all of his followers.
No one shall be safe . . .No one . . .
The words struck a deep chord of unease within her. They were safe enough now, shielded behind the wardstone the professor had spelled, she knew that beyond the shadow of a doubt. But for how long? How long before the Ghost Master went back to his master and reported his failure, if he ever did? How long before Voldy learned that a ghostwalker now existed and her identity?
She imagined Death eaters descending upon Mel's house to steal her away, so Voldy could use her for his own twisted ends, or worse, kill her so she could not challenge his supposed mastery over death. He would definitely not take it well that a mere teenage girl had power he could never have.
No one is safe . . .you will either submit or be destroyed.
Then too, there was Drake, her beloved, who'd been injured and nearly killed trying to protect her from the Ghost Master's familiar. Rage still burned the back of her throat like acid whenever she recalled that moment. Drake shoving her on the floor, taking the bite meant for her . . .writhing in agony as the poison entered his system . . .she had felt everything through the link she shared with him.
It's not over yet, she realized with a dull ache. I killed the dog but his master still lives. And if he talks, if he tells Voldemort what he knows, no one will be safe again.
Wrackspur had to be stopped, hunted down and caught before he relayed anything to his master. If he had survived the wrath of the Inferi, and she could not help but think he had, he would be holed up somewhere, trying to summon up enough courage to report to the Dark Lord that he had failed. He was vulnerable now, he could be caught if one was clever enough and quick enough.
She glanced at the sleeping magehound by her feet. Scout was the best magehound the Dark Hunters had ever bred, he was a legend, the dog that always got his quarry, no matter how long the trail. Back in America, they had called him a necromancer's worst nightmare. He had proved that was still true last summer, when he had tracked the seven dragonslayers to their hidden lair beneath St. Helen's.
Now she would ask him to prove it once again.
This time their quarry would be the Ghost Master, who hopefully would not prove as difficult to find.
It has to be now, while the trail's still fresh. Wait any longer and it might be too late. Dad mentioned once that Voldy can track his followers through the Dark Mark, and God only knows when he'll contact Wrackspur. I can't wait for Dad to get back, even though I know I should.
She thought about waking up her friends, but just as soon dismissed that idea as well. None of them were Hunter trained, and she could not bear it if they were hurt the way Drake had been. Get your quarry with a minimum of casualties was an old Hunter motto. She was the best one for this mission, she had been trained to apprehend criminals by two of the best Dark Hunters on the force. True, it had been over two years since she'd put into practice what she had learned, but she had not forgotten her lessons.
She rose to her feet and padded silently into the kitchen, throwing food into a pack she summoned with a snap of her fingers. A small emergency kit of potions and healing salve went inside the bag too, as did a black cord of constrictor rope, something she'd saved from her days as a Hunter apprentice. It would serve to bind the criminal.
It was not quite as good as Null Magic cuffs, which were a Hunter's best friend, since they could neutralize a wizard's magic once they were on and were nearly impossible to remove, but the rope was better than nothing. And Wrackspur was a wand wizard, and once disarmed he was helpless. That was yet another advantage she had over him, for she'd been raised in the American tradition, and could perform spells without a wand.
She returned to the den to snatch up a piece of parchment from Snape's desk and scribble a note for her friends so they wouldn't wonder where she'd gone. Hopefully, she would be gone only a day at most, maybe two, and back before Severus came home and discovered what she'd been up to.
She winced just imagining his reaction if he ever found she'd gone hunting a dark wizard on her own with only Scout for protection. She knew she was breaking every rule he'd ever set for her by doing this. He'd have my head on a platter, no doubt. I'd be under house arrest for the rest of my life, probably.
Then she heaved a sigh. It can't be helped. I'm the one who has to do this. Sorry, Dad, but this is one time where breaking al the rules is necessary.
She walked back over to the coffee table and placed the note where she was sure they would see it.
Her foot struck the Blackstaff, which Mel had used a Scourgify charm to clean after they'd arrived home. She eyed the staff thoughtfully. Then she picked it up. Insurance. You never know when you might need a good weapon.
"Scout," she called, her voice barely above a whisper.
The magehound woke instantly. His tail thumped the floor and his intelligent blue eyes stared at her in eagerness.
"I need your help, boy. I need you to find someone for me, okay?"
The magehound understood and rose to his feet, whining softly in the back of his throat.
Arista rested a hand on the dog's head, linking them with her empathy the way she had back in Washington State, so she did not need to worry about keeping up with the dog once he had found the Ghost Master's trail. The dog's eagerness to hunt made her quiver all over. This was what he had been bred and trained to do, it was what he lived for.
"Come on, Scout. Let's go and find us a criminal," Arista whispered, then she slung her pack over her shoulder, tucked the Blackstaff under an arm, and holding Scout's collar firmly, stepped into the fireplace, a pinch of Floo powder in her hand.
"The Tower of London," she said clearly, then tossed down the powder.
Green light swirled about her, then she and the magehound vanished.
* * * * * *
Arista peered about cautiously before stepping out of the fireplace with Scout. The room was dusty with disuse, probably no one had been here in months, maybe even years. She hadn't been entirely certain where the Floor Network would take her, but she'd reasoned it would have to be somewhere in the Tower where Muggles wouldn't be able to see people stepping out of green lights from thin air.
The magehound shook his floppy ears and sneezed. Clouds of dust billowed up from the floor as they walked across it. Arista felt her own eyes water and her nose twitch in sympathy. You'd think they'd have put a spell here to keep the dust away, she thought at the dog, muffling a belated sneeze in her sleeve.
Scout whuffed in agreement and she stroked his head.
The room was bare save for a rickety old settle and a chair that looked like moths had gotten at the upholstery. Arista assumed it must be a storage room of some kind, albeit an unused one, judging from the amount of dust coating everything. She peered over her shoulder, wondering if she should bother to erase the evidence of her footprints and Scout's.
To her astonishment, she saw the dust had covered over any sign of her tracks and the magehound's. I get it now! It's a concealment spell! And a really good one too, I never would have thought of using dust that way. Clever, whoever thought of it.
Now all she had to do was figure out where in the Tower she was. Luckily, she'd bought a map of the interior of the entire castle the first day she'd visited here. It was too bad none of the ghosts were still around, they could have helped her find her way and scared off any passing Muggle security guards. Then she chided herself for being selfish, for the ghosts had earned their final rest after so many centuries.
Luckily, she'd packed a Chameleon Potion in her potions kit before coming here, she thought, and withdrew the small green bottle from her pack. She swallowed a scant mouthful of the sweet minty flavored potion and let Scout lick some off of her finger too. The good thing about the Chameleon Potion was that a little of it went a long way. She recapped the bottle and placed it carefully back in her pack.
Now if any Muggles happened to look her way, she and the dog could fade into the background, "disappearing" from view, so to speak. She opened the door and poked her head around the doorframe.
No one was in sight, the hallway was empty.
She pulled the map of the Tower out from her pocket and opened it. Then she began to walk down the hallway, Scout pacing by her side. Soon she came to a sign with an arrow that read To the White Tower, go one set of stairs down and to the right.
"Oh good! Now I know where we are," she exclaimed, then opened the door leading to the stairwell.
In mere moments, she found herself standing in the antechamber of the White Tower once more. The room looked so ordinary, not as if it had been the site of a terrific battle mere hours ago. The only sign that there had been anything amiss was a chair that had been knocked over and an odd black splotch upon the floor where the fell hound's body had been. Apparently, hell had reclaimed its demon, she thought in revulsion.
She searched the room for some sign of Dirk Wrackspur, but could find nothing of the sorcerer lying about. She nearly wept in frustration. Then she recalled something one of the Hunters at the magehound exhibition had said during the seminar she had attended. "The best magehounds can track a criminal without needing a starter, like a scrap of cloth or a hair. They can detect traces of dark magic in the air and follow the scent back to wherever the criminal is, since necromancy leaves a taint upon your person that no amount of scrubbing or concealment spells can erase."
Scout was one of the best trackers ever, and there had only been one user of dark magic in this room. Arista had confidence he could locate the trail easily. "Scout, search!" she ordered, giving him the command he'd been waiting for.
The dog immediately dropped his head and sniffed the floor. He walked in a slow circle, his nostrils inhaling the myriad scents in the room. He could smell the scents of Arista and her four friends and one other. It was that one that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle and a low growl emerge from deep in his throat.
Evil. The dark taint is strong upon this one. He fled, but I can find him again, Arista. Evil has marked him for its own.
Scout threw back his head and bayed, the high wild call of a magehound that has struck the trail of a necromancer.
"Scout! Be quiet!" Arista cried, too late. She had forgotten that a magehound always gave an initial bay before setting forth on a hunt.
The dog bounded over to the door, then turned and looked back at her expectantly.
Arista followed, opening the door and the dog sprang out of it, running silently now, as was his wont.
Luckily, the night shift in the Tower had checked out the White Tower previously, so no guard came to investigate why a dog was heard barking at four thirty in the morning. Enough odd things had been happening in the Tower of late to make the guards wary of investigating every little noise.
Thus it was that no one noticed the magehound running down the stairs, nor the girl following him.
Once outside the Tower, Scout halted, for it was more difficult to pick up the scent here, mixed up as it was with the odors of cars and exhaust, other people and animals, even food from a nearby restaurant. The magehound cast about for about five minutes before picking up the scent once again and trotting across the street and into what appeared to be a blind alley.
But when Arista tapped on the bricks at the end of it, the wall folded up, revealing a secret passage into the wizarding world in London. Scout bolted through without hesitation and after a brief moment, his mistress followed.
Arista didn't recognize this part of the wizard side of London, it was dark and dingy, not the sort of place she or her friends would ever be permitted to roam around in. The buildings here were close and shabby, with paint peeling off of them, and graffiti scrawled over every available inch of space.
Arista looked about, she had the uneasy feeling she was being watched, though the street was empty and so too were the buildings on either side of it. Scout ran on, heedless of his surroundings, intent only upon finding his quarry. He would not worry about such things as being observed by anyone, unless they impeded his hunt.
The dog trotted to the end of the street, then went left without hesitation.
Now they were on a lane that wound crookedly about a series of shops that were boarded up, bearing vacant signs in the windows. Clearly their owners had moved on long ago to better pastures. The wind blew through a group of trees standing lone sentry at the end of the block, making the branches rattle sinisterly.
Scout whuffed softly, this place bore an aura of darkness too, but not so much so that he couldn't locate the quarry. He halted at the end of the twisty street, pawing at the brick wall. Once more Arista performed her sequence of taps and the wall unfolded, revealing the Muggle side of the city again.
* * * * * *
They tracked Wrackspur for over six hours, retracing the desperate wizard's flight from the Tower. Arista wondered how he managed to banish the Inferi, then supposed that an experienced necromancer like Wrackspur could manage to perform a banishing charm when pressed to do so. It appeared he was as afraid of discovery by his dark master as by Aurors, for his flight was erratic, he never stayed in one place for long. Just when Arista hoped they'd found the place where he'd holed up, it turned out to be another dead end.
Scout never seemed to get discouraged however, and she drew strength from the dog's relentless drive. She'd managed to snatch an hour or two of much needed sleep on a park bench while the dog stood guard over her, this was before many Muggles had awakened. The nap had revitalized her and after eating a sandwich purchased from a vendor, she felt ready for anything.
By then it was late morning and people were out and about, making it necessary for her and Scout to resort to the Chameleon Potion again. Not that the Muggles would have seen anything unusual in a girl out walking her dog, but Arista was taking no chances.
The trail wound back from Whitechapel into the wizarding district once more. Blazes, but this guy's slipperier than an eel, she thought as she popped back into yet another section of wizard London. This time there were fewer buildings, and a large grassy verge with several trees and statues, similar to Hyde Park.
Scout raced ahead of her now, no longer keeping pace sedately by her side the way he'd done on the sidewalks and crosswalks of the city. Now in this open space he could run, and run he did, with the tireless strides of a magehound who knows his quarry is nearby.
She could feel the dog's utter certainty that the one he pursued was close, very close. Arista's pulse quickened, and she began to run as well. If Scout was correct, they were ahead of her proposed timetable by several hours, all to the good. She wanted Wrackspur found and brought in as quickly as possible.
They broke out of the grassy park soon enough, and now they ran down a small dirt track that led to a small stone cottage, an utterly prepossessing dwelling, that appeared the kind of place you'd find an old woman rocking on the porch and a cat or two sunning themselves on the walk. It could not look less like the place where a desperate criminal would hide out.
Yet Scout trotted into the yard and sat down, indicating to Arista that the one they'd been seeking was indeed here. She knelt and scratched the hound's floppy ears, praising him softly. Scout's tail wagged and he grinned happily.
Then Arista slipped off the straps of her pack and took out her staff and potions case. She quickly swallowed a Fireproof Potion and an Excelsior one, and removed the constrictor rope and wrapped it about her waist. Satisfied she was as prepared as she could get, the young magician started up the small walk towards the cottage.
* * * * * *
"Gone? What do you mean, she's gone?" Mel cried glaring accusingly at Kit as if it were somehow his fault.
"Read it," he pushed the note across the coffee table. "I found it sitting here when I came downstairs." Kit said while Mel scanned the note Arista had left. "She took Scout and the Blackstaff with her too, so I guess she means business."
"Brilliant deduction there, Ambrosius! This is Arista, she always means business." Mel snapped. "I don't believe this! How could she just go running off and not tell us?"
"Well, she did tell us, in her note," Kit pointed out helpfully.
Mel growled a nasty word under her breath.
"What's going on?" Trish asked, her hair tousled from sleep, coming downstairs.
"Arista's gone running off to play Dark Hunter, that's what's wrong!" Mel informed her testily.
"She's what?" Trish repeated dumbly, her mouth hanging open.
"Here, read it for yourself."
Trish scanned the letter rapidly. "Blast and damn! She took Scout, but not one of us? Why would she think it's better to go alone? We're her best friends, for crying out loud! We work best as a team."
"Because she's trying to protect us," Drake answered, opening his eyes and sitting up on the couch. He was pale but his gray eyes were alert.
"Drake!" Mel exclaimed. "You've woken up! How do you feel?"
He grimaced. "Thirsty."
Trish conjured him a large glass of ice water. "Here. You need to drink that all. Arista says you'll need plenty of liquids, the fell hound venom dehydrated you."
Drake took the glass and drank it down thirstily. He had no argument with Arista's diagnosis, his mouth felt as parched as the Sahara. Trish handed him a second glass of water, which he sipped at before saying, "She didn't leave us out because she doesn't trust us, Trish. She did it so we wouldn't get killed. See, that's a good Hunter's priority, protecting the ones she cares about."
"Great! Just great! And while she's off hunting down Wrackspur, we're just going to sit around twiddling our thumbs?" Mel demanded.
Kit slanted her a wry look. "You got a better idea?"
"No." Mel groaned and threw herself into the recliner. "I know we'll never be able to find her now, not if she's got Scout to track for her."
"We've got Libby," Kit reminded her, indicating Drake's half-grown puppy asleep in front of the fire.
"Libby's too young to track like Scout," Drake shook his head. "She hasn't been properly trained yet."
"Scratch that then," Kit sighed.
"We've got another problem too. If Arista doesn't return in a day or so, who's gonna be the one to break the news to Severus?" Trish asked softly.
They all looked at each other.
"It ain't going to be me, girlfriend," Mel said firmly. "No way do I want Snape snarked off with me." her eyes slid over to Kit. "Well, Ambrosius? You're a Gryffindor. You brave enough to take on Snape in a temper?"
Kit gulped. "Do I have to answer that?" Mel gave him a don't-be-such-a-baby look. "Right. Uh, normally, the professor's temper doesn't scare me . . .much. But this time . . .he's going to be madder than a Hungarian Horntail who's just gotten her nest robbed. And I'd prefer to still be in one piece when I graduate." He looked at Trish speculatively. "What about you, Trish? You're his foster daughter, you ought to be able to handle him all right."
"Please. As it is, I'm already going to be grounded till I graduate probably, for the Tower incident, never mind telling him about Arista. Have mercy, Kit."
"I've got it!" Kit snapped his fingers. "It's brilliant. You'll tell him, Drake. You're a Slytherin and he likes you, he'll be less likely to throttle you."
"Kit!" Mel scolded. "You can't ask Drake to do that! He's still sick from the poison, he's not up to it."
"That's why it's brilliant. Snape'll take one look at him and take pity on him, especially once Drake tells him how he got hurt defending Arista."
Mel bit her lip, unsure.
Drake coughed, drank some more water, then said, "Fine. I'll do it. I've faced worse. Like angry bronze dragons, insane wizards, demon dogs, what's one pissed off Potions Master to them, right?"
"You trying to convince us or yourself, Lockwood?" Kit queried.
Drake grinned ruefully. "Honestly, I don't know."
"We can always pray for a miracle," Trish said, trying to be optimistic.
"Start praying then," Kit ordered.
* * * * * *
Arista approached the cottage warily, having no idea whether or not the place had been warded against trespassers. Scout padded beside her, the fur on the back of his neck bristling, his lips wrinkled back in a silent snarl. He's in there, I can smell him, the dog growled in Arista's head, her empathic link translating the dog's emotions into words. Trapped like a rat in a cage. Be careful, rats have a nasty bite. She stroked his ears soothingly. "I will." The Blackstaff was in her hand and she took two deep breaths, centering herself the way she did when she sparred with Colin, back when she was still his apprentice. Then she reached out with her magical senses to detect if any spells had been placed upon the door.
She could feel a quiver in the magical lines of force that crisscrossed the land here, but that was all.
Still, just to be safe, she set the tip of the staff against the door instead of her hand.
Nothing happened.
She grasped the handle of the door and turned it. As she had figured, it was locked.
Now Arista knew several charms to unlock doors, she'd been schooled quite thoroughly in them by her Dark Hunter teachers, who often had to break into locked residences to get their suspects. She hesitated, considering whether or not to use one. Had the Ministry put the Trace on her, the way Trish assumed, or was she one of those who had escaped them, since she hadn't begun her schooling at Hogwarts at the same time as the other young wizards? Could the Ministry sense her use of magic without a wand?
Somehow, she doubted it. As far as she'd been able to determine, none of her friends or teachers had ever learned how to sense when she was about to cast a spell without a wand. She knew the Ministry kept tabs on the kind of wand each wizard used, so maybe that was how they could tell when an underage wizard used magic.
But Arista had left her wand at home.
She decided to risk it. This was a wizard's home, after all, and even if they did detect an unlocking charm being used, they might assume he'd cast it after being locked out of his own house.
She laid her palm on the lock and whispered, "Fastinus relaxio!" and sent a trickle of her power at the lock. The Fastinus charm was a great deal more powerful than your average Alohamora. The lock glowed a brilliant blue, turning hard as ice. Then it snapped.
She pushed open the door, making no more noise than a shadow. Probing once more with her magical senses, she discovered a ward set just before the threshold. But it was keyed to stop a dark practitioner, not one of the Light. Apparently, Wrackspur was more afraid of his Dark Lord than he was of Aurors.
She walked right through the ward along with Scout, pausing in the short entryway, which opened onto a small combination kitchen and den area. Seated in a chair turned partially towards a dimly lit fire was Wrackspur, still wearing his white robe and pants, apparently asleep.
She raised an eyebrow, unable to believe her luck. What were the chances that she would catch him unguarded like this? Beside her, Scout stiffened, his nose working. Not real. There's no scent. It's a decoy.
Arista froze. Then she sent a tendril of her empathic talent out, trying to feel the emotions of the man seated in the chair. She touched nothing save empty air. Illusion. Where then was the Ghost Master?
An instant later she had her answer, as a voice cried, "Inferio!"
A fireball shot at her from out of the shadowed archway across from the entrance hall. "Scout, down!" she cried, and thrust out her hands, absorbing the fire and heat via the Fireproof Potion.
The magehound dropped to the ground instantly, avoiding the deadly tongues of flame, shielded by Arista's body.
But as soon as the fire died, the magehound was on his feet and leaping towards the white cloaked wizard, who had been foolish enough to show himself, thinking his spell had finished off the intruder.
Wrackspur barely had time to scream a Shield Charm before Scout nailed him, snarling terribly. The full weight of ninety-five pounds of angry magehound struck Wrackspur squarely, knocking him over, though the Shield Charm protected him from being bitten.
"Mangy mutt!" the Ghost Master gasped, struggling beneath the dog's weight, trying to bring his wand to bear. "Cru—oww!" he screeched as Arista brought the tip of the Blackstaff smashing down on his wrist. There was a sharp crack, and Wrackspur's hand went limp.
"Bloody harpy, you broke my damn wrist!" he cursed, his gold eyes glittering with impotent hatred.
Arista snatched the whitethorn wand from his hand, tucking it in her pocket. "That's what you get when you try to torture animals, Wrackspur!" she said coldly, then brought the staff back to rest in the hollow of his throat, right above his carotid artery.
His eyes widened in recognition. "You're one of the bloody brats from the Tower!" he spat. "You ruined everything, you little—"he snarled a string of profanity at her that was enough to make a Cheapside dockhand wince.
Arista was unimpressed. "Actually, the name's Snape. Arista Snape," she said, imitating James Bond. She uncoiled the black constrictor rope from her waist and knelt to begin binding his ankles. It wrapped snugly about Wrackspur's ankles, holding him fast.
"Snape?" he repeated, glaring at her. "You any relation to that greasy git that stole my place beside the Dark Lord? Because before he came along, I was the Master's favorite!"
"Don't have a clue what you're talking about, but that's okay. You can tell it to the dementors in Azkaban."
Wrackspur laughed harshly. "I'm not afraid of them! I've dealt with far darker than they! It was I who provided the Dark Lord with sustenance while he hovered in a half-life, energy drawn from the spirits in the Tower. I, the Ghost Master, not that slinking coward Potions Master! What is he, anyway, but a second-rate spy?"
Arista's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? My father's no spy, he would never serve Voldemort!"
Wrackspur sneered. "Shows how much you know! Looks like daddy's been keeping a few secrets from his family on the sly, eh? Too bad. He won't be pleased when he finds out what you've done, naughty girl!"
"Shut up, Wrackspur!" shouted Arista. "Shut your lying mouth before I do it for you."
"You think I'm lying?" he grinned malevolently. "I've been known to speak untruths, yes, but not this time."
"Oh, right."
"What's the matter? Can't handle the truth?" he taunted, then gasped as she tugged the rope about his injured wrist, tying it firmly to his other one. "The truth is that your father is a dark wizard, a slinking traitor, hired by that idiot Dumbledore all unknowing to be the Dark Lord's eyes and ears at Hogwarts!"
"You lie!" Arista cried, but she could sense the truth behind his words and it made her soul quail in horror. It couldn't be true. Her father, a Dark wizard? Never! And yet Wrackspur's words did not have the taint of a falsehood, he truly believed what he said. "You'll say anything to save your skin, you cringing coward!"
"Ask him, then!" the Ghost Master rasped. "I dare you! Ask Severus Snape to tell you the truth about where he goes every fifth night of the month. Ask to see the Dark Mark upon his left arm, which only the followers of the Great and Powerful Dark Lord are given to carry. Only the most loyal servants are allowed to carry it, as I am! He's—"
"Ten times the man you'll ever be!" Arista cut him off, furious at his insinuations. "You're nothing but a coldhearted murderer! You would have killed us all that night."
"True. You were in my way, interfering where you had no right. For that, you deserved to die. If not for that meddlesome ghostwalker, I would have succeeded in my mission, and you would be food for the worms now, child, your essences mine to use as I wished. Instead you have made into a failure, and he does not brook failures lightly, damn you all to hell!"
"Tell it to someone who cares."
"Oh, you'll care all right, girl! When the Dark Lord learns of the ghostwalker, you'll see the true might of the dark path. He'll send the Death eaters for her, because he can't have one of her kind abroad in the world again, to challenge his mastery over death. There can only be one Master, you see, that's why he killed all the descendants of the ghostwalkers he could find, to make sure no ghostwalker could ever come again. But he missed one, I suppose. They went into hiding, but they won't be able to hide any longer." Wrackspur cackled. "No one is safe from the Dark Lord! No one!"
His words sent an icy chill down her backbone. They echoed those spoken in her dream. No one is safe. No one. How much does Voldemort know? She wondered with a shiver of dread.
"Did you tell your master about the ghostwalker?" Arista demanded, grabbing Wrackspur by the shoulders and shaking him. "Did you?"
Wrackspur smiled chillingly.
"Tell me!" Arista demanded.
"Make me," he sneered. "Oh, but you don't have the guts, do you? You wouldn't stain your lily-white soul with a mere thing like a little torture, now would you?"
"I don't need the Cruciatus to make you talk."
"No?" he raised an eyebrow. "Plan on using that staff on me then? It won't work, you know. I've had worse than that, I won't tell you anything. And your little friend will die anyway, as is only fitting. All those who defy Voldemort deserve nothing less. Magic is might and only the mighty shall rule!"
Something snapped in her then. It was not his words so much as his utter lack of anything resembling human compassion that incited her temper to a searing pitch of white-hot fury. When he spoke of Mel dying there was not a shred of regret or remorse in his tone or in his heart. She was nothing to him, a mere thing to be disposed of, not a person, a girl with a whole life ahead of her. Arista recalled Drake, stricken and burning with the poison from fade, Wrackspur's fell hound familiar, and her rage increased tenfold. This monster would have smiled to see Drake dead, he had killed children before, she saw in his mind.
"You're a sick twisted bastard!" Arista shouted, the rage shooting through her in a scorching wave of red fire. "Now, for the last time, what did you tell Voldemort?"
"That's for me to know and you to wonder," he answered.
"Wrong!" she snarled, then locked eyes with him, and did the one thing she had sworn never to do.
She entered another's mind without permission, using her empathic gift to see into his soul, letting her rage at what he had been and done and might yet do scorch him to the marrow. Dirk Wrackspur screamed, for her touch was agony, righteous rage that burned the shadowy core inside him, stripping him bare and revealing all of his secrets.
Tell me. Tell me. Does Voldemort know?
He tried to block her, but his mindshields were paper and sand to her empathic assault, they crumbled beneath her truth-seeking spear.
And Arista Saw the truth of Dirk Wrackspur, Ghost Master.
He had not informed Voldemort of the ghostwalker, though he had planned to send a message to his master that day, once he got up enough courage to report his failure as well. He had been hoping that his newfound discovery would mitigate the punishment his lord would give him for losing the power source of the Tower ghosts.
She learned of how he had summoned the fell hound, Fade, to his side, using the sacrifices of newborns stolen from Muggle hospitals and orphanages. Fade fed off the suffering and pain of humans, its demon soul rejoicing in the terror the Ghost Master conjured with his revenants. Wrackspur had been furious at the death of his familiar, not due to any emotional attachment to the creature, but at the loss of a useful tool to him and consequently Voldemort as well. Fade had been one of the few fell hounds ever willing to enter into a partnership with a human necromancer for a time, that period being twenty-five years. The contract would have come due in five years.
She was very glad she'd killed the thing, after the images she'd received from the Ghost Master's mind.
She saw him as a young man, learning necromancy from an aged wizard with a crooked back, and how once he'd learned all he could from his teacher, had killed him and stolen his magic. He used the stolen magic to make himself look younger than his actual age, he was nearly sixty. He had been one of the first to recognise Tom Riddle's greatness and acknowledge him as his master, which was why he was so furious at Voldemort's apparent betrayal of his service.
He was cold, cold as the glaciers in the Arctic, hard as diamond, and remorseless. Killing was second nature to him, though unlike a tiger or a shark, he killed not for food, but for pleasure and power. Death was meat and drink to him, he relished it and his control over it.
It was why he was so envious of Mel, born with a power he could only dream of, the power to command the dead, to compel their obedience, and to become unto a spirit herself. For all of his dark arts, he had never been able to achieve that. He longed to have the ghostwalker in his power, for a few days or more, so he could learn how her talent worked and if he could wrest it from her. Of course, such would probably kill the girl, but at least dead she was no threat to them, and if he succeeded the rewards would be beyond measure.
How DARE you? You'd sacrifice my friend just to satisfy your twisted vanity and idle curiosity? You're a sadistic freak and I hope you die in Azkaban! It'd be no more than you deserve!
The Ghost Master cried out as her anger sent hot needles of pain into his psyche.
Please, please, no more!
She withdrew slightly, but not before she caught a glimpse of his childhood, he'd been the middle child of three, inquisitive and bright, but dreadful if crossed. He had also, to her surprise, been Muggleborn and his parents had thought it was wonderful that their son had such an unusual gift. He'd inherited his father's retail company upon his father's death, a process which he'd helped along by means of a extra strong sleeping draft. He then used the money from the company to fuel his illegal experiments, including hiring the old necromancer to teach him the Dark Arts. He'd turned his back on his Muggle family then, and his poor mother had died still wondering why her son never came to see her, never realizing her son cared not at all for his pathetic magicless mother.
She also discovered his worst fear—dying unrecognized and powerless, just one of the unremembered dead. He wanted people to remember his name, to fear him the way they feared Voldemort, to be a legend that was whispered about in the dark of night. He was desperate for glory and power, and if he could not have them, he was worthless.
All the misery, all the death you caused, some of them your own family, it was all because you wanted fame and recognition? What kind of inhuman beast ARE you?
Sickened to the very core of her being, she drew herself out of the link and stepped away from him, darting him a look of pure and utter revulsion.
"Scout, come," she called to the magehound, who had been standing guard over the prisoner the whole time.
The dog trotted over to her and licked her hand. She longed to drop to her knees and hug the big dog, to cry into his fur for the horrible images she'd felt and seen, and worse, the fact that she'd broken the number one rule of all empaths, and forced a contact upon an unwilling subject. Necessary or not, she still felt shame at her actions. How then was she any better than the Ghost Master? Were her motives any purer because she justified using her gift that way in defense of a friend, and not herself?
Reluctantly, she forced herself to meet Dirk Wrackspur's eerie gold gaze, and saw fear mixed with hate in his eyes now.
"What are you, that you could do such to me?" he demanded softly. "You penetrated my mind without a spell!"
"Yeah. And I can do it again if you don't watch your step, buddy," she said in her most menacing tone. "You can have no secrets from an empath, Wrackspur."
"An empath? I should have known! All of you are bleeding heart romantics, convinced you can save the world through love and self-sacrifice. Pathetic!"
"Shut up! I don't know how you can stand to look at yourself in the mirror everyday. I'm surprised the glass doesn't break. How can you sleep at night, after the things you've done?"
"Very easily. I just close my eyes and imagine a world where the Dark Lord rules all. And I am his faithful right hand, of course."
"But . . .you killed babies, your own father even . . .doesn't that bother you?"
"No. Should it?"
She did not bother to answer, sensing he was goading her.
"What now, girl? Going to turn me over to your Auror buddies for a swift trial?"
"I am. Scared, Wrackspur?"
"Terrified," he laughed. "Azkaban is not inescapable. Sirius Black did it. Perhaps I will too."
The mere thought of him roaming free, causing more pain and death brought her temper to the fore. Before she stopped to think, she had slammed with an empathic compulsion. "Try and even think about escape, Wrackspur, and this is what you'll get!" Then she summoned up his worst fear and projected it at him.
He howled and shrank from her.
"Do you like that? Do you?' she screamed.
He cringed away, curling into a half ball, shivering and whimpering like a beaten puppy.
My God, what am I doing? The rational part of her mind cried in horror. I don't use my gift to compel, to harm. I've never used it that way. Dear Lord, what am I becoming?
Filled with self-loathing, she released the compulsion.
Then she stepped to the fireplace, locating Wrackspur's Floo powder. She had to get away from him, transfer his custody to someone else, before she did something even more unforgivable.
She tossed a pinch of Floo into the fire. "The Leaky Cauldron, Remus Lupin's room."
The flames turned green then opened a portal to the former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's current location. As a werewolf, Remus never stayed in one place very long, though he often rented a room at the inn in Diagon Alley.
"Remus, I need to see you, please," she called.
The werewolf's sandy-blond head appeared in the circle of green fire. "Arista? What's going on?"
"I need to talk to you about something really important, Remus. I've just captured the Ghost Master."
Remus gaped at her then beckoned her to come through. She did, along with Scout, dragging the bound Wrackspur after her like a wooden pull toy.