Cho Chang (formerchinadoll) wrote in after_the_bombs, @ 2011-04-02 15:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | 1998, tracey davis |
The Day of the Battle of Hogwarts
After leaving Professor Lupin's side, Tracey slipped back toward the castle to where one of the great ward lines traced an invisible path from the central wardstone somewhere in the bowels of Hogwarts Castle out toward the boundary lines. Concealed by a pair of lichen covered boulders, she dropped to her knees and pressed her palms to the ground and let loose that part of her that she'd inherited in full from her Pureblooded Mulciber Wardmaster ancestors. During her years in the Dungeons, she'd taught herself how to interact with the ancient, deep and dark magic that guarded the school. Along the way, she'd discovered that while Helga Hufflepuff had shaped the warm and welcoming heart of the castle and Rowena Ravenclaw had formed the intellectual drive of the school and Godric Gryffindor had carved the indelible brave image of the flying buttresses and high towers of the fortress, it had been Salazar Slytherin that had woven the wards great and small that held it all together and protected those who sought shelter and knowledge within the bounds of the one of the greatest concentrations of magic in the British Isles. In doing so, he'd left a part of himself behind within the semi-sentient magics. Tracey had to wonder if even the great Albus Dumbledore had known that there was a part of Slytherin at Hogwarts that could never be eradicated as long as a single stone lay upon another. It comforted her to know that if nothing else.
But now it was time to check on another person who would have taken great pleasure in knowing that Slytherin eyes were almost always watching everything that happened at Hogwarts. Closing her eyes, she reached out silently toward the hidden wardstone. Agitation washed over her along with a dozen other conflicting alien emotions. It was enough to make her breath catch in her throat as she collapsed to the rocky earth. There was no way of fighting her way through the barrage, so she opened herself up as a conduit and let it bleed into the ground beneath her. It made her very bones ache as she clung to her sense of self by her very fingertips.
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to disturb protective magics during a battle.
The wardstone's attention swung toward her, pulling an unconscious whimper from her throat even as immaterial visions of a thin, sardonic face with dark, dark eyes floated through her mind. Stubborn still under the weight of a millennium old inhuman object's indifference, Tracey asked her question politely. Very, very politely with the hope that she wouldn't be crushed for her temerity. After a timeless moment of agony, she received her answer and the wards looked away from her toward more pressing matters. Tracey huddled on the ground for a long time shivering.
When she managed to pull herself together enough to stagger to her feet, she pulled her cloak tightly against her and walked with great, stiff determination toward the thrashing limbs of the Whomping Willow as she followed the ghostly after images of the wardstone's instructions. The tunnel beneath its roots was cramped and reeked of snake and dark magic and decay. When she neared the end, the bright, copper twang of blood tainted everything like a tattered scrap of lace overlying musty, raveling cloth.
Fearing what she might find, she climbed up onto the worn floorboards, stepping lightly to avoid creaks and squinting against the shock of the dusty, thin light illuminating the crumbling building. Careful listening was all the assurance she had that there were no lurking Death Eaters or Order Members or whomever with a wand and a need to use it, but still she'd set her path and was determined to follow it.
It was all too easy to find him. He was stark and colorless against the filthy wooden floor save for the browning blood covering his throat and smearing across his sunken cheeks. Sighing, she sank to her knees beside him and touched fingerprints he'd left on his own flesh as he grasped at whatever wound had caused the pool of blood that was slowly seeping away into the cracks in the floor. But it was the footprints leading away from his body that angered her.
What bastard would have left him like this without even taking the time to close those dark, sightless eyes properly?
She carefully spelled away the blood and the shimmering residue of some vilely scented fluid that was intermingled with it. She could guess as to what it was when the wounds in his throat were revealed – two deep punctures topping a ring of smaller, more ragged cuts where back-curved teeth had ripped their way out of his flesh. Her jaw tightened and her lips thinned dangerously. There was only one animal that could have caused that. She had known there was very little honor among the Death Eaters but this proof of their master's brutal disregard for his own followers only proved her general avoidance of any hint that she join his ranks was the right thing no matter that the promise of belonging and power had been tempting.
When he was as clean and straightened up as she could make him, she reached for his face once more to gently close his eyes completely. Setting back on her heels, she looked him over once more. She may have been too late to do anything for him, but she was determined to give him back as much of his dignity as she could.
That was when she noticed it. There was fresh, red blood seeping slowly from the deepest wounds in his throat. She wiped a droplet away with her spell-gloved thumb and watched another tiny speck appear to take it's place.
Tracey Davis had overheard enough of the police procedureals that her father loved to have learned one thing.
Corpses don't bleed.
“Well, fuck,” she whispered as her mind raced furiously. Maybe she wasn't too late after all.