Who: Prof. Wright and Terry Connors What:This. Where: A rarely used hall in Hogwarts? IDK. When: Wednesday Night Rating: PG-13, for swearing. Status: In progress.
Terry was lost. She loathed admitting it, but now there was no way to deny it. She had been roaming the castle for what seemed hours, and ever since she had seen one last familiar portrait of a group of women in crinolines and taken what she now assumed had been a wrong turn, she had lost her way. Things would have probably better for her had she not been stubborn enough to refuse to accept defeat and call for help, instead latching to the thought that, were she to keep walking, she would eventually get somewhere. How hard could it be to find a way around a staircase, after all? She hadn’t even given it thought at first. Maybe it was out of order. No big deal, right?
However, apparently, it was a lot harder than she had given it credit for. Her lips were firmly pressed together. She had twisted her right ankle about three times already, scraped her knee and hurt her hand, all by tripping with things and falling down several steps – thankfully single ones and not flights of them, even she if she had been close enough to kill herself by crashing down one, and only quick reflexes and a handrail had prevented it from happening.
But that wasn’t the worst thing that had happened. She could handle the pins and needles on her ankle and hand: she was a Quidditch player, for God’s sake; she had been hit by a bludger and even fallen off her broom on more than one occasion. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, either, and she was relatively sure that, excluding those damn Slytherins, Hogwarts was a safe place, even with what had been happening lately, and this sudden… absence of light. No, what was truly upsetting, what truly got to her, was that her wand was as dead as a common piece of old wood. At first, she had panicked: she had never heard of magicians suddenly losing their powers, but it could happen, couldn’t it?
And if it had happened… her gut clenched uncomfortably at the thought. Sent back home, enduring the scorn of those who considered unworthy of magic, turning to live as a muggle after experiencing the wonders of the magic world… she didn’t think she would be able to handle it. Tired, achy and depressed, Terry had slumped against a wall, allowing herself to slip down to the floor, rummaging through her bag for the thousand time, trying to find something to light the way. “Lumos,” she’d whispered, but not even the familiar, warm tingle coming from her wand had greeted her.
Looking out the window above her, she wondered grimly whether she would be able to open it and throw herself out of it. Probably not. It was too small for her to fit through. So she would just wait and…
It had hit her then. Without magic, she was defenseless. And if someone walked in on her, someone like Evans or that stupid McCormack… Or even…
The dark suddenly turned much more ominous. Her mind reeled. Why were the lights all out? What had happened to her magic? What if someone had… hijacked the castle? But, no, the aurors were there, that couldn’t happen— could it? Rain and wind made the window above her clatter, and she curled tighter unto herself, shivering and wishing she didn’t feel quite as helpless. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she wiped angrily at them, deciding that staying on the freezing stone floor would do no good and standing up abruptly, pacing and ignoring the pain in her swelling ankle.
Magic or not, she was a Ravenclaw. Maybe not as brave as Gryffindors were supposed to be, but certainly smarter. She needed to… needed to… well, she wasn’t sure, but an idea would soon occur her. Probably. Hopefully. There were a few books in her bag, her journal included, but…
Her journal! What an idiot she had been! Perhaps it still worked? Making a dash for it, she groped for it and for her quill, hands shaking with anticipation as she pressed as close as she could do the window, and the little light it gave her. And she had almost cried in relief. Writing with Professor Wright (as irritating as he could be sometimes) had been comforting, and finding out she wasn’t the only magic-less one out there, even more so.
Now Terry was pacing, periodically stopping to keep an ear out for someone (Professor Wright’s comment had done little to soothe her nerves, really) and at the same time, checking her journal for any news. Had her nerves not been as grated, the way the hexes failed would have been amusing. Scream as hell… did that mean there was someone out there to be feared? Someone or something? The Bloody Baron had passed her twice, and though he had ignored her completely, his presence did nothing to help the situation. If at least it had been Nearly Headless Nick or any other ghost, she would have asked for help, but…
Something clattered, making her jump. She could barely hear anything over the furious thundering of her heart. Was this the part when she screamed? Whatever it was, it clattered again. Her mouth had gone dry. Terry took a step back-
“Boo,” said a voice by her ear, and she shrieked, flailing and twisting around, effectively managing to put her whole weight on her injured ankle, which gave out, sending her crashing down with a yelp. Before she could wonder what had happened or attempt to make a wild run for it (which would have probably not worked, seeing as her ankle was now throbbing painfully), a shrill, all-too-familiar laughter pierced her ears, and her fear turned into rage.
“OUT, PEEVES! OUT, OR I’LL TELL THE BLOODY BARON ON YOU!”
The laughter stopped, and thought she couldn’t see it, she could guess Peeves was looking at her with those malicious eyes of his. After a moment of suspense, he blew a raspberry at her and zoomed away. Terry sighed. “Goddamnit,” she hissed. If a damn poltergeist had scared her that much, then her chances to face someone intent on doing more than annoying her would be zero.