The Crown of Thorns was a notoriously painful way to die. The wizarding way, that is. When placed atop a witch or wizard's head, it would dig in its poisonous spines and constrict its red vines slowly, always slowly. It hadn't been used for executio...
Eloise was going to be sick. She was going to overturn every single thing left in her stomach. She couldn't stand looking at the waxy skin of the witch who'd been one of her closest friends for years, if not a sister.
"El!" Someone was calling her name, but the words sounded as if they were coming from behind a flowing waterfall, muffled and garbled.
A weight slammed into her shoulders as someone gripped them and shook them hard.
Finally, she managed to tear her gaze away from the body to take in whoever was manhandling her. Instantly she reeled back at the gore of it all. Where a blue eye had once sat, a gaping hole remained, revealing torn flesh, both wet and dry blood, as well as a tinge of white bone.
"Stop looking at that, you bastard. Look at me!"
Eloise looked from the prone body to the figure mere inches from her, back to the body. Just in time to see the body melt into a muddy puddle. Her mouth formed an 'o' as she strung together the true meaning of it all.
The body wasn't a body at all, but a Simulacrum. And the witch that was gripping her shoulders so hard there would sure be ten finger-shaped bruises, was the real Susan. A Susan that was missing an eye, but Susan nonetheless.
She launched herself forward and squeezed her friend so hard she heard a few quiet pops in Susan's spine. But neither complained; they just held each other tighter.
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Eloise had never bothered to sit down and dream about what there would be to do once Voldemort was killed, and his forces scattered to the winds. It had seemed a taboo that would jinx things and not in a magical way.
But still, she sure as hell hadn't thought things would end with nearly two hundred witches and wizards screaming at each other in the atrium of the reclaimed Ministry of Magic. The majority of the original discussion had been centred around the Muggle problem, but it had been swiftly dismissed as, apparently, the magical community had dealt with such a large-scale statute infringement at least thrice before in the past century alone. There had been lots of grumbling about a 'Scamander incident' and a few chortles about 'the whole Orson Welles ordeal.'
No, now everyone was crying for blood because it had to be determined what would be done about the prisoners. Those who'd finally surrendered. The official count was unknown as there had been both a few daring escapes and one or two accidents. Eloise's best guess was in the hundreds if one was counting the dark creatures and beasts that had chosen to bet on a losing hand.
They were being held in a shoddily guarded Azkaban, what with the flight of the Dementors as far as Eloise knew, but she tried to tamp down the sickening feeling tugging in her gut concerning that place. It had always felt so unchangeably dark that her expectations were low for its ability to keep their enemies at bay, even with some of Tina Greywitch's most senior staff roaming the corridors.
