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chapter eleven: through the trapdoor
word count: 2.7k
note: this chapter has loads of crack in it (:
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"QUILLS DOWN."
Azalea had never been happier to hear Professor Binn's tired drawl. It was the last paper, the one that would secure their freedom from writing exams — for a week, anyway, before their results would be announced.
Little Miss Potter had no idea how she managed to get through the exams — especially the practicals, with her scar burning into her forehead and giving her the most massive headache she'd ever experienced, day and night. She made it through, though, and that made her feel victorious.
As soon as they burst out of the exam hall, Ron whined and protested against Hermione and Calypso discussing the paper — it made him nauseous. So, with happy hearts and light shoulders, they made their way to the lakeside for a well-deserved afternoon off.
Barely ten minutes later, Azalea was holding in her groans and whimpers of pain, and well, that ended up with her being frustrated. The bloody scar hurt, and Merlin did it know how to cause pain.
Castor, meanwhile, splashed her with water from the lake, and that did it. She flipped him off, curled up in a ball and pressed her palm against her forehead.
That was the thing. Azalea spent her nights writhing in pain, all thanks to her lovely scar, while Castor's was just that — a scar. It didn't hurt, it didn't burn, it just. . . stayed. Stayed as a testimony to his survival.
"Come on, princess." Castor sat next to her after Hermione's attempts in speaking to her failed, trousers wet near the ankles and almost up to his knees. "Let's get you to Madam Pomfrey, hmm?"
"But I'm not sick." Azalea's head was cradled in Calypso's lap, palm held by Hermione. "It's a sign of. . .something. A bad omen, if anything."
Ron snorted, but stopped as soon as he noticed the cold glares directed towards him, stuttering in explanation, "I-I mean, hearing Azzie talk about omens, it's new, isn't it?"
Azalea took a few deep breaths, bracing herself and trying to ignore the pain. Ron continued calmly — it was way too hot for him to get worked up.
"C'mon, Azzie, you know 'Mione's right. The stone's safe as long as it's under Dumbledore's care. And we've never even had evidence that Snape found a way to get past Fluffy. 'Sides, Neville would play Quidditch for England before Hagrid betrays Dumbledore."
"I guess you're right. . ." But something was wrong. Something was still off. She had that feeling, the pit in her stomach, telling her, screaming at her, that something was wrong. "But. . .something feels off. Y'know, last night, I woke up and felt as if there was something I'd forgotten to do—"
"It's just the exams, Azzie, you know that. I woke up last night and started going through my Transfiguration notes before remembering that we've already given the exam." Hermione tried being gentle. "You're stressed, that's all."
The pit didn't disappear. It didn't become small. If anything, it grew larger, demanded something else to comfort her, something more affirming. Azalea thought hard, racked through the nooks and corners of her brain to think if she'd missed anything, anything at all that could tell them more about the safety of the stone.
Hagrid wouldn't give Snape the clue that would get him past Fluffy. He wouldn't dare betray Dumbledore, wouldn't ever gamble on the security of the school—
YOU ARE READING
CRIMSON CURSES , the wizarding world
Hayran KurguHE WAS THE sun, she was the moon. He burned people, she gave light in the darkness. He was candescent, she was hidden. Beautifully tragic, two souls combined in a flurry of love, destruction, ashes, and magic. marked mature because it gets dark late...
