Rose Evans and The Scroll of Life [HIATUS]

I.X

Chapter Ten?!?!? AND NO READS?!?! YAYY! *jumps around with joy*

Neh I don't give a frick about reads right now; maybe if I'm on Book Seven, Chapter Thirty-Eight (which is a fricking exciting chapter; stay tuned!), then I'll stoop down low and ask for a reading request. Anywho. Le book. Right.

They were drunken shouts, their words slurred together and lisped. The men were getting closer; Rose could pick out what they were saying. 

"I don't give a damn for your projects, Fenrir! Leave me be!"

"Ah, but Trocar, think about it. The inner circle! You'd be welcomed, instead of cast out the moment you find shelter. You'd have a place, instead of being forced to wander around like a lost puppy dog." The man's, Fenrir's, voice was slick and seductive. Rose looked to Fred, but she couldn't find him—he was behind a tree on the edge of the clearing where the wood began, frantically beckoning Rose to him. She flew behind him, clutching tight to his arm, and hid just as Professor Trocar and another man, a grimy, scruffy man with a dangerous aura, stumbled into the gazebo. Fenrir had ahold of Trocar's collar and was shaking him furiously; Trocar had a bottle in his hand.

Fred nudged Rose. "Isn't that the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?"

"Who else is called Trocar?" she muttered back. Rose turned her attention to the men. Strangely enough, she wasn't frightened; the two men were most likely much too incapacitated to be able to chase them, or even remember what they looked like the next day.

"And what would this involve, Fenrir?" Trocar asked the other man, who had let go of his collar; he was now pacing around the clearing, looking remarkably like a wolf. 

The moonlight was slanting through the bare trees, throwing both their faces into a ghastly light; the leaves on the ground crunched, like bones, under the man's feet. Rose could see Trocar from behind her tree, his joints all at funny angles, his face deathly white, and his eyes sickeningly black. He held himself up with an almost lazy slant, but also like his bones couldn't support his frame; there was a disturbingly hungry look in his eyes. Fenrir was shorter, compact, with a ruthless air around him. He stalked around Trocar with a smile that matched his slinky walk.

"Oh, you know." Fenrir sneered; Rose could see, from across the clearing, his cuspids glinting in the starkly bright light. "Dumble's getting old, you know." He was still pacing. "Doesn't pay attention to his students anymore. Did he really hire you without knowing what you are? A monster?"

Trocar bared his teeth, which were tightly gritted; his eyeteeth were abnormally long and pointy, as well. He resolutely faced one way, letting Fenrir creepy up behind him and push his face just into Trocar's line of sight. Trocar screwed up his eyes. "Get on with it, Fenrir." Rose could see his knuckles white around the bottle's skinny neck. 

Fred nudged Rose again. "Shall we get out of here?"

Rose didn't risk making a sound. She just clutched Fred's arm tighter and nodded against his back. George was already there; he must've been hidden away the entire time. He led the way, pointing out any twigs or leaves (of which there were lots; Rose was grateful the men in the gazebo made enough noise fo mask the ceaseless snaps that echoed through the wood like a cannon shot), and together they snaked their way far enough that all they could hear was a distant echo:

". . . moon's approaching, you know . . ."

And then it was gone. Rose slumped against Fred gratefully, only now realizing she had been holding her body stiff and tense, ready for action. "Where are we?"

"How would I know?" George asked. 

"The map, numbskull! You have the map!" Fred's temper, was, obviously, almost at its end. George looked like a wounded puppy for an instant, but started patting through his pockets for the Marauder's Map. Fred must have seen, for he said, "Sorry, George. That was just a really stupid thing to say."

"I think I have something that can beat that," George said, his tone anxious and scared. Rose felt the adrenaline pump through her again. "I can't find the map."

Rose was about to sob with frustration, anger, and worry. She was also dreadfully tired, and couldn't remember why she'd agreed to do this in the first place. Fred's arm went around her again, and she turned her head into his shoulder, trying to bite back the despair that was coiling in her stomach. 

Fred's voice was tense again. "What?"

"I—I think I left the map at the gazebo." George's voice was so full of wounded puppy and self-berating again, Rose couldn't be mad with him. Fred apparently couldn't either, because he said,

"It's all right, George. We can find our way back to the castle—it's obviously the largest thing around here; how hard can it be?—and the map is wiped, so if Trocar and Fenrir find it, they'll just think it's an empty bit of parchment like Rose here did when we first showed it to her." Fred gave Rose a squeeze; she lifted her head, an idea floating through it.

"I think I read a spell on how to direct yourself," she said tentatively. "It's a third year-level spell, though."

"What were you doing reading third year-level books?" George asked incredulously, then, "Never mind."

"Right. Er—so, it's a spell that will point your wand in a northerly direction. It's fairly simple, but, er. . ." She paused, trying to remember what came next. "I think you can have it point you towards a certain object—"

"Like Hogwarts!" George cut in. "Brilliant, Rose!" He gave Rose a relieved smile; Fred visibly relaxed.

"Er, yeah." Rose didn't mention that using the spell that way was the third year-level part. The spell in itself was fairly simple; it was basically a compass, and Muggles had those.

"What's the spell?" Fred asked.

Rose took out her wand, placed it on her open, flat palm, and whispered, "Point Me Hogwarts." The wand spun violently before jerking to a stop, quivering, pointing to some spot to their left.