Hogwarts RP: The Express

[Con Carne]

He burned. He turned and twisted in a jet of fire and the moment of death passed between him and that great empty. The jelly in his eyes glowed and caught flame and fury like its petrol cousin. Burn. His hair blackened and thinned and fell in clumps as it burned. Sizzle. His body hunched on itself as his buttons melted, and the thread in his jacket burned and branded itself into his skin. Bake. He fell and shattered, beams of bone and crispened meat molting off his bones, disintegrating and turning into a thick powder o'er the earth. He was a flesh kiln and his passing seasoned the earth. Done.

As he died, all he could think was how disappointing his imagination when weighed against death itself.

Here lie your bones --how's that for butter?

But... he wasn't dead.

Not yet anyhow. The aurors had finally managed to apparate (it certainly took them long enough didn't it?) between the livid beast and the students. A very old wizard and a very small woman were the ringleaders as a squad of the Ministry's Finest raised their wands --whiplike-- in unison and brandished it at the dragon, who gave way little by little.

It would make one circuit and there would come gushing torrents of magics vicious and deadly --the pulsing blue-heat of blasting spells, the sickly green coolness of shriveling curses, purple gelid cutting hexes. Everything and anything short of The Unforgivables whether through proscription or inability (the Killing Curse would make short work of most things, no matter how weakly cast but it was quite common for even a mildly adulterated Avada to bounce off of a sufficient enraged drake.)

They came so fast and heavy that the acrid spell of blasting magic imposed itself over and above the sour tang of twisted metal and the cloying sweetness of burning flesh.

The beast's scales fairly glowed as it absorbed more and more abuse, turning colors as sapphire bled into jade bled into amethyst.

It wasn't dodging though... curious, its movements were no slower. Something like dread settled in him, from head-to-toe.

Who else could it have been but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Ten years ago. Dreary, thick wizards with faces so dull they looked as if they had been portrait-spelled (by a hack) interrogated Gideon Greengrass about a dodgy collection of shrunken goblin heads (Italian... or was it Ruthenian?)


Maître Greengrass had never been a particularly cunning man. And yet he had seen off the questions and demands as expertly as he drove those little muggle balls.

And that was not all. How many balls at the Ancient House of Black shadowed with an informal Ministry Inquiry for fear of muggle-baiting or sedition or "seditious muggle-baiting" (presumably one taught the poor wretches about the existence of magic in between bouts of Crucio.)

It wasn't that he didn't know, but it was that he realized that the Ministry of Magic, that crusty hardened loaf of stupidity had sent its finest... by its own lights.

Shite.

The lead-Aurors seemed determined to disabuse him of his prejudicial notions of Ministry imbecility, at least for the nonce. As the beast flew low and over their column, they barked out orders and with sweeping, grand motions, drew a curtain of white-blue abjuring magic over them. A few of the beast's outstretched limbs (and its tail, thick and steel-like) tested the shield, clubbed it for a moment.

And then drew back.

"Alright ye idjits. Protego maxima and hold fast!"

The beast wheeled around dove and pulled up at the last moment, the shield's colors deepening and the Aurors sighing in relief until... it began to spin in mid-air, from nose to caudal-fin, every bit of it shaking like tree branches in gale winds. There was confused silence and then shouts as fat droplets of eldritch energy, like so much galvanized run-off began to drip off, to molt off, to fall and fall and splatter and sizzle on the shields.

Magic met dragon-tempered magic.

The former never had a chance.

A yellow shard of curse-magicks burbled on top of the shield and then melted it way though. Then another droplet punched through here. Then another there. Like a too-old bedsheet caught in blistering rain, tears gave way to tears and soon--

--One caught a sixth-year full in the face and gave him boils... with horns. He screamed. They screamed. The aurors swore.

(Geraint was torn between a silent scream and the cruel, avaricious habit of reaching into his breast-pocket for his notebook.)

The aurors to their credit, regrouped, tried to recast when one of their numbers, another of the square-jawed sort got hit with so much magical backwash. Just a smidge. A drop of a drop of a drop. It hit him on the wrist-remembrall. Something an overconscious wife or a fussing mother might have gotten him.

Its ruby-eye turned a garish neon-red and the strap attached to it tightened like a vise.

They could all hear the crunch of bone over his screams. What they did not hear was his hastily uttered spell. What it was and its purpose, few could say (his wand was found later, blackened to bits far beyond the reach of any priori spell) but as it dropped out of his hand some deep magic passed through it and through it.

And found its target. An obscene splurt of magic like red-hot blood from an opened artery lashed out at the very old lead auror.

The old boy to his credit didn't lose his head --in either sense of the word. He twitched and muttered some kind of shielding spell.

Geraint had sense enough to close his eyes.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

He was knocked down. He knew that much. The earth felt strangely cool amidst all the dragon and mage-fire. A few grass-bristles still survived the explosion, the day, the everything. He could have rested here. It would have made a fine end. Poesy in the garden of death. A parterre of one's end.

Some strange Beowulfian impulse opened his eyes.

(From this point of on, readers, it may be our only insight into his psychology.)

He didn't see Rickard. Nor the red-headed girl. It was a shame; there always were girls with hair of flame in these stories.

The aurors though, were down. They looked like a discarded suite of cards, scattered to their four-winds in their ridiculous, absurd robes and enchanted to moan about their own fate at one of those Black family parties (and now he swore to himself that if he passed through wing-shadow and death that he would never return to such a one.)

The dragon was gone. Or at least out of the scene for the moment. Geraint looked up and saw it flying up and up and up, its tail poking in... and then out a fat high clouds. As it completed its long ascension it screamed of triumph. An oddly sad sort of triumph at that.

It would be back and they... they had no more protectors (thick though they might have been.)

Some part of him wondered why more aurors couldn't apparate in. Some part of him wondered if the dragon was hungry and if it ate people truly (he'd read something about dragons actually preferring mutton, all things being equal) and then blanched with a dreadful moment's mania. Determination, destination and--

BZZZZZZ.

RIGHT! None of that.

He blinked as his body vibrated and hit some kind of wall made of Honeyduke's Transfigured Taffy. His abnormally strong stomach saved him from vomit.

Of course! Of course! Not so near to the train... That was why the Aurors had been able to apparate just outside it... but there were wards. How then, did the Ministry gets its Aurors on the Express? He'd counted fewer than their manifested numbers when he'd boarded. And there were only so many carts they could have come from.

There were no floos on the Express. He remembered that in the pamphlet the Ministry had sent to the families back when its new mugglish innovation had become the primary means of Hogwarts ingress. Something about magical interference.

That only left...

Well it's obvious innit? PORTKEY.

And it it was still active...

ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOARRR

The hairs on his neck stood up.

If it was active, it was their only hope for getting through this day alive.

 

[Green Ranger]

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"CAPES!!" Whiskey screamed over the din as a misfired spell cleared the old man well off his feet, body somersaulting in midair before crumpling in a heap. Whiskey dove for cover herself as the shield sputtered and collapsed entirely, Aurors all around her collapsing as their own spells rained back down on them from the dragon, who shed the incantations like a dog shaking the water from its fur. Not one for sentiment when her life was threatened, Whiskey scrambled across the ground away from the Aurors and towards the students, most of which were now cowering, shepherded into a cluster - and ripe for the picking by the berserk beast as it spiralled above once more.

Without the Aurors to distract her, the beast would surely turn on the students next, and the poor girl was too angry and too stubborn to decide she had her own fair share of wounds to lick. Even as she screamed through the air, the dragon's screams were tinged with agony - not only of losing its child, but of the barest traces of spells, caught between her scales and working their way through to the tender flesh underneath. Even having shaken off the majority of the effects, glimmers of magic still sparkled on her hide where a scratch had allowed a spell to pierce through, or a scale had torn loose, or scar tissue from a previous fight had left her hide with the slightest imperfection that allowed a spell to take root. No wonder she was so worked up - the effects of a good dozen spells, at least, were slowly fidgeting their way into the beast's flesh.

Still, it was hard for Whiskey to feel too sympathetic right now, what with most of her colleagues grievously wounded at best. Her mind raced as to her options as she looked around, breath coming short and ragged both in exhaustion and increasing amount of adrenaline as she reached the huddled groups of terrified students. Now that she was among them, Whiskey could see firsthand the terror on the children's faces - witnessing the deaths of their protectors firsthand at the hands of a dragon was never supposed to be part of the curriculum, and not all the students had survived - even more would probably die from their injuries before they saw the end of this - if they saw the end of it.

Thankfully, some of the older students had managed to organise the students. Not that it would do them any good in the long run, but the senior levels stood at the outside of the cluster while the injured and younger students huddled in the middle, as protected as possible. Some of the students even had their wands out at the ready, trying to convince themselves that when the dragon turned on them they wouldn't go down without a fight.

Of course, Whiskey could see the terror in their eyes, the clenching in their jaws, the uncontrollable shake in their hands. Seniors they may be, but they would break the moment the dragon dove towards them. They were just kids, after all. Noone could be reasonably expected to prepare for this.

And as the dragon turned to dive once more, straight down towards the huddled mass of students, Whiskey's blood ran cold as she looked up at the beast, map gaping open as it raced towards them.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Children of every age screamed in terror, running with hands over their heads, or falling to the ground cowering. Screaming. Crying. And above, the Dragon silently yet swiftly increasing in size as it bore down on the group, jaws open wide, a deep glow in the back of its throat as Whiskey gazed up into its maw...

If Whiskey weren't there to see what happened next, she'd never have believed it herself. A student ran - or rather, limped rather quickly away from the group, hands raised to the sky as dozens of sparks flew forth from his staff, exploding in the air around the dragon. Stunned by the lights, the beast recoiled, flapping its wings to stop its descant while it looked around, trying to find its new prey. Sensing the opportunity at hand, Whiskey quickly swallowed the rising fear in her own throat, finding her own courage once more as she pointed her wand at her throat.

"ALL YOU CHILDREN, AWAY FROM THE CARRIAGES. GET AWAY FROM THE DRAGON AN' KEEP RUNNIN' UNTIL WE FIND YE." she boomed, her voice amplified severalfold to catch the students' attention. They were sluggish to get moving, but thankfully, Whiskey didn't need to tell them twice - as the students began to move away from the dragon and the boy distracting it, Whiskey held her wand at the ready, waiting for the next move.
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By this point, the dragon had regained its composure, and fixed its gaze squarely on James as its newest and weakest enemy. James would freely admit - only to himself, mind you - that he was terrified by the idea of a dragon charging straight at him, but he had an annoying tendency to throw himself into danger without thinking. Thankfully the adrenaline coursing through his body lessened the pain in his leg, otherwise he doubted he would even be able to stand at this point, but still, with determination he stared up at the massive creature as it flapped is wings and turned midair, head pointing groundward before its body soon followed elegantly as it swept down groundwards towards the lone student.

Stilll, he held his ground. Sweat covered the palms of his hands as he gripped his staff, fully knowing that what he was about to try might not work at all and he would be swallowed in a single bite. Or, he could slip and the spell could go wrong, and he would be mauled to death by the dragon's clawed wings. Or he could stutter, and the spell could go wrong, and he would be incinerated in dragonfire, or...

Not a productive line of thought, James!

Swallowing nervously as the dragon came closer and closer, bearing down from above on him, looming ever larger as it opened its jaws.

James clenched his teeth in focus, and whirled his staff above his head before sweeping it across his body, the diagonal sweep matching the swingspawn of the dragon as it screamed towards him.

"DIFFINDO!" James boomed, his voice cracking like thunder and there was a sudden flash of green light across the dragon, which shrieked in surprise and agony before falling from the sky in a crumpled heap, slamming into the ground and somersaulting in a ball of wings, and fire, smoke and dust that came crashing towards James. It was the last thing he remembered seeing before the world turned inside out, and everything went to black.​

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[Con Carne]

Burdock. He could smell burdock. Burnt acrid. Herbal. It was a queer and useless blind alley in the strange mental revolutions that had led him onto the train --without of course a few particulars (viz. (1) Whether the portkey was still active, even if latent (2) What mechanism would activate it and of course... (3) Where it had been stationed on said train) sussed out. And yet he was in the weeds.

Speaking of weeds...

He carefully picked his way through the middle traincar. Ragged-cuticle and quill-stained dandelions. Upturned teacart. A dollop of apricot custard foam on the hem of his robes as he tiptoed up-and-over elevensies service. A fishbelly-pale strand of knotgrass (ringed). Flame freezing charm. A skip. A hop. A chain of flame-frozen links, clinging to his boots. Finally a veiny four-fingered hogweed.

Rather an unlovely cultivar, innit?

His horticultural observations scattered like withered rose stems in an untoward wind when he realized that hogweed's hands were neither student (too much knuckle hair) nor a teagirl's (rather not enough.) He flicked his wand towards where the appendage protruded. A caved-in cart hood, a pewter cauldron (size three, shrinking charm jarred) and another tea cart caromed up and over.

It was an auror. Dead. Alive would have been too easy.

Rather undignified position to die in too. Like one of Lyra Black's supposed Muggle Pointers had been hit with a petrifying charm halfway up baying a local solicitor. Hmmm...

He turned over the Passéd and then pried off his weedy hands off of a box that was very clearly charmed close. Logic, of course did not dictate that an abjured box automatically meant something that The Ministry Deemed Important. A very trickily-abjured box so thick with magic that it fairly sparked if you got a wand too close to it. Mr. Yates stared at it for a moment. Considered its magical strong and weakpoints. Every object had one, you know. Hogwarts even had an (irregularly furnished) warding class about it.

Complex, multifaceted magicks worked by some of the Ministry's Finest and overlaid with grids of strong eldritch energy set out a challenge to any wizard that would dare to gain ingress.

Naturally Gerry smashed the box open with a fat Brown Betty.

ROOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAR.

He winced.

"Just a moment dearest."

He pried off the half-melted latch-key and then drew his hand bad. Inside an Aurory badge. And a strange red gem. One charmed. One not. He took the gem or flake or whatever it was and put it in his pockets (when the spot of Draconic Death had passed of course, he might wonder as to the why and how he did such a Potentially Foolish and Fatal Thing, but that is a story we'll indulge some other time dear reader)

The obvious portkey he grasped with his kerchief (well not his; the monograms were --G.G.--) and--

ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAR.

"Like I can't bloody hear myself think," he muttered with that kind of thick black humour one indulges in when there's really nothing left to do but do something rather stupid.

His complacency of course, was in assuming that his idiocy was fleetest.

--"DIFFINDO!"

A flash of magic rent the sky. Impressive outburst from Deckard who of all of them Geraint had never credited with a dearth of self-preservation. He'd also not credited that product of the antipodes with a logician's touch of consequences (he was after all the man who'd just used a grandmother's favourite kitchen helpmeet to smash open a complexly protected Auror's mortmain.)

The dragon for its part flew on for a moment as though it too was indifferent to cause-and-effect.

And then it fell so fast and so inclined that Geraint could barely tell that its eyes --streaming, smoking, and spitefully still open) were fixed on the very-much-out-cold Deckard.

Perhaps it was serendipity that Gideon Greengrass had taken to cricket with such alacrity. Perhaps it was sheer dumb luck. Perhaps it was simply dumb. Still. He pitched the thing, it flew through the air and hit the angry wyrm just as it was about to Reichenbach Falls his favourite (only) Colonial.

As the thing faded and twisted in a maelstrom of apparitional magicks, distorting the air with so much displaced dust and movement, groaning and cracking a charm that was clearly not meant for its mass Gerry surveyed the scene around him. Crying. Vomiting. Sighing.

He looked down and saw a stark-white climbing hydrangea with peeling pink nail polish had clung to his pudding-stained, flame-frozen robes. Mr. Yates again thanked that superlative quality of his and avoided much of the above scene, peeling off his floral companion with a grimace. He charmed a few slings for some of the Firsties, stayed out of the way of the more pompous prefects as their priggish qualities finally dominated whatever residue a fear-of-dragon had imposed and fingered the strange mineral in his pockets.

Ah bugger.

He'd lost his handkerchief.