The Fog Closes PV Prof W.D.

Lunch had been a rather unexciting affair. The food, as always, was excellent, but Magdalena didn’t feel the need to stay and converse with the rest of the professors. No, since taking up the role of Head of Hufflepuff, most of her time had been spent in her office. There were matters that needed to be considered, not only the emotional wellbeing of her students, but their very safety at the school. As potions professor she’d rather happily confined herself to working away at recipes and curricula, not feeling the need to reach out to students unless prompted. Being Head of House was a role that was altogether different.

So, while she’d taken to joining the gaggle of students and the odd professor or two in eating in the Great Hall, she still felt no need nor desire to extend her stay past what was necessary. She’d not eaten much, and had contented herself with two neat espressos, before making her exit from the hall.

There were still more matters to consider, more things to turn her mind to. Worrying developments had ensnared her thoughts since she had taken the role, since the most peculiar of conversations with a former student during her brief visit to the summer camp.

With a few hastily muttered goodbyes, and a genuine smile or farewell to a few of the students who waved at her, Magdalena made her way out of the Great Hall.

What happened next was utterly unpredicted.

Dealla Prince had always been one of her brightest students. A rather ambitious young woman with a rather promising talent for potions, she’d taken a liking to the young eagle. She was absolutely not the type to wander about the castle in her pyjamas, looking like something out of one of those old muggle zombie films her fiance was obsessed with.

“Prince?” The single utterance left her mouth, a tacit response to the girl’s outstretched hand, her vocal begging for help.

It took but a split-second for the professor to move forward, grabbing the girl as to stabilise her. She was a wreck, the signs of fatigue not only present but overwhelming.

The harsh exterior of the stoic disciplinarian faded, revealing the maternal instincts beneath. Frown lines faded, replaced by a no-less troubling look of consternation.

“Are you ok?” She asked hastily, “What happened?”

@Dealla Prince

Under different circumstances, there might have been something reassuring, even satisfying in Professor Wickham-Deakin's instant reaction, the unfamiliar expression on the woman's face, blurry in the flickering light of the corridor. An expression that said that maybe Dee had been right to rely on her, maybe she cared.

In this moment, it didn't seem to matter.

The firm hands came just in time as Dealla stumbled, her own abrupt motions pushing her off-balance and her dull reflexes too slow to catch herself. She grabbed the professor's robes to keep herself upright, fingers curling into the fabric, and wished she had the energy to laugh at the silly inquiry. It deserved at least a snort. "Not okay," she mumbled, wondering if it was normal that she couldn't feel her lips.

What happened was a loaded question, and Dee's thoughts were too sluggish to sort through possible answers. To figure out what she should say, what would go with the plan she'd made with Jack, which was already going off the rails worse than she could have guessed. Perhaps she should have guessed, but too late for that now.

There were a few things pushing through the fog in her brain; things she had to mention, even if she couldn't properly explain them at the moment.

"There's a..." she began, then stopped to draw in air. It felt like something was sitting on her chest, keeping her from breathing properly. She blinked, slowly, opening her eyes again took effort. What had she been saying? "A hag." The words came as a gasp. "Here. She..."

Trying to think was like wading through mud, first ankle-deep but sinking, down to her knees, her thighs. Maybe she could just close her eyes for a moment, to rest, to try and focus.

Darkness enveloped her, not quite black, more a dark, foggy grey, soft. It was pleasant, not seeing, not thinking. Not having to force herself upright. Peaceful, almost, she could feel herself falling. So tempting to give in, until she saw something move in the darkness, somehow both organic and unnatural, images she'd seen and forgotten, and she whimpered, jerking back, her eyes flying open, wide and terrified.

Her fingers dug into Professor Wickham-Deakin's robes, pulling at the clothes. "It's Marion." The words came with a sudden urgency, sharper and clearer than before, and she stared at the professor, willing her to understand. To believe, because she had to, because Dealla was alone and terrified and if Wickham-Deakin didn't believe her, she'd failed. Maybe she'd failed already. "Marion," she repeated, insistently. "She... Curses." A swallow. "Students." An insufficient explanation.

"I did something dumb," she mumbled, the words becoming harder to enunciate, bleeding into each other. Her grip on the professor's robes loosened slightly. "Ritual. Jack and I... We thought... if we could just..." Whatever they'd thought, Dee couldn't remember now. "Jack knows." She hoped.

There were more things to say, that she should explain, but instead fear clawed at her, ripping away anything else. Tears welled up in her eyes and leaked down her face. They dripped onto her pyjamas, first warm then quickly turning chilling cold in the corridor, and her eyes dropped from Wickham-Deakin's face to the woman's shoulder. "Help me," she whispered again. The strength in her fingers was gone, as was the warmth. She felt icy cold, but wasn't shivering. Darkness was calling.

@Magdalena Wickham-Deakin

The girl was delirious, that much was certain. Magdalena’s expression turned from concern to one of frozen horror as Dealla desperately tried to explain the situation that had befallen her. By all accounts, it didn’t make sense, an accusation that there was a hag at the school, one roaming the halls and cursing students. Regardless, Magdalena listened intently to the Ravenclaw’s explanation, her attention as firm as her grip on the near-unconscious girl’s shoulders. The two of them were matched in their desperation, although the way in which it surfaced could not be more different. Dealla’s attempts to cling to consciousness were panicked, manifesting themselves in desperate grasping at Magdalena’s clothing. The professor, for her part, was at least outwardly calm, even if the worry behind her eyes betrayed the true depth of her concern. She was stoic, still and with the air of confidence one would expect from a disciplinarian teacher, even as her mind raced to piece together a puzzle she’d only just uncovered.

There would be time to look into the ramblings of the girl later, speaking as to hags and curses, of rituals and a Jack.

“Which Jack?” Magdalena asked, attempting to keep her question as firm and to-the point as possible. There was no time to mince words, not when the girl was barely on the edge of coherency.

Whatever she had done, whatever she had gotten herself into, then her collaborator would know something. Had they snuck into the restricted section, practised some sort of ancient ritual, one that had backfired upon her?

“Steady, Miss Prince, you’re ok, I’m right here,” There was warmth behind the words, but they were stern as steel.

Magdalena was as hard as she looked, boney and weathered, but she was a mother all the same. A woman who built herself as a foundation for her children and, she supposed, for her students. Worried words and sappy assurances had little bearing or point. She understood what needed to be done, and that was to get the girl the help she needed, that help including assuring her that she was in no danger.

She changed her position, grabbing Dealla’s gripping hand and removing it from her clothing, instead casting it over the same shoulder that the girl had looked to.

“I need you to do something for me, okay? Another favour,” She kept the emotion out of her words, keeping them as steady as possible, as if this was but an everyday occurrence, “Keep awake for me, just for a little while longer. We’ll take you to see the nurse.”

The walk to the nurse’s wing would allow Magdalena ample time to think over the nature of the words that her set-upon student had spoken. Hags and rituals, dark stuff, far too dark for children to be meddling with. What had they been thinking?

Even as she thought, she tried her best to speak to the girl she was all but dragging to the infirmary, the attempt to keep her attention plain. If she could get the girl to talk, then she’d be able to ward off sleep at least for the moment, “I need you to stay awake. Keep telling me about what happened, keep talking. When did you do this ritual?”

It was desperation play, and whether it worked remained to be seen.

@Dealla Prince

There were few things Dealla disliked more than losing control. Not that she felt the need to control those around her, but she needed to be in control of herself, her actions, knowing that whatever happened to her was the consequence of her own choices and actions. On the duelling piste, she did not control her opponents, but whether she won or lost was still up to her; determined by her choices and her skill. It was why she hated flying so much, because once she sat on that broomstick, she had to trust that it wouldn't fail; and nothing she herself could do, no amount of clinging to the stick of wood changed whether she would stay in the air. It set her heart racing, panic making her fingers tremble, just as it did right now. Which was, at the moment, much better than the alternative. Panic and fear was what kept her going, what forced back the fog, and if she hadn't been so afraid, she would have long fallen asleep by now; not that she was much use in her current state, coherence slipping out of her reach with every breath.

Wickham-Deakin's voice was just sharp enough to get her attention, with an important inquiry, one she had to answer. Dee blinked, lips moving for a moment without a sound before she forced out a reply. "Burnett." Thank the stars she had kept her Jack far away from all this.

There was something calming about the professor's words, her voice. It gave her something to focus on, even as meaning became fuzzy. "Hm," she made, more a breath than a sound, but an acknowledgment, even if it wasn't true. She was far from okay. But she was also so, so tired; all she wanted to do was rest. She'd done her part in telling Professor Wickham-Deakin, hadn't she? Wasn't that enough? It was getting harder to remember why sleeping was a bad idea.

She took the shifting of her position with all the engagement of a wet piece of cloth, not resisting but barely a help. "Hm," she repeated. Going to the nurse meant walking, meant stairs. She'd rather sit down and rest.

But the woman was already moving, and she didn't have the energy or the words to argue, so she let herself be dragged along, feet falling where the professor led her. Cold was seeping through her slippers. There were more questions to be answered, of course, Wickham-Deakin's voice insistent. Forcing her to think, it was frustrating, an impossible task. "Jack is," she said after much too long a pause, the words as sluggish as her steps, leaving the half-sentence hanging. "Finish tomorrow." It was getting impossible to fight the sneaking lethargy enough to make herself add more. "Marion... Marion's ritual." Neither an explanation nor an answer, but it seemed important enough to repeat. Words were losing meaning, there would be no more answers out of her.

Time was stretching, each time she blinked, it felt like she was closing her eyes for a sliver of eternity, longer each time. Was it seconds that passed before she opened her eyes, or hours? She longed for the moment they'd reach their destination, maybe then she could close her eyes and leave them shut. Just a few more steps, then she'd rest.

@Magdalena Wickham-Deakin