The bell rang, and while the rest of the class jostled each other in their rush to get out of the room and head off to dinner, Harry, Hermione, and Ron lingered behind.
Harry loved his friends, but at the moment he felt as if he could do without Hermione's fussing or Ron's bickering. It was warm in the classroom, stuffy from the heat of the evening sun sitting atop the Forest's trees, and Harry had barely had any sleep at all. Memories of last night kept popping up uninvited, and Harry's scar prickled whenever he thought of that unearthly snarl and the shiny glow of silver blood in the moonlight. Everything after that had been a bit fuzzy, but he could remember the feel of Professor Dullahan's small hands on his shoulders, and Firenze's gut-curling warning about Voldemort.
He's after the Stone. But he can't get it, right? Not with Dumbledore here! Snape won't get it either!
Professor Dullahan sat at the head of the classroom looking just as tired as Harry felt. He hadn't seen her at breakfast, nor at lunch, and she'd spent most of the class period providing them with revisions. Harry suspected that if it weren't for the steady infusion of tea she kept pouring for herself, the professor would have nodded off by now.
Ron and Hermione stopped arguing, the latter shaking her head so her bushy hair trembled. She hugged her books to her chest, lifted her nose, and said, "I think it'd be best if we asked," and Ron groaned.
"Hermione, what about dinner?"
"Dinner can wait, Ronald!"
"Bloody classes are going to kill me—."
Hermione marched toward the front of the classroom, leaving Harry and Ron to trail after her with dejected sighs. Professor Dullahan watched them come, smirking, her chin propped on her arm. "How may I help you three this evening?" The scent of pine hit Harry's nose and remembered fear tightened his chest. Was she out in the Forest again? How long?
"Professor," Hermione started, fidgeting with a bookmark sticking out from her texts. For all that she scolded Harry and Ron about being reticent to ask questions, even Hermione remained a tad intimidated by Professor Dullahan. "We, um, we wanted—well, with exams approaching, we wanted to know if you'd be willing to tutor us in Defense Against the Dark Arts instead of Potions? At least until next year—if that's not being p-presumptuous of me, that is."
Professor Dullahan grinned, and the fatigue lining her expression lessened. "Not too presumptuous, no, Miss Granger. I am a professor, after all. It's my job to teach." She snorted. "I take it you three aren't having much luck with Quirrell?"
Hermione flushed. "Well, I mean, he's a bit...skittish, and—."
Professor Dullahan shook her head. "I'm surprised you lot can understand anything beyond the stuttering." Heaving a sigh, the professor got to her feet, bracing her hands on the desk for an instant. "Let's go ask Quirinus for a lesson plan. We should be able to catch him before he heads off for dinner."
Harry fell into line with Hermione and Ron as they followed the professor out of her classroom and into the barren hall. Harry guessed that most students had bolted already, eager to find what little reprieve they could from studying. The fifth and seventh years were especially frantic, Harry knew, and the weather was so nice now it was impossible to not look out the windows and think about lounging on the lawns or grabbing a quick game of Quidditch.
Professor Dullahan rapped her knuckles against the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and waited for only a second before pushing her way in. Inside, the torches on the wall still burned and the last vestiges of sunlight peeked through the windows' thick panes. Larger than the Magical Theory room, this class—2C—was long and crowded with tables, the head of the class holding a set of steps that led up into an adjoining office. It stank of garlic.
"Professor Quirrell?" Professor Dullahan called. Her footsteps echoed as she walked the aisle between the tables. "Professor Quirrell, are you here?"
"Y-yes?" came his familiar stutter from the office door. "H-h-how can I h-h-help you, F-Fi?"
"Spare me a moment of your time, if you could," Professor Dullahan answered, and Harry noticed how her eye ticked when Quirrell spoke. Apparently he wasn't the only one, because Ron started to laugh and Hermione had to smack him in the middle with an elbow to quiet him down.
"J-j-just a m-m-minute!"
Professor Dullahan sniffed. "Merlin, he's laying it on thick...." She turned to face the three Gryffindors standing in her shadow and brought her hands together, slim fingers stark against the dark material of her navy sleeves. "So...how are your other subjects coming along? Are you ready for your Magical Theory exam?"
They nodded.
"Good. I expect all O's."
Hermione beamed, though Harry and Ron shared uneasy glances and Professor Dullahan chuckled.
"Well, at least I hope there's all O's. It's my first year as a teacher, you know. I hope my students learned a suitable amount and all my effort to put some knowledge in between your ears hasn't been in vain."
"What did you do before coming to Hogwarts, Professor Dullahan?"
"Oh, this and that." She shrugged, her smile taking on a mischievous edge. "I've been a potioneer and a scribe most often, and I've done a spot of work as a Rune Mistress and a Curse-Breaker. I've tracked the Nundu in Africa and set up the proper wards around the villages there, and I once helped a magizoologist tag Occamy in the Shanxi province—and let me tell you, that did not go over well, because I accidentally smuggled one back when it shrank to fit inside my pocket and it popped up to say hello right as I was about to cross into the International Floo. The Chinese ICW wizards were furious—but that's neither here nor there. Now, I'm a professor."
Dazed, Harry and his friends looked up at the dark-haired witch, who shrugged again at their silent stares. "Err," Ron managed. "My brother Bill's a Curse-Breaker."
"Is he now? Which branch?"
"The branch in Egypt."
The professor's eyes flickered ever so slightly, though Harry couldn't say why. "Ah. It's dangerous there. I do hope he's keeping himself safe and aware?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good."
The office door creaked on its hinges as Quirrell stepped out and gave them all a weak, flickering smile. "W-what can I-I assist y-you with?"
"I would appreciate it if I could borrow your lesson plan. For tutoring, of course."
Professor Quirrell flinched, then made his way along the steps. Harry thought the wizard looked quite pale and wondered if Snape had been bullying him again, trying to find his way past the obstacles to the Stone. Harry wished they could tell someone about the Potions Master, someone in the position to do something, but the only adult he thought might believe them was Professor Dullahan, and he wasn't even sure she knew about the Stone. Ron always pointed out that yeah, Professor Dullahan seemed great—but she was as good as a Slytherin, like Snape and Malfoy.
Harry frowned at the thought, uncomfortable. He'd almost been put in Slytherin, after all, though he'd never admit as much to Ron.
From the corner of his eye, he noted how Professor Dullahan stiffened when Professor Quirrell came closer, the other professor stuttering about getting the plan from his desk, to which Dullahan only replied with a grim smile and a nod before returning her attention to Hermione, who asked about some obscure theory on magical fluctuations that had Ron rolling his eyes and Harry taking a breath for patience. He looked out the window toward the darkening sky. It was such a nice evening....
"P-Professor Dullahan!"
Blinking, Harry returned his attention to the conversation. Ron was pointing at the professor's right hand. Dullahan lifted it from the folds of her sleeve, confused, and the three Gryffindors froze when they saw the glowing blood coating her palm. What is that?!
Professor Dullahan's lips parted in silent shock as she stared at her upheld hand, then slowly, slowly turned around. Behind her, approaching from the desk with the requested lesson plan, Quirrell stood still with a corresponding handprint pulsing on his chest. He looked at it with a bemused expression, chin lowered, a soft chuckle escaping through his bared teeth. No one spoke.
"Well. That is an impressive bit of magic, Delphinia Dullahan," Quirrell said, his voice colder, higher, lacking a stutter. "A proximity trigger, is it? That would make sense. I'd wondered about your parting curse but didn't recognize it. Now I know."
Professor Dullahan shifted and, with discreet motions, stretched her arms out in front of Harry and his friends, subtly urging them to get behind her. She did this without taking her eyes off Quirrell, her expression frightening in its emptiness. "It was you."
"It was indeed."
Harry wasn't sure what they were talking about, but through the rising prickles in his scar, he recalled a flicker of blurry images: Professor Dullahan's cut hand leaving stains on his shoulder where she gripped him, a bloody handprint hovering in the air, the utter relief in the witch's voice when she said "Gave me a bit of a fright, Mr. Potter."
"He was in the Forbidden Forest," Harry blurted out, surprising himself and the others. Quirrell's eyes flicked toward him, a eerie smile fixed on his sweating face. "It was him! He killed the unicorn! He's after the Stone! But that would mean—!"
Voldemort. Quirrell was working with Voldemort.
"Very good, Potter." He spat the name with more venom than Snape ever managed. "You're more perceptive than you let on."
The gentle pressure of Professor Dullahan's hand on his chest increased and Hermione stumbled on the other side of the witch. The prickling in Harry's scar turned to outright pain and he stifled a gasp, resisting the urge to touch it—and suddenly Quirrell had his wand in hand, giving it a sharp flick. Shutters on the windows slammed themselves closed, stealing away the moonlight, and the classroom's door shut with an ominous sort of finality.
"Let me ssspeak with her."
Harry couldn't stop his groan of pain this time. Professor Dullahan shoved the three Gryffindors behind her the best she could, but she wasn't a large woman by any means, and she kept her attention on Quirrell as she forced them all to take a step back. Quirrell was turning while he unwrapped that rank turban, bulbs of withered garlic falling to the floor with soft pops of sound, and on the back of his head—.
"If that isn't the ghastliest thing I've seen today, I'll eat my shoes," Professor Dullahan remarked as the face protruding from the back of Quirrell's head blinked crimson eyes and hissed out a breath. The visage there only nominally resembled a human, the proportions flattened and distorted, the skin mottled with pulsing bruises and veins. Harry knew in his heart who he was looking at: it was Voldemort, the wizard who had killed his parents.
"Dark Witch Dullahan...we meet at lassst."
"Sorry, wrong Dullahan," the witch chided, her chin turning from side to side as she considered the layout of the room and the covered windows. "I get that a lot. I'd caution you against trying to find her, though. Not friendly with wizards. She might just eat your soul."
Voldemort hissed his displeasure at Professor Dullahan's glib remark and Harry clutched at the side of a desk to stay upright, determined to fight through the pain. He wanted to grab his wand and curse the monster—but he didn't have his wand. No, he'd left it in his bag, having stuffed it in there after Magical Theory ended.
"Think before you ssspeak, witch. You have the pleasure of addresssing Lord Vol—."
"The day I care at all for the mutterings of a mad wizard is the day I dig up Merlin and kiss his moldering backside," Dullahan growled. "M'lord."
For an instant, all Voldemort did was glower at Professor Dullahan like he couldn't even begin to comprehend the words that had come spilling out of her mouth. Then, he sucked a breath through his twisted lips.
"Very well, witch. You know I will not allow any of you to leave this room alive. Remember my mercccy as you beg for death."
"Melodramatic little f—."
Then Quirrell whipped around, his maroon robes spiraling, and his wand came up—though he didn't point it at Professor Dullahan. He pointed it at a wide-eyed Hermione.
"Bombarda Maxima."
White light shot toward the young witch, so quick all Harry could think to do was shout, his heart beating like a drum, Hermione wide-eyed and terrified, Ron swearing—.
"Obstruxit!"
Professor Dullahan's clear voice cut through the panic and a watery curtain appeared between them and Quirrell, the spell drawn by the sharp, downward thrust of Professor Dullahan's extended hand. The curse struck her spell and rebounded in another direction, striking the wall with such force huge chucks of gray rock broke off and showered the group in debris.
"Impressive!" Quirrell said over the noise of pebbles pinging off the tables. "But how will you manage against a spell that can't be block? Say hello to your parents, Potter! Avada Kedavra!"
Familiar green light snaked toward Harry—and he hit the floor, his legs kicked out from under him by an invisible force. Ron and Hermione found themselves in a similar position when Quirrell fired the spell again in their direction. Quirrell followed through faster now, a wordless spell flying from his wand as the slender stick danced under his precise guidance, the light red and sickly, and it rebounded against another shield erected by Professor Dullahan. In the muddle of confusing events, Harry had just enough sense to wonder; Where is her wand?
Harry felt something brush against him, invisible like the hard jab that had hit him in the back of the knees, only stronger now, harsher. Professor Dullahan used her left hand to throw a weak shield up that failed, Quirrell's Cutting Curse glancing off her arm—but her right hand came down in a different motion, fingers splayed. Then, the three Gryffindors were sliding along the floor as if it were made of ice, and the desk rose in a wave, twisting midair. As Harry, Ron, and Hermione hit the classroom's far wall, the desks came down hard and fast, surrounding them, forming a barrier between them and the dueling professors.
"Now...where were we?"
* * *
Behind her, Fi could hear the terrified, shocked shouting of her students, their voices muffled by the thick wood of the assembled desks. Mr. Potter had a rather distinctive tone when he yelled, calmer than the other two, angrier. Less like a boy and more like the wizard he'd become one day—because he would have a chance to become that wizard. Fi didn't care what she had to do; the three Gryffindors would be walking away from this classroom tonight.
Delphinia Dullahan wouldn't call what she did dueling. Dueling implied rules—seconds and countdowns and that nebulous concept of honor. Fi didn't have much experience with honor, as the circles she traveled in had very little use for it. Those who populated the outskirts of society didn't "duel." They scrambled to survive, schemed and planned and twisted the knife when they needed to. When Dark wizards came to knock on Fi's cottage door, they didn't come to duel the witch. When she encountered Grindelwald's hitmen in war-torn Germany, they didn't count out paces and bow. When she fled a sect of cannibals in Mongolia, they didn't issue formal challenges and wait for her response.
So, Fi wouldn't say she was a great duelist. She would say she knew how survive. It was both her gift and her curse.
Inciting counter-curses as swiftly as she could, Fi didn't care if the children boxed in by the desks saw her wandless motions, her hand snapping to and fro in runic gestures as Quirrell continued to fire volley after volley. Streams of crackling light bounced from Fi's incanted shields and hit the windows, the walls, the ceiling. Chunks of blackened stone rained down. Glass shattered. Red seeped into Quirrell's eyes and he cackled, moving faster. At least she finally knew why Quirinus always stank of Dark magic and gave her the creeps.
The hedge witch stepped back once, twice.
Fi was losing ground.
No. She grit her teeth even as her hands began to burn and the dozen abrasions on her bare skin stung. Rubble burst like shrapnel and rained upon the desk fort behind her. I have to push forward, but what can I do?
Fi knew a dozen spells one could utilize against an attacker, but none were safe, not in her current state of mind, not in the heat of battle, not with children in the room. Several curses came to her lips—but what if he deflected them? All it took was one stray Lung Bind to crush her charges like grapes. She couldn't risk it. She would not risk it.
High, cold laughter filled the vast room and echoed with the continued bursts of spell work. "Kill them, Quirrell!"
"I'm trying, Master!"
"Kill her! Kill Potter!"
Fi ground her teeth, sweat sliding on her neck, at her temples. Faster, she urged herself as she refused the ache in her joints and the cruel, needling bite of magical exhaustion creeping into her limbs like a slow poison. Bloody Quirinus Stuttering Quirrell is NOT a better fighter than me!
But for all that he seemed a feeble-mouthed man incapable of casting, Quirrell excelled in his craft, and the stricture of his spells proved faster than Fi's magic. The old ways took patience, ritual, sacrifice—and though the results could blast away anything capable via a wand, Fi felt very much like the old Muggle cliche of a knife in a gunfight, especially when she had three handicaps she wouldn't allow him to injure.
"You should have listened to me, Dullahan!" Quirrell yelled. Given that his wand arm continued to move like liquid, Fi guessed the Ravenclaw alum was not in control of the casting. "You could have joined us!"
Fi didn't waste anymore breath on the fool. She concentrated only on destroying him.
Then, with a snide look yet upon his face, Quirrell's eyes darted to the side, past Fi, and she heard the smallest of scuffs. That scuff of a shoe resonated louder than the absolute calamity of their duel, and Fi's breath left her in a hazy gust.
"No—!"
A violent spell had taken out the locked door, leaving it shattered upon the hall floor. Ron and Hermione had made for the exit—for safety—but Quirrell saw them, saw them standing in that short space between the sanctuary of the corridor and the safety of the desks. Both dusty children froze, wide-eyed.
Fi threw herself to the side. She flung her body between them and Quirrell's spell and attempted to shield herself, but she was terrified of being too late, terrified of being too slow, terrified of them getting hurt, and her hand hesitated for a fraction of a second, her Will reaching toward the children rather than toward herself.
Pain erupted in her middle and Fi sailed backward, striking the wall with considerable force. Bones crunched. Fi gasped before crumpling.
"Professor Dullahan!"
Quirrell laughed—and so did that monstrosity embedded in his head. Their amusement rose in ghoulish accompaniment—until it abruptly turned to shrieks, hair-raising screams that did little to block out Granger and Weasley shouting Potter's name. Fi couldn't see. She couldn't breathe. One hand clutched her emblazoned side and the other spasmed, worthless, on the floor.
Have to—
Shouting. So much shouting.
Can't—
Footsteps. Were those footsteps? Where was help? Where were they?
Need—
No matter what she did, Fi sunk deeper and deeper into the inky morass of unconsciousness until she knew no more.