The dense canopy of the Forbidden Forest cast long, shifting shadows across the forest floor. Echo moved with practiced ease, his black hair a muted green as he carefully plucked a sprig of Asphodel from beneath a gnarled oak tree. Severus, a few paces ahead, was meticulously examining a patch of monkshood, his dark robes blending almost seamlessly with the shadows. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and strange, wild flora, a familiar aroma to Echo, but today, it felt… different.
"That should be enough Asphodel for the sleeping draught, Echo," Severus said, straightening up with a small collection of plants in his hand. "Thank you for your assistance. Your knowledge of these plants is… unexpectedly thorough."
Echo, who had been staring blankly into the depths of the forest, jolted slightly at the sound of Severus's voice. His green hair flickered with a brief, almost imperceptible spark of red. "You're welcome, Sev," he snapped, his voice a little sharper than intended. He immediately regretted the tone, but a strange tension in the air made him edgy. He walked over, the wicker basket filled with various magical herbs slung over his arm. "Is this everything you need? I think I got a good amount of the Valerian root you asked for, too."
Severus glanced into the basket, his eyes quickly assessing its contents. "Yes, that's plenty. More than enough, in fact." He looked at Echo, a faint frown creasing his brow. "Is everything alright, Echo? You've been quite distracted this entire time."
Echo flinched, his red hair deepening in color. "Sorry, Sev," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "It's just… something feels off about the forest today. In fact, it's been feeling off for a few days now."
Severus raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "Off? How so?"
Echo looked around, his hollow eyes scanning the ancient trees. "Haven't you noticed? The forest has been… quiet."
Severus scoffed. "It's a forest, Echo. It's supposed to be quiet."
"No," Echo insisted, shaking his head. His black hair settled into a thoughtful blue. "Not like that. A different quiet. Like something is missing."
"In what way?" Severus asked, though his tone suggested he was humoring him.
"I haven't seen the centaurs in a while," Echo said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "And it's starting to worry me."
"That's for the best, isn't it?" Severus replied, already turning to walk towards the edge of the forest. "Centaurs don't usually like people, even if they like you, Echo. And they're nomadic, of course, they're not going to be in the same place. They've probably just moved on to another part of the forest."
Echo walked beside him, his blue hair flickering with agitation. "I know, but I haven't seen or heard any signs from them. No tracks, no arrow marks, no distant hoofbeats, not even their calls. It's been quiet. Eerily so."
"You're overreacting, Echo," Severus said dismissively. "They're just in some other part of the forest. If you're so worried, why don't you just find them with that Beast Map of yours?" Severus continued walking, disappearing through the treeline, leaving Echo alone at the edge of the forest.
Echo stared after him for a moment, then mentally slapped himself on the forehead. "My Beast Map! Of course!" He'd completely forgotten about it. Now, where had he put it? He racked his brain, then remembered the last time he'd had it was in the Room of Requirement. With a determined sigh, he turned and jogged back towards the castle, a new urgency in his stride.
He navigated the familiar passages, his mind already racing with possibilities. When he finally reached the seventh floor, the wall to the Room of Requirement shimmered into existence, revealing his cozy home away from home. A potions station with bubbling cauldrons stood ready for his experiments, while a magic practice station beckoned with shimmering spell circles. In a quiet corner, a study nook piled high with scrolls and tomes invited him to delve into ancient lore. Along one wall, vivariums hummed with the gentle movements of the many creatures he cared for. He began searching for his Beast Map, a weathered piece of parchment, and Shimmer, his faithful companion, quickly found it tucked between some books and handed it over. The map pulsed faintly with a warm, magical glow.
Unfurling it, Echo spread the map out on a dusty table. The intricate lines and symbols that represented the Forbidden Forest glowed softly. He focused, his black hair a deep, concentrated blue, urging the map to reveal what he sought. He watched as tiny, glowing dots, each representing a magical creature, flickered across the map, but none of them, to his growing dread, were the distinctive, larger constellations that marked the centaur herds. He searched again, meticulously, every corner of the vast forest, but found nothing. The centaurs were gone.
Then, a single, tiny, luminous dot flickered into existence at the very edge of the Forbidden Forest, just beyond the castle grounds. It was moving fast, a frantic, desperate streak across the parchment, heading directly towards Hogwarts. It was the distinct mark of a centaur colt. Frieze. Echo's heart lurched. He rolled up the map with a snap, his blue hair flaring with alarm, and burst out of the Room of Requirement. He ran down the corridor, his mind racing, until he reached a deserted balcony overlooking the sprawling grounds. Without a second thought, he launched himself over the railing, plummeting through the air.
"Balloonie!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the wind. With a soft WHOOSH, the Wyvern materialized beneath him, its inflated chest acting as a natural cushion. Echo grabbed its long, extendable tail, and Balloonie, with a few flaps of its tiny wings, began to hover him gently down to the ground.
As his feet touched the damp grass, Echo de-summoned Balloonie, the Wyvern vanishing with a faint pop. He immediately spotted Frieze, the young centaur colt, near the castle walls, his small frame shaking, his whinnies laced with pure terror. He was scream-crying, a heartbreaking sound that carried on the crisp evening air.
Echo rushed towards him, his black hair darkening with concern. "Frieze! Hey, hey, it's alright," he soothed, reaching the colt and gently stroking his mane. "Calm down, little guy. It's okay. Try to keep it down, we don't want to attract any unnecessary attention."
Frieze slowly quieted, his sobs subsiding into hiccuping breaths. He babbled something incoherent, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Taken… taken away…"
"Shh, shh, it's okay," Echo murmured, trying to calm the distressed colt. "Take it slow, Frieze. What happened? Who was taken?"
"The herd!" Frieze finally managed to whimper, burying his face in Echo's side. "They took them all! Everyone! I… I escaped. I ran."
Echo's blood ran cold. All of them? "Who, Frieze? Who took them?"
Frieze looked up, his eyes filled with a primal fear. "The bad men," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Echo decided he would figure out what Frieze meant by "bad men" later. Right now, they needed to act. "Alright, Frieze," he said, his voice firm and steady, masking the growing dread in his chest. "Show me. Show me where they took them." He summoned Skip, the unicorn, with a soft WHOOSH, its pearly white coat gleaming in the fading light. Echo climbed onto Skip's back, then nodded to Frieze. "Lead the way."
Unbeknownst to Echo, Severus, drawn by the unusual commotion and a prickle of unease that had settled over him after Echo's earlier pronouncements about the forest, had witnessed the entire scene unfold from a shadowed window. His dark eyes, usually impassive, held a flicker of grim determination. He watched as Echo and Frieze, led by the majestic unicorn, disappeared into the deepening shadows of the Forbidden Forest. With a silent, almost imperceptible movement, Severus, too, moved towards the forest, a grim resolve hardening his features.
The scent of pine and damp earth grew stronger as Frieze galloped, his small hooves barely disturbing the fallen leaves. Skip, the unicorn, moved with an ethereal grace, her pearly coat a beacon in the encroaching twilight. Echo, perched on her back, his black hair a determined blue, followed the colt's frantic lead deeper into the Forbidden Forest. The air grew colder, and the familiar sounds of the forest—the rustle of nocturnal creatures, the distant hoot of an owl—were conspicuously absent, replaced by an unsettling silence.
After what felt like an eternity, Frieze slowed, his whinnies now soft, anxious murmurs. He pointed a trembling hoof towards a small clearing ahead, partially obscured by a cluster of ancient, moss-draped trees. Echo dismounted Skip, gently patting her flank before de-summoning her with a soft pop. He then motioned for Frieze to stay hidden amongst the trees.
Echo moved with the silent grace of a hunter, his feet barely disturbing the forest floor. The clearing was small, yet at its center stood a single unassuming tent, its canvas a dull, almost camouflaged green against the dark backdrop of the trees. A faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from within. Echo approached cautiously, his senses heightened, his black hair a low, warning purple. He carefully drew back a corner of the tent flap, peering inside.
His eyes widened in disbelief. The interior was vast, impossibly so, far larger than the small tent's exterior suggested. It was a viewing ring, like those found at animal auctions, but this was no ordinary auction. Spectator seats, arranged in ascending tiers, surrounded a central arena, and nearly every seat was filled. A murmur of hushed voices, punctuated by the clinking of what sounded like coins, drifted up from the crowd. At the bottom of the ring, beneath the spectator seats, was a series of reinforced cages. In each one, a centaur, majestic and proud even in captivity, stood or lay dejectedly. Echo recognized a few of them – Bane, his usually stern face etched with despair, and Ronan, the leader of Frieze's herd, his powerful frame slumped against the bars. There were others he didn't recognize, no doubt centaurs brought from beyond the familiar confines of the Forbidden Forest.
A collective gasp escaped Echo's lips as a new centaur was led into the ring, heavily restrained with thick magical chains that glowed faintly. It was forced to walk in a slow circle as a man on a raised podium at the back, situated high above the spectators, called out bets, his voice booming with a chilling joviality. The man was selling them. Selling sentient beings like livestock. A wave of fear mingled with a searing, cold anger washed over Echo. His purple hair flared a vibrant, furious red. This was a poacher's selling ring, a vile marketplace for sentient life. His blood boiled.
Echo silently backed away from the tent flap, his heart pounding. He turned to Frieze, who was still trembling amongst the trees. "Stay back, Frieze," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "Far back. This is going to get ugly."
He then brought his wand to his lips and blew, a sharp, piercing whistle echoing through the quiet forest. In mere seconds, a massive, dark form descended from the sky. Wick, the dragon, landed silently beside him, her intelligent eyes fixed on Echo. Then, with a swift swirl of his wand, Echo summoned his Dementor minion. This chilling, cloaked figure materialized out of thin air, its presence instantly dropping the temperature in the clearing.
"Stay here, both of you," Echo commanded, his voice firm. "Wait for my signal."
He turned back to the tent, took a deep, steadying breath, and strengthened his resolve. His red hair blazed with a fierce determination. This was wrong. This was an abomination. And he was going to shut it down. With a final, grim nod, Echo pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.
The auctioneer, a corpulent man with a greasy smile, was mid-sentence, his voice booming across the vast, magically extended tent. "Who will start the bidding for this magnificent specimen? A powerful stallion, prime for work or..." He trailed off, his eyes scanning the eager faces in the tiered seats.
"I'd like to start the bidding at zero Galleons!" Echo's clear, resonant voice cut through the air, startling the entire assembly. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a smattering of incredulous chuckles.
The auctioneer's smile faltered, replaced by a scowl. "Who said that? Surely that's a joke!"
"I did," Echo declared, stepping fully into the tent. As if on cue, two powerful spotlights, previously focused on the centaur in the ring, swung around to illuminate him, starkly outlining his small figure at the entrance. Murmurs erupted as students and poachers alike stared at the young boy.
The auctioneer recovered quickly, his voice laced with thinly veiled contempt. "A child should not be here. Run along, little boy, unless you actually thought we'd sell any centaur for free."
Echo let out a low, humorless laugh that sent a shiver down some spines. "I don't think you quite understood my meaning." His red hair blazed with an intensity that made some of the closer spectators recoil. "You're going to release the centaurs now, or pay the consequences."
The crowd erupted in outright laughter, a cacophony of sneers and derisive shouts. "And how exactly are you going to do that, little boy?" the auctioneer challenged, a smug grin spreading across his face.
Echo's laughter died, replaced by a cold, dangerous glint in his hollow eyes. His red hair flared, almost pulsing with a contained fury. "I'm so glad you asked that, because I'm not in a very good mood. In fact, I haven't been in a good mood for several weeks, and I really need to blow off all this pent-up anger." His gaze swept over the laughing faces, each one now paling slightly. "And this crowd of idiots, torturing and laughing at living beings, is just what I need." He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper that carried through the suddenly silent tent. "So, don't expect to leave here alive."
As he finished speaking, the tent flap behind him ripped open with a thunderous CRACK. Wick, the dragon, burst through, her massive form filling the entrance. She spread her leathery wings, a terrifying silhouette against the dark forest outside, and let out a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the tent. Smoke curled from her nostrils, and her eyes glowed with an ancient, untamed fire. But even as the fear of the fire-breathing dragon gripped the crowd, a new, more profound dread settled upon them. Behind Wick, a chilling, cloaked figure drifted silently into the tent, its presence instantly sucking the warmth from the air. Eyes, now wide with a terror that transcended the physical, fixed on the Dementor, its faceless void promising a fate far worse than any dragon's flame.
The auctioneer, despite the terrifying display, scoffed, a desperate attempt at bravado. "Even with your beast and… that other thing," he stammered, gesturing wildly between Wick and the Dementor, "you're still outnumbered a hundred to one, little boy! Unless you want to die, then you should—"
Before he could finish, Echo's wand was out, a sharp, decisive flick. "—Bombarda!"
A blinding flash, followed by a deafening roar, ripped through the tent. The podium where the auctioneer had stood disintegrated in a shower of splintered wood and canvas, sending a shockwave through the stunned crowd. A sudden, ringing silence descended, punctuated only by the ragged breathing of the terrified spectators.
Echo lowered his wand, his red hair blazing with unholy satisfaction. His voice, calm and eerily clear, sliced through the quiet. "I think that's enough of that. So, I ask you, fine, slimy people, how do you wish to die?"
As if on cue, Wick let out another earth-shattering roar and unleashed a torrent of scorching flame across the ceiling of the tent. Panic erupted. Screams tore through the air as people scrambled, tripping over each other in a desperate attempt to escape the inferno. Several dozen poachers, their faces contorted with rage and fear, brandished their wands and surrounded Echo, Wick, and the Dementor, firing off a chaotic barrage of spells.
The Dementor, a silent, chilling force, drifted through the panicked crowd, its cloaked form a harbinger of despair. Screams turned into whimpers as it dipped and swayed, sucking the very life and happiness from those it passed. Meanwhile, Echo, a whirlwind of furious energy, summoned a Diricawl with a swift movement of his hand. The plump, seemingly flightless bird materialized, its eyes wide with an almost comical surprise as Echo established a magical link. With a burst of crackling energy, Echo, now linked to the Diricawl, began to teleport around the vast interior of the tent, appearing and disappearing in a flash of vibrant red hair, firing off spells with ruthless precision, each one aimed to incapacitate, to wound, but not yet to kill. His movements became a blur, a whirlwind of calculated chaos. He parried a stinging hex with a casual flick of his wrist, redirecting it to explode against a nearby tent support, sending a shower of sparks and shredded canvas onto a group of advancing poachers. A powerful Stupefy from his wand struck another poacher squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling into the tiered seats, a trail of overturned onlookers in his wake. Echo's red hair seemed to burn brighter with each perfectly executed spell, a testament to his honed reflexes and years of practice. He weaved through the frantic exchanges, anticipating attacks before they launched, his counter-spells precise and devastating. He was no longer just a boy; he was a force of nature, a dance of destruction orchestrated with terrifying grace.
Suddenly, a thick, guttural voice rose above the din. "Imperio!"
Echo, mid-teleport, felt a familiar tingle, a fleeting sense of something invasive. He twisted, attempting to shield himself, but the spell, aimed with malicious intent, struck Wick squarely in the head. The massive dragon froze, her fiery eyes clouding over, her powerful roar dying into a confused rumble. Her movements became sluggish, her form still, as if a puppet on invisible strings.
The poacher who had cast the curse, a burly man with a cruel sneer, stepped forward, his chest puffed out. "Foolish boy! You think you're the only one with power? We all know the Unforgivables! And we'll use them on you! Time to see what real power through the Dark Arts looks like!" With a triumphant, sadistic grin, he raised his wand again. "Crucio!"
A bolt of red light slammed into Echo. His body stiffened, a violent tremor running through him, but no scream escaped his lips. His hollow eyes, though wide with a raw, intense focus, remained fixed on the poacher. His red hair, instead of dulling, blazed even brighter, a defiant inferno. He slowly, deliberately, raised his own wand, pointing it directly at the incoming stream of dark magic. The Cruciatus Curse, instead of wracking his body with pain, seemed to bend, to shimmer, to be drawn into the very tip of his wand, absorbed and contained. The poachers, who had expected a tormented shriek, stared in stunned silence. Echo's gaze then flickered to Wick, still entranced by the Imperio Curse. With another precise, almost surgical flick of his wrist, he extended his wand towards the dragon, and a faint, shimmering thread of purple energy snaked from his wand, wrapping around Wick's head. The dragon gave a mighty shake, a low, rumbling growl escaping her throat, and the cloudiness in her eyes cleared, replaced by a flash of furious understanding. Her mental chains shattered, Wick let out a thunderous roar, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage, and began to charge.
Echo turned back to the poachers, his face devoid of emotion. But his black hair, previously a furious red, now shifted, slowly, terrifyingly, to a sickly, malevolent green, the same shade as his glowing eyes. A low, chilling chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Just because you can use the Unforgivables," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that sent a fresh wave of dread through the now-petrified poachers, "doesn't mean you know how actually to use them. Let me show you how Dark Magic is truly used."
With a casual flick of his newly green-glowing wand, Echo pointed it at the poacher who had cast the Cruciatus Curse. "Crucio!" he enunciated, his voice laced with a cold, almost detached amusement. The poacher dropped to the ground, writhing and screaming, his previous bravado dissolving into pathetic wails. Echo, a blur of green hair and glowing eyes, teleported, appearing behind one poacher, then another, striking with lethal precision. Spells of stunning, disarming, and bone-breaking accuracy flew from his wand. He used the Cruciatus Curse not to kill, but to incapacitate, to hold back enemies, to create strategic openings. He even used the Imperius Curse, not on his friends, but on the more formidable poachers, turning them against their own, causing further chaos and disarray in the ranks.
Each time Echo hit a poacher, even with a seemingly weak Stupefy, a faint, almost invisible wisp of his dark magic imprinted itself on their skin, a chilling mark that pulsed with a sinister energy. When two poachers, marked by his magic, were close and one was hit, the other would recoil, screaming in phantom pain, feeling the same intensity of the blow. It was a macabre dance, a prelude to something far more devastating. Echo was setting up a grand, terrifying finale, though a small part of him hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Meanwhile, Wick, now fully enraged and free from the curse, was a magnificent, destructive force. She charged through the tent, her powerful horns goring anything in her path, her fiery breath searing the air and preventing any attempts at escape. The Dementor, a silent, ravenous hunter, drifted through the chaos, its presence amplifying the fear and despair, feeding to its heart's content, unhindered by any resistance.
With the poachers in disarray, Echo's movements became more fluid, almost graceful, a deadly ballet of destruction. His green eyes, glowing with an eerie intensity, never missed a beat. He was everywhere at once, a living, breathing nightmare for the poachers. He was a force of nature, a terrifying embodiment of wrath and power. The tent was a whirlwind of spells, screams, and Wick's thundering roars, all orchestrated by the boy with glowing green hair. He had become a dark spark, igniting a flame that threatened to consume everything in its path.
The auctioneer, battered and bruised but miraculously alive, scrambled to his feet amidst the chaos. His greasy smile returned, twisted into a desperate snarl. "You think you've won, little boy?" he shrieked, his voice raw with a mixture of fear and fury. He stumbled down the tiered seats, ignoring the fleeing poachers, and brandished his wand at the reinforced cages. "Ignis Oleum!"
A viscous, shimmering black oil erupted from his wand, coating the centaurs in their cages. Bane and Ronan whinnied in terror, their noble forms slick and helpless. The auctioneer turned back to Echo, his chest heaving, a dark, triumphant laugh tearing from his throat. "Stop, boy! Or I swear, I'll burn them all! You'll lose your precious beasts, and then we both lose!"
Echo froze, his green-glowing wand dropping slightly. Wick, who had been about to clamp her powerful jaws around a screaming poacher, paused mid-bite, a low growl rumbling in her throat. Even the Dementor, its faceless void a perfect mirror of nothingness, turned slowly, its chilling presence focused on the new threat.
"Don't try anything, boy!" the auctioneer snarled, seeing the flicker of defiance in Echo's eyes. "I'm ruthless! You'll never outmaneuver me!"
At that exact moment, Severus, drawn by the escalating pandemonium and a growing sense of dread, finally burst through the treeline. He saw the tent, heard the horrific commotion within, and cautiously peered inside. The sight that greeted him sent a shockwave of cold fear through his very soul: carnage, destruction, and chaos, all orchestrated by the boy with the glowing green hair.
Echo felt a primal rage erupt within him when he saw the terrified centaurs. His blood boiled, and he saw nothing but red. The Dark Beast, long dormant, stirred with a terrifying intensity, its hunger for destruction echoing through Echo's very being. Go all in, it whispered, promising untold power. All you have to do is make the right choice.
Echo's vision narrowed, the world dissolving into a haze of green. "Ruthlessness?" he roared, his voice distorted, inhuman, laced with pure, unadulterated fury. "I'll show you ruthlessness!" His hair and eyes blazed with a blinding, malevolent green, the sickly, evil hue intensifying with every syllable. Wick, her black and red scales now illuminated with jagged markings of the same terrifying green, let out a guttural roar, mirroring Echo's rage.
Without hesitation, Echo screamed, "Die!"
Without even a single incantation, a blinding jet of emerald green light erupted from his wand. It struck the auctioneer with devastating force, but instead of dissipating, the spell continued its terrifying trajectory. It flew with the precision of a guided missile, seeking out every poacher and spectator imprinted with Echo's dark magic. Marked by the faint, sinister wisps, they were helpless. One by one, a cascade of green light chased them down, twisting, turning, and slamming into them with an unstoppable force. Screams of terror and pleas for mercy were all cut short as the Avada Kedavra found its mark repeatedly and relentlessly. No matter how they tried to hide, to shield themselves, to apparate away, the curse pursued them, a terrifying manifestation of Echo's wrath.
Simultaneously, Wick unleashed a torrent of green fire, a spectral inferno that consumed everything it touched. This was no ordinary fire; when it engulfed a marked individual, it had the same agonizing effect as the Cruciatus Curse. Poachers, already writhing in agony from the effects, seized up in an even more excruciating torment, falling into the spreading green flames, their screams echoing as they burned alive. The fire spread with alarming speed, a living, hungry entity, fueled by the panic and despair, leaving no one safe, no one untouched by Echo's terrifying, unleashed power.
Back outside, Severus watched the horrifying scene unfold, his hand clamped over his mouth, his eyes wide with a terror he had never before experienced. Echo, bathed in the unholy green flames, looked like a conductor of death, a small, terrifying figure orchestrating a symphony of destruction. The sheer, unbridled malice, the cold, detached brutality, filled Severus with a profound and primal fear.
Echo fell to his knees, utterly spent, but the sight of the centaurs, still trapped and covered in oil, spurred him on. He jumped down to the inner ring, his wand flaring with two powerful spells – a cleaning charm to banish the viscous oil and an unlocking spell that sprang open the cages. With what little breath he had left, Echo urged the centaurs to run as Wick, with a guttural roar, cleared a path. A thick, green gas billowed from her mouth, extinguishing the emerald flames that had encircled the tent, creating a clear escape route. The centaurs, not hesitating for a moment, galloped out into the night. Severus, seeing the centaurs coming, made his own swift exit.
Once all were safely outside, Echo pushed himself back to his feet, swaying precariously. Wick, ever vigilant, gently nudged him, then carefully lifted him onto her head, carrying him out of the now-collapsing tent. The Dementor, a silent, chilling presence, floated behind them. Outside, the ten green flames that had been consuming the tent from the inside out finally flickered and died. Echo and Wick slumped against a large oak tree, Echo still leaning heavily on Wick's head, both exhausted after overexerting themselves with such heavy magic. The Dementor, its purpose fulfilled, drifted silently off into the forest. Just before Echo passed out, he looked up and saw Ronan standing above him, his face etched with concern. Echo managed a weak smile.
"Ronan," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, "I'm glad you're all safe." And then, with a final sigh of relief, he blacked out, leaning against Wick.
Echo blinked, his eyes slowly fluttering open. The stark white ceiling of the Hospital Wing came into focus, and a wave of nausea washed over him. He felt strangely heavy, as if every limb was made of lead. A soft gasp escaped him, and a shadow fell over his face.
"Mr. Echo! Thank goodness you're awake!" Madam Pomfrey's voice, a mixture of relief and sternness, cut through the hazy silence. Her kind, yet no-nonsense face peered down at him. "I was beginning to fear you'd slipped into a coma. Nearly had to write to St. Mungo's, I did. And you know how much paperwork that entails!"
Echo, his head still fuzzy, tried to sit up, but a dull ache in his chest made him wince. "St. Mungo's?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse. "What happened? I… I had this really weird dream." He frowned, trying to recall the specifics. "Something about centaurs and… green fire?"
Madam Pomfrey's lips thinned into a grim line. "If your 'weird dream' involved centaurs, Mr. Echo, then I assure you, it was no dream." She busied herself adjusting his blanket, her movements precise. "Ronan, the herd leader, came out of the Forbidden Forest in the earliest hours of the morning. He was carrying you, quite unconscious, in his arms. We brought you inside, and he left without a second word." She paused, her eyes narrowing as if recalling something. "Actually," she added, a faint smile touching her lips, "he did leave something for you. A scroll. For your eyes only, he said. Quite literally, at that. It's enchanted, so only you can open and read it." She went to a small table beside his bed and retrieved a tightly rolled parchment, tied with a simple leather thong. "Whatever you did for those centaurs, Mr. Echo, they were very appreciative."
Echo took the scroll, his black hair flickering thoughtfully blue. He untied the thong, the parchment unrolling with a whisper. He held it up, reading the elegant, flowing script to himself.
"Echo," the scroll began, its words somehow resonating with Ronan's deep, measured voice in his mind, "We are forever in your debt. You faced down a darkness that we, with all our foresight, could not anticipate. You saved our lives, our freedom, and our dignity. We saw what you did in that tent, the power you wielded, the fire you brought down upon our captors. It was terrifying, yes, but it was also glorious. A true protector. The others of our kin that were brought from that horrible place before have joined our herd, and even though a few have been lost, you have saved many more by your swift action. We have also helped tend to your dragon friend for her help; hopefully, she will be well rested enough to leave before your leaders of the Ministry decide to investigate."
"Know this, young one: the path you walk is fraught with peril. Such power as yours comes with a great cost. But also know that the centaurs of this forest will forever stand with you. Should you ever need our aid, simply call. We will hear you. You are one of us, Echo, by blood and by spirit. And for your courage and sacrifice, we offer you this gift: inscribed within the parchment is a map of the stars. Look to the sky, and you will see not just patterns, but prophecies. Use it wisely. Use it to protect those you cherish and never get lost."
"May your stars burn bright, young Echo. May your spirit remain untamed."
"With eternal gratitude,
Ronan, Leader of the Centaur Herd."
Echo finished reading, his blue hair slowly fading to a thoughtful black. He looked at the scroll, a mixture of awe and unease swirling within him. A map of the stars? That was… a lot. He looked at the paper as the word slowly shifted into a map of every star, its name, and position in the sky for that time of year. He then looked over at Madam Pomfrey, who was now meticulously polishing a row of potion bottles.
"Madam Pomfrey," Echo said, his voice still a little hoarse, "how long have I been out?"
She turned, a slight huff escaping her. "Oh, only three days, Mr. Echo. Nothing to worry about at all. Just a little magical exhaustion, a touch of residual magic draining your reserves, and a minor case of… well, frankly, a complete disregard for your own well-being." Her tone softened slightly. "You truly overexerted yourself, dear. It will take time for your core to recover fully."
"Three days?" Echo repeated, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "Madam Pomfrey, not that I want to tell you how to do your job or diagnose people, but three days sounds an awful lot like a coma to me."
Madam Pomfrey scoffed, though a hint of worry still lingered in her eyes. "Like I said, Mr. Echo, I was ready to write to St. Mungo's if you hadn't woken up just now. You were certainly pushing the limits of your recovery."
Echo merely lay back against the pillows, a thoughtful expression on his face. He didn't feel like his magical core was strained; in fact, he felt like he could do what he did to the poachers all over again, not that he would want to. It was just his body that felt exhausted, as if the strain had been too much for it to handle. But three days, wow! Echo blinked. It felt like a few hours. He looked down at the scroll again, then at his hands, a faint tremor still running through them. And yet, he felt good. Was he supposed to feel good? The beats felt satisfied, as if performing that display of raw power, pushing themselves to their limits, were enough to sate their lust. And yet… the centaurs were safe. He had saved them. Was this what Ronan meant by cost? Were his dark desires going to consume him like he feared at the beginning of the year?
Echo shook his head, a fierce resolve hardening his features. No, he wouldn't let it consume him. He wouldn't delve into the ever-farther reaches of darkness and depravity until the beast consumed him entirely. He would control it, just like he had in his first year. He would learn not just to shout the Unforgivables at whatever came along, whenever a problem arose. He would learn to curb and master this power. And yet, he thought back to his fight in the illegal poaching ring auction. He hadn't been in full control of that situation. If it hadn't been for Wick and the Dementor, he would have been outclassed in minutes, maybe seconds. He had the Unforgivables and had mastered them to the extent he currently knew, but he had no idea how to apply them in combat properly. He needed to learn how to fight. In some situations, regular spells wouldn't be enough, and his beasts may not always be able to help, even realizing he was and is heavily dependent on them. He needed to get better, and that's just what he would do. His only fear was that the Ministry would find out about what had been going on with him. He was breaking the law, sure, but he wasn't doing it to hurt others—at least not those who didn't deserve it. His magical core had an affinity for darkness; Dumbledore found that out with him last year. It should only make sense that he learn to master this, not stuff it away until it bursts out one day.
His only hope was that no one would find out. He closed his eyes, a grim determination settling over him. He would train, learn, master this darkness, and use it to protect, not to destroy. He would not become the monster he feared.
The air in the clearing, once thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, now hung heavy with the acrid stench of burnt canvas and scorched earth. The remnants of the magically extended tent lay in a grotesque, twisted heap, a testament to the sheer destructive force unleashed. The Forbidden Forest, usually alive with its own ancient sounds, was eerily silent, as if holding its breath in the face of such raw power.
A group of Aurors, grim-faced and wary, picked their way through the debris, their wands held aloft, casting shimmering diagnostic spells. Their leader, a grizzled, battle-scarred veteran with a constantly twitching magical eye, surveyed the scene with a practiced, almost bored intensity. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, his magical eye whirring and clinking in its socket, swept over the wreckage, missing nothing.
"Blimey, Moody," one of the younger Aurors muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, "what in Merlin's name happened here? Looks like a dragon convention gone wrong."
"Worse than that, Dawlish," Moody growled, his voice a gravelly rasp. "This ain't just dragon fire. There's somethin' else here. Somethin' dark." His magical eye spun, fixing on a patch of blackened earth where the emerald flames had once raged. "Powerful. And controlled. Too controlled for a wild beast."
He stomped over to a particularly charred section of what remained of the auctioneer's podium. With a grunt, he prodded a nearly incinerated corpse with his boot, then several others. "Look here," he said, his voice low. "Avada Kedavra, repeated and precise. And Cruciatus. Used to incapacitate, not just to torture. This ain't no amateur. This is someone who knows their Dark Arts."
The other Aurors exchanged uneasy glances. "But… who, sir?" another asked. "We haven't heard of any Dark Wizards operating this close to Hogwarts."
Moody merely grunted, his magical eye still sweeping. He moved methodically, sifting through ashes, examining scorched marks, occasionally sniffing the air with a grimace. He paused near where the tent flap would have been, his magical eye whirring intensely. He bent down, his good eye narrowing, and picked up a tiny, almost invisible strand of hair from among the ashes. It was a peculiar thing, almost iridescent, shimmering with faint, shifting hues of black, blue, and a startling, vibrant red.
Moody held it up, examining it closely. A grim smile, devoid of humor, touched his lips. "Well, well, well," he muttered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "What have we here?" He looked back at the younger Aurors, his magical eye gleaming with a chilling satisfaction. "Looks like we got ourselves a lead, lads. A very interesting lead indeed." He dropped the strand of hair into a small, enchanted vial, which instantly sealed itself with a soft POP. "This is going to be a long investigation."