The air on the Quidditch pitch a week after Christmas was a brutal, wind-whipped sculpture of cold. Echo sat bundled on the highest row of the spectator stands, looking less like a student and more like a brightly colored, overly-padded marshmallow. He was cocooned in three layers of robes, a thick, purple-and-gold knit scarf, and a hat that completely hid his hair, save for a few stray wisps of neutral black escaping the rim. A small, steaming mug of hot chocolate, held carefully between thick woolen gloves, offered the only solace against the biting wind.
Next to him, his familiars were similarly decked out. Shimmer, the demiguise, was zipped into a tiny, custom-made fleece jacket, its white fur barely visible, its immense, dark eyes fixed on the four small, frantic figures zipping around the sky below. Sniffles, the Niffler, was wearing the miniature yellow mitten that made him resemble a small, disgruntled banana. He was trying to polish the brass rim of Echo's hot chocolate mug with his tiny paws, having given up on finding anything valuable in the frozen metal stands. Echo took a long, fortifying sip of his hot chocolate, the rich, sweet warmth spreading down his throat. The wind, however, immediately whipped a fresh blast of frigid air across the lip of the mug.
"Honestly," Echo muttered to Shimmer, adjusting his massive scarf. "The things I do for cultural enrichment."
Shimmer responded with a soft, knowing click of its tongue, its gaze remaining firmly on the practice match below. The match was a chaotic affair: all four Hogwarts House teams were in the air, practicing drills with their respective Champions—James Potter, Frank Longbottom, Amos Diggory, and that one guy from Slytherin that Echo didnt have the brainpower to remember—who were all wearing their own House colors. The Gryffindors were a flash of scarlet, the Hufflepuffs a vibrant yellow, the Ravenclaws a cold blue, and the Slytherins a toxic green, all weaving and diving in a dizzying pattern that had little recognizable structure. Even the other two visiting schools, Durmstrange and Beauxbatons, were also in the sky.
Just as Echo lifted the mug for another sip, a rogue Quaffle, thrown with excessive force by a Gryffindor Chaser, shot wide of the hoops. It whizzed past the stands with the speed of a cannonball, creating a sudden, violent downdraft that slammed into the spectator stand.
WHOOSH!
Echo gasped in surprise, his grip instinctively tightening on the porcelain mug. Too late. The wind, combined with his sudden jolt, sent the hot chocolate sloshing violently over the lip. A thick, dark stream of the beverage spilled down his front, soaking through his outermost robe and pooling into the thick knit of his scarf.
"Blast it!" Echo swore under his breath, setting the now-empty mug down with a clatter. His hair, thankfully concealed by the hat, did not even have the energy to flash a color of annoyance. "This is why I stick to the library," he grumbled, dabbing clumsily at the stain with a wool-gloved hand.
Suddenly, two figures peeled away from the chaotic practice session. They dove with astonishing speed, their brooms angling sharply toward the spectator stands. Frank Longbottom (Gryffindor, scarlet robes) and Amos Diggory (Hufflepuff, yellow robes) executed perfectly synchronized stops, hovering just feet above Echo's head, their breath coming out in white, steaming clouds.
"Echo!" Frank called down, his face flushed and grinning despite the cold. "I saw that! Terrible shot, sorry about the near-miss! Did we scare you?"
Amos, his expression more serious, looked at the chocolate stain. "Bloody hell, mate, did you spill your drink? I'm sorry! It's the wind, it's a killer today."
Echo pushed his scarf down, revealing a face currently devoid of any malice. "Frank, Amos. No, you didn't scare me. You merely startled my tea-based concentration. And yes, Amos, thanks to your little wind tunnel, my hot chocolate is now one with my robes."
Frank laughed, a loud, good-natured sound. "Well, you made it out! That's what matters! Thanks for coming, mate. We've all been looking for you."
Amos nodded enthusiastically, hovering closer. "Yeah, honestly, Echo, thanks for coming. I know this isn't exactly your kind of scene, but seeing you up here is really good. It means a lot to the team and us."
Echo looked from one boy's earnest face to the other. He shrugged his heavily padded shoulders.
"Look, I may not be the sporty type—I prefer sports where the only real danger is a first-degree burn from a spilled potion and injuries gained from handling magical creatures—but you two are my friends. I'm more than willing to be a part of my friends' other interests and help out where I can, even if it means sitting here waiting to be decapitated by stray Bludgers." He paused, squinting at Frank. "Though, frankly, I might draw the line at being repeatedly doused in lukewarm sugar water."
Frank shivered violently on his broom. "Lukewarm is generous, Echo! I think that warming charm you put on us earlier today is wearing off, mate. I can barely feel my fingers."
"Tell me about it," Amos chimed in, hunching his shoulders. "I've been trying to focus, but the cold is just brutal."
Echo let out a sigh that puffed into a white cloud, reached into his robes, and pulled out his wand. He didn't even bother to take off his thick gloves.
"Right, fine," Echo muttered. He pointed his wand first at Frank, then at Amos. "Calefacio Maxima!"
Two quick, silent bursts of faintly visible, golden magic shot out from his wand tip, washing over the two boys. Both Frank and Amos let out a simultaneous, relieved "Aahhh…" The flush on their faces deepened with newfound warmth.
"Merlin, that's better," Frank said, wiggling his numb fingers. "Seriously, Echo, you're a lifesaver. You're nice and toasty now, Amos?"
"Like a fresh biscuit," Amos confirmed, letting go of his broom with one hand to rub his palms together.
Amos then lowered his voice, his expression turning apologetic. "Look, Echo, I wanted to say… I'm really sorry I couldn't ask for your help with the team this year. After all, the hybrid team last year was a great experiment, even if it was an accidental one. But since we got that huge influx of new players, all those new international students and the extra Triwizard Champions, our hybrid team of all four Houses is back to being four separate teams again."
Echo gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Don't be sorry, Amos. It's Quidditch. It was always going to happen. You think Dumbledore would let the permanent integration of the Houses into a working collective? That would violate approximately six hundred years of House rivalry protocol. It was good fun for the tournament, but it was never going to last." He gave Amos a small, genuine smile. "And for what it's worth, I actually did have a good time." Frank and Amos chuckled, their relief at the compliment evident. They were about to fly off when Echo adjusted his scarf, his expression turning thoughtful and telling them. "Honestly, though, I should be thanking you both for inviting me out here. Today has been… surprisingly necessary."
Frank frowned, leaning slightly over his broom. "Necessary? For a Quidditch practice? Mate, it's freezing out here."
"Exactly," Echo said, taking another deep breath of the frigid air. "It's cold, it's noisy, it's ridiculously physical, and it is a perfect, mind-numbing distraction. I've been rather stressed lately, and I really needed to focus on something as gloriously simple as watching all of you chasing a tiny winged ball around a frozen field."
Amos nodded slowly, his expression softening with understanding. "The library incident, Echo? We heard Madam Pince lost her mind. That must have been rough."
Echo let out a low, weary sigh. "That, among other things, Amos. Let's just say the whole… situation has been wearing on my last remaining nerve endings." He cast a meaningful glance at the sky, then back at Amos. "Especially with the upcoming challenge, you know?"
Amos winced slightly, the understanding clear in his eyes. "Ah. Yeah. That. We get it, mate. We've been worried about you."
Frank's eyes widened as the penny finally dropped, and the full, horrifying scope of Echo's predicament—which they had all been trying to forget—slammed into his awareness. "Oh! Oh, right. You mean the… the Triwizard Tournament. And the fact that you're still technically stuck in it as the unintended fourth Champion. And you still have to participate in two more challenges, despite literally everything you have done to try and get out of it."
Echo, Amos, Shimmer, and Sniffles all collectively glared at him.
Frank could only manage a small, horrified whisper. "...Oops. I shouldn't have mentioned that, since it was the very thing you were trying to forget. My bad." leading Echo to shake his head while sighing.
Suddenly, a massive, imposing figure on a dark, heavy broom detached itself from the Durmstrang contingent high in the sky. He dove with even greater speed than the other two, his descent a terrifying, black blur that seemed to defy gravity. He leveled off just above Frank and Amos, forcing them to instinctively rise a few feet to avoid being clipped by his large, heavily muscled body. The boy was older, perhaps seventeen, with a stern, angular face, thick, dark furs wrapped around his shoulders, and an intense, unwavering gaze. He wore the deep, blood-red robes of Durmstrang, and he carried his Bludger bat with an air of lethal competence. He looked down at Echo, the dark, neutral wisps of hair poking from beneath the hat, the voluminous purple-and-gold scarf, and the hot chocolate stain. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his lips.
"Well, look at this," the older boy said, his voice a low, thick baritone that carried a distinct, guttural Eastern European accent. "The small marshmallow comes out for air."
Frank and Amos instantly bristled. Frankopenedn his mouth to protest the insult, but the Durmstrang boy ignored them, his eyes locked on Echo.
"You," he continued, his tone shifting from mockery to a cold curiosity. "Are you the same boy from last year? The little Slytherin—the one who had something to do with that Griffin when Hogwarts and Durmstrang teams faced off against one another?"
Echo, utterly unfazed by the boy's size, proximity, or casual insult, simply shrugged. He took off one of his thick woolen gloves and tapped his cheek with a fingertip.
"I am," Echo confirmed, his voice flat. He looked up at the boy, who towered over him. "And for the record, the name is Echo. You've had your chance to insult me; now, why do you want to know?"
The Durmstrang boy smiled, a slow, predatory expression that didn't reach his intense eyes. "It is a face I do not forget. And more important than your face, I remember your… mascot." He gestured with his chin toward the field.
"You are the boy who summoned the enormous griffin, yes? The one who flew around, cheering like a spectacle?"
"The very same," Echo admitted, a faint, curious flicker appearing in his own eyes. "The griffin is my friend. But mostly, I was begged by some git to summon him to rally. The team wasn't my idea."
"Good," the Durmstrang boy said, his smile widening with genuine eagerness. He tightened his grip on the Bludger bat. "Then I would like to face you. You and your Griffin. In a round of Quidditch."
Echo paused, looking from the massive boy to the swirling chaos of the practice match, and then back to the boy's eager, challenging eyes. He let out a weary sigh.
"Fine," Echo agreed easily, shrugging his shoulders under the thick robes. "Since this is only practice, I'm fine with it. But you'll have to run it past Madam Hooch. She has a strict 'no gargantuan magical beasts on the pitch after 5 PM' policy, and she's quite strict about her scheduling."
The moment Echo mentioned Madam Hooch, a voice like a foghorn suddenly boomed directly behind him, causing him to jump a foot in the air and nearly drop his mug a second time.
"Not after five, Mister Echo? Is that what you said?"
Echo spun around, his heart pounding in his chest. His hat, knocked askew, finally revealed his hair, which snapped instantly to a vibrant, shocked orange before settling back to an annoyed gray. Madam Hooch, the formidable Hogwarts flight instructor, stood directly behind his padded chair, her hands planted on her hips, her stern gaze fixed on the Durmstrang boy. She had arrived with the silence of a hunting owl.
"Madam Hooch!" Frank and Amos cried in unison, hovering respectfully higher.
Hooch didn't look away from the towering Durmstrang Champion. "Normally, the answer is no, Mr…"
"Gungnir," the boy supplied, his smirk broadening at the sight of Echo's discomfort.
"Mr. Gungnir. Normally, the answer is no, as Mr. Echo correctly stated. However," Hooch continued, turning her sharp, yellow eyes to Echo, "I am feeling particularly charitable. And I recall the delightful chaos your creature created last year, Echo. It was, to say the least, memorable. And because of your aid in practice, we were able to break our tie with Durmstrange finally." She gave a brief, terrifying smile. "Very well. I will allow one round. A simple, five-minute pursuit and evasion, no Bludgers, no scoring. But only on the condition that your griffin, whose name I believe is Godric..."
"Gorick, Madam," Echo corrected, pushing his hat back down.
"...Gorick," she conceded with a sharp nod. "Only on the condition that Gorick behaves and has been properly fed. We don't need him trying to snack on any of my students mid-air."
Echo, finally recovering from his shock, bowed his head slightly. The gray in his hair had now turned to a calm, professional blue. "That is no problem, Madam. I already know Gorick hunted a few days ago. He's more likely to demand an apology for the cold than he is to ask for a snack."
Madam Hooch gave a final, authoritative nod. "Then let's make this quick. Gungnir, get on with it!"
The Durmstrang boy—Gungnir—wasted no time. He let out a short, triumphant laugh, tightened his grip on his heavy broom, and soared straight up into the air, easily outclimbing the two Hogwarts boys. Frank and Amos immediately followed him, ascending to get a better view of the imminent spectacle. Gungnir reached a comfortable altitude, then looked back down toward the spectator stands where Echo had been sitting.
But Echo wasn't there. The hot chocolate mug and the two miniature familiars sat alone in the chair. Gungnir scowled, his head whipping from the empty seat to the ground. He looked up at Frank and Amos, who were hovering nearby, equally perplexed.
"Where is he?" Gungnir called down, his voice carrying clearly on the wind. "The marshmallow boy. Where did he go?"
Frank and Amos looked at each other, shrugging their shoulders in confusion. "He was just there!" Frank shouted back. "He didn't fly off!"
Before either of them could offer an explanation, a voice, calm and utterly out of place, called up from one of the massive, stone pillars that ringed the Quidditch pitch.
"Looking for me?"
Gungnir, Frank, and Amos all snapped their heads toward the sound. Echo was perched casually on the narrow, frost-covered coping of the nearest pillar, perhaps fifty feet off the ground. He was standing upright, his hands tucked into his robes, looking entirely unconcerned with the perilous height or the biting wind.
Gungnir stared, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his stern face. "What in the devil's ice are you doing up there? And how did you get up there so fast?"
Echo only smiled—a wide, arrogant, theatrical grin. "Personal speed secret. You wouldn't understand."
Before Gungnir could press the matter, Echo leaned forward and, with a final, contemptuous shrug, pushed himself off the edge of the pillar. He fell. The three boys on brooms gasped in unison as the thickly bundled body plummeted toward the frozen ground. Echo fell for a heart-stopping second, his body accelerating in a silent rush. Then, with a powerful, focused flick of his wrist, Echo leveled his wand at the snow below, his hair snapping to a deep, resonant emerald green. He did not call out a spell. Instead, he channeled the full force of his Beast Magic—his connection to the wild, primal world—downward.
A low, grinding roar shook the pitch. With a silent, blinding CRACK of displacement, the massive, scaled shape of a griffin materialized instantly through apparition directly below the falling boy. The creature, immense and regal, caught Echo gently mid-air on the thick, smooth hide of its back as easily as a pillow catching a dropped feather. Gorick the griffin, his immense, golden-feathered wings already outstretched, let out a piercing, challenging cry that dwarfed the earlier shriek of the wind. With two powerful, effortless beats of his colossal wings, the magnificent beast soared upward, carrying his master with him, meeting Gungnir's startled, heavy form high in the cold, clear air. Echo stood tall on the griffin's back, his footing unnervingly steady. He pulled off his hat, allowing the emerald green of his hair to blaze freely in the sunlight, a perfect, vibrant contrast to the griffin's golden feathers and the blue of the sky. He leaned down, his voice carrying over the wind with a triumphant smirk.
"This is what you were looking for, Gungnir?"
Gungnir, momentarily stunned by the display of untamed power and sheer audacity, quickly regained his composure. His dark eyes burned with intense excitement, and the predatory smile returned, this time genuine. He lowered his Bludger bat in a silent salute.
"Exactly," Gungnir shouted back, his voice a throaty roar of anticipation. "This is exactly what I wanted!"
Madam Hooch, mounted on a heavy, well-maintained Comet 290, rose a few feet into the air, hovering with an air of crisp, military authority. She held her whistle between her lips, her yellow eyes darting between the enormous, circling griffin and the massive Durmstrang Champion.
"Alright, you two!" Hooch's voice cracked like a whip. "Five minutes, non-contact, no Bludgers. I want evasion, I want pursuit, and I want no damage to the pitch or my students! If either of you so much as breathes fire on an opponent, you will be scrubbing chamber pots with a toothbrush for the rest of the term, understood?"
Gorick, the griffin, let out a soft, contemptuous chirp—a sound that only Echo could hear, but which clearly conveyed his opinion of being subjected to "no damage" rules.
"Yes, Madam," Echo called out, his voice clear and sharp, the emerald in his hair blazing with excitement.
"Da, Madam," Gungnir replied, his voice a low, focused growl, his eyes fixed on the griffin's powerful wingspan.
Hooch lowered her gaze slightly, her expression taking on a calculating intensity. "Now, this being an unsanctioned round of Quidditch, we must have a point of culmination. The Snitch is currently hidden on the field. Should either of you, by any means, locate and secure the Golden Snitch within the five minutes, the round is immediately over, and you are declared the winner. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Echo confirmed, bracing himself on Gorick's back.
"Agreed," Gungnir echoed, a fierce, hungry look in his eyes.
Echo settled himself firmly onto the thick feathers and coarse hide of the griffin's back, wrapping one hand into the thick fur at the base of Gorick's neck. The majestic creature shifted beneath him, sensing the imminent challenge, its massive talons flexing in anticipation. Hooch placed her whistle to her lips and blew a short, sharp blast that cut through the cold air.
PHEEP!
The sound was the only signal Gungnir needed. He shot off his starting line, his heavy broom accelerating with astonishing speed, angling immediately into a steep, climbing spiral. He was a master flyer, his body moving in perfect synchronization with his broom, his goal clearly to gain the altitude advantage and force the griffin to play his game.
Echo reacted instantly. "Go, boy! Show the broom-rider what flight truly is!"
Gorick needed no more instruction. The griffin roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and launched himself skyward. Unlike the mechanical speed of Gungnir's broom, Gorick's ascent was a stunning display of natural power. His colossal wings beat once, twice, and in a terrifying burst of acceleration, the griffin was not only matching Gungnir's altitude but surpassing it. The Griffins' enormous size, a hindrance on the pitch, was a terrifying advantage in the open air.
"Too slow, Gungnir!" Echo shouted, leaning into the wind.
Gorick tilted his massive body, the change in direction effortless, and dove directly toward the rapidly climbing Durmstrang Champion. Gungnir, forced to evade, pulled his broom into a sharp, dizzying roll, narrowly avoiding the sheer force of the griffin's powerful shoulder. Echo, standing upright on the griffin's back, kept his stance, his body swaying gracefully to the creature's movements. Gungnir, realizing he couldn't outclimb or outrun the creature, executed a textbook Wronski Feint, dropping his broom in a free-fall that ended in a hard, horizontal dash across the length of the pitch. He flew low, weaving dangerously through the hovering Hogwarts and visiting teams still conducting their drills.
"Gorick, low and fast!" Echo commanded.
The griffin compressed his massive form, tucking his wings in, and followed. The sight of the gigantic, golden beast carving a path through the Quidditch players was terrifying. Chasers and Beaters scattered wildly, their shouts lost in the wind. The griffin matched Gungnir's speed, the difference being Gorick's ability to turn on a dime. The broom required a wide, sweeping arc to change direction; the griffin could pivot in a terrifying, near-instantaneous movement. Gungnir, flying with incredible skill, suddenly feinted right, then snapped his broom left, passing so close to the metal hoops that Echo could have reached out and touched the post. The move was designed to force the Griffin into a dangerous collision.
But Gorick didn't collide. He simply let out a sharp cry and beat his wings with immense force, pulling air beneath his body. The sudden, violent displacement of air created a powerful downdraft—a localized windstorm—that slammed into Gungnir. The Durmstrang boy was rocked violently on his broom, forced to fight for control.
"Evasive, Gungnir, not aggressive!" Echo shouted, an arrogant grin splitting his face.
Gungnir recovered quickly, a fierce scowl replacing his earlier excitement. He realized he was not fighting a boy or a broom; he was fighting a living, sentient weapon. He pulled up sharply, flying directly into the low winter sun, forcing Echo to squint. Then, capitalizing on the temporary blindness, Gungnir dove into a complex pattern of dives and spins designed to confuse the griffin's targeting. Gorick, however, did not need sight. His keen predator senses were already tracking the boy. He cut straight through Gungnir's weaving pattern, flying a simple, perfect, intercepting curve.
"Echo, Snitch!" Frank Longbottom screamed from high above, pointing a gloved finger.
A tiny, gold blur, the Snitch, shot out from under the northern hoop, moving in a terrified, erratic flight path directly toward the stadium. It was flying low, desperately seeking an exit, and its trajectory was a perfect, accidental collision course with Gungnir. Gungnir saw it. His eyes, fixed on the prize, flared with adrenaline. He abandoned his complex evasion and kicked his broom into a desperate, final surge of speed, angling his body into a perfect, low-to-the-ground pursuit of the tiny golden ball. He was gaining fast; the Snitch was right there, inches from his outstretched hand. Echo saw the desperation and the opportunity. He did not chase the Snitch. He did not chase Gungnir. He simply commanded his beast.
"Gorick, now!"
The griffin folded his wings completely, becoming a massive, golden cannonball. He did not dive to catch the Snitch; he dropped straight down, moving at terminal velocity, his aim set on the airspace just behind Gungnir. The massive rush of air and the sheer volume of the descending Griffin's body created an immense vacuum. The air pressure immediately behind Gungnir's outstretched hand dropped violently. The Snitch, buffeted by the sudden, localized gale, was pulled backward by the resulting vortex. It shot past Gungnir's ear, reversed direction, and flew straight up, directly into the massive, open maw of the descending griffin.
Gorick snapped his beak shut with a soft, final clink. The griffin instantly flared his wings, arresting his terrifying descent and landing in the middle of the Quidditch pitch with a muffled thud.
The whistle blew. PHEEP!
The five minutes were not quite up, but the game was over. Gorick simply opened his beak, allowed the slightly slobbery Golden Snitch to drop into Echo's waiting palm, and then looked expectantly toward the crowd for applause, despite no one being there apart from Sniffles and Shimmer. Echo slipped the Snitch into his pocket and slid gracefully off the griffin's back, landing lightly on the snow-dusted ground. The emerald in his hair was a dazzling, triumphant light. Gungnir, his hand still outstretched from his failed dive, circled slowly before landing his heavy broom a few yards away. He dismounted, his face a perfect mask of cold fury and bitter disappointment. His breathing was heavy, and his dark eyes were narrowed into slits as he approached Echo. The Durmstrang boy walked with slow, deliberate steps, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He stopped directly in front of Echo, his massive frame towering over the slightly built boy.
Gorick, sensing the raw, aggressive energy of the defeated flyer, let out a low, challenging growl—a sound that was pure, visceral warning. The griffin lowered his head, his immense, razor-sharp beak ready to strike at the first sign of hostile intent. Echo remained perfectly still, his hands tucked nonchalantly into his robes, the triumphant emerald in his hair softening slightly to a cold, watchful blue. He looked up at the enraged Durmstrang boy.
"Well, Gungnir," Echo asked calmly, his voice completely devoid of gloating. "Was that… everything you were expecting and wanting?"
Gungnir stared at Echo, then at the griffin's deadly beak hovering near him, and finally back at Echo's cold, watchful eyes. For a long, tense moment, the air was thick with the promise of violence. Then, slowly, a crack appeared in Gungnir's stony expression. The narrow scowl began to dissolve, replaced by a look of bewildered, almost childish joy. He threw his head back and let out a huge, thunderous laugh that echoed around the silent Quidditch pitch.
"Expected?" Gungnir roared, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming mirth. "No! I expected a fight! I expected arrogance! I expected to teach the small boy a lesson!"
He lunged forward—not with malice, but with a sudden, immense burst of fraternal affection—and swept Echo up into a crushing, bear-like hug.
"But that!" Gungnir shouted into Echo's ear, squeezing him tightly against the thick fur of his robes. "That was glorious! It was a beautiful thing! You are insane, little Echo! But that was the best thing I have ever done! Thank you!"
Echo, slightly winded, let out a surprised, muffled oof into Gungnir's shoulder, his watchful blue hair dissolving into an utterly flustered, confused pink.
..."It is a beautiful thing! You are insane, little Echo! But that was the best thing I have ever done! Thank you!"
Echo, slightly winded, let out a surprised, muffled oof into Gungnir's shoulder, his watchful blue hair dissolving into an utterly flustered, confused pink. Gungnir's arms, thick with muscle under the heavy Durmstrang furs, wrapped around Echo in a powerful, crushing grip. Echo was pressed tightly against Gungnir's massive chest, his head buried in the coarse fur. He felt utterly overwhelmed, not by threat, but by the sheer, unexpected force of non-malicious physical contact. His arms were pinned uselessly between them, and he struggled to find leverage to push away. The flustered pink of his hair pulsed with a mixture of annoyance and an unfamiliar, disconcerting sensation that he absolutely refused to name.
"G-Gungnir!" Echo gasped, his voice tight and muffled against the thick fabric. "Release! Immediate release! That is an order! Please, I insist that you let me go! I am a friend, not a sodding communal heat source!"
Gungnir only laughed harder, the sound a deep, chest-rattling rumble that vibrated through Echo's body. "You are a legend, little Echo! I will tell everyone back at Durmstrang about the griffin and the small, mad boy who beat the great Gungnir without a broom! You are wonderful!"
Echo frantically wiggled and squirmed in the grip, his struggle utterly ineffectual. He was starting to panic, but it was a panic of mortification and sensory overload, not fear.
"Stop, stop pressing my face into your chest, you overgrown beast!" Echo demanded, his voice bordering on a high-pitched whine. "It is entirely too much! This is making me feel that weird, squishy feeling! The one I still haven't cataloged! Let go of me right now, or I swear I will summon a chubacrabra into your trousers!"
Gungnir finally loosened his grip enough for Echo to twist free, setting him down in the snow with a final, booming clap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling. Echo immediately stumbled back three steps, leaning heavily on Gorick's massive talons for balance. He smoothed down his wrinkled, hot-chocolate-stained robes, his face pale with exertion, and the flustered pink in his hair faded back to a cold, severe gray. He glared up at Gungnir, whose face was still split by an expression of pure, uncomplicated admiration.
"Never," Echo managed, straightening his collar with a trembling hand, "never do that again. That was horrifyingly… pleasant? You smell of pine sap and misplaced aggression."
Gungnir merely grinned, completely undeterred. "You are very strong, Echo. And very fast! You are a good sport! And I accept your promise of a chubacrabra in my trousers with the honor that is due a worthy opponent!" He then clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and loud. "Now! Are you free for dinner? I would buy you a meat pie!"
Echo just stared, his weary gray hair now tinged with a faint, utterly bewildered violet. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He settled for an exasperated sigh, which puffed into a huge cloud in the cold air. Frank and Amos, who had landed their brooms nearby and watched the entire exchange with a mixture of amazement and suppressed laughter, finally broke the silence.
"Welcome back to the real world, Echo," Frank called out cheerfully, dismounting his broom. "That was… an Alpha-level hug. You survived!"
Amos walked over and offered Echo a small, sympathetic smile. "Gungnir has no concept of personal space, mate. He's a good guy, but he's basically an overly enthusiastic, six-foot-six Golden Retriever. You'll get used to it."
"I will not get used to it!" Echo snapped, rubbing his shoulder where Gungnir had squeezed him. "I will get the entire Durmstrang contingent deported. I need a nap, a glass of water, and probably three hours of solitary confinement to mentally recover from that ordeal."
Gungnir, oblivious, just waved his massive hand. "We will speak soon, Echo! I will find you! And next time, bring more friends!" He then remounted his heavy broom, gave a final, hearty salute, and shot back up into the sky to join his contingent, leaving a stunned, twitching Echo behind.
The moment Gungnir was gone, a flurry of motion erupted from the spectator stands. Shimmer, the demiguise, zipped down from the high perch with astonishing speed, its fleece jacket blurring, and landed silently on Echo's shoulder. Sniffles, the Niffler, waddled down the stands with less grace but equal urgency, his tiny yellow mittens flashing as he clambered up Echo's blood-stained robes and nestled into the crook of his neck. Echo was still frozen in place, his face buried in his hands, the flustered pink of his hair—which had only briefly subsided to gray—snapping back to a deep, mortified crimson that pulsed visibly beneath his fingertips. He leaned heavily against the warm hide of his griffin.
"I—I need to be alone for a decade," Echo mumbled into his palms, his voice thick with a confusing blend of shock and an emotion he refused to process. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I hope Gungnir's other friends aren't also over six feet tall masses of muscle and testosterone… or maybe I do wish that? I still don't understand what I'm feeling!"
The deep crimson in his hair pulsed again, shifting momentarily to a baffled, brilliant lavender before settling back on the enraged, embarrassed pink. Sniffles chittered worriedly against his ear, mistaking the flush for fever. Shimmer patted his cheek with a gentle, fleece-covered paw.
Frank and Amos, who had been leaning on their brooms nearby, stiffened. They looked at each other, their eyes wide. James, who had landed his broom and walked over to them, stood there in stunned silence as well. Frank leaned in, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper, casting a quick glance at Echo's still-covered face.
"Did you hear that?" Frank mouthed at Amos, his brow furrowed in astonishment. "He… he doesn't know what he's feeling."
Amos nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting a profound, almost paternal pity. "I heard. He actually has no clue, does he? Poor, genius sod."
"Should we tell him?" Frank asked, lowering his voice further still. "Like, explain the basics? Maybe give him a pamphlet on confusing but ultimately normal adolescent attraction? Considering he's probably only ever had feelings of murderous rage, academic interest, over enthusiastic joy, dangerous curiosity, lack of self-preservation, or whatever Echo style emotions he has, this is probably a medical emergency for him."
Amos shook his head, a slight, knowing smile touching his lips. "No. Let him figure it out, mate. This is going to be far more entertaining to watch. Besides," Amos glanced at the still-blushing Echo, then gave Frank a knowing look. "Who are we to deprive Echo of the glorious agony of self-discovery? It's only fair."
Frank considered this for a moment, then nodded in agreement, a slow, predatory grin mirroring Amos's. "You're right. We should just… observe the magical signature."
James, who had been watching the exchange, merely shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. He cast a quick Scourgify on the bloodstains on Echo's robes—though not the chocolate—and walked over to his bewildered friend.
"Come on, Echo," James said gently, resting a hand on the griffin's warm neck. "Let's get you out of the cold before you spontaneously combust from sheer, uncataloged emotion."