Snow lay like a white hush over the drive to Hogwarts.
Alisa walked up the long avenue under the owls' quiet stars, her coat drawn tight, breath puffing small, regular clouds. She did not hurry. There was no point in hurrying when every step felt measured by the pressure coiling in her ribs.
The castle rose ahead—stone, battlements, windows like watchful eyes. It had the look of a thing that had learned patience.
Thankfully, she did not need to announce herself at the school's gates.
The magic of the place could recognise much more than a name; it recognised intent and need.
Hogwarts was that good…
A gargoyle at the foot of the path turned its stone face as she passed, and from one of the shutters above, a single candle guttered and steadied as if acknowledging her presence.
Students laughed in the distance, voices muffled by wind and wall; the sound made a strange ache in her chest, a sound she had not heard in so long that when she did, it felt unbearably dangerous.
She reached the tower with the help of a few portraits.
The last portrait she passed—a woman in a tartan shawl with a sharp mouth—lifted an eyebrow as she moved by and, without malice, closed her eyes again as though the sight of Alisa was an interruption the portrait would politely forget.
Up the stairs, then a corridor lined with books and instruments that hummed faintly with preserved enchantments.
Minerva McGonagall's office smelled of old paper and heated metal—a smell Alisa had expected and for which she was suddenly grateful, because it was familiar.
She could use familiar right about now.
The door opened before she reached it.
Did the portraits tell her that I'm coming?
She guessed that made sense.
Professor McGonagall stood as Alisa entered.
The tartan that had livened the portrait was real now, wrapped about the older woman with the same uncompromising posture.
Her eyes were the colour of flint and, for a moment, there was the smallest flicker—curiosity, assessment—before she closed the distance between them with the quiet authority of someone who had seen curses, cruelty, and bravery in equal measure.
"You must be Alisa Novikova," McGonagall said.
She has a nice voice.
"Or so the portraits said. Tell me, why are you here, Alisa Novikova—if that's even your real name."
Alisa inclined her head. She kept her hands folded where McGonagall could see them—"It is, ma'm. I… need help, and I don't know where else to go."
The older witch looked at her face—at the pale skin, the tired line around the eyes that did not belong to seventeen—and then, briefly, at the way Alisa's shoulders held themselves as though against a constant tide. She did not ask the question Alisa most feared.
"You are cold," McGonagall observed instead, and waved a hand. A small flare of warmth rose in the room and settled about Alisa without fanfare.
Alisa was touched but forced a dry laugh she did not feel.
"I walked," she said. "From the Highlands."
McGonagall did not press for any background information. Instead, she gestured towards a chair by the window. "Sit. Tell me what you will."
Alisa sat.
There's no way she's that gracious, she thought, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For a moment, she watched the professor watching the sky, as if the woman expected stars to give counsel. She had rehearsed what she would say on the road. Rehearsal, she now realised, wasn't the same as actually doing something. The truth didn't want to escape her throat.
"I am—I have—" she began, and stopped. "A curse... I was cursed. I fought—"
She swallowed, stopping again.
Oh god. I totally show a different image from the one I planned to…
It was not the words that were hard so much as choosing which ones to leave clipped. "I fought a demon in Russia. I think one of its soldiers struck me with a binding. It has changed something in me."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow.
A demon that was high enough in the ladder of hell to have underlings, wasn't to be trifled with.
Alisa's voice stayed steady; it required all her will to keep it so.
She did not volunteer the detail she feared would end the conversation before it began.
"It's a physical disfigurement," she added, because hiding the problem entirely was probably not a smart thing to do…
I can't deceive her… She's the only one who might be able to help me.
She wasn't going mention the dick... And definitely not show it!
McGonagall's face did not shift, and Alisa wanted to squirm.
What is she thinking?
The chair made a small scraping sound as she sat and folded her hands. "You are not the first to find infernal magic grafted to humanity," she said. "But you are, if the reports are correct, the first I have seen who is capable of precise wandless work of the kind you demonstrated in London."
What the hell? How does she know about that?
When had the story reached the Ministry? When had her anonymity become a headline? Alisa said nothing.
How had the professor connected the dots? It wasn't possible…
McGonagall's hands were folded, fingers steepled. "I must be plain, Miss Novikova. I may be able to help you someday. I have worked on structures similar to what you describe. I have a theory regarding disruptions in the soul-thread when infernal runes are anchored improperly. It is… nearly within my grasp."
Alisa let out a breath she had not known she was holding.
Nearly?!?
She had wanted certainty, something strong enough to pry the damned thing off her.
Damn Asmodeus and damn everyone else.
Nearly sounded like a distance measured in aeons.
"And yet," McGonagall continued, stopping Alisa's thoughts, "I cannot claim now that I can remove it. There are practicalities, experiments that must be run with caution, and ingredients and—" She stopped herself, the sentence cutting into neat silence. "I am not willing to attempt anything in ignorance. You understand."
Alisa did.
She sighed and nodded.
"I most certainly understand."
They both sat in the small quiet that follows a confession.
"What I can offer," McGonagall said, breaking the silence, and her voice tightened into something like decision, "is sanctuary. You will be safe here. You will have access to the Transfiguration stacks, to restricted tomes, and we will pursue your case properly."
Well, at least she got something from the whole ordeal…
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