LOCATION: Demetrius' office & around the school
TIME: Most of Saturday
WHAT: A narrative; Pandora is less than happy to find herself stuck with That Man
Pandora is not happy.
Of course, there’s nothing particularly unusual or even that surprising about this, but while for the most part it’s a quiet, seething thing, she can feel it rising now, choking. She’s trapped, trapped in this infernal school with that infernal man, charged to protect these infernal children that she couldn’t care less about. The twist of her mouth deepens as she clenches her fists once, slowly, before attempting to relax.
It doesn’t work; this is both expected and not particularly a problem. Magic feeds off energy and negative energy, as Pandora well knows, works just as well as the opposite. Better, in some cases.
“You required my presence,” she says tightly, keeping her eyes hard on him, as much as it makes her stomach turn to do. She doesn’t trust this man at her back – or anywhere else, for that matter.
He’s speaking into his journal, nodding seriously. Of course he doesn’t have the time to address her yet. People seldom do, and to her mind, he is the worst of people.
“Chairman,” she snaps. “Though I find it difficult to believe you might have missed your own memo, we have something of a situation on our hands.”
He looks at her then, startled, and the same looked flashes across his face that always does when he sees her. Guilt, or so he would have her believe. “My apologies, Pandora,” and the fact that he does sound apologetic means nothing to her. “I was speaking to Astraea. We are, apparently, occupying another dimension. She knows of a ritual to return us to our reality but—”
“I am not an idiot, Chairman.” She holds up her journal, not in the least bit concerned that she just cut him off. “She needs for you to find how much of Hogwarts has been taken from reality. It is a simple enough task, I fail to see why you need my assistance.” She would far rather barricade herself up in her office until the debacle had passed; out in the open, fighting like this, she runs a far greater risk of injuring one of the necromancers. While she personally doesn’t give a damn about any of them – would quite happily see them all rot like the horde they are commanding, in fact – she knows well where her father’s sympathies lie, and cannot run this risk of his withdrawing support from her endeavour here at Hogwarts.
The man closes his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself against her presence, before opening them again, determined. “I need your help as back up, Pandora. If we’re to get these children home, we can’t run the risk of anything going wrong.” A pause. “Well. That is to say, more wrong than it already has.”
Pandora is not paying attention to the man’s attempts at wit, however. The word back up flashes red in her mind. As if she’s some sort of – add on, some disposable thing that is only useful to aid him, to help protect him. Him, of all people! She can feel the blood draining from her face, going white with rage as she struggles to contain her anger and ultimately, fails. Without saying a word, she levels her wand at the door she just walks through; it slams open and he starts again before sighing and inclining his head.
His blatant condescension only heightens her anger and she refuses to take her eyes off him as he steps through the door. Only once he’s gone does she follow (behind, as always, but she refuses to have him at her back), alert for any possible attack.
This so-called ‘mission’ of theirs requires them to go right to the very edge of the grounds, which means finding at times creative means of working their way around the horde. Pandora channels all that anger, that rage, that helplessness of being trapped and unable to do anything into her attacks. Sectumsempra, fire curses, spells that walk the fine line of dark magic and complicated incantations that only she has had the patience to painstakingly pull from the ancient texts at Swinehearts flow from the end of her wand with ease as she splits her attention between her enemy and the horde – one eye on the Chairman, the other on the multitudes of Inferi.
It would be so easy, she thinks, as the heads of the undead roll. So easy to take her revenge here – to slip up, to let one of the giant mutate Inferi smash him into the ground, to accidentally miscast a slashing spell. So easy to take from him what he took from her so many years ago. So easy.
There’s a flash out of the corner of her eye and she whirls around, fire hex tumbling from her lips before she even has time to think. There’s a muffled curse from the same direction and a quick countercurse, the earth beneath them splitting open to swallow her flames, greedily.
Demetrius Perrin stares at her. She stares back.
“My apologies,” she says flatly. “I thought you were an Inferius. If we might continue?”