The Forest and its Beasts
It was a Friday evening at Hogwarts in her fourth year when Addison decided she was going to be a potioneer.
It wasn’t sudden by any means. It wasn’t an epiphany. No, it was a gradual feeling, one that grew as time passed. She showed up to Potions with Professor Snape one afternoon, and she just realized this was what she was meant to be doing.
“Your potion is . . . acceptable ,” he had told her upon examination, which everyone knew was as close as he got to complimenting a student’s work.
Of course, she still loved what she did. She just didn’t ever expect she’d be foraging in a forest on the anniversary of a war’s end that brought upon an onslaught of Darkness when it should have brought the Light.
She was here for fluxweed, she reminded herself, gripping her foraging knife tighter. See, a wand was too imprecise for gathering roots of this sort. It required a sharp blade.
Addison walked, or rather she trudged towards the bright roots. She had to be careful not to crush them while she reaped the delicate plant.
She leaned down, brought her knife close to the root and sliced. She repeated the process until she had enough to fill her transfigured basket and beads of sweat formed on her forehead.
And then she heard it.
A low groaning sound—a familiar sound that shouldn't have been familiar.
Addison turned slowly on her heel, and all sound caught in her throat. She was a potioneer who knew about the Plague. She should have been smarter. She was a woman alone in the forest. She grasped the hilt of her knife reflexively.
Because some hundred feet away from her, a man stood. Except he wasn’t all man, not anymore. He was blood and gore and saliva. Red stained grass and dirt behind him. He leaked fluid. He growled .
“Please,” she gasped suddenly, except she didn’t know what she was begging for. He couldn’t understand her anyway.
He lunged.
Survive. I have to survive.
Addison rolled to her side just as he knocked into her. She didn’t think he’d be so fast. This would have to go into the folder if she—when she got out of this alive.
His fingers pressed against her arm, broken nails sinking into the fabric of her top. The smell of blood was pungent. Rotten flesh crept into her nose.
For a moment, a quick split second, she froze.
And then instincts kicked in. Her knife slipped from between her fingers. Addison grabbed her wand from her pocket. She tried to aim it at him, but all she could do was jab it in his general direction and hope for the best.
“Stu—pefy.”
She was too quiet, the word got stuck in her throat. It wasn’t even a miscast. It was a non-cast. But then he wrapped his fist over her wand, and the spell flew from her lips before she could process it.
“Stupefy. ”
He went flying backwards. He almost took her with him. His back hit the tree with a resounding crunch, and his form crumpled. She held with bated breath as his legs twitched, but he didn’t try to get up.
She tried to get up, but she was shaking so bad she thought it might be the earth opening up to try and swallow her whole. It was fuzzy. There was static. She could hear the blood rushing to her ears. Is this what it felt like to best Death?
No, Addison would have laughed if she was capable. She knew what it felt like to best Death. She’d bested Death six years ago. She was there. She saw Death walk the grounds of Hogwarts and collect soul after soul. She saw Death turn away from cries she would never erase from her memory. She heard Death sigh—impatient and turn away from her.
“I didn’t— ” he hiccupped, sputtering over his own blood. It was getting everywhere. It was spilling out of her, and she thought she saw bone, but she didn't care. “I didn’t think it would be . . . like this.”
“I know. But you’ll be okay. You’re going to be okay.” Her fingers found his. They were cold, and he was turning pale. He looked so small that night. He was small. “Stay with me, Colin. Can you hear me? Stay with me. Please.”
“I just wanted to be brave.”
“You are brave, Colin. They’ll talk about you in the history books you know. You’ll be right up there next to Harry,” she said weakly, wiping her tears away. She didn’t care about the blood stains in her face or the ache in her side or her fractured ankle. She couldn’t care less that she might be shot at from behind. She ignored the explosions in the background. She tuned out the screams.
She buried Colin Creevey that night. She buried him because she couldn’t save him. She couldn’t.
A dark figure loomed over her, but she couldn’t speak. See, her words were stuck behind her tongue, and her mouth had dried. She couldn’t even bring her lips together. Her fingers twitched. Was this the end?
Addison could feel her chest rise and fall, but she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were inflating, but there was no air. There was no her.
She couldn’t make out his features. She wondered if Colin had come back to haunt her. She wondered if he was here to have her take his place.
When the world finally grew dizzy and dark, she let him.
“Colin Creevey—beloved brother and aspiring photographer.” Addison read aloud the headstone’s inscription to herself.
It was a month following the War, and the world was beginning to regroup. Their dead had been buried, and others recovered.
There were a plethora of flowers at Colin’s grave already, but she crouched down to add hers. Bright tulips and saturated sunflowers framed the picture of his face sitting in the dirt.
“It’s a nice picture. I forgot he looked so young.”
Addison didn’t need to turn around to know Harry Potter was standing behind her. He was a frequent visitor, nearly as often as she did. They’d become acquainted.
“They were all young, Harry.”
He joined her, sat on the grass not caring that he was in a suit. “He’s always wanted an autograph, you know. I got used to the flashes of his camera eventually.”
“Are you . . . boasting right now?”
He laughed a little, shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I meant, Addison.”
“Addie. Friends call me Addie,” she corrected. “Considering we see each other practically every week.”
“Right,” Harry nodded. “Addie. Well, I’ve never really given out autographs. I found them narcissistic. I didn’t actually do anything, you know. But he used to bug me for one all the time. In the Common Room. Between classes. He caught me in the loo once. But the point is,” he reached forward, taking the frame carrying Colin’s picture gently. He procured a new Sharpie and signed his name against the glass. “I should have given him one when I had the chance.”
“I’d like to think he’d be happy about this.” Addison helped him put the frame back, wincing when she over-extended herself. Her leg was healing slowly. There’d be a scar running up her side for life.
“You’re hurt,” Harry said.
“I’m fine.”
“No, Addie—”
“—You’re hurt.”
All at once she was pulled back into the real world. Addison flinched as light flooded her vision with dancing white dots and blurred her sight. She tried to cover her eyes with her arm, but a sharp ache shot up her leg.
Someone was speaking to her. “Stop moving. You're going to injure yourself, more than you already have.”
Addison froze before a single rational thought struck her—the Plagued couldn’t speak; in all the research they’ve done, there have only been recounts of mumbled groaning. Her tensed shoulders relaxed, but her fists, still clenched, shook. Where was she?
“You’re safe,” he answered, reading the question before she even asked. “So stop moving. I need to set your bones.”
She felt pressure on her ankle—the man had placed a hand against the skin. His fingertips were rough, calloused, but his grip was gentle. He mumbled something under his breath she couldn’t hear. She assumed it was an incantation, but she didn’t have time to ponder it. Her ankle popped back into place with searing pain accompanied by a loud crack. She thought she might have shouted.
But the pain had been clarifying, and Addison blinked away the white dots until blurred lines became the rigid features of his familiar face held in a perpetual frown and unassuming shapes focused into his signature platinum blond locks, longer than she last remembered. He was taller and filled out his clothes better. He’d aged, but she supposed so had she.
“Hello, Draco.”