Though they knew they were two against one, and though the rest of the Gryffindor team was nearby, a collective shiver ran down Prian and Filoya's spines the moment Amossta's harrowing gaze locked onto them. It was as if an adult Hungarian Horntail had unhinged its jaw before them, eyes burning with a primal hunger to consume.
"Prian..." Filoya's hand tightened around her boyfriend's wrist, her voice trembling. "Are you sure he's just a weird bookworm? Why... why does he look like that? He looks like that half-mad Hippogriff Professor Kettleburn showed us last week."
"Don't talk rot, Filoya! We're Gryffindors—the House of the Brave!" Prian barked, though his heart wasn't in it. The moment his eyes had met Amossta's, every instinct he possessed screamed at him to run. Only the weight of Filoya leaning against him kept his boots rooted to the spot.
"Hey! Watch yourself, Blaine! Don't look at us like that. You brought this on yourself, practicing Dark Arts in the middle of the night to curse some—What... what are you doing?!"
Whoosh!
The magic in the air began to riot. The scattered embers on the soil, the smoldering bark, and the sparks in the basin flew toward Amossta's wand, coiling into a sphere of solid, golden fire. It was as if a miniature sun had suddenly risen beneath the forest canopy, radiating an impossible, blinding heat.
The moisture in the freezing air vanished instantly. A nearby pine tree began to spontaneously combust from the sheer thermal output. Fifty feet away, the two students were drenched in sweat, feeling as though they were standing on the lip of a volcano about to erupt.
"Stop... please, Amossta... we didn't mean to..." Filoya's face was streaked with tears of pure terror. She didn't even know what she was saying; she was simply pleading with the void.
Prian raised his wand, but he knew with sickening clarity that a Shield Charm—one he struggled to cast even in a quiet classroom—wouldn't last a microsecond against the miniature star at the tip of Amossta's ebony wand.
"Get on your broom! Run!"
As Amossta's face went stone-cold and his arm began to sweep downward, Prian found a final, desperate spark of Gryffindor courage. He shoved Filoya and her Nimbus 1700 backward with all his might, let out a lung-bursting roar: "Go to Professor McGonagall! Don't look back!"
Prian would never know that it was that solitary flash of selflessness that saved his life.
Amossta's eyes, clouded with murderous intent, flickered for a fraction of a second. His wrist, normally steady as a surgeon's, dipped slightly. The solar sphere, originally destined for Prian's chest, slammed into the earth ten feet in front of the boy.
BOOM!
The impact was like a supernova's dying gasp. The sheer heat turned the frozen dirt into a glowing crater of slag instantly. The air, violently displaced by the explosion, roared outward like a pressure cooker bursting its seals. Prian's Shield Charm shattered before it could even register the threat. He didn't even have time to scream before the shockwave hurled him backward. His body snapped a young tree like a dry twig before he tumbled a dozen times through the undergrowth, coming to a halt with his back a bloody, shredded mess.
Filoya fared better, the bulk of the impact absorbed by Prian's proximity, but she was still tossed twenty feet through the air. Standing behind a shimmering, milky-white magical barrier, Amossta watched through narrowed eyes as a sobbing, hysterical Filoya scrambled onto her broom. She didn't even notice the hem of her robes was on fire as she fled toward the castle. He let her go.
The clearing was a wasteland. Even without Amossta's active direction, the magical fire continued to stubbornly gnaw at the scorched earth.
Crunch. Crunch.
Amossta walked across the blackened soil, coming to a stop beside Prian. He looked down at the boy's mangled back with a face of granite. Prian was alive—Amossta had no desire to visit Azkaban today.
"I was going to let you feel what it's like to lose a limb," Amossta said tonelessly. "To ensure you grew a brain. But your final act of bravery earned you a bit of dignity."
Amossta reached into his pouch and pulled out a vial of Essence of Dittany and several multi-colored potions of dubious origin. He mixed them with a practiced hand and poured the concoction over Prian's back. Under the guidance of a few whispered charms, the raw flesh began to crawl and knit together, sealing the worst of the wounds.
Prian's deathly pallor improved slightly, though several of his ribs remained bent at unnatural angles. Amossta left the bones alone; Madam Pomfrey could fix those in her sleep.
"I should remember this too," Amossta muttered to himself. "Thinking I'd ever be 'safe' in a school full of children."
Whirr—whirr—whirr!
Several sharp whistles cut through the forest fog. As they drew closer, the sounds fanned out, surrounding him. Five dark silhouettes emerged from the mist.
Amossta wasn't surprised. The moment he'd seen the Quidditch jerseys, he knew Prian and Filoya weren't alone. However, when the lead figure became clear, Amossta's mouth twitched involuntarily.
Charlie Weasley—Bill's younger brother, the second Weasley son, and Gryffindor's star Seeker—was hovering on his broom. Dangling beneath him by a series of thick ropes was an Acromantula the size of a small car, clearly hit by at least three Full Body-Bind Jinxes.
I didn't even know there were Acromantulas in this forest, Amossta thought. The Lions really do know how to play with fire.
As a Seeker, Charlie's eyes were razor-sharp. He saw Prian slumped at Amossta's feet immediately. Displaying a level of composure far beyond his years, Charlie didn't start shouting. He hovered high, surveying the charred crater and the smoldering slag pit three feet deep. He let out a low, shaky breath.
"Where is Filoya, Blaine?" Charlie's voice was as rugged and weathered as his face.
"Probably mixed into the dirt by now," Amossta said calmly. "You're welcome to dig around. You might find a fingernail or two if you're lucky."
"You killed Filoya?!" a Gryffindor Chaser roared, his face turning as red as his jersey. "And Prian! Look at him! What did you do to him?!"
A tide of accusations flooded the clearing. Wands were leveled at Amossta from every direction; some called for the Ministry, others for Azkaban.
Charlie Weasley, however, remained the calm center of the storm. He was the youngest, yet clearly the leader. He didn't believe for a second that Amossta had murdered Filoya—not if he wanted to stay out of a cell—but the sight of Prian's condition was undeniable.
Charlie flicked his wand, severing the ropes holding the paralyzed giant spider. He banked his broom, circling Amossta like a hawk.
"Give Prian back to us, Blaine," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. "Otherwise, things are about to get very unpleasant for you."