Chapter 47

"What about wind? Harry asked. "We need as much dust in there as possible."

"Well, there's the Gust Jinx," admitted Hermione skeptically, "but it's advanced. third-year."

"Hermione, can you cast it or not?" Harry pushed.

"Well... I've read about it," she said hesitantly. "I've never, you know, actually tried it."

"No pressure or anything," urged Ron, "but if you mess up, we'll probably all die."

Hermione's forehead wrinkled in concentration. She very carefully (and slowly) placed her feet in the fencing-like casting position used when performing complicated magic, and pictured the page in The Standard Book of Spells, Volume 3 that described the wand motions.

"Swish, flick, counter-swirl, three-quarters-twirl-clockwise, diamond-inside-a-circle, VENTUS!"

It started gradually, building up strength somewhere behind Hermione. She felt her robes stir gently, and her hair started to rustle. At first, she thought she must have botched the spell (a thought which mortified her to her core), and then it happened.

There was a rush of air that nearly knocked her from her feet, whipping her curly hair around her head. Dust from the ruined hallway was picked up from the walls, floors, the children's clothes, and from under the heavy masonry. Hermione thought Harry's plan was to fan the flames with more air, until...

o—o—o—o

The third-floor window that Milo had flown out of exploded. A blossom of red fire erupted from the remains of the frame, leaving spots in Hannah's eyes.

"That," she said, "can't be good." She drew her wand anxiously, but wasn't sure, exactly, what she should be doing with it. She was, technically, a witch... but needing magic for a potentially life-or-death situation wasn't something she thought would ever happen. In fact, needing magic for anything outside of class had simply never occurred to her. Imagine suddenly finding yourself having to calculate how long it would take a sedan accelerating at 6 m/s2 to a maximum of 80 km/h to catch up to a truck moving at 60 km/h with a forty-five-minute head start... to save the Prime Minister.

That, in a nutshell, is what Hannah felt like.

First things first, she thought, deal with the unconscious boy. What Hannah didn't know was that Milo, not simply unconscious, was, in fact, dying. Every six seconds he'd drop one hit point until hitting negative ten, when he'd buy the proverbial Outer Plane farm.

That leaves her, for those of you keeping score, fifty-four seconds to stabilize him.

Fifty-three...

Fifty-two...

"Uh, I should, uh, probably get you to the hostpital—uh, hopsital, uh. Ah. Hospital wing," she said. In another life, Hannah was a Hufflepuff. And Hufflepuffs, not that there's anything wrong with them, wonderful, wonderful people, are not typically noted (with the notable exception of the dreamy third-year Cedric Diggory) for keeping their heads in a crisis.

"Locomotor Mortis!" she cast, and Milo's legs locked together.

Forty-two...

"No, wait! Wrong spell, I'm sorry!" she stressed. It was that last bit, the Mortis part. "Locomotor Milo!" she cast, and Milo floated into the air.

Thirty-six...

"Uh, maybe I should counter that Leg-Locker Curse, now that I think about it," she said. "Finite Incantatem," she cast. Milo fell back to the ground.

Thirty...

"Oh, of course, that cancelled Locomotor as well. Locomotor Milo!" she cast again.

Twenty-four...

"Well, to the Hospital Wing it is, then!" she said, and set off. Milo drifted along behind her.

Twenty-three...

Twenty-two...

o—o—o—o

"Which one of you used the Blasting Charm?" Hermione asked, stunned, as she picked herself up from the rubble.

"What?" asked Ron.

"I said, which one of you used the Blasting Charm," she repeated loudly.

"What?" asked Ron, who had been deafened by the blast.

"Nobody here knows the Blasting Charm, Hermione," said Harry weakly. He'd been thrown halfway across the room in the explosion.

"What?"

"Then, what spell was that?"

"What?"

"No spell," said Harry.

"What?" said Hermione and Ron simultaneously.

"Well, this one time Dudley fell asleep watching cartoons and I got to watch Discovery," Harry said, "hiding in my cupboard, of course, in case my Aunt or Uncle saw, and it turns out if you throw enough dust at a fire, it, well, it—"

"—explodes?" finished Hermione.

"What?"

"Yeah, basically. That's why I asked you to conjure up a windstorm."

"What?"

"That's clever. I strongly disapprove, you broke about a thousand school rules, and maybe my ribs; also, I know for a fact 'no explosions in the hallways—NO EXCEPTIONS' is a rule, I saw it posted outside Filch's office, but it was clever, but sometimes even when a plan is clever, even when it's really clever, you should really warn me when you're going to blow something up."

"I'll do that next time," said Harry.

"What?"

"Oh, shut up, Ron!" snapped Hermione.

"What?"

"I know you can't hear me, but what you really expect to gain by saying 'what?' over and over I don't even—"

Hermione was cut off when a huge, ugly, scorched hand reached out from the smoke and picked her up by the shoulder. She reflexively reached for her wand, but realized she'd dropped it in the explosion.

The Troll held her up close to its face, gazing at her with a curious expression. Then it opened its gaping maw. A fell odour of rotting meat and extreme halitosis blasted her senses.

"Uh, please don't eat me, Mr. Troll..." she begged.

Instead of eating her or charging down the injured Ron and Harry, the Troll decided to take a third option.

o—o—o—o

Snape waited. Quirrell, Snape knew (though he could not see him), was likely deciding what to do about Hagrid's dog. Whatever action he took would be proof enough for Snape to bring Dumbledore, or even the Ministry, down on him.

Any moment now, the Defence Professor would kill the dog.

Unexpectedly, nothing happened.

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