Chapter 86

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Deciding that saying something 'tastes like Christmas Dinner' would be categorically impossible for a Dark Wizard utilizing their titular Dark Powers to mentally control an injured eleven-year-old girl, Milo had relented and returned Hannah's wand in order for her to magic up some fire to warm their freezing tent.

It was late—Milo wasn't sure how late, because his nap of unknown length had thrown his perception even of passing rounds and the sun went down very early this far north in the dead of winter—when they heard yet another audible crunch in the snow outside, waking Milo up from a deep sleep he hadn't quite realized he'd ever started.

Milo cursed (figuratively speaking—not a literal Curse. Milo briefly wondered if that was the reason the locals seemed to use the word 'cuss') under his breath, and not only because there was a decent probability that the Redcap's (or "Red Cap" as the locals called them) buddies had come to finish what the first one had started (or, perhaps, to finish off the first one, yum). He required eight hours of continuous, uninterrupted rest to prepare new spells and regain hit points, so his injuries (which would have certainly killed someone from Hannah's world) were exactly as painful and sore as they were however long ago it had been since they'd been inflicted.

Milo glanced over at Hannah, whose eyes were wide and alert.

Well, we're screwed, he thought.

Milo, as stealthily as he could (which is not, admittedly, particularly stealthy without any ranks in Hide or Move Silently), pulled his quarterstaff out of his Belt of Hidden Pouches and raised the tent flap very slightly. Unfortunately, he couldn't see anything but snow from his narrow window.

"Stay here," Milo said quietly to Hannah. "I'll go see what's outside."

Hannah, her face pale and ashen, became determined.

"No," she whispered. "I've got a wand, and I can do magic, which is more than I can say for you."

"But—" Milo said, a hundred protests coming to mind. You're not a PC. Your injuries are debilitating, mine are not. You're lower level. The spells you know are not combat optimized.

But despite everything, the practical part of his mind agreed she did have a point. Hannah, despite being a novice at magic, had no limit on spells per day and even the simple Jinxes and Hexes that Hogwarts students used on each other to settle heated disagreements would be more effective than a quarterstaff wielded at a measly +2 BAB and a -1 Strength Penalty—at least, when used in the number that Hannah was capable of, which was infinite.

"Fine, we'll go together," he said at last. "On three, we leap out of the tent and catch them by surprise—try to stay behind me, my robes are enchanted to protect me. I'll club anything that gets close, you hex anything that moves." Milo couldn't believe he was volunteering to tank damage so someone else could cast. It was just so, so wrong.

"Okay," Hannah said, fear and excitement battling evident in almost equal parts in her voice.

"And remember—you're braver than you think."

"I'm braver than I think. I'm braver than I think," Hannah said, constantly repeating the words under her breath as she did in the Sorting Ceremony.

"One... Two..." Milo took a deep breath. "Three!"

The two heavily injured spellcasters did not so much charge out of the tent, which would have been, perhaps, more dramatically appropriate, as they did stagger out painfully. They were a pretty pathetic sight, and the only foes they would have intimidated would be those who were both squeamish about blood and who were in possession of excellent night vision.

To the heroes in question, however, it felt as if they were leading the charge in the Battle of Vienna, with the might of tens of thousands of heavily armed and armoured elite cavaliers at their back, all thirsting for blood.

"WAAAAAAAGH!"

"Wha' in the ruddy hell?" came a surprised, thickly accented voice from the chill darkness.

"Mister Hagrid?" Hannah asked, stunned.

"Dancing Lights," Milo cast, while Hannah cast Lumos. Four glowing white spheres of light shot out of Milo's hands, flying in a search pattern around their immediate vicinity while Hannah's wand tip glowed brightly. Hagrid's huge body came into clear view, holding his crossbow in one hand and Fang's leash in another.

"Wha' are you lot doin' out here?" Hagrid asked. "And is tha'—is tha' blood?"

Milo narrowed his eyes.

"How do I know you're really Hagrid?" he asked suspiciously, leaning heavily on his quarterstaff.

"Wha' kinda question is tha'?" Hagrid asked. "Yeh know another bloke o' my size who jus' happens ter have a crossbow an' a dog?"

"I think," Hannah said quietly to Milo, "that we'd best trust him. He's kind of our only hope."

Milo still stared at him suspiciously, trying to decide what he would do if he had the ability to simply possess people—something he didn't, as he'd forsworn the Enchantment school altogether when he specialized in Conjuration. Presumably, powerful wizards and witches had some form of defence against mental intrusion—otherwise, Dumbledore would long since have been turned into a puppet of some Dark Wizard and used to rule the world. Likely, that ruled McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Quirrell out as well as potential puppets (although, not as suspects necessarily. Milo needed another glance at his Plot flowchart just to remind himself who was currently trying to kill him). Hagrid, who apparently had no magical power of his own at all, was therefore an obvious choice to possess... at least, at first glance. If Milo were behind this, he'd simply choose another student. Obviously, the possessor was able to force his puppets to use spells the puppets would normally be unable to, which essentially bumped up any possessed student to Dark Master level of threat.

So, assuming his possessor had, in fact, any brains at all (and Milo's numerous assumptions were correct), Hagrid was probably just Hagrid.

"Okay," Milo said. "But be careful."

"Now, can someone explain wha' the ruddy hell is goin' on? Actually, nevermind tha'," Hagrid said, looking closer at the extent of Hannah's and Milo's injuries. "We gotta get yeh up ter the hospital wing. Can yeh walk? Ah, nevermind, I'll jus' carry yeh. Yeh can explain on the way."

Hagrid hung his crossbow from a strap on his shoulder, and held out a big, meaty hand to Hannah and Milo. Neither he nor Hannah had the same level of friendship with Hagrid that Harry (and, to a lesser extent, Ron and Hermione) had developed, and the pair of them hesitated for a moment.

Milo shrugged and climbed aboard, Hannah soon following suit.

Hagrid carried the pair of them in a surprisingly gentle manner, given his somewhat brutish appearance. On the way, Milo decided he might as well tell Hagrid what happened. Hannah, however, was being unusually silent.

"This morning, I heard that Hannah went out into the snow—"

"Are yeh mad, girl?" Hagrid asked Hannah.

"Sorry," Hannah said in a quiet voice.

.

.

.

.

Patreon.com/Black_Zetsu

Subscribe to my Patreon for more advanced chapters. The story is at the Bronze level