The Forbidden Four: Year Two

Chapter Seven - Aggression

Chapter Seven - Aggression

     There was something behind him.

     It's feet pounded against the grass; damp with a chill that, combined with the creature's labored breathing, sent ice up his spine.

     The night was dark and silent, only the rustling of the plantation disturbed what would have been a peaceful night, if it weren't for the low, threatening growls increasing in volume behind him.

     Castor couldn't make out much; not with the night sky, so dark there wasn't a single star in sight. Instead, the only light source came from a dull full moon, shrouded in a red so thick it was nearly ebony.

      But Castor did know one thing.

      He was running.

      He could feel it in the way his bare feet hit the ground, mud and weeds clinging to his skin. He could feel it in the way the wind rushed past his frail figure, biting coldly into his flesh and whipping his hair in every direction. He could feel it in the way his lungs clogged up, with fear and desperation and helplessness.

      He was running, and something was chasing him.

      He was running, and the path in front of him was slowly being swallowed by the towering trees, darkened with an abyss that seemed to seep out between their branches and under their leaves.

      He was running, and soon, he wouldn't be able to continue. Soon, that thing would catch up to him, and he knew that as soon as that happened, his fate was sealed.

     Whatever fate that was, he honestly couldn't tell.

     But he did know that whatever it was couldn't be good.

     Castor woke up with a pit in his stomach and an angry burn squeezing his throat.

      He awoke glaring at his own reflection and angry at everything under the sun. The first sign that something was off was when he had to force himself to take a deep breath as to avoid throttling the person next to him, snoring away in their bed with zero care and absolutely no class. Honestly, did they know nothing about silencing charms? If they were going to be graceless even in their sleep, they could at least have the decency to make sure they were the only one suffering from it.

      The next sign was when he got out of bed, the first one as usual, and stood up, only to be hit with a pounding in his head so sharp that he had to grit his teeth to trap the scream that wanted to escape him. It was as if someone was setting off three different talentless, clumsy orchestras at once in his head.

     After finally managing to open his eyes and silently thanking Merlin that he was in Slytherin, where the light didn't shine, he gathered his things and went to the bathroom, taking a shower, drying his hair, and putting his clothes on.

     At least, he thought that's what happened. He didn't remember much of it. His body seemed to be actively working to shut him out, or maybe he was making the subconscious decision to crawl into the depths of his own mind and curl up like a baby. Either way, both options labeled him as pathetic and a coward, so he forced himself to focus, no matter how much he wanted to just put his body on autopilot.

     The first thing he noticed when he reluctantly looked in the mirror was that he looked like the living dead. Honestly, he wouldn't be too shocked to find out that a necromancer had been stood over his bed the entire night and playing with his mind. That would explain the nightmares, and the dehydration. Necromancy tended to take a lot out of both it's masters and it's victims.