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Escape from the House of Gaunt

Medusa came up from the basement in a right state. She’d cruciatused Lysander over and over and over, ‘til the house had filled with his cries, and her blood had boiled. She’d stopped just short of driving him insane, as she’d read in books was possible to do. It’d been done before; in the first wizarding war, a witch named Bellatrix LeStrange had used the cruciatus on a couple named Longbottom until they went irrevocably insane. They’d died years and years later at St. Mungo’s, a wizard hospital in London. Medusa didn’t want him to go insane… no, that would be too easy - and she wouldn’t be able to discover how much of her story Harry Potter already knew until she’d gotten Lysander Scamander to tell her the truth about the patronus he’d sent. She looked around the little cottage for Astarte, but she wasn’t there.

Cloak billowing around her legs as she walked, Medusa moved briskly outside to the clearing the house sat in and looked around. “Astarte!” she cried out in her clear, ringing voice.

“I’m here,” Astarte replied. She was sitting on a sort of bench made from a fallen tree just at the edge of the woods, absentmindedly braiding her hair and reading one of the spellbooks. She had been unable to take anymore of the screams and cries that echoed upstairs from the basement, exciting all the snakes, and had taken to the garden, as far away from the house as she could get. Now, she looked up as her mother approached her from across the yard.

Medusa slid her wand up her sleeve for safe keeping and put her palms on her hips, clearly frustrated. “That infuriating little man won’t give in and tell me the truth,” she snarled, “I should kill him.”

“Don’t!” Astarte said, sitting up, knocking her book to the ground. Medusa turned to her, eyes a blaze. “I mean --,” she said, collecting herself, “If the Ministry of Magic is willing to send Harry Potter then he must be really worth something. But he’s worth nothing as a corpse.”

Medusa sighed and rubbed her hands over her hair, “I know… I know…” She paced.

Astarte fidgeted.

When her mother had come back from investigating the caterwauling charm the day before, she’d had her dress torn and the snakes in her hair had hissed wildly as she stormed into the cottage. Astarte had heard the worst of the cruciatus being delivered then, the screams of hatred and pain echoing up the stairs and down the hallway. Medusa had emerged from the basement, breathless, sweaty and a downright mess and set herself into the chair at the table, demanding Astarte to get her a goblet of mead.

“What happened?” Astarte had asked tremulously, pouring the mead for her mother.

“That idiot man somehow managed to send another patronus,” Medusa had explained, “This time to Harry Potter himself. Boy who lived - chosen one -” she spat scornfully as Astarte put the goblet down before her. She’d gulped the mead in one long sip and then reached up and stroked one of the many snakes in her unruly hair before grabbing her wand from the table and returning to her tortures below.

Since then, Astarte had been waiting, praying for the caterwauling charm to go off again, for Harry Potter and all the aurors of the Ministry to come storming through the woods, surround the cottage, and take her away to London or anywhere else that her mother wasn’t at. She imagined sharing a home with her father somewhere, happy and free.

Medusa was so angry she was hissing now, talking to her snakes again, a habit that scared Astarte. She didn’t understand Parseltongue, despite her mother’s repeated attempts to teach her the strange language. She shuddered.

Suddenly, the caterwauling charm was sounding, echoing through the woods, the sound rustling the leaves. Medusa turned and drew her wand from her dress sleeve. “He’s here,” she hissed, “He’s come back.” She looked at Astarte, “Go inside. Be ready. Fight to kill should he make it to this clearing.” Medusa swept into the trees, pulling her cloak up and flipping it over her shoulder as she went, muttering about showing that Harry Potter what the True Heir of Slytherin should be like.

Astarte waited until her mother’s words had been filtered by the trees and she leaped to her feet and ran for the cottage. Her hands and shook as she took the stairs to the basement two at a time. “Harry Potter is here,” shrieked Astarte, “Somewhere in the woods. He’s come to help us.” She got to her father’s side.

Lysander looked up at her, his body trembling.

“You’ve got to get up, we’ve got to go find him,” Astarte said. She reached for the ropes binding Lysander where he was.

“I’m too weak,” Lysander murmured.

“You aren’t. Get up. You’ll be okay. We’ve got to do this, though.” She pulled him to his feet and he groaned with the effort. “C’mon,” she pleaded, “We just need to get to him and I promise it’ll get better. Hurry up, we can’t let her catch us.”

Together, they struggled up the stairs, Lysander gripping onto Astarte’s shoulders as tight as he could. She wrapped one arm ‘round his waist and led the way out of the basement and through the house. She hurried him past the clearing and into the cover of the trees.

Here she took a pause and looked around. She was terrified. If her mother found them now, they were as good as dead. Sure she could make up some story about Lysander having tried to escape and her running to catch him but she'd certainly use the Avada Kedavra on him then. Astarte listened but only the caterwauling charm's shrieks reached her ears. They stumbled through the woods, Lysander clinging to Astarte for dear life. Then, with a feeling like the breath being stolen from the depths of the lungs, the caterwauling charm ceased and silence so thick it was nearly tangible filled the woods.

Astarte froze, afraid of the noise moving through the brush might make, and tried to still the great gasps that heaved from her chest.

"I KNOW YOU ARE HERE, POTTER!!!" Medusa bellowed. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

A rush of magic billowed through the trees, shaking them from stem to root and Astarte felt as though she were suddenly on the outside of a dome looking in -- a protective shield charm had been put over the cottage like a half bubble. She and Lysander were barely two feet away from the place it divided the woods. She trembled. There was absolutely no going back now.

"Come on," she whispered, gripping Lysander by the shoulders once more. "We're too close."

Lysander staggered along with her, his every step three times as loud as hers. She was terrified Medusa would hear, but she hadn't come yet so she must not have heard, she told herself. She must be busy with the aurors.

They broke through the line of trees and onto a woodland path and Lysander dropped to the dusty pathway to catch his breath, his palms down in the gravel. Astarte looked around.

Pop! Pop!

She turned, careening, wand held aloft. Behind her had appeared two teenagers, no older than she was - a boy and a girl. They both had their wands drawn as well, and the three of them faced one another as Lysander panted, hidden and protected in the shadow of Astarte.

"Expelliarmus."

Astarte felt her wand fly from her hand and into the hands of the gangly, red haired boy. He handed it to the girl, whose pale blonde hair reflected the sunlight like it was made of pure cornsilk. Her features, though... her features gave pause to Astarte. She squinted at the girl. It was like looking in a mirror and seeing oneself with different hair.

"Who are you?" Astarte asked.

"You first," the boy demanded hotly, "As you are the unarmed one."

"I'm Astarte Gaunt," she answered.

The girl lowered both wands, but the boy left his up until the girl touched his arm, and he slowly lowered his defenses. The girl looked at the wand in her hand, then at Astarte. She held out the wand to return it to it’s owner. “I’m Ermalene Talon,” she said, “And this is Andrew Weasley.”

Astarte stepped to one side to reveal her father.

“This,” she added, “is Lysander Scamander.”