The sudden, deafening silence in the chamber was more jarring than the duel itself. The air, thick with the smell of ozone and dark magic, slowly began to clear. Quirrell was gone, a pile of scorched robes and fine grey dust the only evidence he had ever existed.
Harry lay unconscious on the cold stone floor, a faint trickle of blood from his lightning-bolt scar staining his forehead. Professor McGonagall was slumped against the wall, pale and clutching her injured shoulder, but alive.
The crisis had passed. The adrenaline that had sustained them began to drain away, leaving a trembling exhaustion in its wake.
Ron, who had been frozen in terror, was the first to snap out of it. "Harry!" he yelled, rushing to his friend's side.
Hermione, her face as white as chalk, hurried to Professor McGonagall. "Professor, are you alright? Can you walk?"
McGonagall, grimacing with pain, nodded weakly. "I think so, Miss Granger. With your help."
Ariana, however, was still standing where she had been, her Elder wand held loosely at her side. Her face, usually a mask of serene composure, was ashen. A fine tremor ran through her hands, and she looked… diminished, as if the immense effort of holding back Quirrell's onslaught had drained the very colour from her. The battle had not been fought with simple spells; it had been a contest of pure will, a direct outpouring of her own life force against the parasitic malevolence of Voldemort.
She took a steadying breath, her mind, even in its exhaustion, immediately assessing the situation and delegating tasks.
"Ron, you're uninjured. Go first. Clear the way and watch for any remaining threats," she
commanded, her voice quiet but firm. "Hermione, support Professor McGonagall. I have Harry."
She pointed her wand at Harry's still form. "Levicorpus," she whispered, not the jinx, but the pure, functional levitation. Harry's body lifted gently from the floor, floating horizontally in the air as if lying on an invisible stretcher.
With Ron leading the way, Hermione helping the injured but resolute McGonagall, and Ariana guiding Harry's floating form, the small, battered group began their slow retreat from the depths of the castle.
As they emerged from the third-floor corridor, they were met with a sight that was both a profound relief and a confirmation of the gravity of their situation. Albus Dumbledore was striding towards them, his usual twinkling demeanor replaced by a look of grim, urgent concern. He had clearly realized the summons to the Ministry was a decoy and had returned at once.
His eyes took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance: the injured McGonagall, the terrified but determined students, and the unconscious Boy Who Lived.
"Minerva," he said, his voice a low rumble. He gently touched her injured shoulder, and a warm, golden light enveloped it, easing the pain and beginning the healing process. He then turned his full attention to Harry. "To the hospital wing. All of you. Now."
The hospital wing was a flurry of controlled, professional activity. Madam Pomfrey, the school matron, clucked and fretted, her face a mixture of stern disapproval and genuine concern. She immediately took charge of Professor McGonagall, applying salves and muttering about reckless professors who should know better. Dumbledore himself knelt by Harry's bedside, his long fingers tracing ancient runes in the air above the boy's scar, his expression unreadable as he worked to counter the dark magic that had passed through him.
Ron, being the only one completely unscathed, stood awkwardly by the door, feeling useless and overwhelmed.
Hermione, her immediate duty to Professor McGonagall completed, rushed to the bed beside Harry's, where Ariana had just been settled by a concerned Madam Pomfrey.
"Sit," the matron had commanded, seeing the girl's exhaustion. "Magical backlash is not to be trifled with."
Ariana had acquiesced without argument, her body finally acknowledging the immense strain it had been under. She lay back against the pillows, her eyes closed, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks. Hermione pulled a chair to her bedside, her face etched with worry.
"Ariana, are you alright?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "That shield… I've never read of a Protego that could hold against such dark magic. The... the sheer force of it… what was that spell?"
Ariana opened her eyes. They were tired, the usual deep periwinkle looking a little faded, like a sky after a great storm has passed. She looked at her best friend, at the genuine, fearful concern on her face, and offered a small, reassuring smile.
"It wasn't simply a spell, Hermione," she said, her voice soft but clear.
Hermione frowned, confused. "What do you mean? Of course it was a spell. Protego Maxima, you said it yourself."
"The words were a formality," Ariana explained, her voice gaining a little strength. "A key to open a door. But what flowed through the door… that was not from a textbook." She lifted a hand, looking at her own pale fingers as if seeing them for the first time. "I couldn't match Quirrell's dark curses with standard counter-curses. They were too strong, too foreign. So I didn't try."
She met Hermione's gaze. "I simply… built a wall. I took my own magic, the raw essence of it, the Anima Mundi that flows through me, and I gave it form and purpose. The purpose was simple: nothing shall pass. The runes you saw were not part of a pre-designed charm. They were my will, my intent, given symbolic form. It was a shield made not of magic, but from magic."
Hermione stared at her, her brilliant mind struggling to grasp the concept. She had spent her life learning the rules, the incantations, the wand movements—the grammar of magic. Ariana was telling her that she had abandoned the grammar entirely and had simply spoken in the pure, proto-language of creation itself. She had not cast a shield; her magic itself was cast as the shield.
The implications were staggering. The level of power, control, and raw, innate talent required for such a feat was beyond anything Hermione had ever conceived of. "But… that must have taken…" Hermione trailed off, the words 'magical exhaustion' feeling utterly inadequate.
"A great deal of energy, yes," Ariana confirmed with a quiet sigh. "It is not a sustainable method of defense. But it was the only logical option."
At that moment, Dumbledore rose from Harry's bedside, the boy's breathing now deep and even. He looked over at the two girls, and his blue eyes, behind his half-moon spectacles, held a look of profound, sorrowful understanding. He had heard Ariana's explanation.
He walked over to her bed. "What you did tonight, Ariana," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of unspoken history, "was an act of profound power and immense risk. It is a type of magic that few have ever mastered. A type of magic that my sister… that the first Ariana… possessed, though she could never control it."
He looked at her, his expression one of a man seeing a ghost and a miracle all at once. "You have her face. You have her name. But you also have the control she never did. You have her gift, without her curse."
He placed a gentle hand on her forehead. A wave of warm, soothing magic, like sunshine and phoenix song, flowed into her, replenishing the vast energy she had expended. The tremors in her hands ceased, and the deep-seated exhaustion began to recede. It was a gift, a silent acknowledgement of her sacrifice and her power.
"Rest now, all of you," he said, his voice encompassing the entire room. "You have done something extraordinary tonight. You have faced the shadow of the past and stood your ground. Hogwarts is safe because of you."
He turned to leave, but paused at the door, looking back at the small group: the unconscious hero, the loyal friend standing guard, the brilliant witch at the prodigy's bedside. They were not the children he had expected to fight his battles. They were something more. They were smarter, more unified, and in the case of the quiet girl with the ancient eyes, more powerful than he could have ever imagined.
His carefully laid plans for the future, he realized, would have to be completely redrawn. The game had changed, because a new, formidable player had just demonstrated, beyond any doubt, that she would not be playing by anyone's rules but her own.