The silence stretches as the only sounds in the corridor are soft moans of pain, tearful sniffles, and quiet whispers. Rowan had been taken by the news of the dead that she barely heard Terry say that Professor Slughorn are dead. Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she says, "I am sorry, Terry, but did you say, Professor Slughorn?"
"Professor Slughorn was apparently killed personally by that vile, bastard, Riddle," Sylvia swore hatefully with a gleam of moisture in her eyes. Terry squeezed Sylvia's hand in comfort earning a watery, feeble twitch from Sylvia.
A furrow appears on Rowan's face as her indigo midnight eyes flicker in thought. Horace Slughorn had been alive in Potter's time, but now his life had been mercilessly snuffed out. She was not overly fond of Slughorn, but she did not hate him either. He had been kind and useful when needed. He did not deserve such an ending.
The midnight indigo-colored eyes of Rowan grow cold in response. She raises her gaze and for a moment forgets herself, before recalling where she is. Trying to mask her actions, she grimaces, "Sorry, my emotions are all a mess. It's been a relatively long day."
The memory of the attack on Hogsmeade flashes through her mind until like a record player halts at James, Lily, and Severus, and the subsequent vanishing. If James is here, where are Severus and Lily? With a frown, her eyes begin to dart around. "Where is Severus?!"
"Calm down, Rowan," Terry smoothly said. "Severus and Lily are safe. They along with the rest of the prefects are in the Great Hall watching over the student body."
A wave of relief floods through Rowan letting her sigh in relief. Her midnight indigo eyes linger on her faintly trembling limbs. Though her robes have some patches of dirt, there are no vomit stains. It is gratifying to know that she didn't faceplant into her own vomit after passing out.
Glancing up, Rowan catches the worried shared glances of Terry, Sylvia, and James. "I feel fine," which is true enough. "Though I would like to be left alone with James for a private conservation. We will join you, soon after in the Great Hall."
Terry glances at Sylvia, who narrows her bluish-gray eyes and purses her lips unhappily. However, Sylvia does not decline Rowan's request nor does Terry. The two of them rise still holding hands. "We'll see you in the Great Hall," Sylvia grumbled with Terry echoing the same sentiment. The two of them departed down the corridor with their footsteps fading away rapidly.
"Muffliato," Rowan cast the muffliato spell causing anyone to try to listen to hear only an unidentifiable buzzing sound to prevent the conversation from being overheard. At least that was Rowan's intention. However, the spell she cast was unintentionally much more powerful than that. Their surroundings immediately became silent preventing even a sound from being overhead or them from being interrupted.
Reflexively Rowan glanced at her wand with a tendril of dread. Her wand had not obeyed her. It eerily reminded her far too much of the (first) Elder wand.
Shaking her head, Rowan pushes her worries aside for the moment. There would be plenty of time to ponder and worry over the ramifications of such a change in her wand. All emotions vanish from Rowan's face leaving a cool, detached expression behind.
James instantly notices the cold change in Rowan's demeanor. "Is something wrong?" He genuinely asked with grave concern flashing through his hazel eyes.
"Who are you?" Rowan crisply demanded.
James' hazel eyes blink in confusion from behind his silver spectacles. Shaking his head, a few loose tendrils of dark hair flutter across his nape. "I am sorry, Rowan. I think you are confused. I am going to go and get Poppy," he quickly rose to his feet.
"The James Potter, I know cannot apperate nor duel like a seasoned Auror," Rowan raised her gaze to meet that of James. "Nor is on a first name basis with Madam Pomfrey to call her Poppy."
Pointing her wand straight at James, Rowan asks again. "I will not ask again, who are you!"
James blinks and is uncertain of how to reply for a moment. Yet the truth is often unbelievable. "I am James Potter," he honestly answered with utter conviction.
"Finite Incantatem." Rowan cast the general counter spell along with its diminutive "Finte." The spells could terminate all spell effects. Yet nothing happened.
Unsatisfied, Rowan raised her wand and cast "Surgito." A countercharm is used to remove enchantments. She did not stop there casting "Offero," next. A counter-spell is used to return a target to its previous state. Neither did "Reverte" work. A charm that could return or revert objects to their original states.
Nothing.
Even a metamorphmagus would be unable to withstand the strike of so many spells. Even their ever-changeable magical feature would be compelled to return to their natural born features. And yet, despite the power behind Rowan's spells nothing changed. James Potter still stood unchanged before her.
"I hope that convinced you, Rowan," James gruffly murmured to cover his surprise at being the target of so many powerful spells.
Rowan ignored James' words as her mind sped through every encounter with James. No, she is not wrong. This can't be James.
A memory from a past or a rather a dream, Rowan recalls a younger James at the door. "I came to say sorry, sneaky snake," James chuckled as the two of them walked over to sit on the porch.
James had apologized and then pointed up at the sky that is darkening with heavy moving clouds. "Things are getting far too messy, and you're going to need the help, Rowan, -but I won't be me anymore." He had also asked her to look out for everyone as he stepped out into the storm. Yet before she could stop or save James a bolt of lightning struck him.
Rowan's midnight indigo eyes stiffen. In the dream, James said he had been flying in the middle of the skull and fallen off. She knew that had happened as James had been hospitalized at St. Mungos. And then James had changed.