Outside the Great Hall, just before lunch.

"Hey. Durmstrang. Wait up."

Crowds tended to part for Taryn. It came from the not-entirely-unreasonable fear of being run down. She was so used to it by now that she didn't even notice the stream of students dodging around her, nor the anxious glances some of them sent her way.

Looking back on it, Taryn wouldn't be able to blame them. She was in a bad mood. It'd been two days since the First Task and, ever since the over-dose of anti-venom had worn off, she'd been looking for one Magdalena Eisenberg, Champion for Drumstrang. There were a lot of little blonde girls from Durmstrang hanging about, and even more little blonde Gryffindors with an over-dramatic sense of house pride. But this time, she was certain. She'd finally found her.

"Yo, Eisenberg. I'm talkin' to you."

Taryn finally caught up a moment later. She set her jaw to hold in her temper. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, things that she'd been stirring around her head. The initial rush of anger hadn't cooled. She needed to keep it in check. "Yer her, right? Maggie Eye-sen-berg? We need to talk." She nodded towards one of the smaller side-halls, which emptied quickly now that everyone was rushing for lunch. "C'mon. Don't worry. I won't take too much of your time."

She also wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

The word Durmstrang echoed somewhere behind her. While she was not beyond investigating insults to the name of her school, if Magdalena heard it, she hardly glanced before dismissing it as daily conversation. She only turned when she heard the telltale Eisenberg. The girl was looming over her in seconds, taller than her father, her grandfather, or any of her uncles; Magda was annoyed to have to look up so sharply, but meet her eyes, she did.


Her gaze somewhere between bored and icy, the Oberteil waited for further explanation-- but she did not have to wait long. She had been an eye’s blink away from raising eyebrows at yer her, to ask, with expert judgement, for elaboration. The pair of syllables were like electricity on her spine.

A half-giant American had just called her Maggie. Usually only Lyov had the nerve to do that. In fact, he had done it three days ago. Twice in three days.

The disjointed drawl of her surname on a foreigner’s tongue was an unnecessary dose of secondary annoyance. It was purposeful. Magdalena enjoyed traveling, learning new languages. She understood accents. But she was also proud, and something in this girl’s voice was intentionally grating.

The group with whom she stood were eyeing her now, eyeing Taryn (or trying not to), and eyeing each other. If they thought they could creep away unnoticed, they would have. Instead, they stood there, doing their best to conceal their fidgeting. No doubt, years of martial training under the all-encompassing label ‘academia’ helped. Magda turned to them with a fleeting, understanding glance of dismissal, raising her fingers momentarily. Then she looked back to Taryn, and took a solid step toward her. She looked up at the girl again, the coldness in her eyes enduring.

“Don’t call me Maggie,” she dictated calmly. This was again stirring to those behind her, who recognized an edge in the controlled warning and looked to Taryn before appearing to resume (with some strain and the occasional glance) conversing.

The giant girl’s tone was obvious in its implication. They had an issue, though Magdalena had no idea what it might be. The necessity to talk with this Amazon was a mystery. “What do we need to talk about?” She stood, hand fixed intimately to wand, waiting for some explanation, to see where the girl might lead her before she would deign it desirable to follow.

“Don’t call me Maggie,”

Taryn snorted and muttered under her breath. "Would it kill you to say 'please'?" Two seconds into the conversation and her worst instincts about the other girl -- that she was an ice-cold bit with a stick up her butt -- had been confirmed. She sure as hell wasn't going to do tongue gymnastics for a chick that rude about it.

The rest of the Drumstrang girls scurried off, and Eisnberg's glare remained as cold as ever. “What do we need to talk about?”

“The Task," said Taryn, and took a single step into the hall, where she at least would be out of the crowd's way. "I wanna know what the hell was goin’ through yer head.”

There were a lot of things about the First Task that Taryn was willing to forgive. She’d forgive misfired curses, spells cast in the heat of a chase, and traps designed to lay the spiders low. She’d even been able to forgive the Drumite that ran before her, the one who’s potion got Androcles all burned. No reason to think it’d been on purpose, and it’d all turned out all right in the end.

But what Eisenberg had done was different. It hadn’t been about protection or evasion or self-defense. It’d been an attack. A slaughter. Just hearing about it had been enough to give Taryn nightmares.

“You know anything about those spiders?” she demanded, keeping her temper under wraps until she’d heard the whole thing first-hand. “They’re called Acromantula, at least in English. They’re dead clever, got as much sense as you or me. They talk. They've got feelings. They feel fear, feel pain.

“Did you know that when you set that...that thing on ‘em?”

Magdalena blinked at the girl. Her expression was very much, I understand perfectly but can't be bothered to expound on it. The American had been the one to overstep her boundaries. And yet, she wanted courtesies.

The task? Of course. But it was over. Magdalena's score had been higher than this Salem student's, though, and whatever her stature, the girl had already proved to be sensitive.

If there was a change in Magda's face as the question was put forth, it was imperceptible. However, in her head, she wondered if the girl was off some necessary potion the coddled Salem students needed for personal development. Should she laugh or be insulted?

"Winning," she answered, as if it were obvious. "What was going through yours?"

Oh. One of those types.

Magdalena had been raised to understand her place in the food chain and in the world: at the top. Her grandfather was an avid hunter; she loved the wilderness, but she also understood where she stood. While she was not arrogant enough to think nature wasn't owed respect, she was confident enough to know that her wand-- and the skill she wielded-- would beat most prey. Spiders were not meant to lord over witches and wizards. If it was kill or be killed, the choice was simple. It wasn't a choice.

Now, there as a change in her face, something angry, something dark in her brow. "English is not my first language, but I understand it perfectly, and you are hardly the only culture on Earth to study arachnids," she said, her voice quick and stinging, to the point. "If you think Durmstrang would bring its best to this very old tournament-- which we were in before your school existed-- and pull from the Goblet names of champions who did not know what spiders are, you are mistaken. A first year at my school knows what an Acromantula is, and what it does, and the best way to combat it." And that was full force. "We do not pause to tend to and warmly converse with Classification Five beasts in the middle of an obstacle. It is not a therapy session. I don't know what you are taught in America, but I don't care what it feels or doesn't feel." This girl was angry with her for not considering an Acromantula's pain threshold. It was almost as hilarious as it was nonsensical and pathetic. "I care about keeping my head intact. And winning. This a championship. That is an obstacle, an enemy. Are you done with your lecture? Shall I give you a history of Acromantulas in Danish? German? Russian? It's a very interesting word, the Danish word for Acromantula." She was, of course, humoring the girl-- in that she absolutely had neither the time nor the desire to actually humor her. It was evident in her voice that she was not going to provide a history lesson.

Magda continued to stare up at her. "If you didn't concern yourself with their pain and focused on defeating the obstacle-- the spiders--" She added, for the girl's benefit, "You might have earned a higher score and more pride for your school." The girl's score had doubtlessly been good, one of the best, all things considered, but if she wanted to doubt Magdalena's performance, Magda could easily criticize the Salem student's. If she were a judge, she would not have rewarded such personal indulgence as playing the role of do-gooder in the middle of a prickly, webbed arena.

"I don't care what it feels or doesn't feel."

Taryn's stomach lurched. Long fingers curled into fists at her side, then unfolded again, trying to shake off the numb feeling of a thousand pin-pricks. It didn't work. "Let me guess. You're one of those sickos who liked torturing pets as a kid."

The words slipped out on instinct, like a defensive spell, a shield. Between her accent and the sudden ping-pong of conversation points -- bouncing from the task to spider-lectures and back to the task again -- Taryn was having a bit of trouble keeping up with Eisenberg's spiel. But the sharp jabs, the insults, the insinuations about Taryn's intellegence, those were sharp as  knife, poking and prodding the angry beast she'd kept in check.

Worse still was the Drumstrang girl's eyes, the cold and heartless way she spelled out her every word. It stirred something deeper than the beast, something raw and churning that made Taryn want to run, to break away before the chill could reach her heart. This feeling. It couldn't be...

Fear?

No. No, dammit. She was giant blood, a child of physical strength the likes of which normal witches and wizards couldn't dream. She would not be cowed by this stuck-up, tiny little princess, not even if she had torn through an entire nest, an entire family of living, thinking, beautiful creatures, mauling dozens without even blinking an eye...

Taryn bit her cheek and drew herself up against the final criticism of her performance in the Task. "You're sick," she snapped. "This ain't got a damn thing to with scores or winnin'. You made a monster, not to protect you but to eat critters that you know can think. You encouraged it to massacre a family of rare animals because they got set up against you in a game. A game. As in fun. As in not real. As in 'nobody has to get hurt.' Nobody should get hurt. And you don't see the problem here? God, you are fucked in the head."

Taryn's shoulders shook. Was it fear? Anger? She couldn't tell. She hissed through her teeth. "Yeah, I'm sure yer school's real proud. Nothing like a champ with the heart of a hag."

Magda flinched inwardly but didn't let it show on her face... Instead, she looked angry, her frown one that was not exactly meant to inspire sympathy. That she did not feel for a giant, venomous spider whose purpose in the task was to distract her, trap her, shame her-- and ultimately cause her failure-- did not mean that she did not feel. Her feelings were not the same as this girl's, to be sure.  But... “No. Your guess is quite off. I respect animals.” sometimes more than humans. “The difference is that my pets haven't tried to trap me in their webs. I can't fathom why the goblet chose you if you don't understand what it means to compete.”
 
But the next words out of the giant girl's mouth did not deserve a similarly calm (if slightly impatient) answer. This time, if Magda had flinched instead of drawing her wand (though the latter is what she did), it would have been painfully obvious. Wand pointed still as a statue in the American's direction, she knitted her brows. Despite her stillness, there was a static quality to the air about her. A crackling noise barely audible, resonating in the eardrum.

Sick. Fucked in the head. Hag.

She had made a monster to defend and offend. Protection was part of it. And so was finishing the task. She was not sick or crazy. She was not a hag.
 
Magdalena flicked her wand upward in one fluid-but-severe motion: a silent spell, a hex meant to give off the unpleasant sensation of something crawling over the skin was aimed square between the Salem student’s shaking shoulders. Unlike a Tickling Charm, the hex was neither laugh-inducing nor pain-inducing. It was simply chilly. This was followed promptly by a Silencing Charm. Tell me again how sick I am.

She had not tortured animals in her lifetime, but she had hunted them. Hexing a mouthy witch seemed much less problematic. “Your school does not belong in this tournament. Thank you for reminding me.” It was as much a dismissal as it was a promise. A promise to make sure that Salem came out on the bottom. Or... perhaps not quite a dismissal. Magdalena held her wand steadfastly.

Taryn didn't even notice the first hex that hit her.  Between the magical resistance of her giant blood and her own nerves -- which were already more on-edge than they'd been even during the First Task -- its sensation was lost. But the Silencing Charm, that was another story.

Taryn had been Silenced once before, in the eighth grade when they'd first learned the Charm. It'd been the first time she'd learned that resisting spells could mean an actual fight, and that fighting kind of hurt. It hit her the same way then as now: a blistering pain, like the bout of tonsillitis that finally got you under the knife, burst from the center of her throat with such suddenness that it took her breath away.

She choked in surprise, going for her wand but not drawing it, not yet, while her other hand caught her throat. She tried curse, but it came out a weak, "Gaaah...aah..." as the spell forced her vocal cords closed.

“Your school does not belong in this tournament. Thank you for reminding me.”

It was that, more than the spell, that spurred her next more. Growling, Taryn closed the space between them with a single step and grabbed, not for her own wand, but for Magdalena's outstretched arm. Her other hand went for the smaller girl's shoulder, not grabbing but pushing, shoving the Drumstrang champion against the stone wall.

"Don't. Belong. Huh?" Every word out of Taryn's mouth was fight, barely voiced, more growl than actual word. She huffed and puffed through her nose, trying to take some pressure off her throat. It helped, but only a little. Brief, then. Simple. "You'll. See.   I. Will. Die. Before. I let. You. Win."

What was this girl? The giant genes registered for obvious reasons- one must be an idiot to look at the towering Salemite and not see giant's blood; but Magda had never hexed a giant (nor a half giant, of whom there were exactly zero at Durmstrang Fortress). The spell seemed to slick off her like water off a coat. The second one, however, hit her in a way that was equally strange as the first having no effect. Magdalena’s brows knitted with perplexity and newfound knowledge.

It only took that moment of discernment for the Salem girl to lunge, grab her, push her into the wall. Magdalena was strong, physically-- an Oberteil had to be-- but the other girl had two and a half feet on her, and even with the apparent sting of Magdalena’s Silencing Charm paining or pestering her, the larger girl’s hold was firm. With her wand arm effectively trapped at the American’s whim, Magdalena could do nothing but glower and make promises with her eyes.

How had she been allowed to compete? This monster.

"You'll. See.   I. Will. Die. Before. I let. You. Win."

Magdalena’s eyes spoke back: you will die when you let go of my arm.

If Stinging Charms had no effect, Magda would find something that did.

Any tepid onlookers had discarded the pretense of not watching; students were gathered in a half moon of held breath and whispered shouts, hisses, gossip, and bets.

“Let go of me,” she commanded quietly, with disturbing calmness. “I won’t give you time to run.” It was as understanding a consolation as Magdalena was like to offer in this situation: there was no consolation. She was fully intent on going after the girl, it was only a matter of getting her wand arm back. Now or later, she would return the savagery. Squirming like a toddler was not an option; defense, however... Magda kicked the point of her boot into the girl’s leg, digging it in instead of bringing it back and kicking again, instead of flailing helplessly.

To lose to the Americans was not an option; to lose to anyone was not an option. But the vow was prickling. A part of Magdalena wanted to tell her to go ahead, die, but it would not satisfy Magdalena’s bloodlust. That Salem’s demise in this tournament (it would be a demise) should be built up all the more by this keen-to-be-a-martyr’s heartfelt oath... This girl wished. Destroying the competition was in the blueprints of the ice fortress’ bones, and right now the instinct was twitching in Magdalena’s fingers.