Jenny follows. She can't help glancing over her shoulder a lot, but there is something oddly comforting about Jim—not so much for his own sake as for the certain knowledge that Matilda has to have brought him.
(The hallway is a war of fire and ice. Matilda dodges some fireballs, freezes the rest, and tries to think—whenever she has time to think—of how to hit back.
Fighting fire with ice doesn't actually make sense. It was a move of pure impulse. It just felt right, and then it happened, and now it works perfectly every time. And Lavender can fly, and Miss Trunchbull can throw fireballs and walk through walls. There's something there, some underlying principle, she's sure of it—
Miss Trunchbull swings her arm back over her head, fist curled around empty air. It looks like she's going to throw a javelin, but there's no javelin. And then there is a flash of purple-white light, and that's impossible, and Matilda dodges just in time and there's a long jagged scorch mark on the ceiling where the thunderbolt hit it. Miss Trunchbull laughs and reaches back for another one.
This is not a sustainable situation.
When the next spear of lightning crackles toward her, she holds out her hand and stops it like she did with the fire that is still splashed motionless across the floor. This time, though, she lets it hang there for a moment and then spins it around and looses it in the other direction.
Miss Trunchbull throws herself flat on the floor, and Matilda grins.)
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(The hallway is a war of fire and ice. Matilda dodges some fireballs, freezes the rest, and tries to think—whenever she has time to think—of how to hit back.
Fighting fire with ice doesn't actually make sense. It was a move of pure impulse. It just felt right, and then it happened, and now it works perfectly every time. And Lavender can fly, and Miss Trunchbull can throw fireballs and walk through walls. There's something there, some underlying principle, she's sure of it—
Miss Trunchbull swings her arm back over her head, fist curled around empty air. It looks like she's going to throw a javelin, but there's no javelin. And then there is a flash of purple-white light, and that's impossible, and Matilda dodges just in time and there's a long jagged scorch mark on the ceiling where the thunderbolt hit it. Miss Trunchbull laughs and reaches back for another one.
This is not a sustainable situation.
When the next spear of lightning crackles toward her, she holds out her hand and stops it like she did with the fire that is still splashed motionless across the floor. This time, though, she lets it hang there for a moment and then spins it around and looses it in the other direction.
Miss Trunchbull throws herself flat on the floor, and Matilda grins.)