Toadmila ran through the knee-deep snow, tendrils of black smoke reaching after her. With a flick of her wand, she brought her broom to her hands and jumped on it. The broom was faster, too fast. She bumped against a tree and nearly fell off. Careful to avoid the wraith and the thickly-packed trees, she zigzagged through the forest, back to the clearing. The wraith followed, shrieking and screaming. It passed through the trees, leaving black marks on their bark, as if they'd been singed.
Toadmila flew across the clearing, changing direction each time the smoke was about to catch her. She'd stopped hurling spells at the wraith, and instead kept her wand pointed at the ground, throwing sparks that painted white lines at the center of the clearing. But the wraith was catching up. As she raced through the clearing, the dark tendrils caught onto her broom. They pulled the broom back, and Toadmila fell off, rolling onto the ground. She jumped to her feet, but the wraith was already only one step away. And right at the center of the diagram she'd been drawing. With one flick of her wand, Toadmila linked the white lines together and walls of ice rose all around the wraith. For a moment, it looked as if the spirit would forever be encased in ice. But tendrils of smoke were already seeping through the walls. Toadmila took a step back and began moving her wand as fast as she could, whispering the incantation.
“Writhing wraith, wither, waste! Writhing wraith, wither, waste! Writhing wraith–”
Black smoke poured out of the ice, reaching for her, and the walls began to crack.
“Wither, waste!” Toadmila shouted, and the ice shattered into a million pieces.
Toadmila fell backward, shards of ice piercing her skin. The muscles in her right arm ached. But the smoke, the wraith, was gone. All that was left at the center of the clearing were the white marks of a rose-shaped diagram, and a handful of white ashes that blew away in the wind.