December 15th, 1990
The winter sun desperately tried to break through the thick veil of clouds, painting everything in pale, dawn-like hues, but the world remained gray, and there was still no snow. I stood near a small outbuilding on the Hogwarts grounds — a paddock located a short distance from Hagrid's hut. For over two centuries, the very creatures that served the school faithfully had been kept here. No, not the house-elves. This was a paddock for the freedom-loving Thestrals, needed only temporarily, to show them human faces and reinforce the memory that they were tamed creatures.
To harness them all to the school carriages, more than two hundred Thestrals were needed. These were amazing creatures, wild animals of a different nature, inhabiting the Forbidden Forest. There were dozens of small herds in the forest. For a month or two, a small herd like this one, with a leader, about twenty heads, was taken, and Kettleburn cared for them. And since these were freedom-loving animals, they were released after a month, two at most, and then a different herd was kept. This unusual method managed to maintain a balance between their love of freedom and taming.
The main thing was to lure the largest one — the leader — and the rest would follow, not particularly minding being fed, but they couldn't be kept for long.
In the spatial storage of my black bag lay two large sacks of rotten meat today — specially ordered from the butcher in Hogsmeade, reeking so badly that an ordinary person would be sickened. Over the six months I had attended CoMC and sought permission to feed these creatures independently, I had grown somewhat accustomed to the smell of rot. Moreover, I had learned to distinguish the nuances of this smell… It's not so hard to guess that fresh rotten meat smells less potent than meat that started decomposing a week ago. Alright, jokes aside: Thestrals, it turned out, could also tell the difference. They could tell so well that they preferred the older meat.
Today, I decided to treat my favorite magical creatures. Instead of limiting myself to the small amount of rotten meat Kettleburn would have given out just to spoil the Thestrals, I splurged on a farewell feast. Two sacks of prime beef, aged under special conditions. The Thestrals seemed to have been waiting for me — though they didn't show it by their appearance, because they were above that! However, even if they weren't crowding the fences, their glowing eyes burned in the morning twilight like dozens of small moons. The charm of these creatures lay in such tranquility.
I entered through the gate, and the Thestrals, accustomed to me, lined up like an honor guard. They were magnificent:
Huge, winged horses of a crow-like appearance, more like skeletons covered in smooth, rough skin. Their dragon-like faces looked dangerous (and were dangerous), and their wide-open, white, pupil-less eyes were eyes that saw what was hidden from the living. These machines of death were complemented by sharp fangs, with which they could easily tear a chunk of meat from a carcass. And their enormous, leathery wings, folded behind their backs, resembled bat wings. Their long, black tails lashed the ground lazily.
Perfect creatures! — I thought every time I saw them. At least, until I started feeding them. It always bothered me a little that these beautiful, in my opinion, creatures preferred rotten meat. Because deep down, I rejected carrion. I'd rather be a predator to the very end… I would choose fresh flesh, quivering and hot. But who was I to judge the tastes of the children of death?
It was funny that standing here, I wasn't afraid of fifth-class danger monsters. Ordinary Thestrals, despite being scavengers, could with playful ease take down a human, a bear, or anyone else. But the tamed Thestrals, long accustomed to the boy with hair the color of their eyes feeding and petting them, didn't attack. The first to approach me was Mor. As always.
Only the leaders had names; Kettleburn didn't name the others, and it would have been difficult and pointless to name so many. In short, Mor was larger than the others — a good dozen centimeters taller at the withers, more massive, with a broader chest. His wingspan reached over five meters. He was the alpha of this small herd. The leader — a creature that looked as if Death itself had created a steed in its own image and likeness.
"Hello, Mor," I said quietly, finally pulling out the sacks of rotten meat. Reaching my hand inside, I pulled out the first piece… a slimy piece. It wasn't that I wasn't disgusted, but it would have been wrong to feed them with gloves or telekinesis.
The Thestral tilted its head, its glowing eyes lingering on my face for a moment.
He took the meat from my outstretched palm carefully, almost gently. The sharp fangs didn't even touch my skin. I knew Mor could bite my hand off at the shoulder and not even choke. But he didn't bite. For some reason, he didn't bite.
"Good boy," I muttered, running my free hand along his neck, where ordinary horses usually have a long mane. The Thestral's skin was tough and cold. Paradoxically, the cold of death gave life to these magical creatures.
Soon, Mor stepped aside, making way for the herd. The other Thestrals began to approach when the leader gave the signal. I fed them in turn, and although I hadn't given them all names, I knew each one. I knew their habits; I knew who liked to snatch meat right from my hands, and who preferred to take it carefully. I knew who allowed approach only after they had eaten, and who allowed petting during the meal.
Mor always allowed it. Now he simply stood nearby, a little apart, watching. His white, glowing, pupil-less eyes bored into my back, reminding me that I was being watched. Death itself was watching. And it felt… so peaceful.
In truth, I just liked to think that way, deceiving myself into feeling special.
"You know, Mor," I began, after I had fed everyone by hand and petted them. The latter was the most important. "Everything is going to change soon. And it will change drastically."
Then I simply dumped the remaining meat from the sack, leaving a little at the bottom for Mor. The Thestrals started finishing their meal, and I approached Mor, placing the sack with the remaining rotten meat before him.
He began to eat, and I quietly petted and scratched him, thinking about what I was going to do today and that there would be no turning back.
When Mor finished eating, I crouched down, leaning my back against a wooden post. Mor, as if understanding that the conversation would be long, settled onto the ground a couple of meters from me, folding his wings and resting his dragon-like snout on his front hooves. His glowing eyes looked directly into mine. Thrilling!
"This might be the last time I feed you," I continued, looking into those bottomless white voids. "I don't know for sure. It all depends on today. If it works out… I simply won't have the chance to come here. Not this year, not later. But I still hope it works out."
The Thestral continued to stare; I took it as a sign to continue. I know he doesn't understand me, but I enjoyed talking to myself… or, more precisely, not entirely to myself. But anyway, the point is clear… I have no one to speak openly with, so I've resorted to this…
"Thank you," I said quietly. "You know… near you, children of death, I feel something I don't feel anywhere else." I ran my hand along the ground, gathering a handful of dry grass and unconsciously crumbling it in my fingers. "Peace. Near you, I feel peace. Because you remind me that I… that part of me has already been there. Beyond the veil."
It seemed that at this moment, I was not addressing the Thestrals, nor even talking to myself… now I was rather addressing death… through this beautiful creature so closely tied to this aspect of existence.
I wasn't afraid of death. The part of me that lived before merging with the Muggle memories was afraid of death — the ordinary human fear of the unknown, of the end. But after… after the two halves of the now one (almost) soul merged, the fear disappeared. Only an understanding and an attraction to this phenomenon remained.
But at the same time, I had no intention of dying. Not in the near future, nor ever — I firmly intended to live forever, to find a way, to understand this matter as thoroughly as I understood everything else. But I was drawn to death as a phenomenon. As a force. As that side of existence from which half of my soul came and where it should have remained by all logical rules. Next to the Thestrals, this feeling was most acute.
"Most people live and die without ever knowing what Thestrals look like. But I… I can look at you every day if I want. I can feed you by hand. I can pet you and feel your life pulsing beneath my fingers, so closely intertwined with death." I paused. "But I need to sort out my affairs. The Black inheritance and the library. You have no idea, Mor, what a library awaits me. The richest in Britain! So much knowledge, so many secrets… I'm even afraid to imagine how much time it will take just to digest a part of it." I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "There's so much I didn't have time to study at Hogwarts. So many books in the Restricted Section remain unread. But don't worry. The Black library will be more interesting. I'll find some time and tell you what I learned. If, of course, you want to listen."
I looked at Mor, and he just stared at me with his empty, glowing gaze. Ah yes… I was telling it all to myself and addressing myself too.
"It's a shame there's so much I didn't get to do. I never found the time for the ritual to obtain an Animagus form," I suddenly confessed with a note of annoyance. And I realized I was getting soft. "I gathered all the ingredients. Everything is ready, but there was no time! And also… I never figured out the Peeves situation. The Bloody Baron remains silent, and I confess, I was afraid to go looking for Peeves on Samhain… there."
The Thestral didn't answer. Thestrals don't answer at all — if they answer, it's already schizophrenia. What's more, they don't even make sounds: they don't neigh like ordinary horses, they don't snort like Hippogriffs. They just look.
I chatted like this for a long time, constantly checking that no one was around. I talked about plans and fears, about how hard it was to keep a straight face when everything inside was boiling with rage and ambition. About how hard it was to be who you've become when there are so many idiots around just waiting for you to make a mistake! I also talked about how sometimes I just wanted to… leave. Fly away somewhere where there was no Dumbledore, no McGonagall, no Vance or Rookwood with his stupidity. Where there was only knowledge and time.
It was this feeling that prompted me to take today's step, which would be the end… during the Dueling Club meeting. Fortunately, the conversation with Vance yesterday was productive, and everything should go according to plan. How nice that the Head Boy now knows about a completely different plan than the one that will ultimately unfold.
Mor listened. And that was the main thing. I love silent interlocutors. But, I think there's something off with my head. Although… I suppose such a monologue with myself replaced a session with a psychologist.
It was time to return: breakfast would be soon, and then the Dueling Club meeting.
But then I heard heavy, shuffling footsteps with the characteristic tapping of a wooden leg on stone. I turned around.
From around the corner of the paddock, Professor Silvanus Kettleburn appeared. The old professor, who had worked at Hogwarts for nearly seventy years, looked exactly as a man should who had survived sixty-two probationary periods and lost most of his limbs along the way. One whole arm and half a leg — the rest replaced by magic and prosthetics — but Kettleburn's one surviving eye remained alive and sharp, still capable of noticing things others would rather ignore.
"Mr. Malfoy," rumbled the white-moustached old wizard, approaching. "I was wondering who was spoiling the Thestrals here. Hagrid said he saw you heading towards the paddocks. Decided to check if you were hurting my beauties."
"Good morning, Professor," I inclined my head slightly in greeting with a smile on my face. "Not at all. We were just… talking, as always."
Kettleburn grunted, approaching the fence and looking into the paddock. Mor raised his head, recognized the old acquaintance, and then lowered his snout back to the ground.
"Talking, you say," the professor repeated, a smirk in his voice. "You know, Mr. Malfoy, in seventy years of teaching, I've seen only a few students who liked Thestrals. But for someone to talk to them… that's a first." He glanced at me with his one eye. "Are you aware that they don't understand human speech? Their brains aren't wired for it."
"Professor, I was just joking. Because I know that," I replied calmly. "But sometimes it's easier to talk when you're not understood."
Kettleburn thoughtfully scratched his chin with his one remaining hand.
"Hmm. You know, there might be something to that." He shifted his gaze to the Thestrals lying peacefully in the paddock, digesting their morning meal. "They are somewhat majestic," he suddenly said quietly, only to sharply raise his prosthetic and continue loudly. "The most underrated creatures in the entire magical world! Everyone fears them, everyone shies away from them, but they just… live. And wait for someone who can see them."
"I see them," I said. "And you see them."
"Yes," he finally said. "We see them. And that, Mr. Malfoy, says more about us than many other things." He turned and, limping, headed back towards his hut. "Lock the paddock when you leave. And tell Mor that tomorrow I'll bring them some rotten horse meat. I've been specially rotting it for the 'beauties.'"
"I'll tell him, Professor," I replied, but before Kettleburn could move away, I called out to him. "But… will you tell the Acromantulas to stop attacking me?"
"What's that, Mr. Malfoy?" The old professor turned sharply, even with some surprise.
Silvanus Kettleburn was an excellent teacher — cheerful, loving magical creatures and teaching… despite so many years of working with children. He had even helped me with my request to feed the Thestrals. He taught me everything, showed me everything in his time, thereby closing the Gestalt related to my liking for these "beauties." But I didn't believe that a man who knew about every creature in the magical world could have missed the Acromantula nest under his nose. Alright, maybe in his old age he no longer ventured deep into the forest, but these creatures left tracks, as well as signs of life — for example, the fact that every year, more and more dangerous creatures from the inner zone of the Forbidden Forest were emigrating to the outer zone, which should ideally be much safer. In short, he certainly knew about it.
"Professor, how dangerous do you think it would be to keep an Acromantula nest near the school?"
Kettleburn froze. His back, already stooped with age, seemed to turn to stone. The pause dragged on.