8. The Prisoners
— Thanks to our friend Parker here, we have the pleasure of playing with these creatures — Mortavius said.
Parker gave a cynical bow.
— I'm just doing my part, my lord. Community service.
Mortavius unrolled a parchment, walked to one of the cages, and indicated the man inside.
— This one — he said, his voice cutting the silence like a blade as he read the parchment — is Leonel Ferrazi. Apparently cultured, polite, and civilized — Mortavius smiled — But beneath the veneer… a butcher in a suit.
The voice seemed to take shape and spread like smoke.
— High-ranking executive of the International Monetary Fund. A Muggle bank, if you understand me — he explained — Lending money to desperate nations and demanding the dismantling of their health systems in return. The strangulation of education, privatization of water and food. Entire countries fell into ruins under his signature.
The man in the cage shrank, reacting suddenly:
— I only… followed orders. There were reports. Plans. Models. Everything was international rules. I didn't make the laws…
Mortavius ignored him, now speaking to all present as if giving a lecture.
— Greedier than dwarves, if that's even possible. Don't get me wrong, Thorfinn.
— I am not offended, my Lord. Greed is an admirable quality in our community — said the dwarf.
— But this man was an architect of hunger — Mortavius continued with disdain — The IMF, that institution wrapped in expensive suits and promises, disguises slavery under the name of international aid — He paused — But do you know what fascinates me? They print money, paper, as if they were gods. And yet they charge interest as if other people's misery were a moral failing.
The executive tried to hold back tears. Mortavius leaned slightly, eyes half-closed.
— How many nations have you plunged into famine? How many hospitals closed while protecting bankers' profits? For every closed hospital, a new car in the garage. Isn't that so? For every mother who lost a child, an extra bonus in your account.
— N-no, my Lord… — the man defended himself.
— They call it economic policy. Printing money from nothing, paper, digits. Fantasies. I call it black magic…
Contained contempt dripped from every word. Mortavius turned to the second cage.
— Marco Delaunay. Magnate. Renowned businessman. A shining name in the papers and a monster behind the scenes. He exchanged favors for sex. Stole wives' fidelity with prostitutes and interns.
The man in the cell, still maintaining a haughty posture, snorted ironically:
— This charade has gone too far. Where will it end? Punishing me for adultery now? — He paused dramatically — Who are you, the new Messiah?
Mortavius raised his wand with a single movement.
Silence.
Delaunay continued to speak, but no sound emerged. His hands rose, desperate, trying to tear through the spell's silence.
— Silence, Marco — Mortavius said with a half-smile — suits you much better.
He looked at Parker Hollow and asked:
— Are these all his crimes?
— He cut corners on a dam's construction, which collapsed and killed hundreds — the wizard explained with consternation.
— And Muggle justice let that pass?
Parker Hollow scratched his head before saying: — They treat the rich as invulnerable.
Mortavius ground his teeth and moved to the next cage.
— Dr. Gregory Hallenstein. Renowned physician. Venerated at conferences. But incompetent. Arrogant. Made misdiagnoses that cost lives. Negligence that killed. And covered his mistakes with false reports and bought silence.
The doctor wept, whispering a trembling plea for forgiveness.
— I… I was wrong. I know… But I regret it. Just… just don't kill me, please…
— Regret, when it comes too late, only feeds the worm of guilt — Mortavius said emotionlessly, then looked at Parker.
Parker forced a smile before saying:
— This man had the particular pleasure of giving eternal rest to certain types of patients…
— Truly evil. But next time bring someone with more heinous crimes — Mortavius said, disappointed.
In the fourth cage, a thin man with broken glasses cowered.
— Lucio Campanari. University professor. Known for failing students out of pure whim. Demanded the impossible… and taught nothing. Destroyed futures for pleasure…
He paused, looking at Parker again:
— Oh Parker, oh Parker… is being a crappy professor a crime now?
— Well… this one, my lord… a special person I know wished an end for this jerk, and I'm just doing him a favor — Parker replied with a smile.
Professor Campanari, gathering strength in his throat, said:
— No, please… I… I just wanted respect. They knew nothing, didn't deserve to go through…
Mortavius asked no more. While Campanari cried openly, begging, knees on the cage floor.
— Here… there is no mercy — Mortavius said, looking at him harshly.
Finally, Mortavius stopped in front of the last cage. There, a man in a torn cassock, head bowed, praying softly, fingers interlaced, voice trembling.
— Father Mauricio Gonzaga. Shepherd of souls, they said. But behind the altar, he abused the children under his care — He then turned to Parker with approval in his eyes — This one, you handled excellently.
— Thank you very much, my Lord — Parker replied with a flourish.
Rita felt disgust, looking at the man. Father Gonzaga seemed oblivious to the darkness around him. He prayed fervently, voice low and hoarse, as if every word was ripped from his own soul. Tears ran down his face.
Mortavius watched him with narrow, cold, deadly eyes. To him, this man was no more than an animal kneeling before an invisible, incomprehensible Lord that could only have been invented by a malevolent genius. In his opinion.
He knew every word in that scripture the priest swore to follow. Knew every promise and every lie whispered for centuries in the name of a kingdom that would never come. Yes, in the past, he himself had sought in that faith a shortcut to immortality.
Promises of life after death, sacred magic, and an eternal inheritance were attractive to him. And only a fool wouldn't feel touched by those promises. But it was all just fables for slaves, a golden shackle for weak and stupid minds. He was not one to turn the other cheek. To renounce magic, power, and strength just to become a follower of one who couldn't even escape the cross? Laughable.
And this miserable priest, kneeling, was living proof of all that falsehood. Swearing obedience to a Lord he had failed. A joke.
— Your prayers… will not rise. To you, man of God… hell seems more fitting.
The priest lifted his eyes. A desperate faith inhabited his gaze.
— There is still time… The Lord is coming back. And all of you… can still repent. He will come in glory, and all nations will fear His wrath…
Mortavius looked at him for a long moment. Red, relentless eyes. The air thick, hard to breathe, and a sudden impulse ran through Mortavius' arm.
— Then go to Him. And tell Him what you have done.
The wand rose. A green flash. Silence.
The priest's body fell, lifeless. Dead.
The other cages trembled with terror. Rita turned pale. Parker Hollow smiled, while Snape remained immobile, expression unreadable.
Mortavius slowly turned to the others.
— This is the kind of filth… — he murmured, contemplating the panic in the eyes of the caged men — …that orthodox societies protect with such care.
Behind him, Thorfinn rolled his eyes and muttered something like "damned priests always first," pulled ten silver coins from his pocket, and, with a disgruntled expression, handed them to Parker Hollow, who was already smiling before receiving them.
— I told you — Parker said quietly, rubbing the coins between his fingers as if they were talismans. — Religious fanatics tend toward martyrdom.
A dense silence fell as Mortavius slowly turned toward Rita Skeeter.