A field. Sunlight breaking through clouds — but not here, somewhere far off in the distance. The wind moves through the grass; the rustle of leaves from the nearby copse reaches my keen ears. I stand invisible in the middle of all this open beauty, waiting for a potential adversary to appear. Waiting, ready for whatever comes.
The spatial distortion of an Apparition appeared instantly, depositing a heavyset red-haired woman in black robes. Her face wore unconcealed fury, and an equally furious gaze began to sweep the surroundings in a frenzy. She spun sharply to check behind her. In that moment, two more figures Apparated in — obvious wretches in clothes that had seen better days by a considerable margin. They looked like something out of a storybook about bandits — unkempt, roughed up by life, with predatory eyes and animalistic features. Werewolves who have surrendered to the beast are far too easy to recognise in a crowd.
More to the point, from the woman — whose appearance struck me as phenomenally repulsive for reasons I couldn't quite account for, though there was nothing objectively particularly repulsive about her — I could sense the presence of the Dark Mark on her arm.
— Find the Mudblood filth! — the woman shrieked, spinning her wand in a loop. — He's stopped Apparating.
— Already looking, madame… — one of the werewolves grinned, dropping almost to the ground and sniffing at it.
The second werewolf was scenting the air itself. The woman — red hair pulled tight into a bun at the back of her head — flicked her wand.
— Homenum Revelio, — she said.
A wave of detection magic spread outward, and I could quite literally feel it pass through me, finding nothing — it would have been a poor use of paranoid concealment if it had.
Werewolves who have given themselves over to the beast can no longer be considered human — only extremely dangerous animals. And if an ordinary animal, however dangerous, remains an animal, these werewolves were far worse. To understand the degree of threat, one must imagine animal instincts twisted and sharpened by magic toward killing, then add human cunning and resourcefulness, with every trace of moral principle thoroughly excised.
Can the process be reversed? No cases of it are known to me, at any rate. And that means only one thing.
Directing my wand at the trio of pursuers, my first action was to activate a prepared approximation of an anti-Apparition barrier. Immediately, without waiting for the moment when the enemy might register what was happening, I channelled a mixture of dark magic and storm energy through my wand and used the spell I'd taken from Malfoy. Sectumsempra. I didn't need to say it aloud — just a silent movement of the lips.
A sharp crack, like the tip of a whip snapping beside the ear, and the werewolf crouching on the ground was quite literally gutted — his entrails and a portion of his muscle simply spilled out beneath him, spreading across the grass. His skull had split along clean lines, as if carved by a blade, and it appeared the brain had been forced out through the fissures.
Without giving the others a moment to recover, I repeated the spell on the second werewolf — the sight was more vivid here, as he was standing upright. His torso swelled visibly beneath his untouched clothing, and that swollen mass of finely shredded internal organs, muscle, and fragments of bone simply poured out from his clothes in a single flow, pooling at his feet. For a moment or two the werewolf stood where he was — reduced, in essence, to a framework, like a dressed carcass, only clothed — and only then did the last tension leave what remained of his muscles, and he began to topple, eyes already glazed and staring at nothing.
— Shit! — the woman cried and spun on her heel, but instead of Apparating, simply fell into the low grass.
Incomprehension crossed her face for just a moment before pure savage fury replaced it. She scrambled to her feet with surprising agility for her build. Her outstretched hand gripped her wand, and she kept spinning in different directions, expecting attack from somewhere.
— Where are you, you filth?! — she screamed into the empty air, jerking one way and then another. — I'll find you, gut you, and make you eat your own innards!
A spirited woman. Given that she was no longer restraining herself, casting in random directions, I could easily sense all the rot from murders and magical torture that had warped her mind and her magic — turning it genuinely dark, with the energy of death, not what passes for darkness in this world. A lost soul, a lost witch, carrying nothing but death and destruction, and apparently enjoying it. Or possibly acting on other motivations, though that seemed unlikely.
What I would like to know is what on earth had prompted someone like this to come after me.
Focusing, I levelled my wand at the frantic, furious woman as she flailed about in her small patch of space, casting random spells in spreading cones trying to catch an invisible target, and decided to make use of the result of one of my experiments. A touch of storm energy for a simple spell…
— Baubillious, — I mouthed silently.
From the tip of my wand — almost instantaneously even by my perception — lightning struck, hitting the witch dead on. The loud crack from the electric arc punching through the air was almost deafening — because this was no purely magical lightning that merely flashes and delivers no real harm, but something close to the genuine article, thanks to the storm energy.
The woman dropped hard and suddenly as violent convulsions seized her entire body. She went down thoroughly.
— Expelliarmus. Silencio. Incarcerous, — quickly and precisely I stripped the witch of mobility, wand, and voice, using entirely standard methods.
I poured in no small amount of magic, and the woman was bound up tight as a chrysalis. After a moment's thought I added a straightforward Petrificus Totalus, so she could not move in any meaningful sense whatsoever.
I approached her without dropping my invisibility. The combined effect of the spells left her gaze wandering, barely conscious, and the frozen mask of fury on her face inspired nothing but revulsion and contempt. I directed my wand at her face and asked a question, casting Legilimens non-verbally at the same time.
— Who are you and why do you want to kill that Mudblood? — a depersonalised framing would help nudge her thoughts in the right direction.
Another person's consciousness is uncharted territory. The original phrase speaks of the soul, but the essence holds. The associations, thoughts, and logical connections triggered by my question produced visual images in my mind — images that one must not merely be capable of interpreting, but also of remaining detached from, along with the magic of the wizard being "read," always discerning the boundary between one's own mind and the foreign one, not allowing the alien to take hold.
Nott had been simple and in his own way rather stupid, which had made it easy enough. Here the mind was disordered, and the accumulated life experience alongside a consciousness warped by death magic made reading the images a rather engrossing but bewildering exercise. I managed nonetheless, extracting what I needed.
Alecto Carrow. Sister of the wizard I'd encountered not long ago. If I understood correctly, Amycus himself was presently in the process of dying rather decisively from the curse I'd reflected back from his ring. The key detail being that he was doing so very confidently and without delay, and for some reason no Healers had been called. Alecto had heard from him what had happened, and he had concluded that the only possible candidate, the only conceivable culprit, was me.
How had they found me? One of those werewolves had been lurking in the Leaky Cauldron and spotted me that morning. He'd reported in immediately and had been tailing me for most of the day. The witch herself and the second werewolf had only joined the surveillance a couple of hours ago; together they had simply been waiting for a convenient moment.
The witch resisted my mental intrusion, but I honestly couldn't be bothered to navigate around that with any subtlety or finesse — I pushed through with force, and without a trace of regret.
— How many people have you killed and tortured?
The answer to that question interested me, but the number of associations and images that flickered past was something to behold. Many. There were perfectly ordinary wizards among them. The majority, if I was interpreting the feel of the flashing memories correctly — ordinary people, who could always be "safely" tortured, maimed and killed, since no one would think to follow the trail of a murder or disappearance into the magical world.
— I'm no saint, — I said, withdrawing from the witch's consciousness and taking in the werewolf corpses and the woman herself. — But dangerous wild animals need to be put down.
The witch didn't know where to look, as I remained invisible to her.
— It's a pity, — I continued, — that some dangerous animals bear such a remarkable resemblance to people.
I gave the slightest flick of my wand, simultaneously building the necessary image in my mind and feeding it with magic, and Carrow's head separated from her body. Blood jetted out in powerful pulses from the clean cut, a thin but forceful stream of red liquid spraying several metres forward into the grass, saturating everything around it. That is, perhaps, the one genuine inconvenience of decapitation. That, and the fact that consciousness persists for a few seconds after.
While I waited for the body's final death so I could cleanly dispose of everything with a couple of variations on Evanesco, I found myself thinking — precisely how "not human" am I? I mean — I kill too, and without hesitation, and I've even found myself a justification: the elimination of dangerous humanoid magical creatures.
Dwelling on one's humanity is, strictly speaking, pointless, given that what a human "ought to be" shifts across eras and cultures. In one time and one society, a truly "human" figure is a ruthless warrior who brings back spoils for the tribe in his raids. In another — a virtuous, universally tolerant servant of the system. Or, say, a devout and righteous man. But if you deviate from whatever the current norms happen to be, does that make you less human? Does the soldier who kills for his ideals and his country become a murderer unworthy of forgiveness? Why was the crusader who cut down the unfaithful considered a hero in Christian society? Where is genuine humanity to be found?
There isn't any.
— Evanesco, — a sweep of my wand and a considerable magical impulse erased all traces of what I'd done. — A poor excuse for a Healer, really.
On the other hand, a Healer's purpose is to help people. And there are different ways to help — treating the ill, or eliminating the dangerous. Humanity… Each person defines it for themselves. In my particular case, the sensible course is to fall back on a simple and ancient truth — those who come against us by the sword shall perish by the sword.
I turned and Apparated away, covering my tracks thoroughly. Then again, and again, to be certain. Only after that did I Apparate to somewhere near home, beside the same local minimarket as always.
On the walk back, I turned over a question that was genuinely complex for me, given that the shards of different beings hold rather contradictory views on the matter.
The question is simple, in truth — should I, with the capabilities I possess, be hunting down and eliminating those supporters of the Dark Lord who, by my assessment, qualify as humanoid magical creatures: dangerous, unprincipled, and amoral? It isn't a matter of public opinion here — no one would ever know it had been me. It's something else entirely.
From a dwarf's perspective: sit tight, reinforce your defences, and if someone comes directly to your door — reduce them to dust.
From an elf's perspective: a threat to the forest must be eliminated at any cost, because by the time the enemy reaches your borders, any delay may already have cost you lives among your own.
The various shards of small and sundry creatures have a simple logic and a simple chain of associations: avoid the threat where possible, and if that fails, fight to the last. Though a pair of shards take a different and quite definite view — the enemy must be tracked, hunted down, and destroyed. Even if he poses no immediate threat to you. Simply because that is what must be done.
And only that foundation around which all of it is assembled, held together, and somehow made to function — the foundation belonging to a human, to the original me — simply counsels against any rush, and acting according to circumstances. Or better yet, running. Because that is, in a certain sense, the rational choice. Why fight when you don't have to?
I arrived home just in time for dinner. The family was seated at the table and had clearly not been waiting for me.
— Evening, — I raised a hand as I stepped into the dining room. — Mm. Something smells wonderful.
— Hungry? — Mum smiled. — Sit down, I'll get your plate.
She rose from the table and quickly sorted out a plate and cutlery.
— Just need to wash my hands.
Having dealt with the matter of hygiene, I returned to the dining room and sat down beside Hermione. A plate had already been loaded generously on my behalf — various meats, roasted vegetables, everything that belongs in a proper, thoroughly unhealthy dinner.
— How was the walk? — my little sister asked without even giving me a chance to taste anything.
— Let your brother eat, — Mum chided her. — Look how hungry he is.
— He's always hungry, — Hermione sniffed, smiling. — So how was it?
— Not bad, — I nodded, and helped myself to a quick bite of meat.
— You always give such neutral answers, — she shook her head, and my parents gave an agreeable nod, though their expressions said: At least we get something. — And I've never really seen you show any strong emotion. Everything contained, kept within limits. That's obviously the Slytherin ice queen's influence.
— More that we've found common ground in both being inclined to keep ourselves within certain limits.
— And what's the point of that? Apart from, — Hermione waved her dessert spoon in the air, — the whole cool, unruffled persona?
— Magic is worked through emotion and mental images.
— Through knowledge of spells, — Hermione objected immediately.
— And through knowledge of spells, — I agreed, partially — impossible to refute it, since it plainly works. Though I've never quite grasped the underlying principle; the deeper mechanics of it still somewhat elude me.
— Knowledge of spells, primarily, — Hermione held her ground. My parents had nothing to contribute here and simply watched our exchange with contented expressions.
— How many spells did you know before Hogwarts?
— That's different, — she shook her head. — That's spontaneous accidental magic in childhood. It can manifest in completely unpredictable forms.
— Yes. Except that you define that "unpredictable" form through images in your own mind, and you trigger the process with a surge of emotion — joy, anger, it doesn't matter.
— Well, if you look at it from that angle, — she paused to think for a moment. — All the same, nobody writes or talks about this anywhere. Most likely it simply doesn't interest wizards, or it can't be controlled.
— About as controllable as one's thoughts, mind, and emotions are without years of dedicated practice. Try thinking of nothing. Not a single image surfacing, not a word from your inner voice, nothing happening at all. Try it, and be appalled — it's practically impossible.
— I'll try, definitely. But what's all this leading to?
— To the fact that I can be considered a powerful wizard. My mind and body are capable of releasing a tremendous amount of magic in one go. What would require real effort from most people, I can manage without strain, — seeing an objection beginning to form on my sister's face, I hastened to add: — Not in terms of skill or knowledge, but in terms of raw power.
— Go on, — Hermione chose to hold her counter-arguments in reserve.
— To produce two identical spontaneous magical effects requires an identical amount of magic, regardless of who's casting.
— That also sounds logical, and more to the point it's accurate, — Hermione agreed. — Which is precisely why Transfiguration is considered so difficult. Not only in terms of the knowledge required.
— Yes, it's a demanding discipline, and not everyone can concentrate to the necessary degree, — setting aside a few less significant nuances. — But that's not the point right now. Let's say the amount of magic an average wizard can release in a given unit of time is one hundred. Mine is five hundred. These are approximate figures — don't object to them.
— Granted, — Hermione nodded and speared a small piece of cake with her spoon.
— For some kind of spontaneous magic, thirty is sufficient — let's say. A strong emotion can trigger a surge equal to twenty percent of maximum power. Do you follow?
— I think so, — she ate the piece of cake and set down her spoon. — Twenty percent of an average wizard's capacity is twenty units. For you — a hundred.
— Exactly. A straightforward example — how many times have you seen Ron genuinely furious? Properly livid?
— A few times, — Hermione thought about it.
— Did anything happen around him during those moments?
— No. Unless you count the fact that he irritates everyone or simply freezes them on the spot.
— There you are. If I let my emotions reach that level, heads might literally roll.
— Why specifically heads? — my sister looked somewhat alarmed. — Spontaneous outbursts aren't particularly dangerous. Usually.
— And here we come back to the question: "Magic, and the role of thought in spellcasting." Magic is neutral. It's simply energy. It doesn't care in the slightest what it brings into being — miracles or nightmares. It's we — and our thoughts — who give magic the direction in which it moves. The clearer, more precise, and more resolute the thought, the more effectively the magic is used.
— That's actually the correct way of putting it, — my father smiled, in the way that only a parent can when he absolutely must add his own two Knuts. — Even I can see that.
— I'm still not quite sure where you're heading with this, — Hermione hurried to finish her cake, as though the point of our conversation somehow affected its flavour.
— Somewhere simple, actually, — I still hadn't dealt with my main course, so I permitted myself to eat a few pieces of meat and some vegetables first, then continued. — Strong emotions can allow certain images to slip into one's thoughts unintentionally. From anger, for instance, or anything similar — it's quite easy to imagine, just for a fraction of a second, some harm befalling a person. Say, their head snapping sharply around on its axis. Or a person folding cleanly in half — no blood, nothing dramatic, just the figure itself. Or the most basic example — a sharp blow to the nose.
Hermione frowned.
— I've imagined, on several occasions, certain individuals… receiving a blow to the nose. Malfoy, for instance.
— There you are. And what I'm getting at is this — that kind of thought, simple but precise, under the conditions we've just discussed, is capable of producing the effect of that blow instantly. And a blow to the nose, executed with sufficient force, can quite easily kill a person. If you don't take my word for it — ask our parents. The bone structure of the skull makes such a thing possible, and with magic — there isn't even a question.
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