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“Sanguiscruor!”
Amidst the harrowing heat of battle, I had become accustomed to the incessant shouts of spell-slinging, and had been doing a self-assessed admirable job of filtering it out. At that point, even if I were to play hopscotch through the lair of a Hungarian Horntail, everything would seem as distant as the birds on the far North breeze.
Never mind the fact I was one sizzling spell away from being deep-fried, there was only me and the injured person below me.
First-aid, as it turned out, was not my forte.
Then, I felt it.
At first, it was a spark of scarlet flares that drew suspiciously close given how removed I was from the fray, bringing a foreboding illumination to the open space around me. Crimson light washed over the bloodstained steps I knelt on, as well as the ghastly pallor of the man below me.
Subsequently, I felt a heavy, sickening impact on the centre of my spine.
It was as if something had taken root in me, creeping like vines from each of my vertebrae to the extremities of my fingers and toes.
The primal terror that ebbed and flowed in the network of my veins and nerves was disproportionate to the innocuous sensation. It was neither the intolerable torture of crucio, nor the disembodied delirium of imperio.
Instead, it was an omen, and stimulated my sixth sense of danger. Suddenly, I knew that everything around me – every blade of grass, cudgel of stone and shard of sand – were threats.
Something. Something is wrong.
Next was an intense head spin, and every single inch of me was viciously vibrating.
It was as if my body was a belltower struck by lightning, producing sonorous clangs in the inside of my skull that made Big Ben seem like a middling, backyard windchime. Should Headmaster Black have had the opportunity to witness the scene, I would be strung up as a long-overdue renovation to Hogwarts’ scheduling system, and could guarantee no first-year would ever be tardy to Defence Against the Dark Arts again.
Suddenly, it was all a little too much – the metallic scent of blood, the assault of the unknown spell on my conscious, the way the world blurred around me.
The realization that, in hindsight, I could at that moment have been doing any number of less fatal activities.
In a bid to remain conscious, I bit my lip.
“Watch out! Finite!” The warning from Greta was much too late, not that I could blame her, facing off three-against-one. “Move his body further away. I’ve called for reinforcements from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Hit Wizards should be arriving soon.”
It was supposed to be a standard patrol.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had accepted a proposition from the Department of Magical Education to allow for students going into the sixth or seventh year to undergo ministry internships. The program would take place over the nine-week Summer holidays, and was only available to those with outstanding academic performances.
Neither Deputy Headmistress Matilda Weasley nor Headmaster Black were opposed to it, considering that the Auror Office wasn’t included on the list of internship positions.
Building experience, better grades.
When Prefect Patricia Cunk handed out the application forms in the Hufflepuff Common Room, I truly didn’t think much more of it than that.
She said: “Fill in the application if you want, it’s not mandatory. If you do, hand it in to Professor Weasley’s office by the end of school term.”
Dead parents. Dead Professor Fig.
Really, I seemed to carry an abominably effective curse that sent any and all of my parental figures to the pearly gates.
Poppy, the kind-hearted person she was, extended the offer that I stay with her and her grandmother for the duration of the holidays. Only, while the Sweeting family had a number of laudable traits – compassion, generosity, clemency – wealth was scathingly absent from the list.
My own pockets weren’t exactly deep enough to compensate, and I was loathe to be a freeloader.
That, and I don’t want her grandma to greet me with a smile and say farewell with a coffin.
Following that line of thought, rather than go back to the muggle orphanage to muddle along using government funding, reducing the amount distributed to the other children, I supposed that enrolling into the program was a much better idea. It provided free board and meals in the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol cadet dormitories.
Oh how I was wrong.
I had obtained Outstandings in the five subjects of Potions, Charms, Herbology, Transfiguration and Defence Against The Dark Arts during my final exams. This meant I met the prerequisites for most, if not all, internship positions.
Given my ambition to become an Auror, I had no reservations in settling for the next best option – the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol – and gleefully signed my life away.
Where Aurors were responsible for criminal investigation of the most heinous misconducts in the wizarding community, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol had a much a cushier job, handling everything from tax fraud to minor misdemeanours.
An arrest made by an Auror was very different to one made by a patrol officer.
I almost felt bad.
My ability to mire myself in the direst of circumstances no matter where I ended up, Hogwarts or otherwise, could only be called unprecedented. From almost single-handedly tackling the Second Goblin Rebellion and one of the largest crime organizations in Great Britain as a fifth-year, I had a star-studded resume of biting off far more than I could chew.
I didn’t know what to expect from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, but it couldn’t get much worse than sealing an ancient repository of dark magic, right?
Even if I were to be an Auror, I had the confidence.
And so, after a two-week introductory course to the patrol and completing a series of tests and examinations where it quickly became apparent I was overqualified for the occupation, I was taken on patrol.
Greta Renfield, a senior patrol officer, was assigned as my mentor.
The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office had flagged a case in which a wizard by the name of Herbert Trout had been enchanting a series of opal rings with a Mood Reflection Charm, selling them as novelty items to the nouveau-riche London socialites. He operated out of his small home in the hamlet of West Moorlea Cross.
An arrest of that kind needn’t require the presence of Hit Wizards.
Herbert, aside from being a lawbreaking troublemaker, was hardly the kind of evil mastermind one would associate with dark wizardry. At most, he would be brought into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, given a slap on the wrist, then let out after paying a fine.
“You don’t have to worry at all.” Greta assured me with a smile. “Not that you look the sort to worry, really.”
She was a diminutive woman of small stature, twenty-seven years of age and having worked as a patrol officer for almost half of that time. She was very slender, with dark brown hair slicked back in a tight, professional ponytail.
As she deftly traversed the uneven cobblestone pavement of the town outskirts, that same ponytail swung like a pendulum.
“What do you want me to do?” I responded.
Admittedly, I wasn’t in my prime when it came to spells of incapacitation. From my own latent ancient magic to the colourful spectrum of Dark Arts taught by Sebastian Sallow, I was better equipped to send my opponent six-feet-under than to a prison cell.
At least, when fending off ferocious hordes of goblins, acromantulas and Ashwinders, all wanting your head on a silver platter, ‘expelliarmus’ wasn’t the first spell to come to mind.
It was self-defence. I deluded myself.
“Stand aside and pay attention to what I do – I’m not doubting your combat abilities, but this arrest is more procedural. We’ll present Herbert Trout with the evidence the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office put together, then escort him through the Floo Network to the Ministry.”
In other words, watch and learn.
The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol insisted officers memorize upwards of twenty different scripts for arrests, each depending on the situation. When cadets were brought in for recital, you would think it a wandering art troupe rather than a group of battle-ready agents.
“Will he resist arrest?”
Possibly due to dabbling in magical fraud, Herbert Trout’s cottage was situated from the town centre, behind a wooded thicket. That said, humans weren’t sedentary creatures, and had the habit of moving around. I wasn’t afraid of a fight, but I was afraid of the paperwork that would come if a muggle bore witness to it.
Greta shook her head, looking slightly amused.
“Depends what your definition of ‘resist’ is. In cases like this, violent altercations are seldom the outcome, but a wild apparition goose chase isn’t off the tables.” She hummed jovially. “Really, you just have to have the knack of knowing when to cast petrificus totalus.”
I gave a wry smile, before saying: “I don’t know how to apparate.”
“The sun must’ve risen from the West. There’s something you aren’t uncharacteristically good at for your age?” She teased, patting me on the shoulder. “Wasn’t expecting you to. On the slim chance I do have to apparate away, just go back by Floo Powder. You’re an intern, its not like you can be penalized. Oh, we’ve arrived.”
Herbert Trout’s cottage was perched on a small mound at the periphery of the West Moorlea Cross countryside, nestled among a series of fenced pastures and pumpkin patches. The mailbox was a sorrowful affair, the head of it drooping with the sullen posture of a grieving widow.
As the wind whistled underneath the overcast canopy, it cast gloomy shadows under the eaves.
Windows latched and boarded, with a thatched roof and brick walls that seemed one Big Bad Wolf from getting huff-puffed away, it was dilapidated in every sense of the word.
“I’m starting to see why he resorted to selling enchanted mood rings.” Greta expressed my sentiments aloud, raising an eyebrow thoughtfully. “If anyone asks, I didn’t say that. Thirty-Fifth and Pine, this is the place.”
We walked up the front door, which hung asymmetrically on a single weight-bearing hinge. It was adorned with a wooden doorknob that was peeling off the plank.
My feeling of guilt for Herbert Trout only grew.
“Do we knock?” I whispered.
There was a loud banging on the inside, like someone was washing up dishes in the kitchen. The occasional murmur affirmed the idea that the resident of the cottage was, without a doubt, on the inside.
“Rule number one of wizarding world arrests.” Greta hushed back. “Never knock. Gives them sufficient time to apparate or use Floo Powder. Alohamora!”
The door clicked as it unlocked, and Greta fumbled to open it, but it seemed to be barricaded and refused to budge despite the use of the spell. Stiff and unlubricated, the senior patrol officer struggled for a second, before blushingly resorting to more violent means.
“If jamming the doorknob wasn’t intentional, I’ll pay for a replacement. It’d probably be doing him a favour. My salary is more than high enough.” She consoled herself under her breath. “Alright!”
Bringing her foot down on the door like the judgement of the heavens, Greta busted it agape with her boot.
Bang!
The door came off its rusted swivel and fell to the interior of the cottage, bringing up a thick cloud of dust and dirt.
Satisfied, Greta bellowed.
“Magical Law Enforcement Patrol! You’re under arrest for violating Article 96 of the International Statute of Secrecy. Put your hands above your head and –“
Her voice choked in her throat.
The table and chairs had been knocked over like dominos. A teapot had shattered into fragments tiny enough to fill an hourglass, and Earl Grey dripped from the walls alongside bloody splatter. The fireplace was extinguished, and the burnt smell of scorching spellcraft wafted from charred indentations on mutilated furniture.
Three hooded figures, dressed in black cloaks lined with red, were hunched over the body of Herbert Trout, who lay supine on the carpet of the central room.
Poor guy, not only murdered, but worse – broke.
His wrist had been slit from his palm to his elbow, and it drizzled steadily into a bucket, like the morbidly gothic equivalent of tugging at a cow’s teats. Whatever the three hooded figures were harvesting, I highly doubted it was the milk of human kindness.
Simultaneously, they turned back to face our unwelcome intrusion, revealing ibis-shaped metal masks.
The Three Hooded Figures: “…”
Greta: “…”
Me: “…”
Herbert Trout: “…”
The last of those three groups was particularly concerning, considering he appeared either dearly departed from the mortal plane, or on his dying breath.
One wrong move, and the man would be waltzing with the Grim Reaper.
The three hooded figures swiftly reacted by raising their wands, directing them at Greta, who stood in the doorway. Unfortunately for them, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol training wasn’t for nothing, and Greta was the first to fire off her spell: “Stupefy!”
The bolt of blue landed squarely on one of the figures, who was knocked back, unconscious.
His compatriots were unfazed, letting out their own torrential rain of offensive magic at my mentor, who defended herself with a shield. Colourful blasts were traded back and forth, but considering she was working one against two, Greta was still at a disadvantage.
One of them bent down, attempting to bring Herbert Trout to apparate away.
“Accio!”
Using the spell on the tattered attire of Herbert Trout, I summoned the neglected man towards me, making the hooded figures even more irate.
He landed at my feet with an unnerving squelch.
Herbert looked extremely worse for wear, his outerwear soaked in a perilous pool of blood, his eyes staring into the great beyond like a beached fish. For whatever reason, the hooded figures refused to apparate away unless they brought their victim with them, increasing the intensity of their bombardment against Greta.
While she was putting up a noble effort, she was being pressed back.
“Vulnera senentur!”
I directed the Healing Charm onto the body of Herbert Trout, hoping to swiftly return him to the realm of the living, and thus return me swiftly to my mentor’s side.
Lest she become another one of the adults I crammed into a casket.
However, the long and deep gashes that riddled his body didn’t have any reaction, still spilling fresh blood out onto the doorsteps in a raging river.
“A curse?”
Wounds inflicted with curses couldn’t be healed by charms.
Considering the state of Herbert Trout, it would be a meaningless endeavour to try and get him to swallow a Wiggenweld Potion. If his dead-fish flopping on the edge of the Western shores was to be believed, he would simply gurgle it right back up like mouthwash, or even choke to death.
Plan B, then.
First, I raised my wand, vanishing his clothes while caring little for his decency. Then, I began to forage for the tincture of essence of dittany in my first-aid kit, sprinkling it liberally across his flesh. I felt like a sick and twisted chef, with my meal on the chopping board.
Drained of blood and now seasoned, my condolences.
“Have you done first aid yet!?” Greta roared, and I snapped out of my reverie. “Cover for me!”
“On it!”
In any case, offence was the best defence, and the sooner we repelled the hooded figures, the sooner we could get Herbert to St. Mungos. The Healers there were infinitely better equipped to handle whatever Herbert was dealing with than I was.
Not having time to pay any attention to Herbert Trout, who was beyond my capabilities as an amateur, I started to do what I do best – beat shit up.
Prepare to meet your maker, bird-beaked bastards.
Assuming Greta’s position in the doorway, I started to sling off a furious series of spells at my attackers. As it turned out, I was much more adept than Greta in combat, much to the hooded figures’ frustrations. However, the third one soon recovered from his stupefy-induced daze and joined the skirmish.
Behind me, Greta tapped the singular pearl earring that dangled from her left ear, and it assumed a rich navy lustre.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Magical Law Enforcement Patrol Greta Renfield requesting for immediate back up. Attackers suspected to be three perpetrators from the recent blood-smuggling case. Send Mediwizards, critical patient. Coordinates are –“
Realizing that they were at the end of their line, the three figures panicked, reduced to a crazed frenzy that told me that they wouldn’t allow us to leave – not with Herbert Trout. They turned their heads to one another, nodded, and turned back to me.
While Greta’s words relieved my anxieties by revealing they were smugglers, not cannibals, the revelation was shelved in the back of my brain as the figures raised their wands simultaneously.
“Avada Kedavra!”
“Fuck!” I hissed. “Accio!”
The door frame that had been knuckledusted by Greta rose back to life, springing up in front of me to block the green bolts. I felt a cold sheen of sweat build at the crest of my brow, and I let myself catch my breath.
I felt a tug on my shoulder, and Greta swapped places with me again, face pale from fright.
“Stay behind me and tend to his wounds. The dittany only had a minor effect, and I think they used the Blood-Letting Curse. I can’t apparate him away while he’s under the effect of a curse, or I’ll risk splinching him.”
The unspoken words hung between us: “So, I’m going to be your human meat shield.”
Forget tending to his wounds, dittany was already the culmination of my restorative expertise. Seeing it at least had a minimal effect, I directly emptied on him my entire stock, before leaning down to feel Herbert Trout’s pulse.
The man was sprawled out, looking like a puppet with cut strings, and feeling about as alive as one.
By that I meant no, he didn’t have a pulse.
“Goddammit!” I scowled. “Corconcussa!”
Electricity danced from the tip of my wand, before Herbert Trout convulsed like a shocked frog in science class. Considering the spell was originally intended for combat purposes, my hopes were hardly flourishing, but I continued to use the spell on him as a last resort.
Swim, trouty, swim!
Eventually, he took a deep breath.
Leaning down, I pressed my finger against his neck, and breathed a sigh of relief when I felt the drumming sensation. With growing pride, I decided that after that day, I was going to retire from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol and fulfil my destiny as a Marine Biologist.
“Depulso!”
My joy was quickly cut short.
Before I could quite register what happened, a shadow loomed across Herbert and I, obscuring my vision. Then, I heard a loud thud to my side, and looked over at Greta, who had been flung some distance onto the front lawn, landing with a crunch on a pile of pumpkins.
“Sanguiscruor!”
At first, it was the spark of red flares that seemed to draw suspiciously close given how removed I was from the fray, bringing a foreboding illumination to the open space around me. Crimson light washed over the bloodstained steps I knelt on, as well as the ghastly pallor of the man below me.
Subsequently, I felt a heavy, sickening impact on the base of my spine, expanding like creeping vines from each of my vertebrae to the extremities of my fingers and toes.
Next was an intense head spin, which felt as if every inch of me was vibrating.
It was as my body was a belltower struck by lightning, producing sonorous clangs in the inside of my skull that made Big Ben seem like a small, backyard windchime.
In a bid to remain conscious, I bit my lip.
“Watch out! Finite!”
The warning from Greta was much too late, but she managed to offset whatever malicious curse was meant to supersede the previous one.
Greta limped back towards me, cradling her shoulder, which had been misaligned from the rest of her anatomy. Lamentably, that same arm was the one with which she wielded her wand. Her less than desirable dexterity with the other didn’t bode well for our safety.
“Leave his body here, and go try find a place we can fall back to. I’ve called for reinforcements from the Patrol, Hit Wizards should be arriving soon.”
In other words, run.
Even in her panic and adrenaline, she didn’t forget to afford me some semblance of comfort. We both knew full well that if the Hit Wizards didn’t arrive within exactly the next few minutes, Greta had booked a one-way ticket to the other side.
Appreciative, I disobeyed her command, taking Herbert Trout into my clutches and dragging him out and away from the cottage.
“I said leave his body here!”
She shouted, out of breath as she countered another spell.
Back in the narrow pass of the doorway, she tried to stave off the advance of the three hooded figures, but they bombarded her with continued bursts of magic. As I pulled Herbert away, I waited for the moment of reckoning, and it came soon.
Greta missed her footing on one of the cottage steps as she was pressed back, and another charm slammed its way into her chest.
Off to the pumpkin patch she went.
A hooded figure marched his way to the front door, and I only wondered if it would be more atmospheric, should the confrontation have happened at night. Certainly, the despotic pose with which he raised his wand, wanting to avada Greta, would look better with a backdrop of shadows.
Regardless, now no one can say anything if I tell them this was a last resort.
I dumped Herbert Trout on the ground, and he groaned. Unfortunately for him, I had a favourite between him and Greta – news flash, it wasn’t the stranger I had just met. Waving my wand at the cottage, I felt the ancient magic respond to my call.
“Sorry, Greta. I don’t think your salary is going to be enough for this one.”
Kaboom!
I whipped the wand in my hand, lashing it down, and a bolt of bright blue descended from the swathes of clouds like thunder. It easily penetrated the straw roof of the cottage, barrelling right into the living room. The entire cottage burst apart like a balloon, sending spitfire of bricks out into the garden and air.
Thick billows of dust, dirt and grime mixed in with the havoc, and the remnants of it all collapsed soon after, a house of cards. The hooded figure standing in the doorway was propelled outwards, and joined Greta to bathe in pumpkin juice.
I turned my head around in satisfaction, back to my incapacitated personage, and met the eyes of a group of people.
The Hit Wizards: “…”
Me: “…”
At the forefront of the party was a middle-aged man with blonde hair and tired, periwinkle eyes, wrinkles running deep grooves on his face. He was dressed in combat wear, ready at any moment to join the fray – a readiness left unresolved.
His eyes flickered between my demolition work, the pumpkin patch and Herbert Trout, before he shuffled on his feet, coughing.
“Wow, it’s really storming today, isn’t it?”
My voice cracked a little towards the end.
The group behind him was equally wondrous, looking between the aftermath of my interference and my wand, which dangled guiltily by my thigh. The feeling of being caught red-handed wasn’t exactly pleasant, but I tried not to let it show on my features.
“Yes…” He shook his head, before returning to the severity of the situation. “So, what exactly happened?”
Oh good, I’m not getting sent to Azkaban.
There were extremely inflexible provisions for the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol when it came to acting with appropriate force, usually ‘equal and opposite’ – Unforgiveables being an exception, of course. While it was undeniable that I acted in self-defence, blowing Herbert Trout’s cottage to the ninth heaven landed dubiously in that lawful grey zone.
“Three attackers, two inside the house when the lightning strike hit, one thrown out onto the pumpkin patch. Greta Renfield is incapacitated, with at least one dislocated shoulder.”
The man nodded, before turning to the other five Hit Wizards behind him.
A motley crew of men and women, I could only imagine the constipating feeling of showing up expecting a fight to the death, only to be left as mere bystanders. Between the lot of them, I felt a surge of admiration sent in my direction.
Admiration, or more realistically, gratitude for having just paid their wages for the day.
“Three of you go repair the cottage, and arrest the two perpetrators inside.” The man instructed sternly. “Use petrificus totalus as well as the magic-annulling manacles. I’m not taking any chances, the Ministry’s been on the Auror Office’s ass about this blood-smuggling syndicate for the past month.”
So he’s an Auror.
Except for ministry organized events and stations, there was only one uniform policy for the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol and Auror Office, which was that you had to wear black. The rationale behind it was so that perpetrators wouldn’t recognize you when you came to make an arrest, and muggles wouldn’t recognize you as wizards.
It made it hard to discern occupation and ranking.
“Yes!”
They followed his orders, three of them going to cast the Repairing Charm on the cottage, bringing it back to its original form. The bricks and straw which had been strewn across the idyllic countryside of West Moorlea Cross climbed into the air, fitting back into the architectural mould like pieces of a jigsaw.
A very poorly done jigsaw.
Damage done by magic was harder to repair, ancient magic especially, and it ended up looking more like a misshapen dollhouse which had buckled under the powerful playtime of a heavy-handed child.
Nonetheless, I think your salary is safe, Greta.
One of the two Mediwizards that came in the group joined the pair sent to arrest the pumpkin patch perpetrator, obviously wanting to tend to Greta. He brought his little first aid-kit and knelt beside her, waving his wand to disperse the pumpkin entrails.
When the carnage of my vegetable slaughter was cleared, he set her shoulder back in place with a stomach-turning crunch.
The remaining Mediwizard crouched down next to the nude Herbert Trout, and cast me a questioning look.
“Greta said it was a Blood-Letting Curse.” I informed her. “Healing Charm didn’t work, so I used essence of dittany. Minimal response. His pulse cut out, so I used corconcussa. After that, I just doused him in my entire stock.”
The Mediwizard nodded, before appraising Herbert Trout in all his glory.
She took from her first-aid kit a roll of haemostatic bandages, winding them around Herbert Trout until he looked like an Egyptian mummy. If the British Museum saw him looking so embalmed, they may have made into their next exhibit.
At that point, the man could give his full-frontal to unsuspecting tourists instead.
Haemostatic bandages were simple cloth bandages enchanted with an Impermeable Charm, meaning blood couldn’t leak out. It essentially created a layer of artificial skin that kept the blood within him - medical duct-tape, if you will.
When he was completely swaddled in white, she force-fed him a Blood-Restoration Potion.
“He’ll be okay for now.” She commented, dusting off her hands. “When the house is back in shape, we’ll take him by Floo Powder to St. Mungo’s emergency reception.”
Magic was unlike muggle surgery, and so long as you had a single breath left, Healers could rescue you from the clutches of Hell. Apart from a few particularly terminal illnesses, like Vanishing Disease, wizards and witches enjoyed supreme standards of healthcare.
For example, Herbert Trout.
If a muggle had been as badly mutilated as him, he could only get his affairs in order. It would be a race against time to write the will. Instead, all it took was a few minutes with a Mediwizard, a substantial amount of haemostatic bandages, and a potion – he wasn’t good as new, but it was only a matter of time.
The other Mediwizard returned from the pumpkin patch.
“Greta Renfield is fine. I’ve popped her shoulder back into place, but she’s still out cold and has some blunt force trauma. If you’re taking the other victim to the critical reception, I’ll follow you with her.”
The Mediwizard then turned to me, looking at my lip.
“You’re bleeding quite badly. Must’ve bitten it. If you’ve been hit by the Blood-Letting Curse, I recommend you go to St. Mungo’s general reception.”
Ah, I bit my lip.
I supposed it must have happened when I was disorientated and trying to maintain sobriety. When the adrenaline wore off and I had it pointed out to me by the Mediwizard, I realized the sting. I could feel the slick sensation down my throat and on the collar of my shirt.
The Mediwizard passed me a circular haemostatic patch, and I pasted it gratefully to the pillow of my bottom lip.
The blonde man in charge nodded.
“Once you and Greta Renfield are back in shape, we’ll take you back into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to give a full statement. With any luck, if we manage to bust the blood-smuggling ring because of you, credit will be rightfully attributed.”
The blood-smuggling case had been plastered on the front page of the Daily Prophet for months.
A crime syndicate comprised of ibis-masked individuals, they would harvest magic blood and sell it for a pretty penny, all under the instruction of a mysterious ringleader. The Auror Office estimated a revenue of thousands of galleons, though they were unable to locate the financial accounts nor the base of operations.
There was plenty of rumours, including that they were selling the blood of witches and wizards to a dark warlock for some kind of ritual, that it ended up in the stomachs of Romanian vampires, or even that an ambitious Herbologist with more money than morals was turning it into fertilizer.
No matter what, it had sparked terror in the wizarding community.
“Will they speak?” Another Hit Wizard seemed doubtful, frowning in reminiscence. “Crime syndicate members are all oddballs. Remember the cult from seven years ago? Used veritaserum and everything, and only got some red herrings.”
“Criminals are easier to deal with than cultists.” The Auror argued. “Less religious devotion, more selfish pragmatism. If they have a half a brain cell between them, they’ll confess for the sake of leniency in their sentence to Azkaban.”
“They wouldn’t apparate away without Herbert Trout.” I said, and they turned towards me. “They had plenty of opportunities to.”
The Auror asked quizzically: “You mean?”
“I mean it doesn’t matter whether the criminal members confess. I’m willing to bet that since they thought it was only a matter of time before he died, they were more loose-lipped in front of him.”
“We’ll wait for Herbert Trout to recover before starting the interrogation then.” He coughed in his fist. “If you don’t mention that spell you used towards the end, then we’ll treat it as if it never happened.”
I blushed, and nodded.
Eventually, the house was back as it was before, and the three Hit Wizards had the ibis-masked perpetrators in handcuffs. My smiting had rendered each of them unconsciously, but miraculously they weren’t dead.
Don’t underestimate ancient magic – if there was no cottage between me and them, they really might be resting in pieces, not peace.
A piece for each cardinal direction.
One had his bones crushed by the impact, and the Mediwizards tended to his wounds.
“What the hell was that spell?” The man who treated Greta muttered underneath his breath. “I didn’t know the standard patrol team had people like you. Are you working towards being a qualified Hit Wizard?”
The other Hit Wizards seemed interested by this question, and they looked at me with fiery gazes.
Hit Wizards never acted individually for arrests, and always moved out in groups. In that kind of scenario, one more adept combatant meant increased odds that the others would return alive from the line of duty.
“I can help you put in a good word, we Hit Wizards only need to pass combat trials, none of the other Auror-y stuff. I think you meet the qualifications.”
“If you can cast a spell like that consistently, I think you’d have a chance.”
They were quite enthusiastic, and one even pat me on the shoulder as he pointed towards the figures on the living room floor.
“I’m a student intern.”
A small chill passed through the cottage.
Hit Wizards: “…”
One sighed, before shaking his head: “What the hell is Hogwarts teaching you kids nowadays?”
“Enough nonsense.” The Auror got back from outside, his wristwatch turning from navy blue back to white. “I’ve contacted the Head. We’re bringing the three smugglers back to the Auror Office for detainment, then interrogation. We have our own Healers ready. As for Trout and Renfield, off to St. Mungo’s with them.”
Inside the cottage, three Hit Wizards took the perpetrators and apparated away, returning to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to place them under supervision. The Mediwizards took Greta and Herbert into the fireplace one by one, and they too disappeared in the green.
The Auror and other two Hit Wizards waved goodbye and apparated as well.
Then, there was only me, lonely in the cottage.
I smiled wryly, before I stood in the fireplace, taking a fistful of Floo Powder and shouting: “St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries Admissions Department!”
Merlin, that was a mouthful.
Five Floo Powder fireplaces were situated on the leftmost wall of the hospital entry, and in a dizzying flare of verdant flames, I emerged onto the ground floor.
Everyone referred to it simply as the ‘reception’ – it’s true name the St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries’ Admissions Department. It was a quadrilateral, tiled hall, with a large emblem of a crossed bone and wand on the ground.
Rickety pews of waiting patients were lined up to the rightmost side, a chaotic array of incomprehensible illnesses that you would never find in a muggle sanatorium. A hivemind of Healers bumbled busily in and out of the seats, swatting away outdated magazines that flitted through the air as they retrieved patients.
With practiced ease, a Healer swatted away a Witch’s Weekly from 1883, and conjured a stretcher.
A man with backwards facing feet was loaded onto it, his toes kicking into the canvas, and the miserable infirms around him looked on enviously as he was shuttled towards the staircases. The Healer waved his wand, and the man clutched the sides of the stretcher as he ascended swiftly.
To my left, on the northern face, three lime-green cords hung as balustrades, lining sperate queues marked with steel-etched signs as [Patient Queue], [Priority Queue] and [Visitor Queue].
Taking the middle queue, I strolled up to the front counter.
Beside me, a woman holding a small child threw me a dirty look, probably because the [Patient Queue] was much longer than my priority one. Merlin knows how long she had to wait to reach the front. The toddler was crying bitterly, except her tears weren’t flowing downwards, but upwards instead.
I gave them a smile, showing the crusted blood between my teeth, and she paled, putting a hand over her child’s eyes.
The ceiling became even more wet.
The idle middle-aged Welcome Witch greeted me with a disgruntled scowl, as if my very presence were an offence to her leisure. The sign underneath the obese blonde was laughably contradictory to her mandrake-like mug, which twisted like seal blubber. It read: “Our Welcome Witch will be happy to assist you.”
She didn’t look very happy.
“Fill in the form.”
Every word seemed a momentous effort from the matted-haired witch, and she slid towards me a parchment, before returning her attention to the latest edition of the Daily Prophet.
I’m a patient person. A patient person.
Taking a deep breath, I picked up the quill and began to scrawl out the specifics of my conditions, and how I ended up in it. Taking my Magical Law Enforcement Patrol insignia, I dipped it into the inkwell before using it to stamp the document, ensuring my identity.
In addition to priority admission, patrol officers had certain other privileges in St. Mungos.
For one, each patrol officer, even interns and cadets, were assigned their own bed in the long-stay wards. It was kept free at all times. Moreover, the bill for treatment was directly sent to and borne by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
I slid the parchment back to her, and waited as she read the last segment of the article she was on, before she grunted and began to give it a once-over.
“Bit young to be on patrol, aren’t you?”
She hummed, turning the parchment to face me, and tapping with her meticulously manicured nails the segment where I wrote ‘16’.
The Welcome Witch was just short of calling me a fraud.
“Student intern.”
“Seems not all people are created equal, and same goes for student interns.” She looked down at me through her nose, which required her tilting her head back strenuously to the ceiling. “If you’re so inept, quit while you’re ahead.”
Before I could figure out exactly what she meant with that grandiose declaration, she rumbled herself out of her chair, and stomped towards the wall behind her.
It was an outcrop of dangling brass bells, each string colour-coded to the floor they worked on, as well as their individual specialities. She looked them over, before fondly tugging on the string of one with the initials: [S.S]
“Go wait with the rest, a Healer will be with you shortly.”
I started to have suspicions on what the phrase ‘same goes for student interns’ meant.
Putting aside my proofless conjectures, I took a small identifier with my patient number on it, and went to wait with the other patients. They looked at me curiously – or rather, less me, and more my blood-soaked neck.
Resting my head back into the chair, the dizziness finally started to settle in, and I frowned uncomfortably.
I closed my eyes, and rested for the few minutes I was allowed.
“Tell me, why am I not surprised it’s you?”
My lightheaded spinning was cleaved by the echoing ovation of a familiarly charismatic tone, the so-called charming chorale greeting me as I lulled my gaze to the left. An adolescent stood in lime-green robes, a small insignia attached to his chest pocket: [Sebastian Sallow] [St. Mungo Student Intern].
“I dare say the feeling is mutual. Good afternoon, Sebastian.”
Of course he was interning at St. Mungo’s.
Sebastian stood with mirthful schadenfreude as he beheld my sorry state. Looking me up and down, he unabashedly relished the view.
He exerted not a modicum of effort in hiding his amusement.
Owing to St. Mungo’s reputation of squeezing their intern’s stamina like peasant field oxen, Sebastian seemed more lethargic than his days in Hogwarts. Swarthy hammocks swung just beneath his lower lashes, and his bleary blinks settled on them wearily, fighting off sleep.
“Good afternoon, my dearest charge.” Sebastian’s lips curled up as his eyes drifted to the steady stream of blood dripping down my jugular. “A pleasure. And, judging from the fact you reek of blood, the pleasure is mine alone.”
“Come now, Sebastian. Don’t you mean to say I smell of roses and peonies?”
The sarcasm stabbed into him like a sword, but he paid it not the slightest heed.
His head drifted in the direction of the reception, where the middle Welcome Witch was once again rid of patients. She engrossed herself in yet another Daily Prophet article, heels hiked up on the counter.
“No fault of your own.” He spat. “I must have a word with those three stooges. St. Mungo’s funding is not so penny-pinching that you should be left free bleeding on the reception floor.”
Turning back to me, he gave an apologetic smile.
He extended a gloved hand, and I took it in mine, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath the plastic shell.
Hauling me up on my feet, I was assaulted with a vicious bout of vertigo, and the periphery of my vision blurred and darkened into a shadowy vignette. Stumbling like a drunkard, I was caught in the embrace of Sebastian as he propped me upright.
“Steady now.” He reminded me breathily. “Do you want me to take you up in a stretcher? If you fall backwards on the stairs and split your skull, not even Mungo Bonham himself could save you.”
“A stretcher for a bleeding lip?” I snickered. “I’m afraid I might never live down such theatrics.”
“There’s hope, provided the qualifying word is ‘live’.”
Shame was an emotion exclusively attributed to those alive to experience it, and I was not someone with a death wish. A corpse was breathless, heatless and shameless. While the last of those appellations was something I envied, I could not muster any enthusiasm for the package-deal it entailed.
My legs were jelly, and stairs might at well have been Mount Everest at that moment.
“If you insist on expelling me from your embrace, then I suppose I have little choice.”
“Then hold on, I’ll support you.”
He slung my arm around his neck, and wrapped his own around the breadth of my back. His hand rested comfortably at the small of my waist, and I relaxed as I bore my weight into his body, delighting in the stability it brought me.
“A remarkable reversal to our usual dynamic, it appears.”
I snorted, leaning heavily into the crook of his shoulder, making Sebastian stumble in his steps.
My unconditional support for Sebastian’s more dubious antics had earned not his affections, as I hoped, but rather his deliberate teasing. He accused me regularly of being so hopelessly smitten, I would join him without hesitation in hurling myself off the Astronomy Tower – all it would take was a single of his suggestions.
He was right, of course, but it still hurt.
“In lieu of your delirium, I will humour such fictitious fallacies.”
Tepidly, he began to guide me towards the stairwell, frowning as he made sure out gaits were not entangled.
“How generous of you.”
I could smell his cologne where I nestled into his neck, a light and discreet sandalwood deodorant intended to avoid irritating any patients with respiratory issues. Where it was applied in prudent moderation, it became dominated by the acrid smell of antiseptic and subtle body odour.
With a sordid smirk, he slurred: “I try.”
There were three sets of stairs on the northern wall of the St. Mungo’s Admissions Department – one for patients, one for Healers, and one for visitors.
For patients that were unable to climb the stairs on their own, they would be hoisted onto stretched and moved to the centre of the stairwell spiral. The Healer would use a Floating Charm to ascend them steadily to the floor they needed.
While it was probably the more efficient way, I insisted otherwise.
I can’t look like an invalid in front of Sebastian.
“Tell me Sebastian, do you spend even a single of your wakeful moments not engaging in such frivolities?”
While his flirtations were usually quite agreeable, I only found that at the base of those stairs, and the hike awaiting me, they had become a source of migraines and headaches.
“In fact, I’ll have you know that just after waking up, I am completely silent.”
“There really is a God.” I chortled in disbelief, and he shrugged. “I’d pay to witness that.”
“To be with me as I wake?” A broad grin erupted on Sebastian’s face, and he batted his eyelashes at me in feign femineity, the pitch of his voice soaring. “I’ve been relegated to little more than a common prostitute.”
“If the shoe fits, Sebastian.”
“The shoe fits, I just don’t think you can afford it. I’m expensive, you know.”
We climbed the flight of stairs slowly and steadily, Sebastian making sure I didn’t miss a step. As we climbed, he looked over at my bloody lips. His eyebrows furrowed imperceptibly in concern, and I knew I didn’t miss it – he was worried.
“So, who hurt you?”
“Why, are you going to exact vengeance on my behalf?”
As I teased him, he realized that his devil-may-care persona had cracked, and he hurriedly attempted to correct his mistake.
“Maybe if I’m in the mood, but first I’m giving them a trophy.”
I laughed at his immaturity.
Sebastian Sallow was talented in a number of fields, and none more so than holding a grudge. He had been waiting patiently ever since his defeat in Defence Against the Dark Arts for my own failure. While it must have been quite disappointing it was not under his own hands, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Here we are, Wards 40-49.” Sebastian drawled. “For spell damage, you know. Jinxes, hexes, curses and the occasional misapplied charm – whole nine yards. Make yourself at home, I know I have. Practically slept in the place last two weeks.”
“Short on staff?”
“Outbreak of Wizard Flu. Half the staff on the other floors got moved to Magical Bugs. Barely slept a wink the past two days.”
At the level on the stairway, there was a standard open doorway, leading into a spacious, carpeted corridor. A long strip of pale green light replaced the ceiling, creating a sterile glow to the enclosure. Artificial flowers interspersed the length of the hallway, buried in earthen, calabash pots.
A small plaque was embedded next to the door frame, reading: [Head Healer: Caduceus Curie].
“Good fellow, that one.” He noticed my glance at the plaque. “My mentor. Showed me the ropes past two weeks. I’d introduce you, but he got called down to critical reception just before you arrived.”
“Ah, right.”
No doubt, he had gone to attend to Herbert Trout.
While normally I wasn’t averse to telling Sebastian everything short of my life story, I had a sense of propriety. The blood-smuggling case was one of the cases which had been giving the Auror Office grief, and I knew that any information on it was probably clandestine. That being said, I wasn’t able to elaborate on any of the details to Sebastian.
“While you can expect a longer stay in Wards 45-49, here we aim to get you in and out within the hour.”
We strolled past the first few doors, Sebastian checking the locks to see which ones were occupied.
All of them were, so we waited in the corridor.
Soon a Healer emerged from one of the rooms, accompanied by the man with previously backwards facing feet, who was thanking him profusely. The Healer waved him off, before giving directions back to the reception. A protocol, perhaps, considering it was an easy path to navigate.
When the patient was sent off, he turned to us.
“Sebastian!” He greeted happily. “Two weeks as a student intern, and already handling your own case without supervision?”
“Healer Curie is down handling one in the critical reception, so I got lumped with this loaf. Really, I probably should be supervised, but I don’t think it’s anything tricky. I trust you can keep this between us?”
The young man nodded, before turning to me: “You’re in good hands. Sallow is a brilliant Healer, don’t let the ‘intern’ on his badge fool you.”
Sebastian turned to me with the unmistakeably cocky expression of: “Hear that?”
I ignored him, and after a few seconds of small talk, we headed into Ward 43. It wasn’t anything beyond its era – a large bed, desk and medicine cabinet. A chair was by the desk, and I slumped into it with a sigh of satisfaction, glad to be grounded once again.
“Now, what’s the problem?”
“Sanguiscruor. Blood-Letting Curse.” I tapped on the haemostatic patch on my bottom lip. “Bit my lip, and it won’t stop bleeding.”
“Blood-Letting?” Sebastian hummed. “Now that’s an archaic spell. You won’t see it on floor four regularly, even among victims of dark wizards.”
“And yet, you know about it?”
“And yet I know about it.” Sebastian agreed, fiddling around with the items on his desk. “Invented by a Romanian witch, Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Nasty piece of work. Used the blood of virgins in a potion that could keep her young, entire bathtub full. Good riddance, I say.”
“What, worried you fit the description?”
Sebastian ignored my quip as he fingered through the cabinets, where oddly shaped flasks of potions were stocked to the brim, swirling with abstruse contents. The more common ones were to the forefront of the cabinet, and Sebastian stuck his head in to look for exactly what he needed.
When he found it, he stretched an arm in, and retrieved it with a ‘clink’ against the glass of its fellows.
“Right on the money.” He hummed happily, popping off the cork. “Ingenious brew, first made at the turn of the 11th century by Abu al-Zahrawi, famous Arab-Andalusian physician, surgeon, chemist and, less famously, wizard. Pity, really. For all his potential as a Healer, he seemed more fond of being a muggle doctor.”
Sebastian had the internal flamboyancy of a peacock, one that could not be gleamed from his neutral coloured exterior. He derived great pleasure from displaying the extent of his knowledge and erudition.
“He was the one that first discovered haemophilia, a hereditary dysfunction which impacts clotting ability. Never did manage to find a muggle cure, but barely scraped a magical one before his time ended.”
It was a crimson red flacon, the colour of rubies, and inside steamed clustering black masses of particles. They formed together in tumble-weed like clumps, before dispersing as he wiped the dust away on his lime green robes.
Doing so revealed the label: Curse Clotting Potion.
“Principal work was the Kitab al-Tsarif, a thirty-volume encyclopedia of medical practices, and almost double if you include the magical components.”
When the potion was opened, a sickeningly sweet scent pervaded the room, and Sebastian wrinkled his nose.
“Definitely not a perfumer, al-Zahrawi.”
I wrinkled my nose, and spat: “I think we better explore alternative avenues first, Sebastian.”
He set the potion down on his desk, before looking at me inquisitively. He seemed extremely unconvinced by the suggestion that his course of treatment was wrong, or even the possibility of alternative. However, scrutinizing my face, he duly gleamed the fact that it was true – I had a cure in mind.
Ever thirsty for knowledge, he asked. “Pray tell?”
“In the muggle world, they have an alternative form of treatment for things like this.”
“Those barbaric imbeciles they call Doctors? I’ll tell you now, even if you’re willing to have a needle and thread plunged through your lips, I won’t be the one doing it.”
He snorted, and turned back towards that abhorrent Curse Clotting Potion.
“Don’t look down on the wisdom of the common people, Sebastian. They have their own methods.”
“For the Blood-Letting Curse?” Sebastian hummed, curious once again. “I wasn’t aware that Muggle technology had advanced to the realm of magical remedies.”
“Oh, it’s certainly magical.”
“Well, don’t leave me in suspense.”
I looked at him as he leaned back against his desk, eyebrow raised. He beckoned me to explain exactly what I was getting – dared me to undermine his prescription, knowing full well it was the most appropriate course of action.
“Kiss it better.”
He froze.
I watched as his mouth parted, and his eyes widened, and he looked at me speechlessly. His brown eyes were alight with confusion as he attempting to rationalize what I had just said in his brain. Then, his eyes drifted traitorously down from my eyes, and on to the haemostatic patch.
Immediately, the tips of his ears turned red, and a similarly coloured blush brushed against the smattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks.
“I’m sorry?”
His voice cracked, and I laughed.
“For things like this, muggles tend to kiss it better. A truly remarkable remedy. Would you like to try it?”
“Don’t joke around with me.”
Sebastian coughed, before he feigned anger. His tightly furrowed eyebrows would look extremely convincing, if not for his nervously twitching fingertips.
“I’m not joking.” I said seriously, looking him in the eyes. “In the end, curses are foreign elements to the human anatomy, and the body is constantly working to reject it, just like a virus. Different from viruses, though, curses respond to willpower and mental resistance.”
“And to do so, you have to receive a kiss?” He shook his head. “What is this, Beetle the Bard?”
“Not necessarily a kiss, but where a kiss is the concentration of human affection, it can stimulate the body’s desire to expunge the detrimental effects.”
The boatload of bullshit that fell from my mouth was impressive, as I continued to elaborate on the scientific basis for seducing him into snogging. Against his better conscience, Sebastian became more and more convinced as I refuted his points, until even I began to think that maybe true love’s kiss was the answer to breaking the Blood-Letting Curse.
He walked over to me, and placed a finger on the haemostatic patch. Muttering an incantation, it peeled off my lip.
Sebastian hesitated.
“It’s for science, Sebastian.”
“Ah, yes. For science.”
His face edged closer, and I could feel the heat of his breath mingle with mine. Every freckle on his cheeks magnified, looking like the doughy texture of wholegrain bread. In his eyes, I saw my own reflection – the reflection of my lips.
Then, he kissed me, and blood suddenly wasn’t the only thing I tasted.
His lips were soft and tender, pink and plush against mine. They met me at the groove of my lips, and skimmed across like a dragonfly on a lake. I could see the moment the sweet, metallic taste hit his tongue, and it recoiled the second it wanted to press forward.
I would say his lips were moist, but that was probably the blood.
When he parted from me, I could see the scarlet stain I left on his lips. It gathered on the slope, condensed at the bottom of the pillow, and broke the surface tension to trail down the dimple of his chin.
Oh, he’s going to hate me for this.
On impulse, I pursed my lips, and a small jet of red spurted into his eyeball.
“Fuck!” He cursed, rubbing his eyes. “Oh, now you’ve done it. That’s the last time I trust anything you say.”
I tried to make a retort, but all I could do was cackle like a hag.
As I doubled over, clutching my stomach, the wide grin that plastered my face tore at my lips. Blood cascaded down my throat yet again, before it pooled in the crevices of my collarbones. It was sticky and sickening, but made all the more tolerable by Sebastian’s ghastly countenance.
“Let’s see who has the last laugh.”
With an ominous premonition cutting off my chortle, Sebastian turned back to the desk.
He twirled in his hand a plastic pipette, plunging it into the liquid with a gentle squeeze, the suction when he released drawing an ounce of potion into its bulbous end. He held it up to the light, making sure it reached the appropriate volume.
He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a leather satchel, undoing the zipper.
Inside was a series of silver spoons, bland and unadorned, each with varying sizes and shapes. He perused them, before selecting one just smaller than the average soup spoon.
Holding it up to eye level, he squirted the Curse Clotting Potion into it.
He strutted back to me with a sinister smile.
“Well, open wide. Say ‘ahh’.”
My eyelid twitched, and I looked up from the spoon to glance at him.
Petitioning for mercy, I bat my eyes at him naively. He was having absolutely none of it, and leaned closer to me, locking me into the chair. He brought the spoon up to my nostrils, and a wave of foul odour went straight to my head.
“Give me the spoon, Sebastian.”
He cocked his head innocently.
Wobbling the spoon backwards and forwards, the crimson liquid inside rippled, sending the unmistakably aroma of skunk flatulence my way.
“Afraid not. Healer’s orders.”
“Give me the spoon, Seb –“
While I was talking, he seized the opportune moment where my mouth was parted to shove the spoon inside. He rotated it with his wrist, emptying the contents onto my tongue, before pulling it out once more.
It tasted like beetle juice, mixed with the repugnant taste of gastric acid. It was as metallic as swallowing a raw piece of iron, and pierced into my throat with similar sharpness. Swearing that all the evil of the world must have coalesced on the dip of that spoon, I tried my best to supress the urge to retch.
I gagged, and almost threw up.
“See that wasn’t so bad, right?”
Ignoring my desperate flail for air, he threw up his arms, looking very pleased with himself.
I snorted: “Next time, just use the Cruciatus Curse on me.”
“Oh, woe be you.” He grinned cheerfully at his revenge, before waggling his eyebrows. “Say, you want something to suck on, help get rid of the taste?”
“Sounds brilliant. Well, drop your trousers, Sebastian.”
He snorted, before turning around to the desk and grabbing a lollipop from one of the jars. He peeled off the wrapper, before moving back to me and sticking it between my teeth. He leant down to examine my lips, which had clotted nicely.
I said to him: “It worked. Must’ve been true love.”
“Must’ve been.” He scoffed. “So, the next time you come here with any manner of torturous jinxes, hexes or curses, I assume you won’t complain when I simply ‘kiss it better’?”
His sarcasm annoyed me, so I reached for the lollipop between my teeth, before shoving the ball-end of it between his lips. He spat it out hurriedly, but not before he got a fresh gush of Curse Clotting Potion on his tongue.
Sebastian stared at me aggrievedly, and I smiled back at him.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”