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When he was seven, Suga had nearly died in the asphodel fields just past the cemetery on his family estate.
It had been winter, but the asphodels had bloomed that night regardless of the snow, like he’d known they would. They always bloomed when Suga was near, regardless of the weather; long, spindly petals would peel open like bloodless lips, bone-white stamens reaching out with gentle grace to brush against his skin with silent, hungry reverence. They’d breathed with the wind and the rustling grass, swaying back and forth on long stalks. Their roots ran deep in the ground, twisting into and through the soil with fine threads to form a shroud-like lace; Suga knew, now, that asphodel fields took root in places where blood had soaked through the topsoil and into the Earth itself, where magic had screamed and wept and destroyed itself. The flowers came after, to sanctify—to eat—what was left behind.
His mother had held him tightly afterwards, bringing him close to the fire burning in the hearth as if she was afraid he would freeze again. She had told him about asphodel fields, and how they soothed the fevered minds of wayward ghosts. She had told him that memory fades—scattered to oblivion—as a mercy to those who were supposed to have passed peacefully, and finally she had given him a warning, hushed and shaking; flowers do not know the difference between the living and the dead.
But for that little while, as he had walked, he had no way of knowing what was drawing him there. The moon had floated in the tar-black sky: a sharp, thin crescent like a pointed smile. There were no clouds, and no stars; everything had been empty and still, aside from the wind, which had occasionally dragged like a death-shudder through the lungs of the valley and over the hill. Suga had made the trek, small and shivering and seven, through grasses that had brushed just above his waist like wandering hands: away from the house and its lights and fires, across the small valley, up the hill, past the mausoleum, and just over the crest of the hill. The beginnings of snow, fallen the day before, had crunched under his feet. Occasionally he’d caught a glimpse of white here or there beneath the sea of grass, glittering and untouched like the edge of a freshly sharpened knife, before being crushed into slush and mixed with the dirt underfoot. Suga had not come for the snow.
When he’d stood at the edge of the hill, the wind had run its cold fingers through his hair and along the exposed skin of his arms. The asphodel field was spread out in front of him, open and waiting like the bony jaws of an open maw. The flowers had almost seemed to twist in his direction—although it could have been a trick of the wind—to peel back their petals and breathe him in. An unidentifiable smell had lingered in the air, metallic and sweet, before the frigid breeze swept it away. Suga had stumbled towards it on weak legs, chasing the edge of something soft as it pulled him into the field of flowers.
Stamens had brushed along his skin in a gentle caress, and the boy had forgotten the cold that had long since seeped into his feet. The moon had smiled down at him with that sharp crescent smile, casting a soft, icy gleam along his pale skin and ash-coloured hair. The wind had whispered in his ear, formless and wordless, like the comforting hiss of a snake; the boy, whose name was irrelevant in the asphodel field, had run his finger along the edge of a petal, oddly lulled by the feel of it.
The rest of that night was lost to Suga, but the space where the memory should have been was cool and soft to the touch, and pulsed with a gentle longing.
_ _ _ __ __ __ _ _ _
“Although the link between a high Morganan Percentage (MP) in coven, house or society magics and Dark Magic Poisoning (DMP) is generally well known and well-understood1,2, there have been no reliable methods magi-scientifically proposed for calculating risk profiles of children likely to develop inheritance sickness.3 The aim of this study is to examine an array of risk calculation approaches in order to identify their strengths and flaws, in hopes of assisting future research efforts.
Our review of the literature indicated that the most promising method currently developed is the Mallory method, proposed by Dr Matthew Mallory in May 1837. While he was unable to formulate an entirely faultless model for the calculation of likelihood of DMP in children, certain aspects of his theories are commonly used today in magi-medical contexts, the most notable of which being the calculation of a Mallory Index (MI). An MI is calculated via multiplying the MP with a Magical Concentration Percentage (MCP)—both in decimal form—to produce a number which roughly correlates to the severity of DMP.
The Mallory method was innovative in its time for considering the strength of a magical source, which appropriately explains inheritance sickness being more common among children in old or Great houses.4,5,6 Despite this, there appear to be several issues with this method. Firstly—and most problematically—MCP seems to have a non-linear relationship with MP, wherein grey magics (defined as magics between 35-65%MP) consistently test for lower MCPs than strongly affiliated light or dark magic, as noted in the research of Hazuki Umemoto.7,8 This phenomenon potentially distorts a house’s MI, so that a child in a grey house may have their likelihood of DMP underrepresented in their risk profile. Some researchers, such as Prof. Mikina Ishiyama, argue that this suggests a flaw in the calculation of MCP, where strongly dark or light magics are more likely to have strong magical intent and therefore read higher in the current tests of magical concentration due to the positive, linear relationship between strength of intent and magical force.9
Another problem which arises from this avenue of inquiry is the concept of the Morganan Percentage itself. Theorised by scholars in the early 1600s, the aim of the Morganan Percentage was to retrospectively estimate the “darkness” of the magic of Morgan le Fay. Despite its persistent common usage in magi-scientific circles even today, it should be noted that several biases exist in the theory: for instance, feminine magics are more likely to be deemed “more dark” despite no proven correlation between magical femininity and dark magical intent.10, 11 The same is true of wandless magic (including magic which uses different methods of channelling, such as string, runes, or song)12 which appears in abundance in non-Western magical traditions; since MP is calculated based on the conversion of magical intent to outcomes specifically for wand-based magics, the extrapolation of data or application of these metrics to wandless magics produces unreliable results. It appears impossible to use MP as a scientific tool in an ethical way without acknowledging that, as a scale for the inherent harm or danger in magical intent, cispatriarchal, Western, and human forms of magic are infinitely more likely to be deemed less dark, and therefore “safe”. It would seem that a new way to calculate the darkness or volatility of magical intent, specifically, is needed in order to more reliably and ethically consider the risk of magical harm.
The third issue with this method of calculation is with the patients themselves. The Mallory method does not account for the natural dark magic resistance of the child, which is likely to be of major clinical importance in the treatment of DMP.13, 14 While certain theorists—such as Norihide Ikeuchi—argue that dark magical resistance is inherited due to families developing a tolerance to their own house magics over generations,15 it is important to note that these theories are closely associated with eugenicist and blood purist notions regarding the “natural magical supremacy” of Great houses and cannot be considered unbiased.16 Instead, the traditional inheritance practices of Great houses consistently place emphasis on building an heir’s tolerance to dark magic, despite an increased risk of child mortality due to DMP and subsequent ethical concerns;17, 18 recent studies regarding the efficacy of this method are somewhat limited due to the lack of willingness from pureblood families to share even anonymised information regarding their house MP, medical profiles of their heirs, or inheritance practices (which are usually either closely guarded or considered taboo).19 Since dark magic resistance does not appear to be a fixed variable in any case, a methodology wishing to discern the severity of sickness or likelihood of childhood mortality due to DMP caused by inherited magics would necessitate a much more nuanced model of understanding the interplay between dark magic resistance and outcomes for the patient.
Prof. Chikako Matsuzaki’s approach to DMP, while much less popular and arguably much less effective for the calculation of risk profiles, covers a few of these issues and is often used in the treatment of DMP.20 Matsuzaki is a magi-psychologist, which shifts her approach away from statistics and further into the realm of magical intent; a magi-psychological approach to DMP posits that therapy—often Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT)—can reduce a patient’s tendencies toward harmful magical intent through emotional regulation.20,21,22 While this therapy has been found to be highly effective for (often muggleborn) patients struggling with magical disregulation due to specific personal difficulties, with incidences of accidental magic reducing by roughly 83% within a six-month timeframe,23 its efficacy regarding inherited dark magic has not yet been proven. Although potential applications for magi-psychological approaches to develop risk profiles for children affected by inheritance poisoning are limited, one particular study…”
_ _ _ __ __ __ _ _ _
Suga reached down and wrapped his fingers around the cymes of another rue plant, getting a feel for the weak spots in the stem before tugging gently to snap the flowers off. He dropped the flowers into the basket nestled beside him, noting that it was nearly full, and turned to Asahi: “Do you think that’s enough?”
Asahi flinched as if startled and turned around from where he was similarly crouched, one of his large hands gently wrapped around a few fingerfuls of petals. Tilting his head, he eyed the basket. “I’m not sure,” he pursed his lips, speaking quietly as usual, “but we don’t want to overharvest. Do you think we should leave it there?”
The shadows were just barely beginning to lengthen, and a slight breeze whispered through the leaves on a nearby cluster of trees. Glancing up, Suga noted that the sky hadn’t begun to darken yet, but that one edge was starting to blush rose-gold; there was an odd absence of clouds, and the sky felt at once like an open world and an impenetrable vaulted ceiling. Suga’s fingers brushed another set of petals—soft, small, and bright yellow—and the breeze seemed to ease slightly.
“We should gather a few more to be safe, but we should get moving sooner rather than later. Rue isn’t the main ingredient in your potion, right? That’s rowan berries.”
Asahi hummed. Suga watched as he turned back to his work, harvesting a few more small bunches before placing them in the basket with care. The lunar cycle was beginning to come back around from the new moon—within a week or so Asahi would be more anxious, jittery, quicker to turn and hide his face from the sky and huddle up inside before it became dark—but for now, Suga watched Asahi enjoy a few moments of relative peace. “Rue is too strong,” he sighed, “it would be good if it weren’t toxic in large doses.”
“If only.” Suga’s lips pursed, thumb brushing along a bunch of petals. He felt something unnameable rise in his chest; he breathed out slowly, letting it settle back down. He pulled another bunch of flowers off their stem and let them fall into the basket, the strong scent of the bruised plant filling his nose. “Still, it’s better than nothing, I suppose. Clears out a lot of stuff, and rowan’s a good base. I think you’re definitely onto something here.”
“You think so?” Asahi tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m not really an expert at potions.”
“You’re the better healer.” Suga shrugged, suddenly tired. “The two go hand in hand, especially medicinally. Besides, Nekomata wouldn’t let you make any egregious mistakes. You’ll be fine.”
“Oh.” Asahi blinked. “Thanks, Suga.”
Suga shrugged, a grin spreading across his face. “Of course, Nekomata might let you make a little mistake or two, as long as it isn’t dangerous. How would you feel about having your potion tested only to find out it dyes everything it touches bright yellow?”
Asahi blanched. “Not again. Never again.”
Suga laughed. They went back to picking flowers, but the basket was full before long and it was time to leave.
When Suga stood up, he was hit with a sudden wave of dizziness, and blackness reached around from the edges of his vision to threaten to swallow him whole. A number of curses sprang to his tongue but he bit them back, fingers reflexively curling around the handle of the basket as a familiar noise rang in his ears. He screwed his eyes shut and breathed out harshly. Not now.
Asahi frowned, but Suga brushed him off. “Stood up too quickly; I’ve been crouched down for too long.”
Asahi didn’t seem entirely convinced, but his shoulders loosened a little. “You should get some rest. Did you have anything to eat earlier?” He reached out to gently pull the basket from Suga’s hands.
“…I probably should’ve grabbed a meat bun or something after class,” Suga admitted, “But I was excited to go ingredient gathering! Besides, it’s almost dinner now. I’ll just eat then.”
Asahi nodded, exasperated but pacified. “Good.” He paused unexpectedly, looking at Suga’s hands as if something had caught his eye. “Did you touch something weird when foraging?”
“Oh!” Suga snatched his hands back on instinct, curling them inwards so the tips of his fingers couldn’t be seen by Asahi as he studied them. “I knew I was forgetting something! I spilled some ink during potions and it stained my hands while I was cleaning up. I meant to get it off before gathering herbs but it dried, so. No dice.” Suga winced. “It’s been stained into my skin now, so it’ll take a while to get out.”
“…Right.” Asahi shook his head. “Sorry, you’re usually so clean. It surprised me.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a bit of an off day today.” Suga smiled sheepishly, fingertips still safely hidden in his palms. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
“And a meal,” Asahi added dryly.
“And a very big meal,” Suga agreed.
They started the trek back toward the castle, Asahi carrying the basket, and Suga’s blackened fingertips buried firmly in his pockets as if he were hiding them from the cold.
_ _ _ __ __ __ _ _ _
“…the plant itself—being naturally evolved to metabolise the traces of dark magic left behind at sites of magical trauma—is particularly notable for its purification of dark or disturbed magics. A dehydrated powder made out of the roots can be added to brews (or, if properly purified, administered via nasal administration; this method is generally not advised) as an emergency remedy for acute dark magic poisoning; its petals are, famously, the primary ingredient in dreamless sleep; and the leaves have been oft burned in rooms that require more intensive magical cleansing. This being said, however, it is as dangerous as it is helpful. Overdose is very quickly fatal—if painless—and if survived, often leaves patients comatose for long periods of time after which they awake with moderate to severe amnesia. Especially in the cases of wixen with mental distress or magical disorders, addiction is extremely difficult to avoid and even more difficult to recover from. Even harvesting asphodel comes at the risk of the minds of some workers, who forget their way out of larger fields and, without rescue, wander without memory until they are drained entirely.”
_ _ _ __ __ __ _ _ _
Suga’s hand rested on the frigid stone as he stared out the window on his family estate.
Snow had settled like a cold, heavy blanket around the grassy hills. It was late enough in the day that the sun reflecting off the snow was no longer blinding, and as a consequence, in this specific hallway at this angle on the highest floor of the manor, Suga could see past the crest of the hill to where snow-white became petal-white. The asphodels, he’d eventually figured, bloomed whenever the Noroi patriarch was home on family soil. The smell of family blood—the blood of muggleborns, the blood of fathers whose minds had fractured and whose children struggled to pick up their own pieces every seventh generation, the blood of a witch coven slaughtered for the land he stood on—lingered around him, as did the shadow of dozens of generations worth of hatred and fear. Great houses accumulated a lot over time, some darker than others. Willingly or not, it was Suga’s turn to bear it.
The asphodel field’s roots were woven deep into the ground, and even after centuries, they hadn’t run out of blood.
He was only home for a little while before he was due to return to Hogwarts for his last time as a student. When he left, the flowers would close again, disappointed at the lack of a full feast but satisfied with the family magic eternally soaked into the soil. The fields were patient; they could wait. Suga would return to Hogwarts to help handle everything that was coming, whatever it was.
His friends were godsends, and Suga knew he was lucky to have them. He wasn’t planning on leaving them to their own devices, inheritance sickness be damned.
Suga exhaled, fingers—untainted by the family darkness, thankfully, for the moment—slipping from their place on the windowsill as he turned to leave. Resolve settled around his shoulders.
He’d start packing early, just in case they needed him sooner rather than later.