A buzzing semi-darkness. In a high chamber with no windows — more like a wide well than a courtroom — there was scarcely any room to move. In the stands, the judges, who also served as jurors, openly discussed the testimony they had just heard. The secretary's quill, scratching across the parchment, hurried to finish its final words. Below, close to the floor, the witnesses murmured in low voices. Silence reigned at the centre.
The polished black stone of the walls reflected a faint purple light. Yet no glare revealed its source, for the light had none. The fabric of countless robes — purple and black — flowed along the ledges, descending in circles from top to bottom, narrowing towards the floor. Combined with the noise of voices, their mass resembled the currents of a whirlpool, bubbling and, from time to time, splashing phrases and gestures onto those standing below, as though threatening to drag them downwards, to some unknown and invisible second bottom.
At last, the Chairman signalled for the assembly to turn their eyes and ears back to the floor.
"Please introduce yourself to the court."
He addressed the words to a young lady standing before him. She was not tall; slender, though not fragile; with fair skin and light eyes. Thick brown hair fell in heavy waves to her shoulders, barely brushing them. She wore a black dress with a loose, weighty skirt that fell below her knees. The dense fabric covered her shoulders and chest, drawing her torso in with a corset. Her ankle boots were black as well, with low heels. No adornments, no jewellery, no make-up.
Her limbs were cold as ice; she did not know where to put her hands. Yet her face and her breathing remained calm, and she met the Chairman's gaze evenly. After his words, however, she slowly lowered her eyes, then her head, and gathered her courage.
She had not thought that one day she would have to tell it again — and again under scrutiny. The first time, it had been a pack of chained dogs. Now… packs of hounds and wolves? There was, in truth, no fundamental difference. She had not always known who she was. The process of recognition had been long. Eighteen years. And now she seemed farther from that knowledge than at any point during those years.
When she was very young, she lived with her foster parents in a hamlet of no more than ten houses scattered across fields bordered by wasteland. The fields were crossed by streams — narrow offshoots of a nearby river, along which a grove stretched. There were few people in the village, and none of them were her age, so her main occupation was to wander through the surrounding countryside and observe nature: to look closely, to listen.
It would be incorrect to say that the oddities began at some point — that they began at all. They simply were, always. At times, the multitude of sounds filling the air would arrange itself into a melody, not without rhythm; or male and female voices would emerge from the steady murmur of a brook and drift into an unhurried conversation. Shadows cast by driftwood and rocks, in which the outlines of strange creatures could be discerned, would come alive and accompany her on her long walks. Flowers would bloom or wither depending on her mood.
She was told that all of this was merely her imagination.
Once, pushing her way through the bushes, she saw a fox and a capercaillie glowing with a silvery light. They walked calmly along the forest's edge, side by side, heading into the thickets. She was told that it had only been sunlight filtering through the leaves and vapours rising from the ground.
Another time, she sat down on the earth and, breathing in the scent of herbs and moss, closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she found herself among the clouds, with a boundless, bottomless blue sky hanging over her. She was told that she must have dreamed it.
When the time came for her to go to school, they moved to a small town. There was neither leisure nor space for oddities there. From time to time, she still noticed glowing animals, but she no longer troubled her foster parents with such things.
Once, lifting her eyes to the sky, she discerned the figure of an angel in a cloud stretched across the heavens. He stood with his back to her; she could see his vast folded wings and the hem of his garments cascading in graceful folds. Then he turned. His face was beautiful and serene, framed by flowing hair. Sunlight shone in his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek. It fell from his chin and touched her skin. The cloud dissolved.
Soon after that — on her eleventh birthday — the white wizard came to her for the first time.
It was therefore no great surprise when he told her that she, too, was a witch, and would soon go to a school of magic. If she wished. He also told her that when she was an infant, her father had murdered her entire family — including her mother. He had believed that she, too, had perished in that massacre, but she had survived. He went on to say that her father had killed many magical beings and sorcerers in his war for the purity of blood, before he himself was destroyed by a little boy.
She had heard parts of this story before, from her foster parents, and had taken it for a fairy tale. It was not. And now she had to decide whether she would go to that school. She chose to go.
The headmaster of the school — for that was who the wizard was — promised her his help and support during her studies. And so, one autumn evening before the feast, she found a small stack of books on her bedside table. One concerned magic wands; the other two were about charms, though not from the series used in lessons. One was recommended for fifth-year students, the other for sixth and seventh. The last book was titled Prophecies of the Ancient World.
"How did this one get here?" she thought distrustfully, setting it aside and taking on the others — real books — as soon as she had run to the Great Hall to grab the first thing that came to hand.
It was only at the weekend that she opened the book — and discovered that it had not been placed there by mistake.
Prophecies claimed to contain every known oracle of the Ancient World, from every corner of it: the destinies of nations and the fates of individuals; kings on thrones and humble shepherds. There were dozens of predictions concerning the end of the world, the rise and fall of civilisations, the causes and outcomes of wars; the gaining and losing of kingdoms, the accumulation and squandering of fortunes, days of birth and hours of death.
"…in starting the war, you will ruin a proud kingdom… you will find your horse… you will accept death from your horse… your son will become your murderer… your people will be destroyed through marriages with the impure…" - She opened the book at random and thought: Why do I need all this?
At the end of the volume was a table listing the numbers of the prophecies, to whom, where and when they had been delivered, and the dates and places of their fulfilment — where fulfilment had occurred, of course. It was striking how many of the dates extended well beyond the era of the Ancient World.
"They must concern nations and civilizations," she thought. "...Date: 21 March 1980. Location: ...somewhere nearby, I've seen it on maps. And this date…" Her heart skipped. "It's the day my family was killed."
She searched for the number, turning the pages frantically. "Here it is… 'Your kin will prosper as long as you remain faithful to your blood. Jealously guard its purity, and the great power will not leave you, but your people will be destroyed due to marriages with the impure.' …"
She read it. Then slammed the book shut and rushed to the library. "They have to keep newspaper archives."
And they did. The drawers of a narrow filing cabinet were marked with Roman numerals from X to XX. "Centuries. twentieth…" Inside were countless thin paper folders separated by thick parchment dividers marked with the years. Twelve folders followed each divider. She pulled out the third. The moment it left the drawer, it swelled like baked pastry with a soft sigh, and she found herself holding a heavy armful of that month's news periodicals.
"Twenty first... 'the thirty-first minister takes office' ... 'has been captured and imprisoned one of the followers…'" she murmured. "Someone missing, something found… not that… not here…"
"Twenty-second... 'a new prophecy has appeared in the Hall of—'" She skimmed past it. "Remarkable, but not that either…"
"'Residents of a nearby village discovered a settlement in the forest previously unknown even to long-time locals. According to eyewitnesses, all inhabitants were dead — every last baby. Local police found no signs of struggle and no wounds that could have caused death. Meanwhile, our experts believe there are grounds to attribute this work—'"
Inhale — exhale.
"'We also believe that the settlement belonged to the so-called 'Ancients', unheard of for more than a century. The cause of the conflict remains unclear. The witnesses' memories have been erased.'"
She read to the end of the folder. No further mentions. None in April or May either. Either no investigation had followed, or it had reached a dead end.
The librarian did not seem surprised by her question about the Ancients. She directed her towards the historical stacks and seeing her raised eyebrows and tilted head added that books preferred to be found — they revealed more that way.
"Let's assume that's true."
A passage of tall cabinets stretched so far that it was easy to believe its far end lay somewhere deep in the centuries. "Should I ask the Baron instead?" she wondered. "It's already late — three o'clock." Still, she went on.
"What exactly am I looking for?" Remembering that the oracle which began her search appeared in the chapter The Ancient East, she moved forward along the corridor — backward through time — scanning the section plates. The farther she went, the thicker the fog became, and the harder it was to make out the lettering. Soon it was clear that the signs were unnecessary anyway. The shelves spoke for themselves. Visions formed from gathered dust and dissolved back into it: top hats gave way to powdered wigs; severe black gowns beneath women's cloaks burst into colour; a waltz drifted from one side, a military march from another; a frigate raced forward under full sail; a gilded carriage rolled heavily past.
The thud of hooves and the clang of iron armour. Conversation in a dozen various languages. The chiming of coins and a pipe playing oriental motifs.
She tried to focus on the lettering again — useless. The books themselves could not be seen through the dense veil. She hesitated. Was there any point in going further?
Then a dim light cut through the mist below. She knelt, reached into it, and drew out a book: The Chosen People: Exoduses.
She knew at once that this was what she had been seeking.
According to the content, the folio contained a four-thousand-year chronicle of several Middle Eastern wizarding families, from their migrations in ancestral lands to their settlement across the world, even in America — almost to the present day. It seemed odd that it had been shelved among the Middle Ages.
Publication year: 1144.
"That's bizarre."
Nearly half the volume consisted of genealogical tables. There were only twelve trees, but their crowns had grown and intertwined so densely that one could spend years untangling them. Three-quarters of the way through the appendix she found a familiar year — and a familiar name. 11 November 1144 — the author's date of death.
"But that cannot be…"
Further on, the branches began to thin — slowly at first, then rapidly. Not from early deaths, but from declining births. By the beginning of the nineteenth century only three slender branches remained: one in North America, two here. By the end of the century — two. The American line ended in the 1960s. The remaining line looked peculiar. Looking closer, she understood why: for the past hundred years they had married only among themselves.
The final leaf bore her name, her date of birth, and the name of the village from the newspaper. It then appeared, then disappeared on the yellowed sheet. No father's name — the line ended in blank space. "Why? Never been married?" Her foster parents were not listed either.
"Wait a moment…"
She went back a couple of pages and looked at another branch again - many lines ended nowhere.
She shut the book sharply.
"They didn't die out — they simply stopped being pure-blood!" she blurted out loud. "Oh, my parents were well matched! But if his name isn't here, then he wasn't pure either. And yet — his war? Hypocrisy, nothing more."
She steadied her breathing.
"Then why is my name recorded? Why did he contact them? Why did he kill them?"
One more question remained — and its answer was not difficult to trace. She reopened the book, found the author's name in the tree, and followed the line with her finger from generation to generation. The hypothesis held: he was a direct descendant of the one who received the prophecy.
"He must have believed it — that's why he compiled the genealogy this way. And my family, being his direct descendants, believed it too — otherwise they would never have gone into the forest. But how could they have made such a mistake? Why did they die? And why was I born at all?"
Only then did she remember the time. She spent plenty of it strolling through that dead forest, at least three hours. It took her another fifteen minutes walking there. "So the same again on the way back…"
Yet when she stepped out of the passage, afternoon sunlight streamed through the window. The clock showed five minutes past three.
"Excuse me — this may sound strange — what's today's date?"
"Second of November," the librarian replied with a mild, knowing smile. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Quite the opposite."
She placed the book on the desk. In the light it was clearly visible: thick, high-quality brown leather, gold embossing in braided patterns at the corners and centre, richly decorated within. It looked much like many other old volumes in the library — except for one thing.
There was no sign that anyone had ever read it.
New knowledge always brought new questions. On Sunday she finally managed to catch the Head of House. Without enthusiasm — but still — he agreed to see her. As they walked towards his office, she noticed that he was limping; apparently the professors' recent encounter with the troll had not ended especially well for him.
"You'd better speak to the Headmaster about that," was his reply to yet another question.
"The Headmaster once told me I inherited it from my mother."
It was on the second night of term that he had summoned her to his office, where both his deputy and her Head of House were present. The Charms books the Headmaster had given her dealt with non-verbal magic — and indeed, she performed far better without spoken incantations. She remembered how, of all the measurements the wandmaker had taken in his shop, he had seemed most interested in the length of her nose.
"She was one of the Ancients. What does that actually mean? 'The great power will not leave you…' Did the Ancients possess some exceptional magic? Special knowledge? Did my father go to them for that? And now they're gone…"
Her thoughts were crawling out into the light, clinging to one another, each one heightening her agitation. Meanwhile, an expression of astonished recognition slowly spread across her Head of House's face.
"You're the last," he drawled softly.
"But only half."
"Regrettably."
Another piece of information reached her by chance — in fourth year, during a Defence lesson where three spells were demonstrated. When the first was cast, she felt the muscles of her forehead tighten painfully, as though her frontal lobes themselves were cramping. She eased the sensation by rubbing her brow. During the second, a violent shudder ran through her whole body. She turned away, unable to watch the poor insect writhing in pain.
"How very impressionable."
The professor's voice sounded directly above her. From his tone, he clearly did not consider this a virtue. She met his gaze.
"I simply have a strong capacity for empathy," she said, then looked away, uneasy.
"Hmmm?" He raised a single eyebrow — the one above the real eye — very high indeed. "Then you are unfortunate, because I'm not finished yet." He moved the spider onto her desk. "Perhaps you can name the third spell?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I don't know it," she replied quietly — not ashamed, but annoyed.
"How is that possible?" His displeasure sharpened into suspicion. "I assumed everyone who is in this classroom today had at least heard of it."
"Unfortunately, I was raised outside the magical world. Sir."
"An orphan? I see… Miss — ?"
"Greenwood, sir."
"I've heard of certain Greenwoods…" He stood over her, motionless as a cliff, hands clasped behind his back. His magical eye continued its restless work while the other fixed her with an intent stare. "… outside the magical world." The phrase itself sounded distinctly ominous. "Curious that their ward should end up in this House, wouldn't you say?"
"Apparently blood decides everything," she replied evenly. A few appreciative chuckles rippled around the room.
"Well then," the professor grinned, "this third curse is especially for you."
The moment he spoke the incantation, she felt that familiar bone-deep cold. Her gaze snapped to the tip of his wand. A distant buzzing filled her ears. A jet of green light burst forth — her heart seemed to stop, then, after a long suspended instant, began beating again.
"Don't you want to know what happened to the creature?" he asked, noticing that her eyes remained fixed on his wand.
"I know what happened," she said, her voice still trembling. "It's dead."
"So you've seen this spell used before."
"A long time ago…"
At last she looked at the spider lying on its back. She lifted it gently by one leg and examined it at eye level, then laid it on her palm and held it close to her ear — nothing. Only oppressive and suffocating emptiness, like a vacuum that did not even ask to be filled.
"I suppose a kiss won't help here," she said sadly.
"It won't," he replied matter-of-factly. "Nothing will. The curse is irreversible." Oddly enough, he sounded satisfied.
She slowly turned her palm and let the small body rest on the desk again. "So he tried to kill me as well... Irreversible. Why did he hate me so much?"
Fifth year put many things into place.
She was once again in the Headmaster's office, walking slowly along the shelves of his private library, trailing her fingers across the spines, calming herself into thoughtless quiet. The old wizard, meanwhile, sat at his desk, sinking ever deeper into contemplation over yet another riddle she had set before him. Christmas was approaching.
On one circuit her fingers brushed against something deeply unpleasant — cold and damp. She stopped and examined the leather binding. It was so black it seemed not merely to absorb the light but to draw in the edges of the neighbouring books as well — along with her attention. There was no title on the spine. She did not dare take it without permission, nor interrupt the Headmaster. She simply stood, staring into the darkness, as if expecting the book to reveal itself.
"Rather drawing you in, isn't it?" came a voice behind her. "Despite its lack of charm." Her nose had nearly touched the spine; it took real effort to step back.
"What is it about?"
"One of your father's favourite subjects," the Headmaster said plainly. "The Dark Arts."
"Is it available in the library?"
"Not any longer. I removed every copy."
"May I borrow this one?" she asked bluntly.
"What for?"
"To read."
"Evelyn…"
His posture and tone signalled an incoming lecture. She had no intention of receiving it. The familiar contest between them began.
"Why not? You see no value in knowing what your opponent knows? At least in part? In understanding how his weapon works — the true goal, what must happen inside the caster before, during, and after?
"And what would that give you?"
"Understanding of that day. Understanding of who I am — and what I must do about it. Most importantly, how."
"You already know what happened."
"No, I don't. And do you? You told me my father believed me dead — without even checking? Witnesses said he killed everyone. Let them be mistaken about the baby — but do you truly believe that after slaughtering the entire family he chose to spare me? Out of paternal affection? Hardly. It would be more plausible that he left me to die of cold and hunger — except that isn't what happened."
"Why are you so certain?"
"Because I remember."
"When did these memories come to you?" the Headmaster asked sharply.
"They've always been with me. They are my earliest ones.."
He sighed, turned away, and walked back to his desk. He did not invite her to sit — she understood instinctively that she should.
"When I arrived at the scene," he began, "my people were already there — along with an overly curious journalist. Evidence was gathered, witnesses questioned. Their memories were later modified and they were sent home. That was when…" He narrowed his eyes slightly, summoning the recollection. "Your cradle began to emit a faint silver glow. When I approached, I saw that you were alive — remarkably so. I decided it would be best if this fact did not leave the site of the tragedy. I therefore adjusted the reporter's memory as well. Then I took you to a healer. He determined that one curse had been used on you…"
"The killing one," she put in confidently.
The Headmaster swayed his whole body in confirmation.
"…but for some reasons, it did not reach its intended result."
"What reasons?"
"I never found an explanation. Someone wanted you to survive very badly — but the method differed from anything I encountered later." He paused, seeking the depths of his recollection. "I remember walking among the bodies of your relatives and feeling a terrible emptiness — as though not only life but something more had been drained away. Yet beside your cradle I felt lightness — like a balloon straining skywar… tethered by a heavy stone."
The old wizard looked at her as one might look at a miracle — and also with a trace of fear that miracles can turn monstrous.
"This book will not answer your questions, Evelyn. It contains only technical descriptions. Only the caster can know what passes through his soul — and what becomes of it afterwards."
"I have a vivid imagination," she replied gravely.
Later she gathered further fragments from various sources. Some claimed her father killed them because they refused to join him. Others — because they betrayed an earlier promise of support. By the time she finally met him at the estate of one of his followers — then under his control — she had already formed a working theory.
The first thing he wished to test was whether the rumours of her non-verbal magic were true. He forced her to duel without a wand. She did not perform flawlessly, but well enough to impress. She deliberately missed the final strike — and saw the same pain flash across her father's face. He regarded her cautiously, a question in his eyes.
"You must have heard other stories about me."
"Oh, that absurd tale about you being my daughter? How exactly is that supposed to work? Do enlighten us — we're fascinated."
The witch standing nearest him — beautiful yet terrifying — looked ready to tear her apart for the insult to her sovereign.
She told her version.
"It was meant to happen during your journey to the family of the Ancients — when you went to uncover the secrets of their magic and persuade them to join your side in the war, which by then had dragged on too long. They were adherents of blood status, much like you, so it seemed reasonable to expect at least that part of the enterprise to succeed. And they were willing — but on one condition. By that time they had been marrying only among themselves for a century and had eventually stopped producing what they considered 'proper' offspring. They were desperate for fresh blood — the blood of a powerful pure-blood wizard — which, in their judgement, you were. You agreed to a bargain: you would receive what you needed when they received what they needed — a child."
She paused and shook her head in frustration.
"Tell me honestly — did you truly believe they wouldn't notice the deception? You can accumulate immense power, invent a grand name for yourself, erase every witness to your origin — but none of that alters the truth. You never cease to be what you were born. You likely didn't understand how crucial the partner's blood purity was to them, as opposed to his strength. The moment I was born, they recognised at once that I was not the one they had been waiting for. And when you returned to claim their part of the bargain, they refused you. You killed them all without hesitation. Me as well — or so you believed. But you had no idea how deeply they felt betrayed by your fraud, how fiercely they hated you for it. So fiercely that they gathered what remained of their magic and, as one whole, sealed it into me before your curse could reach its mark. I lived — and you… you killed so many that night. And among them, you chose to kill your own child…"
She did not know why, but again she felt that same bitterness — that he had not even been willing to grant her a chance.
"You spent your entire life searching for immortality. You tried everything — and rejected the only path to it that is truly open to a human being in this world, whoever you are. That is difficult to tolerate — I have to admit. The bond between us is stronger than you think — because I am not only a fragment of your soul, as you understand the term. I am also part of your flesh and blood."
Her father was startled — and irritated — by how much she knew. Some details were new even to him; scepticism was justified. Yet of one thing he was certain — she was not lying.