"Please... I can't... please, stop!"
The hoarse, tear-filled whisper did not calm me. He convulsed, and I pointed the wand at him again and again.
Once more, his body jerked in a new fit of soundless, suffocating agony. I saw his eyes fill with blood, his chest convulsively heaving. He had already told me everything. Spilled every detail. About being the uncle of our former prefect, Bertram Unsworth. His name was Oliver Unsworth. He repented, said he had decided to kidnap me, repeated that his brother had warned him.
Ah yes, his elder brother and head of the Unsworth family... Godfrey Unsworth, who was supposed to arrive very soon. Except I couldn't finish the job. I needed to flee, but I couldn't stop myself, couldn't end it with my promised burning. I kept torturing him, feeding my anger. The fury within. By the tenth round, he could no longer even repeat anything:
About how they intercepted the owl, despite the magical nature of postal owls; about how they learned of the Portkey. About their pathetic, worthless ransom plan, which would have failed if not for his more sensible elder brother, who had planned and organized everything almost perfectly.
Three million Galleons. That was the sum my family was to leave in the designated place. Any surveillance, any suspicion, and they promised to leave only a corpse instead of the living heir.
The number blazed in my mind, mixing with the flame of bestial rage. For what!? Because of my own damned, childish mistake! Because of that stupid intrigue at Hogwarts that I orchestrated without thinking of the consequences! I underestimated the fallout of my childish meddling, sticking my nose into adult affairs, and it all might have blown over if not for this idiot. This worm rebelled against his family head's decision and thought himself the smartest one! I HATE!
Another Titillando curse was sent at Oliver Unsworth.
I had already paid the price for my mistake, and now... now my family would have to pay for my stupidity! It was a tangible sum. Not ruinous, but losing a year's income from several ventures just like that was unpleasant. Damned imbecile... how could I have been so foolish!
And he... he dared. Dared to pull this off. Father knew the danger when sending the Portkey by owl, but he also knew that even if someone in the department that created such Portkeys learned he had ordered a Portkey to Britain, and then guessed he would send it by owl, even then no one would dare to try anything.
That's why we didn't walk with guards in public places — the Middle Ages were over, and everyone assumed no one would even think of such folly. In safe places. And talk of such a brazen kidnapping and ransom couldn't even arise. It was generally hard to organize and get away with it, but these scum had managed. Almost managed...
A furious storm of emotions washed over me even stronger, eclipsing everything, even the rational fear whispering somewhere in the depths of my consciousness: "His older brother will come, and you're crippled and not in your right mind! Finish it!"
But I couldn't stop. His babbling, these pleas... they were like fuel poured on the fire of my hatred! Every "please" made me cast that hateful spell again and again.
Soon, he couldn't even speak, only moaning. How wonderful!
"Suffer! Suffer, you worm!"
I know! I know I've learned everything! But does it matter!? Can it in any way atone for the hell I went through! No! Nothing will atone! Nothing will quench this thirst to TORTURE!
I looked at his face, twisted in a grimace of pain, at the tears, and simply burning him... I wanted to prolong the moment. Make him feel every second of the horror I felt. So he would understand, even on the brink of his madness, who he had tangled with.
They thought my family was a purse for them! That they could raise a hand against us! That we would forgive! Oh no, I needed to make an example of this, so that for many years no one would even think of threatening the life of a Malfoy heir! I would burn their name from history!
And let Godfrey come! Let him come! I will meet him standing on his brother's bones. I... I...
Suddenly, the wand slipped from my weakened fingers. Clattering loudly on the floor. I looked at my trembling, bloodied hand. It sobered me up a bit. Strength... seemed to be gone. I was spent. Burned myself to ashes with this rage. I used everything to get to this moment in my already weakened body, and now I had exhausted even that excess I had taken from absolute, uncontrolled wrath.
Oliver fell silent, sobbing, unable to even move.
And in the ensuing silence, the full depth of my madness reached me. I had wasted precious seconds, minutes if not hours, torturing a broken man from whom I had already extracted everything needed and possible. And now, instead of fleeing, I had allowed anger to blind me. Fool! And once again, I am the biggest fool...
I took a step back, swaying. My head was spinning. Need... need to finish. Now. The last remnants of strength left me as clarity returned to my head. The anger seemed to have turned off like a switch.
I picked up the wand from the floor. For the last time, my gaze fell on his helpless figure. All that remained was to burn him alive. Something in my back, between my shoulder blades, in a vertebra perhaps, tingled with a familiar, chilling cold.
I paid it no mind, for the flame at the tip of my wand, Incendio, was almost ready to leap forth.
"Obliviate!"
***
What is the most terrible spell? The three Unforgivables?
I have passed through death... that's not scary, so the killing one — Avada Kedavra — is out. Besides, the spell grants a serene death, which is better than bleeding out or burning. Imperius? Agreed, a terrible spell, but if you've felt it before, if you have strong willpower, you can resist, and if the wizard isn't significantly stronger than you, they can't control you. The last of the three Unforgivables... I felt it on myself quite recently. Unbearable pain... the spell of PAIN, created simply to inflict the strongest possible pain, and the more hatred the caster feels, the greater the pain the victim suffers.
But all this sounds so laughable with the "Unforgivable" label when there is a much more terrible spell. One against which few, except strong Occlumens, can resist. One that is mercilessly used on ordinary Muggles every damned day. And I pity them, for this is the most terrible spell!
A spell capable of erasing memory, and in the hands of a master, even capable of altering memory, creating false memories, implanting suggestions — all with consequences for a person who suddenly loses their memory.
You not only lose your memory but also face disorientation in time, constantly feel the lack of something, and it is this spell I considered the worst. I'd even say, horrifying. After the death of that "I," my memory remained, but after Obliviate... the spell threatened to erase a couple of days from my life... extremely important days.
Why am I so arrogant!? Why am I so stupid... I walked into a deadly trap because of my own mistake. And even so, I did everything to get out of that trap alive. What I had accomplished seemed impossible — I, a thirteen-year-old boy, managed to kill two adult wizards and almost got a third. And their intentions had ranged from simply "maim and capture alive" to murder.
And now, when I was one step from absolute victory, the anger that had given me so much strength turned out to be a double-edged sword and turned against me. I had managed to learn everything, I could also have killed the dangerous enemy, then found my trunk and wand. After that, calmly fly far from this place — fortunately, we were in Britain, and I could have easily reached the nearest town, and from there it was just a matter of time: from the moment I got to the hospital until the moment my father's people, or whoever was looking for me, found me. That I was being searched for was beyond doubt.
But no... not only did I linger beyond reason, but I also failed to notice the enemy... most likely Godfrey, the elder brother of this Oliver and head of the Unsworth family. For no one else knew about this.
When Obliviate sounded... the world didn't darken. It became empty. Memories weren't erased, and it didn't physically hurt — they just... dissolved. Like ink in water. I felt them slipping away, like film tearing, leaving behind only a sense of loss and endless, nameless sorrow for what was lost.
And right now, all these thoughts, all these memories were disappearing with inexorable speed.
NO!
I poured all my strength, all my skill in mental magic into one goal — to preserve at least something. To gather the most important fragments and hide them... Like grabbing hot coals with bare hands, I tried to hold onto them... but I couldn't.
I tried to stop the memory erasure, manipulating my consciousness and inner powers... trying to stop the intangible, which seeped through any mental defense like a light gas and erased everything it needed.
In a few books I had read about this spell, and my consciousness produced a couple of hastily read lines stating that the only chance not to lose memory irrevocably was to preserve at least a piece... a fragment of memory, even smaller... a grain, by pulling on which everything could be restored. But it was unlikely. Despairing in my attempts to save all the memory of these few days, I decided to give myself at least a chance to remember everything someday... in the future.
If I didn't do this, I would lose so much. The last heart-to-heart conversations with those I had grown close to, plans involving Louis. Those plans were the most important. Through Louis, I wanted to create something no mercenary group had ever managed, let's be honest, no wizard in history had created what I planned to create. And that was my way of changing the world...
All of this could vanish; of course, there was a good chance I would arrive at the same conclusion, but what if not? What if over these days I had changed too much, and losing them, I wouldn't reach the same result?
And also, if I never remembered who kidnapped me, they might get away with it. If they did everything according to Godfrey's plan, my family, instead of guaranteed capture of the kidnappers, would choose not to put me at risk. And right now, I — these very thoughts that would soon disappear, along with the memory of the last days — all I had left was to weave pieces of these three days into my memory... weave threads into a tangle that, when pulled, would itself pull new threads until it restored the memory whole.
It might not work, and I might forget all these thoughts forever, but if it did work... if I remembered everything, then I hadn't desperately built something from the wreckage of my will in vain. Something that could survive and bring back these few days. Vague images, details, pain, names, and phrases... I wove various tangles of associations. Those that were like a cataract on the eye were disappearing even now, but I left such deep, multifaceted associations that the spell would definitely not touch them. A pity that because of this, the chance of them surfacing in life would be minuscule... but I left a lot of them, and I couldn't do any more. Darkness awaited me again. And this moment of my reasoning, I might not even remember later, but if I did...
Then Arcturus, you must destroy them all... their entire family, down to the last one! Not for yourself at this moment when you remembered, but for yourself at that moment when you were desperately trying to save your memory, knowing the futility of hope. Whatever it costs you... do it!
I hope you remember.
I preserved the last thread in the chain of associations and...
***
The owl flew into the living room as Narcissa was rereading the latest letter from Isabelle Malfoy for the hundredth time that day. The pedigreed bird dropped the letter right onto her lap. Usually, she opened correspondence calmly, careful not to tear anything, but not this time. Today was different. The parchment was covered in sharp, angular letters — Lucius's handwriting, but lacking its usual calligraphic precision. He must have been in a hurry.
Today was the day they would finally get their son back. It was impossible to describe in words how worried she had been for her son and what fury she felt upon learning of the ransom... for ordinary gold... which she would have given tenfold for her son... mere metal... for her son.
When Narcissa opened the letter, her husband's uneven handwriting immediately made it clear he had written it with agitation.
"He's at St. Mungo's. Alive. Non-criti...". Narcissa read no further.
The world narrowed to those words. He was alive. It echoed in her temples with an obsessive, painful thud. Alive, but at St. Mungo's. So, not whole. So, it was bad enough that her husband hadn't limited treatment to home. And their family healer was a recognized and highly skilled specialist.
She didn't remember how she ended up in the fireplace, how she flew out into the hospital foyer, noticing nothing around her. Her elegant shoes clicked on the stone floor, overtaking slow and bewildered visitors and staff. Her gaze caught two wizards in dark robes with insignia — they stood by one of the doors. They moved to stop the woman but, recognizing her, silently stepped aside. Narcissa burst into the intensive care ward.
The air in the ward was thick and heavy, smelling of pungent potions, ozone from healing charms, and the sweetish, nauseating aroma of a powerful sleeping draught. A typical smell for such a place. And in the center of this sterile nightmare, on white sheets, lay her son.
Arcturus was pale as marble and equally motionless. His platinum hair, always styled with impeccable precision, was now dull and dirty, disheveled and caked with dried blood. His face, usually expressing cold confidence or the curiosity more akin to a scholar, was marred with abrasions, wounds, and blooming blue-yellow bruises. His right arm up to the elbow was encased in a transparent, shimmering sarcophagus of solidified magical light, through which dark, oddly displaced lines of broken bones were visible. And so it was with his whole body — it seemed there wasn't a single place without injury. Yet his features were deceptively calm... like a wax figure. His pallor and sunken cheeks clearly spoke of severe magical and physical exhaustion.
Three Healers in appropriate robes crowded around the bed. Eldred Wainwright, their family physician, whose services cost a fortune, was moving his wand over the boy's chest, and from its tip emanated a troubling, pulsating crimson light. Another Healer, a specialist from St. Mungo's, with a concentrated face, was tracing patterns in the air with his hand, apparently trying to apply complex healing charms or using powerful diagnostics to understand something. They exchanged quiet, terse phrases, but Narcissa didn't hear the words. Only the anger, threatening soon to overflow.
"Arcturus... my son..." his name escaped her lips in a whisper full of such primal, rending pain that she didn't recognize herself.
She took a step forward, her gloved hand instinctively reaching for her son, wanting to touch him, feel the warmth of his skin, make sure it was him. But Healer Wainwright sharply raised his head. His usually calm and courteous gaze was now hard and ruthless.
"Mrs. Malfoy," his voice sounded sharp, cutting through the hum of spells, "do not interfere. We are stabilizing your son's condition. One wrong move and it will be worse than before."
At that moment, Lucius entered the ward. His face was a picture of composure. Except his lips were pressed into a thin, white line. He was trying not to look at his son. Instead, his cold gaze was fixed on his wife.
"Narcissa," he said. There was not a trace of warmth in his voice, only commanding tones. He approached and grabbed her elbow, squeezing the folds of her expensive dress. "You are not needed here. You are interfering with the Healers' work."
"But he..."
"Wainwright and the best specialists from St. Mungo's are doing everything within the power of medicine," he spoke almost in a whisper, but every word was carved from ice and brooked no argument. "Your emotions are like poison to him now. Come. There is nothing critically awful; he will recover."
He turned her and, not letting go of her arm, firmly led her to the exit. She didn't resist. All her fury, all the despair that had fueled her these days, shattered against the icy wall of reality. She allowed him to lead her out into the brightly lit but soulless corridor. The door closed behind them with a quiet click, leaving her with only one oppressive, unbearable thought: they had returned his body. But had they brought back her son?