That same night, after the demise of most of the Unsworth family, four men in stern, nondescript robes crossed the threshold of the private magical psychiatric institution "Willow-Croft". They wore no cloaks, but their very bearing and cold, detached gazes exuded danger. This place, lost in the backwaters of magical healthcare in Britain, could boast neither the prestige of Italy's Santo Mental, its scale, nor its treatment quality. Honestly, even the mentalist healers at St. Mungo's — though few — treated more reliably. But the choice of a temporary facility for Oliver Unsworth had its reasons. Even despite such drawbacks of local treatment.
Santo Mental required time to arrange treatment and patient transfer. So why not choose St. Mungo's as a temporary facility? Unlike the central state hospital of all magical Britain, this small, almost intimate establishment treated mental wounds for those who preferred anonymity. At St. Mungo's, while prices were similar and treatment better, the walls were thin, and St. Mungo's itself received substantial funding from the Malfoy family.
The main healers there were on good terms with that family, even the well-known Hippocrates Smethwyck. All of this became dangerous, very dangerous, considering the information that could be heard from Oliver's lips. What if the half-mad man imagined someone wanted to use the Tickling Charm on him? Probably, his elder brother should have completely erased his memory; then Oliver would have forgotten the torments. But psychological wounds couldn't be healed so simply, and with his memory erased, the younger brother would have remained in a similar, insane state for life.
Perhaps they should have limited themselves to a privately hired mentalist as a temporary solution, but as practice showed, Oliver was dangerous to the household, so he was tucked away here, after extracting an Unbreakable Vow of confidentiality from the head healer and the nurse — for only those two entered that room. Fortunately, it was easy for Godfrey to come to an agreement with the owner of this institution, who was also his school friend and the only Master Mentalist in the place. The now-dead Godfrey, who had all this information.
The figures entering moved purposefully down the corridor to Room 4. The young healer on night duty tried to stop them.
"Th-this is patient Unsworth's room! Visits are prohibited! Entry is only for the head healer and the assigned Mediwitch! How did security even let you in!?"
One of the "guests" turned. He seemed like just an average-built wizard with reddish stubble, but he stood out not with hollow cheeks, but with a white pupil in his left eye — apparently, a deep scar passing over the eye was the cause of blindness in one eye.
His other eye looked at the youth so coldly and threateningly that words weren't needed. The young healer recoiled, sensing a threat to his life, and helplessly pressed against the wall, letting them pass. But a Petrificus Totalus immobilized him in the next moment anyway. Just like the two guards before that, who had been at the clinic's entrance and proved more stubborn.
But it didn't stop there. Soon, a similarly concerned Mediwitch was immobilized. Immediately after her words:
"Gentlemen, you have no right..."
The same fate befell the rest of the clinic's small staff, which was even smaller than usual due to the night shift. They didn't have time to finish their similar-sounding phrases before falling paralyzed. The head doctor — the only Master Mentalist in the place — wasn't even there. Godfrey Unsworth's school friend was a good mentalist but not a strong fighter, so he was lucky the raid happened during the night shift. In the end, there were no casualties — neither among the staff nor among the unknowns.
"Sit quietly, and you'll be fine," came the calm, ominous voice of one of the arrivals, who stood guard by the door to the coveted room. "Though you're under Petrificus anyway, where can you go? Ha-ha!"
Another one simply walked through the clinic checking everything, while the remaining two did something in the coveted room. They had, of course, locked the door beforehand and cast an analogue of a Muffling Charm.
Oliver Unsworth sat on the bed, staring blankly at the wall. Despite the late hour, the light in the room was still on. His face was pale, eyes sunken and full of unconscious fear. Over a couple of weeks, he had shed a lot of excess weight. When the two strangers entered the room, he flinched and shrank back.
One of the men, the large one who went by the nickname "Hulk," slowly drew his wand. A cold, predatory interest flashed in his eyes. He aimed his wand at Oliver, preparing to utter a spell designed to loosen his tongue in the most painful way. The one-eyed man with the nickname "Red" — who kept the nickname even after losing his eye, which annoyed him — watched with the same expression one has looking at a repetitive, daily breakfast.
And then Oliver reacted differently than his executioners expected. He didn't beg for mercy. Instead, his eyes widened with pure, animal terror, and he screamed, thrashing hysterically, trying to crawl into the corner of the bed:
"No! No! Not the tickling! Not Titillando! Please! Not that!"
Despite his strange words, Crucio nearly shot from the larger, but somewhat dimmer man's wand. Red stopped him.
"Hold on. He seems already broken. Tough luck, Hulk, no enjoying someone else's pain for you."
"Huh! That's no fun. Maybe let me have a go, eh, Red?"
"Told you... no!"
Hulk obeyed and slowly lowered his hand. Something like disappointment and boredom flickered across his face. There was no need to waste time on Crucio. The quarry was ready to do anything to avoid the ghost of the past torture. They silently approached the bed. Oliver offered no resistance and started babbling incessantly, sobbing:
"Just not that spell... not the tickling..."
They bound him with magical restraints and began interrogating him. And the very first question wasn't about why he kidnapped Arcturus — just to verify Godfrey's words — but a completely different question that interested the two thugs who could even kill an infant on orders.
"Why are you afraid of tickling? Haven't you experienced the terrible pain of the Cruciatus?" Red led the one-sided conversation.
"Just not tickling, please..."
"Fuck! Answer the question!" the second one shouted.
Oliver glanced around nervously and only then began to speak. His body trembled finely, and his gaze seemed to seek salvation from invisible demons hiding in the shadows. Though he should have feared those who had tied him up and intended to extract information now. But Oliver had long been out of his right mind.
"Who decided to kidnap Arcturus Malfoy?"
Oliver shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. He began to babble, swallowing his words:
"No... no... he... he'll come... he's everywhere... not again!"
Red exchanged a glance with his partner. The latter, expressionless, brought his wand to Oliver's throat.
"Answer, fucker. Or we'll check how strong your ribs are!"
But no answer came. Red sighed disappointedly and drew his wand.
"Talk, or I'll keep hitting you with this Titillando non-stop!"
"NO!" Oliver screamed, bursting into tears. "Me! It was me! It was my idea! I wanted to... just not Titillando! Please!"
He looked at the wand with such horror he seemed ready to tell them anything.
"Why?" Red continued, his white pupil occasionally catching the attention of the half-mad Unsworth.
"He... he... because of him, my family lost the engagement with the Selwyns! Just not tickling... my whole body itches... please don't..."
He tried to rub his wrist as if truly feeling an unbearable itch, but his hands were bound, making it awkward.
"Who were your accomplices?" Red's voice was raised.
"Edmund... and Edgar... the Renfro brothers..." Oliver convulsively swallowed, then his face contorted with something strange, a mix of laughter and sobbing.
"Where are they now!?"
"Dead! He... he killed them... understand!? He... he killed them..."
"How could a thirteen-year-old boy with such injuries kill them? Or did you torture him like that afterward!"
"He killed them! With broken ribs... and an arm... he killed Edmund... blew his head up with magic! Without a wand!"
"How did he..."
"Edgar died, the monster cut his torso in half! He just... just... I saw... he blew up... only scraps left of his head..." He trembled, babbling again: "Monster... he's a real monster... just not that torture... not Titillando!"
"How did you capture him?" Red seemed to ignore his ramblings, fishing for facts.
It turned out Oliver Unsworth had a friend working in the Portkey Creation Department. During a get-together, the friend inadvertently mentioned work details in conversation, giving away specifics without personal information. Coincidence or not, they met on a Friday evening, the very day the young specialist started working on the Portkey. Thanks to rumors, Oliver pieced it all together, and then it was a matter of greed, desire for revenge, and pride. Surprisingly, he had enough skill and patience to pull it off.
They gradually extracted all the information, though "extracted" was too strong a word; it came too easily. Many questions were asked simply to check if he was delirious.
"Who is Godfrey?"
"Brother... my brother... he saved us... he's smart... and I... I'm a fool..." Oliver broke into sobs. "He told me not to meddle... and I meddled... and now... now it's all over... he killed them... they were my friends. Then he came for me."
"Why erase the memory!?"
"So he wouldn't remember... so they couldn't be found... Godfrey said... three days... three days..." He suddenly froze, his eyes widening. "But I knew, knew he'd remember everything anyway. He's a monster! I saw it... in his eyes... he'll come back... he'll kill me... kill everyone!"
Red watched him with his single living eye. He had gotten everything he wanted. Oliver's broken mind proved far more vulnerable than his body. He nodded to his partner. A green light would have been the last thing the tormented Oliver Unsworth saw. But Avada Kedavra would have caused a huge fuss with Aurors and the entire DMLE, so a more painful method was used. Diffindo cut his throat, drawing a smile but not severing it from the torso as Sectumsempra would have. Thus ended his fear and torment.
Red expected his partner to want to enjoy the victim's agony with Crucio one last time, but no. Apparently, even this sadist felt a twinge of disgust.
They left the room, leaving Oliver Unsworth's body with open, glassy eyes and a slit throat. It took them about thirty minutes to learn everything — from where the information about the Portkey came from to what actually happened. Soon, the four unknowns left the private clinic. Sitting and waiting for Lord Malfoy to report, the two decided to talk about the topic troubling them.
"What do you think, Red, was he telling the truth? About the boss's son."
"I'm confused myself..." Red said wearily, pulling a cigarette from inside his robe.
"Should we tell this during the report?" Hulk asked.
"Of course, but I'll do the talking. Don't worry." They settled on that, as they always did during reports.
Red was the indispensable half of Hulk, who was worse at thinking than at using Unforgivable Curses. In this pair, the one-eyed man was in charge. So they sat waiting for their boss, Lucius Malfoy, occasionally pondering what that lunatic had said. One thought troubled the vile scum: could a half-dead kid literally blow one man's head apart and drive another to such a state?
"If it's true, that's a scary thing," Red finally spoke up, lighting a cigarette. That day, they made a mental note again: noble families weren't pampered aristocrats but gatherings of even more terrifying people than themselves. And that, mind you, was saying something.
***
My feet measured a steady rhythm on the old cobblestones of Diagon Alley, but my mind was far away. It raced between the damp walls of the cave that smelled of blood and fear. I was simply recalling yesterday's events, when I was struck by piercing headaches and remembered part of what was lost. On either side, maintaining perfect distance, walked my two guards. Their dark green robes with a stylized "M" embroidered at the throat — the sign of the Malfoy family — were a mark of affiliation and a warning to all. It was amusing that their presence didn't burden me at all. On the contrary, their impassive faces and readiness to cover me at any moment had become the factor allowing me to drift so calmly in my thoughts. It was good to be rich.
Only a couple of days remained until school, and even after fainting just this morning, I had tried with all my might to persuade Father to take me with him to witness the Unsworths' downfall personally — he didn't take me. I'll be honest, I poured all my skill into my pleas, but it didn't work. And I so wanted to personally take revenge on that Oliver and Godfrey... but, no matter how you look at it, in my parents' eyes, I was just a teenager. Which was mostly true. But how my soul craved to kill them. Something inside desired to turn them into bloody pulp.
To somehow console my anger and trampled pride, my parents decided that instead of a teenager with an unsteady psyche witnessing murders, it was better for me to go shopping — since school was just around the corner, though Mother had doubts about sending me. I had, after all, literally fainted and fallen to the floor yesterday evening. But according to the family healer, everything was fine now, especially after he ran a couple of healing spells over me and prescribed potions.
Apparently, this was the result of the memory collapse the Master Mentalist hired by Father had spoken about. That's why he advised not going to school until the first collapse occurred... apparently, to simply understand how it would manifest in me. The effects could vary from person to person. That is, it could cause a headache or lead to much worse consequences than fainting. Though that was unlikely.
Now I was almost done with my shopping; evening was approaching, all because I had only arrived at Diagon Alley around noon. And all because of those examinations, Mother's doubts, and her subsequent persuasions. I wanted to go "alone" — meaning without her. Since I already had two loyal guards with me, it was unlikely anything would happen, but she still needed much convincing and was reluctant to let me go. It even got to the point where Draco joined my side and started persuading her to leave me alone.
Of course, I understood she was just worried as a mother, but I wanted a bit of freedom. The guards were silent when I wasn't speaking to them, so they merely served as porters for my things and a guarantee of my safety. They stopped being porters once I finally bought another trunk — roughly similar in style, even slightly more elegant-looking. But I still missed the lost trunk. It wasn't about the trunk itself; it was about the contents. Over two years, I had put so much into it... so many books, gifts, valuables, and memories were lost.
It would be wonderful if there were a way to have a similar spatial storage, personal, not tied to an object. Like an inventory in games... personal spatial storage...
I should look for information, maybe something similar exists... even if it's a far cry from what I imagined in my head. If not, it would be a worthy goal and additional motivation for deep study of spatial magic.
Interestingly, I kept not wanting to finish my long shopping trip, because it was very atmospheric walking through the evening Diagon Alley — I hadn't been here in the evening before. It turned out that the magical nighttime lighting gave the alley's streets an even more interesting and wondrous appearance, creating an atmosphere very inspiring for reflection. But no matter what I tried not to think about, my thoughts stubbornly returned to yesterday. To that moment in the cave when my fingers touched the sticky, blackened stain... my own blood, spilled so long ago.
That's when everything crashed down on my memory.