The Second Phase
By
Dylan S. Thompson
A young, black-haired man sat alone, silent and unsmiling. The woman he'd arrived with – still young, but older than he – had gone off a few minutes before for an unspecified reason. The abandonment didn't bother him, despite being in a new environment, surrounded by a very hostile crowd. Nothing much seemed to bother him, as his companion had discovered with delight.
The crowd – or mob, to be more accurate- was waiting in anticipation; eyes riveted to the stage, for the speaker, their leader, to appear. They waited and they talked amongst themselves, and the young man listened. It was nothing surprising: the standard lines of the hateful and terrified. In front of him a large, bearded man, thick-armed and powerful looking, uttered vehemently to his neighbor, I'm just glad that someone's finally taking action! The fucking wand-wavers are a danger to every single human being in Britain. The Blitz taught us that! Our families won't be safe until every single one of them is put down."
The man's neighbor muttered assent, his face mottled with ugly rage. The young man leaned forward between them and asked, "Excuse me, but don't you think there are any good, decent wizards? There have to be some, right? It's pretty stupid to think otherwise."
The bearded man's eyes widened in shock and anger, and then narrowed in study. Violence might've ensued if they hadn't been interrupted by a deep, urbane voice from behind them. "No need to get upset, Eric! I'm sure the boy is only playing Devil's Advocate."
Both Eric and the young man turned to see the source of the voice. It came from a man of about fifty with steelgrey hair and small, delicate hands. He was very richly dressed; his face was round and bland, which would've promoted the notion of dullness if not for the fiery intelligent glint of his eyes. At the beginning and throughout his interruption the man bored his gaze into Eric, but at the end he swung his eyes to the boy. "Isn't that right?"
The young man held his gaze for a moment before turning to Eric with a penitent smile. "Of course, of course I was. We all want the same thing here, I'm sure."
Eric continued to eye the young man warily, but under the older man's watchful gaze he gave in and answered the question. "No, not a one of 'em," he said fiercely. "They're unnatural, against humanity and God. Ain't nothing stupid about it, that's just the truth!"
"There you go," said the older man jovially, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Now, Eric, if you'll excuse us…"
He directed the boy out of his seat and toward the back of the room. As soon as they were out of earshot he leaned in and whispered, "There's a difference between bravery and stupidity, son. Eric might be focused on the wand-wavers, but he's never needed much of an excuse to kill."
"Sounds useful," whispered the young man facetiously.
Soon they were far enough away from the rest of the crowd that they could speak freely. The young man looked the older man up and down before meeting his eyes and asking, "What about you, Mr. Freeman? Do you think there are any good wizards?"
If Mr. Freeman was surprised at having his identity guessed he didn't outwardly show it. Instead, a thoughtful expression crossed his face. He closed his eyes, frowning, before saying slowly, "I think…maybe there are."
The young man opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off when Mr. Freeman continued. "But I lost my sister to the original Death Eater attacks, or what we found out later were the original Death Eater attacks, back in the '70s. For thirty years I had no idea how or why she was killed, and it tormented me. Then I lost my children to Dementors when the Blitz began, and my wife to despair after that. For six months we lived in terror, an entire country, because we had no idea that we were even fighting a war. And the rest of the wizards just sat back and let it happen, for six bloody months! Nearly a million people were killed, all told, and still it wasn't enough for them to tell us their secret!"
Mr. Freeman took a deep, shuddery breath before opening his eyes and saying, "I tremble to think what our world would be if we hadn't figured out the truth. I imagine that the Death Eaters would still be running wild, killing thousands a day."
"Oh, I'm sure of it," affirmed the young man. Mr. Freeman only nodded in response, still lost in his imaginings. After a few moments he shook himself out of his reverie and clapped his hand on the young man's shoulder.
"But enough of the past, son, let's look to the future. Sarah tells me that I absolutely must speak with you." Mr. Freeman smiles slyly and continued, "In fact, she wouldn't stop singing your praises. You must be careful with that; I'm afraid half of the party leaders, including the future Prime Minister, consider her something of an adopted daughter. It would not be good to hurt her."
"You needn't worry about that, Mr. Freeman. After all she's done to help me…well, I just wouldn't know what to do without her." Mr. Freeman nodded happily, which the young man took to me he could change the subject. "How much did Sarah tell you about me?"
"Very little," Mr. Freeman answered with a shrug. "Only that you were amazing, intelligent, charismatic, articulate, and that you could help us out greatly."
The young man smiled modestly at the praise, but did not deny it. He looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then leaned closer to Mr. Freeman and said, "My mother was a witch, Mr. Freeman." He continued on through the older man's shocked and disgusted expression, "She tricked my father into loving her with a potion. She got pregnant and decided that she wanted to be married to him, so she orchestrated that as well. Late into the pregnancy she finally freed my father's mind from the potion. I don't know why, whatever the reason it didn't work. My father left her and returned to his family…after which my mother killed him and his parents. She lost the will to live, lost her magic because of her depression, and then allowed herself to die minutes after I was born. I was left in an orphanage. I grew up there without any knowledge of my family drama or of magic. Then, when I was eleven, an old man showed up and told me that I was special, that I could do magic, that I was a wizard!"
The young man…young wizard…smiled self-consciously at his younger self before continuing. "As you can imagine I was charmed by it all. Flying on broomsticks, magic wands, half-giants, dragons and other wonders that I'd only ever read about. I thought I was in Heaven." He paused for a moment, frowning, before admitting, "But that didn't last very long at all. There is something inherently wrong with wizard-kind, Mr. Freeman, and it's even worse when you look at it from the inside. By the time I was sixteen I hated all of them, and I started my…" he smiled at Mr. Freeman, "our good work around then."
"Good God," exclaimed Mr. Freeman, when the young man had finished. "So…so, you're a…a…" Mr. Freeman swallowed thickly, unable to say the word.
The young man shook his head emphatically, saying, "No, Mr. Freeman, I'm not. And please don't insinuate such a thing again." The young man took a calming breath before continuing. "I snapped my own wand when I was 18, Mr. Freeman. I'm no more a wizard than you are, but, unlike you, I do know the magical world and magical theory intimately. All I want, Mr. Freeman, is to help."
Mr. Freeman seemed to finally be regaining his composure, finally seeing the wealth of intelligence the young man could provide, the sheer level of propaganda he could produce. His eyes lit up with pleasure and he grasped the young man by the forearm, exclaiming, "Brilliant, boy, this is brilliant! When Sarah said you could help I never imagined…" He cut himself off, glancing at his watch and then at the podium, "I can't introduce you to anyone right now, there's no time. Maybe later tonight…tomorrow at the latest. God, I wish you could meet everyone now!"
The young man let out a joyful little laugh at that, assuring, "Don't worry, Mr. Freeman. I've got all the time in the world."