Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world—that belongs to J.K. Rowling.
The Darkness of Light
Chapter 1 – Discipline
"You are a failure, and you will always be a failure, and you will never be worthy of my name."
A young boy of eleven years lay face down on the ground, clutching the drying mud in his palms, a steady beat pulsing through his chest. His left eye was swollen shut, a deep purple hue, dripping into the puddle beneath his face. Beside him, inches from his left hand, was a wand—12 inches of mahogany, with a Griffin's core—and it was crusted with dirt and blood.
"Father…" began the boy, struggling to look up, despite the tightness in his neck. "I think I can feel it now. I think it's coming soon."
His father, a ghostly white man with flowing black hair down to his shoulders, shook his head, eyes dark and downcast. "You're weak. It will never come. I've been born a Squib. Your mother will be so disappointed."
The boy's face blanched, and he clamped his mouth shut, summoning his last reserve of energy to roll over and look upwards. He let the caked mud fall from his eyelids, and then opened them, and said, "Father, I'm sorry—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But I can do Potions, still, right? Maybe I can be a Potions Master."
"Potions…" The man sneered. "Like that bastard, Severus Snape? No son of mine will follow in his footsteps. No, you will live with your disgrace, and you will learn to live alone, and perhaps a Mudblood might befriend you."
A breath caught in the boy's throat, and he stiffened. "What about Marcus?"
A pause, and the man kneeled, a few feet from the boy, and peered into his face. "Marcus hates you. He hates that you have no magic. He will never, ever be your friend. You have no friends, and you never will."
And the man stood, and he shook his head, and then turned and, with a pop, disappeared.
A steady wind swept through the clearing, and the trees surrounding it swayed to a mournful song. Darkness peered down upon the child, sniffing behind its ears, nudging it, inhaling its breath.
Little boy, close your eyes. The darkness has you now
The stone walls of the room leaned inward slightly and out of their cracks seeped webs of wet moss. Beneath the floating dust in a shaft of moonlight lay a small cot, black, an inch thick and nearly shredded beyond recognition. There was nothing else, save the solid oak door with a single barred opening at the floor and no handle. Nothing else, save the boy in the corner and the stack of books at his side. Nothing else, save the streaks of red on the wall by the spot where his head and shoulder were pressed.
Tears were weak. His father had said so, last year, during his first lesson in humility. And he had learned it well, shedding only a single tear when his friend Marcus burned Edward, the stuffed bear his mother had given him for his second birthday. But his father had shown him the truth afterwards. Edward meant nothing, since he was not a Magic stuffed bear. He was just a plain old Mudblood bear, just like him.
The boy reached up with a tiny hand and pressed a grimy finger to his head. An icy shock exploded in his skull, and he jerked back from the wall, clutching his hands in front of him. His body shivered, and he slowly opened his hands. A drop of blood fell from the tip of his finger and plinked on the cold floor, echoing through the silence of the room. The boy quickly spun towards the opening in the door and scrambled backwards into the darkest corner, clutching his bloodied hand against his chest.
A few moments later the boy's shoulders relaxed and he lifted his hand upwards into the shaft of moonlight from the opening in the ceiling. Timidly, he lowered his finger to the wall, and he pressed it down and pulled it back, leaving a small circle behind. He pressed it again and pulled down, leaving a streak of red behind—and again, another streak, and again, and nothing.
He dipped his finger again, and scratched out the rest of his drawing.
It was a word—his name—"Nicholas."
A rap sounded on the door. The boy spun, and stood, and straightened his shoulders, and stared at his feet.
"Father," he said, as the door swung open and a tall man stepped into the room.
"Any progress today?" asked the man.
"No sir," said the boy quietly. "I have finished the books, and I have tried all of the curses, but none of them worked. There may have been a tingling in my leg, once, when I tried the knee splitting hex, but it may have been my imagination."
"That is a disappointment. What is the incantation for the marrow boiling curse?"
"Vomica Subium."
"The wand movement?"
"Palm faces downwards, arm extended. Wrist pops down, little finger pulls in to arc the wand tip, then a jab at the target."
"The flaying curse?"
"Excorcium. Shoulder extended, forearm across chest, wand tip on neck, and then a full swing outwards towards the opponent. Incantation should finish just as the wand is pointed straight and turns down sharply to the caster's side."
"And a fog shield?"
The boy scrunched his face, flipping through the books in his head. "That's not in there."
Wrong answer. His father's eyes snapped wide open and his lips slammed into a tight line. And his hand swung up and a black streak flew out from the folds of his night colored sleeve. It was a practiced movement, the way his elbow made a perfect tight circle in front of the separation in his ribs, and the way his wrist twisted towards his neck and his fingers extended straight, wand stuck atop his middle finger and thumb and held in place under his index finger. His chest dropped, and his front knee bent, and a red and blue light seeped from the sides of his wand, spun, and shot forward like an arrow.
The boy kneeled on one knee and placed his right hand flat on the cold stone, eyes still trained on the floor. The light struck and the world went dark and a door slammed and silence entered the room.
Screaming was weak. His father had said so, last month, during a lesson in humiliation. And he didn't scream any more. He didn't feel pain anymore—wouldn't feel pain any more—couldn't feel pain any more. Screaming meant you lost, meant you gave up, meant you broke. Breaking was unacceptable. It meant you couldn't carry your burden, and he had a burden, and he had to carry it. At the very least, he could be strong in his humility.
The boy dropped his other knee and hand to the ground, and he sat back on his feet.
Strength. His father was strong. He could control his Magic, and he could control his emotions, his movements, his thoughts. But the boy, the Squib, the detestable Mudblood had no magic to control, so he could not be as strong. He could focus on emotions, and on movements, and on perfecting them, at least, to be strong like his father. He would be strong.
He pressed his thumb into the wetness on his skull, and he grimaced, and he bit his tongue, and he clenched his other fist.
And he was silent.
It had been three months—June, if he had counted correctly—and the boy was standing flat against the wall opposite the door, comfortably groping the small square patch of moss in his right hand and the long strip ending in a little dip in his left. The dust was moving more quickly now—there was a draft from the opening in the door. That meant his father was coming.
There was a click, and a creak, and a two footsteps, and then breathing. Out it went, then in, and a pause, and then out, then in, and another pause.
"Hogwarts opens in two months, and you have shown no signs of Magic," said his father.
His heart pounded. This was it—the time had come. If he showed no signs of Magic before school started, he would have to officially register himself as a Squib with the Ministry of Magic. It would set in stone his insignificance in the world.
"I am ready," said the boy, head down.
There was breathing again, and no rustling of a cloak, no arm cutting through the air. Just breathing, and nothing else.
"I am not ready," said his father. "And I think you have lied to me. You have performed Magic, and you are not telling me."
"Father, I have not. I would not lie to you."
The breathing sped up, and it deepened. He was breathing through his nose now—his mouth was closed. His body always tensed when he breathed through his nose, and something happened after.
The boy braced himself.
"No son of mine is a Squib. You have lied. Legilimens."
And a beast tore into his mind. It was furry and four legged and crouched low to the ground, long front fangs hanging through tight lips and a torn black nose pressed to the ground. It sniffed, and it ran.
It ran straight, and it pounced and sunk its teeth into a pink strand of flesh, and then he saw Edward.
Edward was alive again! The burning hadn't killed him. And he was happy. But he shouldn't be happy. Edward was a Mudblood bear, and he didn't deserve to be alive. But how was he alive? He was dead. What kind of Magic was this?
And he saw himself hugging Edward. His mother was standing behind him with a small smile on her face, and she was looking down at him, eyes raised and—pink at the edges? Her eyes were pink at the edges. She had been crying.
In the back was his father, arms crossed, standing straight and tall, a tower of pure strength, cold and unmoving. His face was blank, as always, and his eyes were locked on Edward. He hated the bear, the boy could tell, from the very beginning. He should have hated the bear, too.
The beast was back, and it pounced forward, swiping the next strand with its claws.
Marcus stepped out of the boy's front door and walked slowly across the lawn, wand bouncing in his hand. He stopped in front of… him? And Marcus stuck out his hand.
"Let me see the bear," said Marcus.
"Why?" The imitation boy pulled Edward closer to his chest—hadn't he done that?
"Because I want him. I have Magic, and you're a Squib, so you have to listen to me."
"But … He's Edward, and my mommy gave him to me. Just don't hurt him." The imitation boy slowly let his grasp loosen, and he extended his bear out to Marcus.
Marcus snatched it and threw it to the ground, stomping on it with a dirty shoe.
"NO!" screamed the imitation boy as he lunged forward.
But he was too late. Marcus's wand was out, his arm pointing straight downwards, and he had already muttered the spell.
Edward lit, and Edward burned.
Across the lawn, the shades behind the lower living room window fluttered and fell into place, steady again.
The boy remembered. He had felt rage—unacceptable—and he had felt sadness—unacceptable—and he had felt betrayal. But he had learned better now. He learned to calm his emotions. And he did.
But this beast was intrusive. This beast was ripping apart the pink in his mind, and it shouldn't be here. His mind was his own, not the beast's. It had no right to touch his mind—he had trained it so well.
The surface of his mind rumbled. Something beneath it was angry, and it did not like the beast either. The beast did not seem to notice.
His arms began to shake, and his body bucked. The beast must die. He hated the beast. He wanted it dead.
And then he breathed, and commanded the pink to wrap around the beast, and to strangle it. It did, but the beast was quick and slipped through it, lunging towards the next strand.
"No," said the boy, and the ground of his mind split.
Somewhere he was screaming, somewhere he was crying, somewhere he was scraping his bloody fingernails against the cold stone floor of his room. But he could only focus on the wave of Darkness tearing through the confines of his mind, flooding his thoughts, crashing against the walls of his head.
It would not stop, and it had no limit—depthless Darkness raged in his mind, sinking its claws into everything it could reach—which was everything in his mind.
The Darkness seemed to hate the beast too, however, so maybe the boy did like it. And the Darkness could tell that he liked it; it sank its claws in deeper, and wrapped itself around the beast, and it looked at him.
He nodded.
The beast was hurled from his mind, and he snapped back into his eyes.
He could see again.
Well, that's the first chapter. I'm sure it's confusing—sorry. This is only the first character. Next chapter will introduce another, and then we're off to Hogwarts.
What do you think?