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Non-magic people (more commonly known as muggles) were particularily afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognising it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burnt so much that she allowed herself to be caught no fewer than forty-seven times in various disguises.
A History of Magic, by Adalbert Waffling¹
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The cold air seeped into her nose, down her throat and into her lungs. The chilled air felt like an absence of matter, and where her skin was exposed she felt as if it too had vanished, leaving her naked to the world. Pulling her rough cloak tighter around her shoulders, Wendelin ducked her head and scurried towards the warmth awaiting her in the little house. Shaking snow from her boots, she closed a heavy wooden door and sighed with contentment.
"Is anyone else here?" She pulled her cloak off with heavy, numb fingers and brushed snow from her dark hair. Soft silence permeated the house, and with a small smile Wendelin crept towards an herb draped doorway at the back of the room. **Aldwin is probably reading that silly letter from his brother again. Muggles burning wizards, indeed.** Wendelin couldn't resist shaking her head in disapproval of the eccentric relative, despite her husband's close relationship with the man.
She poked her head into the room and frowned to find in empty. In fact, the blanket was pulled off of the small bed in the room, and a desk was lying on its side. Looking around carefully to make sure no-one was nearby, she pulled a long, straight wooden rod from her pocket and whispered a pointing spell. The wand (for that's what the wooden rod was) seemed to pull her hand to the side, and Wendelin quickly replaced her cloak and headed back into the cold to find her missing husband.
Wendelin trudged through the deep, pure snow for ten minutes before she came upon a large, squat building of dirty grey stones. Wondering why her husband was at Sir Eldernin's house, she lifted the large copper knocker and let it fall with a dull thud. After a few cold moments, a large, grumpy looking man opened the door.
"What?" His sullen demand surprised her, and she gave a silent gasp, choking on the cold winter air. After a short coughing fit, Wendelin timidly asked if the guard knew where her husband was.
"Aldwin? That was the witch's name, it was. Your neighbor saw him kill a pig just by looking at it funny; came right to Sir Eldernin. You'll probably want to stay for the burning, but I'm sure you can live with your parents or something once the demon is gone, can't you?" The guard saw the faint look on Wendelin's face and tried to grab her shoulders. "Don't faint, now. You wouldn't want to lie in that snow, it's quite cold."
Though the guard was trying to be kind, Wendelin brushed off his hands and stepped back quickly. Her husband, a witch! Even if he wasn't a muggle, he would have been a wizard. The non-magical seemed to fear anything unknown, to hate things that were different.
"My husband is not a witch. How do I save him?" Wendelin looked at the guard defiantly, but he simply gave a short laugh.
"You can't 'save' a witch if there's a witness, you should know that. The people want justice and safety, and soldiers can't protect them from the devil's men." Shaking his head he made as if to close the heavy door in her face. Desperate, Wendelin did the only thing she could think of.
She grabbed the door, jarring her arm but slowing it enough to shout, "My husband is no witch, but I am! Burn me and let him free." The door stopped suddenly, and the guard turned back to her slowly.
"What did you say?"
Wendelin held her head high, took a deep breath, and said each word slowly. "I am a witch. My husband is not. Set him free, and burn me."
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¹ Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K. Rowling, p.7
Non-magic people (more commonly known as muggles) were particularily afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognising it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burnt so much that she allowed herself to be caught no fewer than forty-seven times in various disguises.
A History of Magic, by Adalbert Waffling¹
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The cold air seeped into her nose, down her throat and into her lungs. The chilled air felt like an absence of matter, and where her skin was exposed she felt as if it too had vanished, leaving her naked to the world. Pulling her rough cloak tighter around her shoulders, Wendelin ducked her head and scurried towards the warmth awaiting her in the little house. Shaking snow from her boots, she closed a heavy wooden door and sighed with contentment.
"Is anyone else here?" She pulled her cloak off with heavy, numb fingers and brushed snow from her dark hair. Soft silence permeated the house, and with a small smile Wendelin crept towards an herb draped doorway at the back of the room. **Aldwin is probably reading that silly letter from his brother again. Muggles burning wizards, indeed.** Wendelin couldn't resist shaking her head in disapproval of the eccentric relative, despite her husband's close relationship with the man.
She poked her head into the room and frowned to find in empty. In fact, the blanket was pulled off of the small bed in the room, and a desk was lying on its side. Looking around carefully to make sure no-one was nearby, she pulled a long, straight wooden rod from her pocket and whispered a pointing spell. The wand (for that's what the wooden rod was) seemed to pull her hand to the side, and Wendelin quickly replaced her cloak and headed back into the cold to find her missing husband.
Wendelin trudged through the deep, pure snow for ten minutes before she came upon a large, squat building of dirty grey stones. Wondering why her husband was at Sir Eldernin's house, she lifted the large copper knocker and let it fall with a dull thud. After a few cold moments, a large, grumpy looking man opened the door.
"What?" His sullen demand surprised her, and she gave a silent gasp, choking on the cold winter air. After a short coughing fit, Wendelin timidly asked if the guard knew where her husband was.
"Aldwin? That was the witch's name, it was. Your neighbor saw him kill a pig just by looking at it funny; came right to Sir Eldernin. You'll probably want to stay for the burning, but I'm sure you can live with your parents or something once the demon is gone, can't you?" The guard saw the faint look on Wendelin's face and tried to grab her shoulders. "Don't faint, now. You wouldn't want to lie in that snow, it's quite cold."
Though the guard was trying to be kind, Wendelin brushed off his hands and stepped back quickly. Her husband, a witch! Even if he wasn't a muggle, he would have been a wizard. The non-magical seemed to fear anything unknown, to hate things that were different.
"My husband is not a witch. How do I save him?" Wendelin looked at the guard defiantly, but he simply gave a short laugh.
"You can't 'save' a witch if there's a witness, you should know that. The people want justice and safety, and soldiers can't protect them from the devil's men." Shaking his head he made as if to close the heavy door in her face. Desperate, Wendelin did the only thing she could think of.
She grabbed the door, jarring her arm but slowing it enough to shout, "My husband is no witch, but I am! Burn me and let him free." The door stopped suddenly, and the guard turned back to her slowly.
"What did you say?"
Wendelin held her head high, took a deep breath, and said each word slowly. "I am a witch. My husband is not. Set him free, and burn me."
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¹ Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K. Rowling, p.7