Disclaimer : The world of Harry Potter doesn't belong to me! I just revel in it. I did, however, spend simply ages searching through the Russian language (all for you, Antonín!) and gaining a new interest in it.
[Written for the HEX Spell Creation November Prompt]
The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions
Hissing in frustration at yet another failed attempt, he barely cast a second glance at the pulverised remains of furniture lying around the room as he turned to the only piece of furniture left standing. Striding over to the dark mahogany sideboard, he gulped angrily at the tumbler of Firewhiskey, and glared at the disarray of papers cast all over the surface. He was sure his Arithmancy calculations were all right! Where did he go wrong? Perhaps it was a miscalculation from the underestimation of the force of his magic against the-
"Toní, are you still at this? You're not getting any younger, you know. I left you in this exact state since two days ago! I bet you haven't even eaten or taken a shower, much less taken a breath of fresh air. This place reeks of dead mice." A deep voice drawled from the doorway leading from the rest of the house to the basement where they currently were.
He whirled around, eyes almost maniacal in the way they fixed onto the huge figure that practically dominated the doorway with its wide-set shoulders, bulky build, and extremely tall stature. Even with all the light from behind the figure blocked off, Antonín Dolohov would recognise that figure anywhere.
"Thórfi," he breathed, and his mouth widened in what he probably thought was a friendly smile, but looked more like someone had threaded fish hooks through the sides of his mouth to force it into a grin as one would control a marionette. "That's exactly it!" Antonín exclaimed before dashing towards the bulky figure. In his excitement, he even managed to hastily shove past the figure, who only looked up toward the ceiling, shook his head, and sighed heavily as he trudged after his companion who was long gone.
Antonín burst out of the door of his cabin and, Apparating to a nearby clearing, his demeanour changed immediately. By the time Thórfinn found him, he was already standing in the middle of the clearing, arms lightly stretched apart from his sides with his palms facing up, the runes for concentration and introduction magically etched into the air with a glow only associated with a 'Flagrate'. Then, the sun burst from the clouds, and shone directly down onto Antonín.
If it was not a momentous instance, Thórfinn would certainly have sniggered at the comicality of it all. But as it was, he watched with a strange fascination as his friend and mentor of many years opened his eyes to look up at a hawk circling overhead. He muttered something under his breath that Thórfinn could not quite catch. Immediately an unseen force seemed to tremble about Antonín's body, and with a harsh diagonal slash of his arm, the force lurched away towards the hawk. Faster than the hawk could react, it was hit and fell out of the sky screeching as if in terrible pain, only to be found dead by Antonín's feet in the next moment, with a large zig-zagging gash across its breast.
Antonín's face was triumphant, and Thórfinn immediately deadpanned, "That's it, then? The thing you've been working on the past month was another way to kill a bird?"
Then Antonín's face twisted in annoyance. "Most certainly not. There's more yet to come, but that will take a while. And I have not been working on this the past month; I already had it figured out with my calculations and innate magic in first week. The last three were my attempts at introducing it back to the ambient magic. Which, by the way, if not for your earlier comment, I would've continued being stuck in that damn basement."
At Thórfinn's blank look, Antonín sighed. "Oh, you pyro-crazed brute. Remember I told you before, with spell creation, one must first explore the result you want to achieve with your innate magic, then with Arithmancy, calculate the definition of it with various wand movements. Spell creation is a subtle art."
"Well then, what's wrong with just doing it without?"
"You need to introduce and link it back to the wider ambient magic around you, or it's going to just sap away at your innate magic reserve. Every spell, curse, jinx, hex you've ever used all draws from ambient magic around you to create the force behind the spell, and a little from your innate magic to define your intentions for it. If you just leave a created spell as is without ascribing an appropriate incantation and movement, it will eventually grow too unstable as the power it draws from ambient magic remains unchecked. With appropriate incantation and movement, the effects of it will remain undisturbed until called upon. Earlier, I had not realised that the basement was too enclosed; the ambient magic inside was building up to rather disastrous levels, especially with all the innate magic I was releasing. And changing from Younger to Elder Futhark also makes the introduction to the ambient magic easier as Elder Futhark holds more ancient sway with nature." Antonín rattled off on his chosen field of study, his demeanour reverting back to his Hogwarts days, looking almost again like the youthful studious and cunning Slytherin he was. Thórfinn watched him with slight awe.
Just then, the still-dead hawk at Antonín's feet jerked as if electrocuted, and immediately righted itself as if jerked by marionette strings. With a great flap of its wings, it landed heavily on Antonín's shoulder, looking almost reverent — if that were possible, which Thórfinn certainly thought so — and awaiting command from Antonín.
Antonín smiled — a real smile then — completely transforming his face that Thórfinn could certainly see a hint of the handsome Russian face that drew so many girls during Toní's Hogwarts days. With an easy flick of his wand, Antonín cleared away the still-hovering Elder Futhark runes.
Haltingly, Antonín began to speak, and Thórfinn knew it was only because of their close friendship like no other that Antonín allowed him, and him alone, to know of the darker secrets of Antonín's life.
"I used Old East Slavic instead of contemporary Russian so it will be harder to trace, and not many know of it anyway. So no one will be able to find a counter-curse. Some Muggles even believe Old East Slavic doesn't even exist," he snorted in contempt. "This spell, it causes the victim to die to self. Literally. Slowly eating away at the brain, it will construct an utterly new one that will worship and revere only the castor, doing nothing but the castor's will alone. Whatever the castor says, will be done. Mind over matter and all that." Antonín shrugged nonchalantly at the end.
Thórfinn merely raised one thick eyebrow at him, aware of Antonín's one fixation in life that ranked top on his priorities next to the Dark Lord. "You are going to use this on your Squib half-brother, aren't you. Isn't he much younger than you, and still in that awful orphanage in the town nearby? I don't get why you still bother with him."
"He's my little brother all the same. And family stays together. My parents had the right concept of magic purity, but they did not have their priorities right," Antonín snarled. "This will give Denniston a new start, and open up the unconscious state of the mind that all magic folk have access to, where knowledge to their magic resides. Muggle minds are so limited," he scoffed, "that they cannot even begin to imagine past what the pre-conscious holds."
Thórfinn opened his mouth to say something, but Antonín pinned him with a hard stare. "I will save my brother. You may come along if you wish, because it's you, Thórfi, but I will tolerate no delay."
Promptly, Antonín turned on his heel and Disapparated away with a pop, hawk and all. Thórfinn pinched his nose bridge, feeling a headache coming on, and turned on his heel as well, Disapparating with a much louder crack.
When he arrived in Denniston's room in the orphanage where he knew Antonín would be, he only just managed to see Antonín slash his wand through the air in the same motion as before with the hawk, aimed at the frightened-looking boy hunched in a corner of the cramped room, who looked like a smaller carbon copy of Antonín.
"гласъ смиривши!" (glas" smirivshi) Antonín cried, a bright purple light cutting across the space to reach the boy. The boy clenched his eyes shut, and raised his arms as if to protect himself. The next moment, he was dead, slumped against the floor in an unnatural position, blood pouring out of the jagged wound on his chest. Thórfinn rushed forward to stem the flow of the gushing blood, but Antonín raised an arm to stop him.
"The old will drain away, and the new will belong to me."
"гласъ смиривши!" (glas" smirivshi) — loosely translates to "voice of reconciliation" to the best of my brief research! (If you are fluent in Old East Slavic, do let me know if it's inaccurate!)
A/N : Hello, dear reader who decided to give this story a chance and somehow managed to last till the end! I admit it does feel a little rushed because I didn't have enough time (nor did I really want to) write a several pages long story for the HEX submission entry. I entertained this plot bunny for a really long time, and I guess I'm glad my brief but intense research into Russian and Old East Slavic managed to satisfy my own curiosity a little. I barely write, so I would love to hear your thoughts! :)