September, 1692
Jakob ter Hoorst considered himself a God-fearing man. Not that Nieuw Amsterdam—still how he thought of it, even after years of it being named after that stinking Catholic former king of England—was a place where that got you a guilder.
Nevertheless, he was still sober as a New Englander as he walked back towards the outskirts of town. New England—now there were some wild tales come down from there. Witches and the Devil walking about some tiny port town called Salem. He snorted. He was a God-fearing man, but those Puritans—! They made him look like one of the heathen.
He paused for a moment. There were two men talking in the misty night. One of them looked like old Van Heemskerck—no one could miss that hayrick hair—but the other could have been anyone or no one.
He was about to halloo when he saw the stranger point what looked like a stick at Van Heemskerck. The words froze in his throat as a ball of light flashed from the end and his friend toppled to the ground.
Paralyzed, ter Hoorst could only watch as the stranger walked over to his friend, nudged him with his foot, then turned about as if to see if anyone was there. He waited for the man to send a ball of light his way and send him to God, but the man didn't lift a finger towards him. He simply turned and…vanished.
Ter Hoorst's paralysis finally broke and he thanked God for His mercy as he tried to make sense of why the wizard—for such he must have been—hadn't seen him. He looked over at where the moon should have been, saw the bulk of a half-finished house, and looked down at the dark cloak he was wearing.
Small wonder he hadn't been seen. He called for help, then ran to the body, expecting to find it lifeless. To his surprise, he heard a low groan as he came to a halt beside the man. Kneeling, he put an arm under the other's head to lift him and said, "Henrik, are you hurt?"
"'No—just sore, that's all," came the reply, then van Heemskerck looked about. "How did I get here? It was full daylight, last I remember—and I was on Wall Straat, not here."
"I don't know, but you were attacked by a wizard."
"Oh, pshaw, Jakob," he said, "I'd remember something like that—although—there was that funny man I talked to…what day is it, Jakob? And no jesting!"
"Tuesday, Henrik."
"God save me! It was Sunday last I remember—maybe it was a wizard! I've trafficked…"
"Hisht, now, none of that. You couldn't have known."
"But I should have!" van Heemskerck paused. "Yes—that Salem nonsense we were laughing over. That must be what this is. The Devil and his demons walk among us, Jakob!"
"I…I think you're right. We must tell the others," Jakob said as the watchman and the neighbors barreled down upon them.
September, 1693
William Longbottom sighed as he looked about the International Confederation of Wizards. He'd tried to get them to see that what had happened had been a complete aberration caused by the Scourers and that if the magical community actually attempted to deal with the problem they could expect great things from the New World. However, since the Virginians had managed to capture and actually kill Damian Prewett via blowing his brains out without direct Scourer aid, and several others had had very near-run escapes, they had decided to close North America to all further immigration by wizards once they had dealt with the Scourers, as had been done.
He'd had more support than he thought he would. The Delacours, Potters, and Dumbledores had backed him, but the rest were running scared. He understood, after the recent failure to obtain Crown protection in England, but still. This was a terrible idea, and he did not want to think about the potential results.
On the other hand, there were certain things that would be made considerably easier by the presence of an entire continent where there were no European wizards. Maybe there would be fewer dead children if there was a place where Squibs could go away from wizarding society and no longer be an embarrassment to their parents. He hoped so, anyway—something good had to come out of this folly.
August, 1695
Milocandrous—no, Miles, it was Miles now—Black swung out on the high road, leaving the village of Ottery St Catchpole behind him as the sun rose. It had been his home for ten years, ever since his family had cast him out for being a Squib.
He understood why they had. He'd be little but a burden to them without magic, and they couldn't afford to lose face with the other houses.
It had still hurt when they threw him out and told him not to return, and he'd wandered out without hope, wondering when he'd die of exposure or hunger, or fall prey to the many dangers that awaited a youngster alone on the road.
That, however, had not happened. Instead, he'd been found by Solus Lovegood, who'd taken him to the village and raised him alongside his other children as his own son, despite him being a magical cripple.
He'd never felt so at home, even when he'd lived with his actual parents. But he couldn't stay. There were too many things that reminded him of what he'd never have—including Solus' daughter, Jana, who was not at all two-faced. Solus had never said anything to him, and neither had she, but he couldn't act on what he wanted. She needed a whole man.
Once he'd decided that he had to leave, however, he'd had to figure out where he would go. England and Europe were covered in magic, and every time he saw it would be a knife in the heart.
And then he'd remembered. The American colonies were free, at least of European magic, and had been so for nearly a year, since the last of the Scourers had been brought to bay and the newly-built wizarding school at Ilvermorney supposedly closed down.
That was a place where a Squib could live, and not be constantly reminded of what he couldn't have. Or, possibly, have to deal with members of his family trying to remove all evidence of his existence. He knew his mother had wanted to make sure he never revealed that she'd borne a cripple. His father had refused, but he knew that he was twenty years older than she, and his older brother took after her. If he took ship for the colonies, he would be safe. An ocean should be enough space.
Bristol lay seventy miles ahead, and he had enough provender for three days of travel. It should be enough to get him there if he did not tarry. And the money Solus had given him should be enough to buy passage to the New World. He was hoping that there would be a ship headed for the Carolinas. A man might be able to make something of himself there.
Even a cripple.
March, 1713
Miles Black watched the fort carefully.
It had been two weeks since James Moore had come north from South Carolina to Neoheroka, the last stronghold of the Tuscarora, with an army mostly made up of Indians from other tribes and a few white men, and the siege had been going…poorly. Things broke at the worst times, the bugs had been surprisingly active for the end of winter, and a sally had nearly succeeded after the sentries had, as near as anyone could tell, all fallen asleep. No one could account for it.
No one, that is, except for him, and that only because he'd seen the flash of light as a spell hit the one of the ladders. One of the Tuscarorans was a wizard, and he planned to kill him tonight.
He was pretty sure that he was in the right place—most of the uncanny events had occurred on this side of the fort—and thanks to being a Squib he could see magic that the rest of the army couldn't.
Hopefully—yes, there. Some of the wood in the palisade vanished, and then he blinked as a young woman stepped out under the light of the not-quite-full moon.
He hadn't expected that it would be a witch instead of a wizard, but that did not deter him from his purpose, and he watched her creep close to the siege lines. She was incautious, and so she crept into range where he couldn't miss even with a musket.
He brought the already half-cocked flintlock to his shoulder, pulled the jaw all the way back, and fired all in one fluid motion, and while she heard him she didn't react fast enough, and so the ball hit her as she turned around.
When she fell, he waited for a few moments to make sure that no Tuscarora were coming to her rescue. When there weren't, he put the musket down, pulled out a tomahawk, and crawled on his belly to her.
When he got there, he was relieved—she was dead.
Then he got to thinking. There were probably others like her. Perhaps other colonies might want these thorns in their side removed, and might pay for it. He was tired of trying to scratch a living out of the ground.
And besides, it would also help keep this land a safe place for Squibs.
Yes. He had a purpose now.