It was Christmas Eve, 1990, and a fierce blizzard blanketed the New Salem Philanthropic Society. Thick clouds smothered the sky, blocking out every trace of light. Howling winds whipped snowflakes through the air, rattling the glass windows.
The awful weather couldn't dampen the festive spirit of the Christmas party. The orphanage kitchen had been bustling, preparing a feast. Freshly baked bread filled the air with a sweet, warm aroma, and golden-brown turkeys glistened straight from the oven.
A roaring fire in the hearth chased away the chill, letting the nuns swap their usual habits for elegant dresses, looking radiant. The men were equally dapper, and even the young slaves they occasionally passed weren't met with cold stares tonight. Instead, some of the men playfully pulled candies from their pockets, tossing out lighthearted jokes.
"Picconi, you done with your chores? Wow, you cleared the snow from the yard—nice work!" A scarred pastor crouched down, giving the boy an overly friendly pat on the cheek that left it red and swollen. He grinned, satisfied. "Good kid. Merry Christmas."
"And who cleared the snow by the door? Who wiped down the tables? Our Kuhn, huh?" The pastor twisted another boy's face until it burned red, then handed him two pieces of chocolate with a theatrical flourish.
Both boys wore collars marking them as slaves—tools of control and restraint. They were the only ones in the orphanage with those collars, singled out because they'd shown signs of being Obscurials. Their magic, twisted and suppressed, made them useful for the men's dark purposes.
Bastard hid in the shadows behind a curtain. She'd followed her mother's instructions: don't wander, stay out of sight of the pastors and nuns. But oh, how she longed to taste the chocolate and fruit candies.
She wasn't as sharp or quick as Picconi or Kuhn. Too young to grasp the lessons taught by the pastors and nuns, she only knew her magic was unwelcome. Still, she didn't think it was bad—not really.
"Bastard, don't get greedy," she whispered to herself, swallowing hard and shrinking deeper into the shadows. Her mother had warned her to stay away from the fancy folks.
Her mother wasn't one of the lofty nuns. She was just a servant, working off her "sins" in the kitchen. Sometimes, she'd sneak Bastard apple peels or breadcrumbs—scraps from the kitchen. Bastard wondered what treats her mother might bring tonight.
In the main hall, pastors and nuns had gathered, shedding their usual drab robes for dazzling suits and gowns. They danced under twinkling lights and music, laughing and spinning in each other's arms.
When no one was looking, Bastard slipped out of her room and into the icy corridor. Shivering in the cold, she peeked toward the end of the hall. There was her mother, one hand tucked into her worn apron, a tired smile on her face.
"Magic's such a filthy, evil thing," a young pastor sneered, standing by the hall's window. He watched the tender scene between the slave mother and daughter from afar. "The kitchen's empty for just a few minutes during the Christmas party, and this wretch—who's lain with a wizard—steals food from New Salem to feed her kid. Greedy. Selfish."
"Exactly," said the bishop, sitting by the fireplace. He carefully wiped a leather whip with a cloth dipped in a clear potion, inspecting the thorn-like barbs. "Wizards are like that. Scourers, too. Just a little temptation, and they turn into devils, betraying their own kind for gold. But here at New Salem, we'll purify them. The wizard blood in this place is vile, tainted. Under our guidance, they'll transform, turning their magic into a new, miraculous power."
"Picconi and Kuhn are stable," the pastor said, his tone soft but venomous. "They helped seal that deal a while back. Now we need Bastard to complete her transformation." His plan was cold and cruel. "Punish her mother. Make her scream in front of the girl. Show her it's all because of the magic in her veins."
"Let her mother die slowly before her eyes," the bishop added, finishing his work on the whip and slipping back into his usual robe.
They stepped outside, leaving the warm, festive hall behind. Snow swirled in the biting wind. The mother and daughter huddled together near a vent, soaking up the faint warmth. Bastard savored the lingering sweetness of candy on her tongue, a moment of joy that felt like it could last forever.
The sound of the bishop and pastor's footsteps made them pull apart, trembling—whether from fear or cold, it was hard to tell.
The bishop loomed over them, eyeing the sugary smudge on Bastard's lips like it was lipstick. He flashed a kind smile. "Poor lady, lost lamb. Your soul's been tainted by magic, wandering in a wilderness of greed and selfishness. It's Christmas, and God is willing to forgive. But are you ready to accept that forgiveness? To atone for your sins?"
Bastard knelt on the icy steps, watching her mother beg, kissing the bishop's shoes, pleading that it was the evil magic controlling her, that Bastard had nothing to do with it.
Bastard didn't understand why they cared so much about a bit of frosting. There was endless bread, roast chicken, wine, and juice inside. But one accused, and the other begged, as if it was the natural order. It was enough to convince a young, unformed mind.
The bishop declared God's forgiveness unconditional, but sinners still had to face punishment. He raised the whip, its thorns gleaming, and brought it down with a crack like thunder. Bastard's mother writhed in the snow, her coat torn to shreds, blood mixing with the white flakes.
Inside, the party continued, oblivious. A few young slaves heard the commotion and came out, standing still, their faces solemn.
Bastard was the youngest among them. Buck and Wenqi were about six, Kuhn and Picconi closer to seven. They'd endured similar horrors, their expressions blank, unmoved.
Hundreds of miles away, outside Ilvermorny Castle, a white snake blended with the snow on a fir tree, its silver eyes gleaming.
---
"The barbs on that whip were soaked in poison to keep the wounds from healing," Picconi said quietly, his face pale and gaunt. "Bastard's mother worked through her injuries but didn't survive that winter."
He paused, his voice heavy. "After her mother died, Bastard became an Obscurial."
No one could imagine the torment that little girl endured, transformed from an innocent child into a cold, ruthless weapon. A young witch, meant to grow up healthy and free, was burdened with guilt for her magic. Under the cult's guidance, she was forced to wash away that nonexistent sin with the blood of others. Yet, somehow, she didn't fall into darkness. She found a way out of despair.
"How did you become an Obscurial?" Melvin asked.
"My parents were tortured to death in front of me," Picconi said flatly. "That's how it happens."
"Obscurials don't usually live past ten."
"I know. I'm the oldest Obscurial in New Salem, four months shy of ten. I don't care about a death sentence. My body's full of a power I can't control. When I become the Obscurus, I black out, acting on instinct, following their orders. It's like a tree they planted in my mind, rooted deep. They call it the subconscious."
Picconi tapped his head. "Bastard hasn't taken many lives yet. She only just became an Obscurial. We started moving constantly, like we were running from someone. Didn't stay long in Waco before we ended up in Paris, where you caught us."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm asking you to be kind to Bastard. She's turning seven soon, and she won't live much longer."
He looked straight into Melvin's eyes, gray mist swirling in his pupils. "If you're worried she'll lose control and hurt someone, lock her up. She's a sweet girl, easy to please, doesn't hold grudges. Please, Professor Levent."
Melvin felt a strange shift, like a breeze brushing past. He looked up, but it was still the same underground room, with mercury-like potions flowing through the walls. Picconi lay on the floor, ignoring Graves' calls, refusing to speak anymore.
---
Hiss…
Woof…
A young snake stared up at Melvin, switching between languages he couldn't understand.
Melvin had been busy with the case, so Yulm, the snake, spent days curled up in an emerald, sleeping. At night, back at the hotel, Yulm would slither out. Tonight, they'd returned late, and Yulm was restless, almost ready to speak human words.
Melvin stroked the snake's head, a gesture more suited for a cat or dog. But Yulm, having spent too much time with Fang, had picked up dog-like habits. A few scratches under the chin, and the snake wagged its tail happily, calmed in minutes.
Closing his eyes, Melvin felt the magic within him. There was something new—a gray, misty presence. If the Horned Serpent's gift was a cool stream, the unicorn's blessing a silver moonlight, and the dragon's gratitude a bright blue flame, this new power was like fog.
It reminded him of a winter morning, opening a window to gray clouds and misty forests, heavy and oppressive, making it hard to breathe.
Melvin stirred. Maybe he'd subconsciously thought of Obscurials as wizards, not realizing they could be considered magical creatures, capable of granting strange powers.
"Is this… the plea of an Obscurial?" he murmured.
This was the fourth kind of magical creature's power he'd gained, distinct from the others. The first three came from positive emotions, but this one was murky, unclear.
Was it gratitude for redemption? Picconi's words held no gratitude.
Was it the hatred of Fiendfyre? Picconi hadn't seemed to care.
Unsure of its purpose, Melvin waved his wand, testing spells. Simple charms, the Patronus Charm, dark spells, even an Unforgivable Curse—nothing triggered a reaction.
Hiss…
Yulm coiled on the table, silver eyes watching curiously.
Melvin didn't dwell on it. Magic like this often revealed itself in time. With no urge to sleep, he summoned Voldemort's spirit to share the case's progress.
"…So the scar wasn't from dark magic, but an Obscurial—a wizard child turned into one?" Riddle's ghostly form hovered above the Hufflepuff Cup, dressed in a black suit, his pale, handsome face thoughtful, like a professor.
"The New Salemites and Scourers target forgotten wizard children," Melvin explained. "They torment them physically and mentally, making them hate their magic. Combined with the trauma of their parents' deaths, their souls twist, and their magic warps. The Obscurials they create are far more destructive than any ordinary wizard."
Riddle fell silent, his eyes narrowing in thought, caught in a rare moment of conflict.
Voldemort and his Death Eaters valued pure-blood supremacy, aligning with wizards. The actions of Muggle cultists disgusted him. Yet, setting that aside, turning Muggle-borns or enemies' children into weapons was efficient. Compared to Inferi, Obscurials were far more powerful.
Riddle shook his head. "They're fools. Obscurials burn out by ten, but adult wizards can be controlled for greater gain."
"They don't just hate magic—they fear it," Melvin said, his gaze complex. "They fear the unknown, fear power they can't control, fear anything stronger than them."
Riddle smirked. "Muggles are ignorant and arrogant. I learned that long ago."
He leaned closer, his pupils dilating as memories surfaced. Melvin met his gaze and asked softly, "What about you? Why do you hate Muggles?"
"I don't hate lowly insects," Riddle said coldly.
"Disdain, then?"
"I don't disdain insects either."
"You kill them and turn them into Inferi. How's that different from cultists torturing young wizards into Obscurials?" Melvin's eyes swirled with gray mist.
Riddle felt himself falling, a dizzying weightlessness. He wasn't in a Paris hotel anymore but on a black rock, waves crashing below. Not the Hufflepuff Cup, but a cave of jagged stones. He knew that cave—a lake lay within, filled with Inferi that would drag him under.
He tried to break free, but his spectral form felt heavy, trapped. Fog enveloped his soul, and memories surged: a dim orphanage, a sweltering summer, sea spray hitting his face as he stood with other children by the shore.
Young Tom Riddle was mocked, shoved, his head pushed underwater.
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