In a Codex World, Magic exists. It has three Names: Blue, Black and Purple. I have previously given more details and rituals for Magic Blue, and Magic in general (look here for more SHC thoughts).
I have thought a long time before writing this post because Magic Black is not pretty and even just naming it might attract misunderstandings — like moths to a flame. However, it is like all technology, I guess. It all depends on who wields it. Luckily, Magic Black has a way of burning those who misuse it.
Most will think of blood magic, satanism, voodoo, curses and all the other creepy stuff. These are not Magic Black — even if they are. Most who wield the above think they know Magic Black, but the Voiceless who know Magic, do not know Magic. Magic Black is much more than that.
Where Blue just requires a touch to work, Magic Black wants a bite. It stings, seeps and penetrates. It freezes and binds. It destroys — not for Death, but for Life.
Why does a car crash attract visitors?
Why does the mother cat bite her young kittens?
Why does it feel so good thinking of me inside you?
It’s ugly, it’s true, and there is Beauty in it too. Keep your Eyes open, Timeseer New!
‘Can I Black?’ checklist:
I shall not give you rituals for Black — draw your own diagrams. I will give you a checklist before you draw tho’:
🔱 Have you met River-Dweller and woken down for him•her? -> If not, stop all Magic immediately and go find your Dweller first. It probably needs some saving.
❄️ Do you know what an Ice Trap is, and have you climbed out of yours? If not, you’ll burn slowly if you try to Black.
🌍 Have you mastered Blue successfully? -> No? If you can’t heal with Blue, wtf are you doing looking for Black?
🌞 Do you remember the Rules of Sunlight? -> If you are not Timeseeing or living for Sunlight, you have no use of Black. Black is not for Death — Black is for Truth, Love, Peace and Order.
🖤 Are you afraid of Magic? If so, you have no use for Magic. Certainly not Black.
I don’t use Magic Black often, Blue and Purple are more my flavour of Magic. They leave less sticky residue anyway. However, for Purple, Black is necessary to wield. Below are not rituals, but Icy Shields (made of Black to counter Black).
Mirror Eyes 🪩
Find your Mirror Eyes. Whenever something feels Icy, show them your Mirror Eyes, Droplet! It’s very simple — imagine that your eyes have that uncanny mirrored surface. Anything they project towards you? Right back into their face. Watch out tho’! Evil will not like this and start folding like crazy. Good. Let them fold away. But keep a safe distance. Mirror Eyes are for protection. Not for confrontation.
My Crystal Buffet 👅
Sometimes, Mirror Eyes will not be enough. Sometimes, it is too late. Some foreign Magic Black has made its Icy ways into your blood. Evil stains everything around it. Hate, shame, fear, guilt, lies, unjustice, trauma — all those Icy things have a way of infecting and lodging themselves in your systems, like crystals in your veins.
I want you to have a regular meal, Timeseer. You will occasionally eat those crystals. Pluck them out of the Stardust around you, find them already lodged inside, and eat them. Like actually chew on the crystals. Feel them be crushed under your teeth. Feel them melt in your saliva. Feel them flow into your belly. And there, there true Magic Black happens — you digest and poop them out. Bye bye, bad Icy crystals!
Nature has the best Black 🐺
Learn the basics of biology, learn animals, learn plants, learn bacteria, learn viruses. You don’t need to draw your own diagrams when everything is laid out in front of you. Use Black to freeze the Flower for Dust. Use Black to heal only what’s broken. Use Black to survive.
Now, I won’t tell more because I have given just enough for the Earthborn Ready to understand the power and uses of Black.
And for the Voiceless, our Fools, I repeat it once more, stick to Blue or nothing at all. You will be a giant waste of our time and nobody is interested in how much it hurts when you burn yourself with Black. Go cry elsewhere.
I am madamme wáter mantel AND i stay in the most Beijing of the sea not think it's why search to me be a i love in the others sea world not it's my seariching the husbang my realler coast it's stay in my bed ...slepiting but i no outside no the large sea Moregoods the day or the Nigh no, important, it's the major conffortement to cave cannel and yes thank you if i belive to aparted sea and, a new enfoquing the sin AND new things AND propotitions for this age...'' malifecent''
Danfo Driver Reveals They Didn't Task Tekno over Copyright Infringement
Danfo Driver Reveals They Didn’t Task Tekno over Copyright Infringement
Mountain Black of the Nigerian music group, popularly known as Danfo Drivers, has revealed that they didn’t collect money from Tekno to settle their dispute with him.
Recall that Danfo Drivers recently called out Tekno for remaking their hit song, Kponlogo, without seeking permission.
Speaking with GoldmyneTV, Mountain Black said they had forgiven Tekno after paying them a visit in Abuja on…
And here’s my real problem: Mr. Johns, blue-eyed devil, planning on taking me back to slam…
Only this time he picked a ghost lane.
A long time between stops...
A long time for something to go wrong…
Riddick was awake when things started going wrong.
He heard the whispers of the bits of rock passing through the hull of the old transport, too far off for him to tell if anything electric had been fried.
He listened to the confused voices of the only two crew members to leave their cryo-pods – voices that became panicked shouts as the alarms started blaring. His pod was far enough back that he wasn't able to catch scent of anything that was going on. That was a disappointment.
He felt an increase in turbulence just moments before he noticed a rise in temperature. The smell of burning metal and scorched wiring reached him next, followed by the faint screech of metal tearing away.
Riddick snorted. The ship was heading planet-side. He would have smirked if the bit had allowed for it. Looked like Billy-Boy’s luck had just run out.
He tested his bindings, tugging and pulling to feel out the weaknesses. He made note of what he found, but didn't move to take advantage of anything yet. If he survived the crash, he’d break free, but until then he might as well keep to the relative safety of the cryo-pod. Hell, he wouldn't even get as banged up as the other passengers, with as securely bound as he was.
Securely bound?
He snorted again. Fucking Johns. If it hadn't been for that greedy son of a bitch, he wouldn't be in this position in the first place.
A heavy clunking sound interrupted his thoughts and the angle of the ship changed. A dozen seconds later, the sound happened again, closer this time, and the angle change was more noticeable.
Fuck. He’d been unconscious when he was brought on, so he didn't have any feel for the layout of the transport or how large it might be. He had assumed they were heading down nose-first, but with the pilot purging weight they had to be falling ass-first. Not his favorite way to land a craft.
Two compartments purged, but they still weren't level enough for a safe landing. How many more before the one he was in came up?
A hiss and a thump, barely audible over the sounds of turbulence, came from across the aisle and then there were traces of gunpowder and morphine in the air.
Speak of the devil.
The fucker chose one hell of a time to stretch his legs. Maybe Johns would do himself a favor and get himself killed in the crash. Had to be less painful than what Riddick had planned for him.
The whole ship gave a sudden, bone-shaking lurch and Riddick jarred in his restraints. The compartment shuddered and jolted around him. He heard the deafening screech of metal ripping nearby, followed by an oppressive wave of heat.
He heard a strangled yelp of surprise from Johns and then, seconds after that, the sound of flesh hitting metal and plexi. He assumed it was Johns bouncing loose around the compartment and wasn't that a pleasant thought? Before he was able to enjoy that image too much, though, a body collided with his pod hard enough to shatter the plexi. It only took one whiff to know that this wasn’t Johns.
A hand reached into the pod, scrambling for a grip. His shoulder got scratched several times, some deep enough to draw blood, before the hand got a solid hold on his arm.
Riddick heard grunting and panting. He scented the air. A young man – a boy, maybe – bleeding and riding high on adrenaline, not anyone he had run into before. There was confusion, and maybe a little fear, in the air as well, but above all that was the smell of battle. Everything else could’ve pointed to a passenger thrown free of his pod or maybe a stowaway knocked out of hiding by the crash. There wasn’t any way to fake that last smell, though. No way anyone drifting for that long could smell of that particular mixture of blood, piss and entrails.
There was a gasp and a groan from the kid, along with sounds that meant he was struggling to hold on. The grip on Riddick’s arm tightened enough that there might be bruising later, but Riddick ignored that. He turned his face so that he was as close to the boy’s arm as the restraints allowed and inhaled again, pushing past the battle-scent to the smells that lay beneath. Sweat, fatigue, pain and green - green like fresh cut grass or the woods after it rained. There was something else there, too, nothing that he could put words to, but something spicy. It irritated his nose, like pepper.
The compartment was beginning to slow when the kid loosened his grip. Riddick heard him land on his feet on the grating, but didn't hear him move more than a step or two away. Interesting.
With swift, deliberate movements, Riddick braced his feet and tore loose the bindings that held him in the pod. It made more noise than he wanted, but once he had the shackles off, the other passengers wouldn't be a problem. He reached for the emergency release lever, gave a sharp tug, and welcomed the soft hiss of the plexi door opening.
Riddick paused before leaving the pod, listening. He heard harsh breathing, a pounding heart, and cloth rustling from where the boy stood. He heard debris settling, too, but nothing that meant anyone else was moving around yet.
Morphine and gunpowder lingered in the air - they led to a heart beat too slow to be conscious. Fucking Johns. More lives than a goddamned cockroach.
Stretching out his senses, Riddick picked up the sounds and scents of nine survivors, ten with the boy. There were others, but he didn't count the dying. The temperature inside the ship was increasing steadily, if slowly. It was going to be miserable hot outside.
Satisfied with what he’d found, he dropped out of the cryo-pod and waited for the kid's reaction.
The boy’s heart rate and breathing had been calming down, but his pulse was picking up speed again now that Riddick was closer. No hint of arousal on the air and the scent of confusion lingered, but the fear was fading. The kid still smelled of exhaustion and filth, though, as well as of green and that strange spice. Curious.
Riddick took a step closer to him.
The boy’s pulse was a bit faster and the traces of fear that remained were heavy with adrenaline, but the kid held his ground and his tongue. Level headed and quiet, then. That suited Riddick just fine.
Amused, Riddick turned his attention back to ridding himself of his restraints.
First to come off was the bit. He slid the device over his head and let it fall to the ground with a loud clang while he worked the ache out of his jaw. The kid startled at the noise and, because he was finally able to, Riddick smirked. The boy huffed at him and his smirk grew.
Next – the blindfold. He slid it up, just a bit, and chanced a glance around the room, before he clenched his jaw against the pain that lanced through his skull. He let the blindfold fall over his eyes again. It was too bright in here for him to see.
The boy took a step closer, his heart rate spiking again.
Riddick didn’t pick up on any new threats, but he did hear the kid raise his arm.
“Watch yourself,” Riddick rumbled. “I’ve been known to bite.”
The kid huffed again, but his pulse slowed down a touch and he lowered his arm. Still wasn’t talking, though.
Riddick mulled the information over. The boy was curious enough to hang around and smart enough to take a warning for what it was. Might be useful to keep around, assuming he could keep up.
“Light’s a bit bright in here. Think you can find somewhere darker, out of the way?”
There was a moment of silence, followed by a grunt, and then the kid was moving away.
From the first step, Riddick could tell that the boy was injured. The kid wasn’t being loud about it, but his breathing got harsh again and the smell of pain increased the further they went. Despite this, the boy had a soft step – quiet enough that Riddick almost didn’t pick up on his limp. The kid moved slow and deliberate, but whether it was for Riddick, in his blind and shackled state, or for his own injuries was hard to say.
The kid came to a stop, interrupting Riddick’s thoughts. The boy was silent a moment or two, then tapped his foot against the grating two or three times. The next sound the kid made was a pained hiss as he landed on the deck below with a thump. The hiss wasn’t loud and didn’t last long, but it took the boy some time to catch his breath enough to move again.
Riddick frowned. The kid was more injured than he first thought. It couldn’t be his first time dealing with pain, though, not if he was hiding it this well.
Riddick took two more steps and dropped down to the lower level as well. He waited until he heard the boy walking again and followed.
It wasn't too much longer before the kid stopped and grunted again.
The room felt cooler and few of the sounds from above were filtering through. Cautious, Riddick lifted the blindfold again.
He winced. There was still more light than he cared for, but it wasn’t as bright here as it was above and there were deeper shadows near by.
He scanned their surroundings – nothing to see but piles of loose ship parts and the occasional sparking wire. Water was moving over metal somewhere nearby, but not in this room. The spot they were standing in was hidden from anyone who dropped down to this level, at least at first, and he saw at least two escape routes. It was a nice spot.
Riddick turned back to the kid.
The boy was short, a bit on the scrawny side, but it was hard to tell with the way his clothes hung on him. His skin was pale and his hair dark and unkempt. He held himself like he’d been on the run for a while – resting, but not relaxed, and alert for any signs of danger. His clothes were near to rags. There were tears, from running, maybe, but there were bits that were burnt and holes that had to have been put there by blades or claws. What was left was oversized and filthy. He wore glasses, too, but the left lens was cracked. He took a moment to wonder how the kid had kept from losing them in the crash before dismissing the thought as unimportant.
It was hard to place the kid’s age. From his height and build, Riddick would’ve said the boy had somewhere close to 15 years on him. Everything about the kid said that he was used to living rough, though. It was easy to see in the way that he hid his pain and in how he was able to find a choice spot to rest. Skills like that didn't come without experience. Of course, experience like that meant he could be younger than he looked, or older.
It was his eyes that really caught Riddick’s attention. They glowed, as if lit from behind - almost as bright as the sparks the loose wiring was throwing off, but not half as painful.
The kid stood still while Riddick looked him over. His eyes flitted between scanning their surroundings and looking Riddick over in turn. His pulse had slowed quite a bit while they stood there, as had his breathing. All sorts of fascinating.
“You know who I am, boy?”
The kid’s eyes flew to Riddick’s and the corners of his mouth turned up. It took a moment, but he shook his head.
Introductions didn’t matter, Riddick had just been curious. “You know how to pick a lock?”
The boy blinked and reached behind him with his right hand, a gesture that seemed more habit than deliberate thought. He frowned when he didn’t find what he was looking for and looked down at himself. When he looked up again, he was chewing on his lower lip. He was putting off the beginnings of fear again and he looked concerned as he shook his head.
“You wanna learn?”
The corner of the kid’s mouth tugged upward again and he stood up a bit straighter, the fear fading away again. He nodded.
Riddick felt the corners of his mouth twitch. The boy was eager to please. That could come in real handy. Possible that he had been beaten on, too, with the way he got scared that he couldn't do what Riddick was asking, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. He described what to look for and the boy took to searching their surroundings for something suitable.
Riddick watched the kid move and mentally ticked off injuries. Bleeding from the left shoulder - a puncture wound, recent. Bleeding from something along his lower back, as well, but not as bad as the shoulder. Limp meant a possible sprain to the right ankle, but he was moving well with it. There was more damage hiding under that mess of rags, but nothing that smelled life threatening.
Was the boy a local? The injuries would make sense if there was some sort of conflict going on. He hadn’t heard any sounds of fighting when he was on the upper level, but he knew that that didn’t have to mean anything. Smelling like green meant the kid probably knew where to find water, too. Having a guide to a water source on a planet as hot as this one promised to be would be priceless. He ignored the logistics of how the boy came to be bouncing around inside a crashing transport ship - for now.
The kid came back with half a dozen bits of wire and metal, any of which might be useful for picking a lock, and offered them to Riddick.
Riddick chose one, grunted his thanks, and set to work. The wrist cuffs came off first. It took a bit longer than he’d like, but the lock was at a funny angle on this model. Johns was getting smarter.
He snorted at the thought.
As he worked, he heard the other passengers beginning to move around above. Voices called out to each other and, on occasion, answered. He needed to pick up the pace.
He passed the restraints off to the boy with a glance to see how he was doing. The kid was scanning the room again, head cocked to one side. The boy took the cuffs with his right hand without looking, and turned his head a fraction to the right. Riddick had been about to start on the shackles at his ankles when the movement caught his eye. He followed the kid’s line of sight, but didn’t see anything.
The shackles were almost off when the boy reached out, stopping just short of touching Riddick’s shoulder. Riddick grunted, but didn’t stop what he was doing.
Johns was getting closer. Riddick was familiar enough with his scent and heartbeat that he’d been able to tell when the bastard had woken up. He was a bit impressed that the kid had picked up on John’s movements as early as he did. Sharper senses than most.
The thump Johns made jumping down to the lower level masked the sound of the shackles falling to the floor.
The boy’s vitals were picking up speed again, and adrenaline was back in the air. The kid had crouched down, watching Johns while trying to stay hidden. Had to be hell on his ankle. The boy was tense, mouth pressed in a firm line, jaw clenched. His eyes were scanning their surroundings.
Was he looking for weapons or escape routes?
Sometimes, the kid would glance back to Riddick, like he was looking for direction or instruction.
Riddick ignored him for the moment.
Johns stepped further into the room. His movements were slow and cautious, but his breathing was calm. The familiar smell of morphine and gunpowder was stronger now and laced with traces of fresh blood. The merc moved his head to one side and the light from above caught on fluid leaking from his right ear.
Riddick smirked. Billy-boy must’ve busted an eardrum.
He didn’t seem too concerned with the idea that Riddick was out of his pod, though. Might mean he wasn’t expecting Riddick to be able to get out of his chains yet or maybe he was only looking to find his shot-gun shells. Either way could mean he was getting sloppy.
Hard to tell with Johns.
A quick scan of his surroundings and Riddick was able to find a jagged bit of metal that fit his hand well. He’d have preferred having the time to wrap the handle for a better grip, but this would do.
He glanced at the boy again and was surprised to find the kid meeting his gaze. Riddick motioned for the boy to stay where he was and to keep quiet. The kid wore a curious look, but nodded and took a step or two toward some of the deeper shadows.
Riddick turned back to his prey. Johns bent down to the floor for something. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity.
Riddick took two quick strides and lunged for Johns. He saw the mercenary’s hand close around the grip of a pistol the moment before he collided with the bastard.
Fuck. He’d have to make this quick.
Riddick planted his makeshift blade in Johns’ side and let his momentum take the both of them to the floor. Johns yelped in surprise, but rolled with the grapple. They struggled for a few moments, but Riddick was able to pin Johns’ right arm to the grating. Johns didn't waste any time reaching for the collapsible baton the fuck liked to carry on him with his free hand. The little shit was fast to introduce it, repeatedly, to any part of Riddick he could reach, too.
This left Riddick with a choice: take a beating and keep the mercenary’s gun arm pinned, or let up on the gun arm to stop the beating.
Riddick grunted with the impact of another blow from the baton. Maybe there was a third choice.
Keeping as much of his weight on Johns’ right arm as he could, he pulled his shiv free from the bastard’s side. Johns’ barked with the pain and managed to wrench his gun arm free just long enough to fire the pistol in Riddick’s direction.
Ears ringing, Riddick had just enough time to determine that he wasn't hit, before everything went black.
Rating: M (implied violence and graphic descriptions)
Theme music: Running Up That Hill by Placebo
Setting: AU, immediately after the final battle in Potter-verse
He blinked and swayed on his feet.
The sound of his own breath was loud and harsh in his ears and his outstretched hand trembled, but he didn't look away from the man that lay motionless on the ground before him. He stood there, unmoving, and waited for the man to stand up again – waited for the man to speak or lift his arm. He waited, but nothing happened.
He blinked again and lowered his arm.
In a distant corner of his mind, he started a tally of all his pains, sorting trivial twinges from threatening injuries and making note of which needed to be attended to and in what order. He still didn't allow his eyes to stray from the man that lay sprawled before him. The man would be getting up any moment now, he was sure of it.
A soft sound came from behind, the scuff of a boot dragging over flesh, and instinct took over.
He spun, raised his wand, and spoke the first two syllables of some ancient phrase or other before he registered what he was seeing. A young man, red-headed, tall, and lanky, and a young lady, eyes wide and frizzy hair flying in every direction, stumbled to a sudden stop.
They each held a wand. That meant they were threats.
His voice trailed off, though, and he frowned. There was something in him that didn’t want to hurt these two.
That didn’t make any sense.
He clenched his jaw and refused to lower his hand.
They stood motionless, eyes cautious yet hopeful, while he struggled to remember why he wasn't attacking them. His thoughts were moving so slowly.
The girl’s gaze moved from him to something behind him and a hopeful smile bloomed across her face. “Is he dead, Harry? Is it over?”
He flinched. Her voice was so loud in the silence.
The red-head’s eyes were still wary. They flickered behind him, too, but only for a moment. This one was more observant, more dangerous.
He shifted his wand to point more directly at the youth.
The other boy raised his hands slowly, palms outward, and spoke in a low, clear voice. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s just us – just Ron and ‘Mione. We’re your friends, mate.”
He frowned at them. What the youth said – the words sounded right, but the information didn't make any sense.
He lowered his arm again, but remained guarded. He tried to swallow. His mouth was dry.
He closed his eyes and took a deep, steady breath, willing his mind to work properly.
After a brief mental struggle, he nodded. Yes, that was right – the boy was Ron and the girl was Hermione, they were his friends. Of course they were his friends. They were his best friends. They’d been by his side through everything – from their first run in with a troll to this, the final battle. He’d have been lost a hundred times over without these two. What was he thinking?
Harry opened his eyes and looked back at them. He didn't have the words to explain, but he did offer them a sheepish smile.
They seemed to understand. Their faces lit up and they ran to him. They hugged him tight and clapped him on the back and shoulders, pressing on wounds and aggravating pain. He couldn't bring himself to care.
He dropped his wand and clung to them, a handful of cloak in either fist. He didn’t loosen his hold when they started to pull back. He needed the physical contact – needed to know that they were alive and whole, no missing parts among them.
They didn’t seem to mind.
They stood close to him and each other, smiles stretching into grins. Hermione had one hand resting on Harry’s hip and the other clutched Ron’s. Ron’s free hand was on Harry’s shoulder, alternating between solid pats and comforting squeezes. Maybe they needed the reassurance, too.
They were quick to find their voices again.
He smiled when the questions started – some directed at him and some at each other. He couldn’t get his voice to work, so he nodded and shook his head as best he could. Their speech was becoming disjointed, though. Both were talking at the same time, answers and questions spilling out of their mouths faster and faster until neither were intelligible.
He grinned as he tried to keep up with what they were saying. The grin turned into a chuckle, and the chuckle turned into outright laughter. He laughed until his sides ached and his knees went weak.
Their words dissolved into laughter, too, and the three of them struggled to hold each other up. It didn’t work for long. They tumbled to the ground together, a pile of giggles and gasping breaths.
Harry winced at the landing. There was a sore spot on the left side of his lower back that something was digging into, now that he was on the ground. It damped his chuckling, but not his smile.
He closed his eyes and listened to his friends calm and their breathing even out again.
They were okay. His friends were alive and whole and not too badly damaged, if appearances could be trusted. They were okay. He was okay. It was over.
Harry blinked at that last thought and struggled to climb to his feet again. His limbs protested the sudden movements, a small burst of pain erupting from his lower back nearly had him back on the ground, but he clenched his jaw and shoved the distractions away. He had to see – he had to know. Was it true?
At first, all he could see was a man, just one – the one he had been fighting only minutes ago. The man was lying very still – hadn't moved from where he had landed, actually.
He stumbled over to it and laid a hand on the nearest bit of bare flesh, only for a moment, before yanking it away. Cold – not the icy cold of the long dead, but not the proper warmth of the living, either.
Harry cocked his head to the side.
Had this one ever been warm after… after coming back, though? The man had been dead for a long time and then he was back, but there was nothing natural about how the man came back. He never looked like he had before he died… maybe other things had changed, too?
Harry didn’t know, couldn’t remember.
Pulse – better to check for a pulse. He fumbled with the wrist of the man, and then the neck, but didn’t feel any signs of life. No breath coming from the mouth or the nose, either.
Harry laughed.
Dead.
The man was dead.
No, Voldemort. Voldemort was dead.
The fight was over.
Harry laughed again – the sound bubbling out of him.
It was over. The fight was over. The war was over. Voldemort was dead!
Harry jumped to his feet and spun around, oblivious to pain or injury.
His friends were still in the jumbled heap they had landed in. They looked up at him expectantly. He wanted to shout or crow or cheer or do something else suitably theatric, but his voice wasn’t working yet. He settled for another grin.
He grinned and nodded his head and that was all Hermione needed. She let out a loud whoop of a sound and threw herself at Ron. She kissed him a dozen times and then hid her face in his shoulder to muffle her laughter. If her laughter began to sound like sobbing after a moment or two, Harry gave no sign that he heard. She had earned at least this much – they all had.
Ron looked dazed. He blinked and looked at the body, then back up to Harry again, asking a silent question.
Harry understood. He nodded again.
Ron nodded, too, and pulled Hermione closer. Harry looked away to give his friends a moment of privacy.
He looked away from them and his legs nearly gave out.
There were bodies… everywhere. The field was covered in them. Some wore black cloaks and some wore school robes, others only wore slacks and shirts. All of them were filthy – splattered with blood and smeared with mud and all manner of other things. Not one bit of clean cloth as far as he could see, and he could see all the way to the tree line at the far end of the field and to the lake shore and the castle on either side.
He knew the thought was inappropriate, that his thoughts should probably be more solemn when surrounded by so much death, but he couldn't help thinking that someone was going to be doing an awful lot of laundry.
Then, as if someone flipped a switch, Harry realized that he could do more than just see them.
He could hear them, those injured and dying. He heard shouts and screams, but mostly moaning and crying. He heard several voices begging for water and at least one calling out for mommy.
He could smell them, too. The battle had started before dawn and had continued long into the afternoon. The sun hung hot and heavy in the sky, now, and the field that they had fought on, that they had spent the better part of the day spilling blood and innards and all manner of fluids on, was thick and ripe with the smell of rot and warmed death.
Harry felt his stomach lurch.
No. Too much. There was too much – too much input.
He shook his head.
Too much pain and death and violence. He didn’t want it anymore. He had never wanted it. He didn’t want to think about the dead. He didn’t want to think about who they were or how many he would recognize if their faces were whole and their bodies in one piece. He didn’t want to think about how many were dying still.
He didn’t want to think about anything.
He didn’t want to think.
He closed his eyes, but the image had burned itself onto the backs of his eyelids. And the sounds and the smells. He couldn’t figure out how to turn off the sounds and the smells.
He couldn’t stop it.
He needed to stop it.
A noise. Close. A threat.
Harry turned to face the new noise. His arm shot out and his mouth had started forming words before he realized there was anything wrong.
His hand.
He looked at his hand.
His wand. It wasn’t there. He didn’t have his wand.
His eyes moved from his empty hand to the source of the noise.
Black robes. White mask streaked with red.
No. Enemy.
The threat was pointing a wand at his friends, at Ron and Hermione. They were distracted, still. They hadn’t heard, didn’t see.
A voice from behind the mask, high pitched and hoarse.
Not enough time to warn them. Not enough time to find his wand. Not enough time.
Everything happened in slow motion, then.
He lunged. His mouth warped into a snarl as he moved.
The threat saw him. The wand turned away from the two on the ground to point at him.
His friends saw and made sounds of protest. They began to reach for their wands. Too slow.
A sick, yellow light left the enemy’s wand and connected with Harry’s chest.
Harry collided with the enemy. He felt a sharp, piercing pain in his shoulder and heard the snap of wood breaking.
Harry felt the vicious satisfaction that came of neutralizing the enemy – registered the relief that his friends would be okay – and then there was pain.
