21st February 1986 – Stranglehold Manor.
“Emelia!” I shouted as I banged on her door, “It’s time to wake up!” My good mood infected my tone in a way I knew would annoy her.
“Go away!” she groaned, “I’m asleep.”
Having glanced at the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs, I now knew it to be half eight, only half an hour until mother’s lessons started.
“Nice to meet you asleep, I’m Victor!” I shouted as my fist struck her bedroom door yet again, the grin still yet to leave my face since coming into the house. “Come on Emy, you’re going to be late for lessons, and you know mother will make you do lines again.”
“Aughh, alriiiight.” Came the reply, and I heard a thump from behind the door that I had to assume was her falling out of bed. A minute more of various yelps, bangs and curses totally unsuited for a six-year-old girl and she finally opened the door.
What I noticed immediately was the atrocious bedhead she suffered from, her long black hair looking like she was about to be, or had already been, struck by lightning. Then I looked down and saw her familiar unamused glare directed up at me, arms crossed over her chest. She wore much the same attire as mother did, which looked somewhat odd on a toddler to me, but she insisted she liked it. It was a shame then that she couldn’t pull it off with half as much elegance, though one would hope that would come in time. But with Emelia, I had my doubts.
“Good morning,” I said with a raised eyebrow and barely withheld grin.
All I got was an unladylike grunt in return before she promptly pushed past me and made her way downstairs. I followed shortly after her, deciding it would be best to initiate conversation only after she had a full stomach.
Yet again, Paff wasted no time in delivering breakfast once she had sat down, which had not gone as smoothly as one might think. It was probably mother's influence, but Emelia had a tendency to try and do everything like the rest of us rather than being treated as the toddler she was. At six years old, sitting on a normal-sized chair on a normal-sized table was almost comical, yet she insisted anyway, and no one told her otherwise.
It was probably a good thing, I decided, that she was so independent at such an age. The younger kids back in the orphanage in my last life acted similarly, adapting to their circumstances and maturing faster than any child that was doted on and had everything done for them. Then again, looking at how I turned out, I wondered which was healthier in the long run.
As I sat down with her, a cup of tea appeared before me. Paff was a perceptive little house elf, quick to pick up on what his charges wanted yet curiously shy such that it was rare to ever catch a glimpse of him. I still found myself comparing him to Lotti even after so many years, which wasn’t fair considering my opinion of the brave elf was more than skewed. Paff had a lot to live up to after all, Lotti was buried in the family graveyard with the rest of my ancestors as a show of respect.
As I sipped my tea, milk with two sugars just as I liked it, I had an idea. House elves were known for their wandless magic and seeing as I wouldn’t get a wand for at least another few years it would be an interesting way to keep myself occupied in the meantime, so I resolved to ask the elf for help. If I could find him that was.
With breakfast done, again, we both went to the study that stood on the opposite end of the house from mother’s office. It was one of the bigger rooms, the walls covered mostly by books with contents of the non-magical variety, mostly histories and studies of certain flora and fauna. Dreary stuff for the most part, but I reckoned by now I had gone through at least a third of it. Not through any academic inclination, at least not entirely, but because I had little better to do with my free time. Truly, the world without the internet could be a boring place.
There was yet another fireplace, too small to be used by the floo network, and several leather sofas. And then there was the corner that had been re-purposed into a small classroom for the two of us, with desks and a chalkboard.
Mother was, as always, already waiting for us with a scowl on her face. “You’re almost late. Again. You can’t be doing this when you get to Hogwarts, if you don’t set off early then an unlucky staircase could make you late, and we don’t want to give the family a bad name now do we?”
It was a lecture that we had both heard many times before but was more directed at Emelia than I. For the most part, I made a habit of getting anywhere 5 minutes before I was supposed to be there, which had been a good rule of thumb for avoiding trouble in the military.
“No, mother,” I answered her question with sincerity. I couldn’t say I cared much about such things, but mother did and that was enough for me.
Emelia merely grumbled something unintelligible and moved to sit down, which drew another glare and a heavy sigh from mother.
When I sat down as well, mother cleared her throat and began. “Alright, let us start with you, Emelia…”
Mother took it in turns to tutor us considering we were both at different levels of competence. Admittedly that was a rather generous way of putting it, Emelia was still mostly doing basic arithmetic and literacy whilst, at least on the maths, I could confidently say I knew more about the topic than mother did.
That wasn’t to say she didn’t find ways to challenge me, even considering the 1st class bachelor’s degree in physics I had. I was still far from fluent in my Russian, and she had recently begun teaching me some astrology and herbology theory, much of which I knew to be taught at Hogwarts. Mother was an intelligent woman, and though by no means as knowledgeable as the professors at the best wizarding school in the world, she remembered well her own studies and was able to format that knowledge into a coherent and well-structured lesson that made me wonder if she had ever considered becoming a teacher herself.
I’d never had problems keeping focus during lessons, and it helped that mother was an attentive tutor, but the time nevertheless flew by and before I knew it the three hours were over. Even Emelia didn’t seem too bored once we got going, and from what I could tell she was progressing quickly in her own studies.
Mother excused herself back to her office, and I couldn’t help but notice that Emelia looked particularly upset as she walked away without so much as a ‘well done’. She tried to hide it, but she was only six and I knew her well enough by now to tell her moods.
Not for the first time I found myself worrying about Emelia. I was quite happy with the freedom our parents gave us, but I was sure that’s not how Emelia saw it. Trying to look at things through her shoes they certainly seemed distant, mother always in her office and father always away, and it was only really father that showed much open affection. The hardest thing about it was, though I could see what was unfolding before my eyes, I didn’t really know what to do about it.
I had never been a father, or really ever been around kids except as a child myself, so I just tried to be a good older brother and hope that was enough.
“It sounds like you’re really getting better Emy. Give it a couple of years and you’ll be catching me up!” I said with enthusiasm, infusing my words with as much of my good mood as I could.
Her frown seemed to lighten somewhat, and the corners of her lips ticked up. “More like months!” she shot back.
I stuck my tongue out at her and she giggled, finally breaking into a smile.
“Mother would have a heart attack if she saw you doing that.” She told me.
“Good job she’ll never catch me then,” I said, then pulled an even sillier face.
Her laughter was music to my ears. I hoped the moment would never end, that she would stay happy and smiling forever. For what felt like the millionth time, however, I remembered what the future had in store for the wizarding world, especially the clutch of students she would be entering Hogwarts with when the time came, namely Hermione, Ron and Harry.
Emelia remained ignorant of what had occurred five years ago when she was just a baby, but that wouldn’t last forever. Voldemort, the second wizarding war and the battle of Hogwarts were all in her future, and mine for that matter. Assuming, of course, my very existence had not already shifted the canon timeline beyond my ability to predict.
Though there had been no mention of them in the books, I assumed the Thornehearts had existed in the original timeline, and I could only conclude that the attack all those years ago had been the end of the Thorneheart family one way or the other. How much its survival would alter future events remained to be seen.
Either way, I knew I had a choice to make. If I did nothing, there was a chance everything would be resolved as it had been in the books, albeit with plenty of avoidable death and destruction before the dark lord’s eventual defeat. But it was also possible that such a fate was no longer set in stone no matter what I did.
So, I could instead be proactive and try to weigh the balance in favour of Harry and the Order of the Pheonix. But in doing so I would risk doing the opposite, and by removing the obstacles in Harry’s path it was possible he wouldn’t turn out to be the brave and self-sacrificing individual the world needed him to be when the time came.
I had little confidence in any potential plan to bring an end to Voldemort that wasn’t through Dumbledore’s grand scheme, and I still wasn’t sure just how much agency I would have in the matter. If it turned out I was a weak, or just plain unlucky, wizard then I could just get green death rayed by a nameless death eater before I had a chance to affect anything and that would be it. If I had learnt anything from my time at war, it was that absolutely no one was safe when the bullets, or in this case spells, started flying, no matter how invincible one might feel. Unless one was Harry Potter and had all the plot armour that came with it.
Ultimately, however, as I looked at my sister's innocent and mirthful face, I came to a rather odd realisation that I didn’t much care what happened to the rest of the world. All that mattered was that Emelia, and the rest of my new family, were safe. I may not be able to defeat Voldemort, but with enough know-how, I was confident they could be safeguarded whatever happened.
It helped that such a way of thinking aligned with my personal desire to learn as much about magic as possible. I was sure there’d be some hiccups along the way but gaining the tools I needed to deal with anything that came up was a sounder strategy than coming up with an elaborate plan that could fall apart the moment something unexpected happened.
“Is there something on my face?” Emelia asked, looking at me strangely as I snapped out of my chain of thought.
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“Only your nose. I think it’s gotten bigger.” I responded.
Now it was she who stuck her tongue out at me, scowling as she did so.
“Emelia Thorneheart!” came the outraged voice of my mother from behind us. “Such behaviour is completely unbecoming of a noble witch; you should be ashamed of yourself! Go to your room this instant.”
Poor Emelia looked like a deer in headlights, she looked over at me, her eyes screaming ‘this is your fault’.
I did my best to look apologetic before she stormed off in a huff without saying so much as a word to mother.
I sighed, more than slightly annoyed at mother’s methods. Turning to meet her gaze I raised an eyebrow in question. It wasn’t often mother left her office during the day outside of our lessons.
“I gave Mr Mudoil a call, and he said he has an opening in his schedule.” She told me.
“Ok. When?” I asked, not even trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Now. He’s waiting for you in my office.” Came the response.
That… was unexpected, but not unwelcome. I always preferred to just get on with something unpleasant than delay. “Alright then,” I said, standing up.
Mother turned and led the way back to her office, opening the door to allow me to go first and revealing the wizard sat on one of the guest chairs. He was an ordinary enough fellow, with combed brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, a pair of circular spectacles drooped down on his nose which he pushed up as he saw me. His attire was the most notable thing about him; a tweed suit that might have been mistaken for muggle attire were it not for his tie that shifted colours from a dull grey to a bright yellow as his eyes landed on me.
“You must be Mr Thorneheart, a pleasure to meet you.” He said in a distinctively posh accent as he stood up and held out his hand to shake.
“Likewise, Mr Mudoil,” I replied, shaking his hand in a rather laughable manner considering mine were half the size of his.
“Please, just call me Rupert. If you would take a seat…” he motioned towards the second guest chair, and I didn’t waste any time in sitting down.
I heard mother move to shut the door when she was interrupted by the wizard. “Apologies, Mrs Thorneheart. I believe it would be best if this conversation was just between your son and I.”
Mother frowned and glanced over at me. I gave her a slight nod to tell her it was ok, and she promptly stepped out and shut the door behind her.
“Now then Victor, may I call you Victor?” he asked, looking me directly in the eyes as he leaned forward slightly. His tie shifted between yellow and light blue every few seconds.
I nodded, sitting straight in the chair and meeting his gaze, avoiding the distraction that was his tie. I didn’t know what legilimency felt like and I doubted I wouldn’t notice it should he try something, but I made a conscious effort to keep my thoughts strictly in the present. Admittedly, I was curious to see where this would go, and I hadn’t forgotten the promise I made myself in the woods.
“So, Victor, your mother tells me you have been having nightmares, and that these have been accompanied by a spike in outbursts of uncontrolled magic. Tell me, when did this start?” he asked in a neutral tone.
“About a year ago. Both the nightmares and the outbursts.” I replied curtly.
“I see. And, if you don’t mind me asking, what is it you see in your nightmares?”
I considered just lying to him but told myself I was supposed to be actually trying to get something out of this. “That depends. Will you tell my parents?”
His tie shifted orange for a moment, then back to yellow. “Anything you tell me is confidential, but I will give her my professional opinions on what occurs during the session afterwards. I won’t lie to you, Victor. Do you see this tie of mine? It displays my emotions as colours. The yellow is curiosity, the orange is surprise, and the blue is fascination. There are more, but you get the idea, I want my patients to feel comfortable sharing whatever they need to, and one of the ways I do that is through this tie.”
That… was actually pretty interesting. My first thoughts were questioning how it worked, how it interpreted his emotions and a dozen others. But I reminded myself where I was and snapped out of it.
“In that case. I dream I am someone else, living their life, thinking their thoughts. Their life is… tumultuous, and I’ve had some difficulty dealing with it. Sounds, smells, these occasionally remind me of things that happen in these dreams, and I feel a surge of emotion that I can’t control, which more often than not ends explosively. However, I do believe I am past the worst of it now and have recently gained a modicum of control over my magic, so I don’t believe I’ll be having any more outbursts.” I explained. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was as much as I felt I could share without sounding like a complete loony.
The yellow in Rupert’s tie only grew deeper as I spoke. “You speak very eloquently for an eight-year-old, Victor, if you don’t mind me saying.”
His words took me aback, it was the last thing I had been expecting him to ask after my little speech. “Thank you,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster, trying not to sound as though he had just stumped me.
“Could you show me what you mean when you say you have control over your magic?” he asked.
I frowned. It wasn’t the best idea to experiment with potentially flammable and explosive things in one’s home, but I knew he was trying to call me out on what he believed was my bullshit. On this occasion, I relented that it was probably warranted in order for him to take me seriously, but first I needed to actually figure out how to repeat what I did the first time.
Closing my eyes, I tried to recreate that itching feeling in my fingertips. I could tell I was still a little tired, magically speaking, from earlier, but it should be possible. After a few embarrassing moments, I could recognize the magic in my body, but I was unable to get it to budge. Re-creating the feeling of euphoric serenity proved impossible, I was good at controlling my emotions because they could be so volatile not because they were calm, so I tried to force the matter, willing the magic to my fingertips with all the focus I could muster. Still, even then, it did not budge. I began to get frustrated, and I knew a frown had formed on my brow, but then when I pushed again I felt it move a little. Catching on to that emotion was key, I copied a technique I’d used whenever I needed a boost of concentrated aggression in my past life; I dipped into the bottomless well of rage from a lifetime of disappointment and violence and then tempered it with an unyielding iron will. I felt my jaw clamp down and heard my teeth grinding on one another as I did so, but the magic moved with contemptuous ease until my fingertips felt like they were touching a red-hot iron.
Opening my eyes, I stared into his iris’ and spoke firmly. “Incendio.” I clicked my right hand and a frighteningly large burst of orange flame shot up from above my thumb that almost touched the roof. It took a moment to cool down my rage, but when I did, and despite myself, I couldn’t hide the smile that once again grew on my face. After a second I shrunk the flame down to little more than a candle flame and then eventually stopped the flow of magic entirely with but a thought and the flame flickered out, happy to note I didn’t need to channel my anger to maintain or control the flow, just to get it moving in the first place.
Rupert’s tie flared a bright orange, and he shot back, wide-eyed, in his chair when he heard the incantation. It took a minute or so, but he regained his composure, his tie once again shifting to a shade of yellow.
“Very impressive Victor,” he said after clearing his throat, “wandless magic is a tricky feat even for experienced wizards and witches. I must apologize for doubting you. You say this newfound control came about today?”
I gave him a short summary of what happened in the forest and his tie turned a deep blue as he appeared deep in thought. I decided it would be best to leave out the part where I had to use my anger to get it to work a second time.
“I have to say, Victor, this had not at all been what I expected when your mother called me. Tell me, and I appreciate this may be a sensitive topic, do you recall what happened on the night of the 3rd of August almost five years ago?” he asked.
“I do.”
“And has it ever been the topic of your nightmares?”
“Once or twice, but it has never been the cause of one of my outbursts.”
His tie turned purple as he furrowed his brow. “You tell me that you have everything under control, and I must say I believe you. You are perhaps the calmest eight-year-old I have ever met. So then why do I get the sense there is something more you wanted from this conversation?”
“Because there is. I have been having trouble determining where this person I dream of ends, and I begin. Are we different people or are we the same? It has been troubling me for some time now.” I explained to him honestly.
His tie once again turned yellow. “Do you hear another voice in your mind?” He asks.
I shake my head in response.
“This person you dream of, putting aside whatever it is you see them doing, do they like the same things as you? Have the same hopes? Dreams? Fears?”
It was my turn to furrow my brow as I thought back. We both liked our tea the same way, which had been Jack’s favourite beverage, and mine now that I thought about it. We both had a somewhat irrational fear of wasps. The longer I thought about it the more I discovered that matched up, things I did that I often didn’t even think about. More than anything though, at our very core, we both have an intense love for magic and a desperate desire to uncover its secrets.
“We do, exactly the same,” I replied.
“Then isn’t that all that matters? Memories, names, appearances, possessions, these are not the things that make up a person’s soul. I don’t know anything about what it is you see when you dream of this person, but if you are living them, from the perspective of this individual, would that not make you one and the same?” he explained.
I… hadn’t thought of it like that before. Did it really make any sense to distinguish between Jack and Victor? Why could I not just be a person with the memories of two lives, with two names, but the same soul? After all, if magic was real then surely the soul was as well?
“Thank you, Rupert, I do believe you’ve brought my little identity crisis to its conclusion,” I said with honesty. There would be no more Jack or Victor, just me.
His tie turned green. “Well, I’m glad I could be of help, but all I did was ask the right questions. If you would like, though I appreciate that it is no longer a problem in terms of your magic, we could talk through these… stressful events that caused your outbursts in the first place. A spiritual epiphany, no matter how much it may have calmed your soul, is not enough to make these memories, and the emotions within them, disappear. You may not have another magical outburst, but there are other kinds of stress-related attacks that you may be vulnerable to.”
I considered his words and thought back to some of the events in question. The time a comrade of mine had his brains blown out by a Taliban sniper right in front of me. The Syrian teenager I had killed before he had the chance to pull the trigger on his dead father’s rusty AK-47. The charnel house of body parts in an Afghani village after a suicide attack.
The emotions I felt when I pictured them were still the same, still raw and painful. But there was a certain strength gained in acknowledging that they were in fact my memories. That I had been there, done and seen those things as opposed to somebody else. I had agency rather than just being a spectator forced to watch, and that gave me back my control. I don’t think I would ever fully move past the pain I felt when I looked back at those moments, but I also don’t think I wanted to, or perhaps deserved to. I was still alive to feel that pain when so many weren’t, and I couldn’t just throw that away.
It would no longer be a problem; I knew that at least. They may continue to reign in my nightmares, but I was back in control in the waking world.
“No… No thank you, Rupert. I believe I have my emotions well in check. Thank you for offering though.” I told him with a smile I didn’t really feel.
His tie flashed black as he nodded solemnly. “Well, in that case, I believe we are finished. Unless there is anything else you wish to discuss?”
I shook my head, and we both stood up. “Thank you again Mr Mudoil.” I held out my hand.
“You are very welcome Mr Thorneheart. If you’d ever like to talk, here is my card.” He shook my hand and pulled out a white card with his name and address on it and gave it to me.
With that, he walked over and opened the door once more. Rather unsurprisingly, mother was stood there impatiently waiting and looking as though she had been pacing. I doubted she had been listening in, however. She wasn’t perfect but I knew she respected our privacy.
“Well? That was awfully quick.” She commented with a hint of concern in her voice.
“You have a remarkable young man on your hands Mrs Thorneheart. I do believe his magical mishaps have come to an end, though that is more down to your son’s exceptional maturity than my own efforts. I cannot say if his nightmares will continue, but it is likely and that is, unfortunately, beyond my abilities to correct, just as it is beyond yours. I look forward to our next session Mrs Thorneheart, as well as seeing what this young man will accomplish in the years to come.” He told her in a confident tone.
“I… see. Thank you Mr Mudoil. Have a pleasant day.” She replied, equal parts shocked and confused, though she did well to hide it.
“Likewise. Mrs Thorneheart, Mr Thorneheart.” He replied with finality.
With that, he stepped into the fireplace, pulled a handful of floo powder from his pocket, spoke “St Mungo’s” and then was gone in a puff of green fire.
Mother and I turned to look at one another.
“Well?” she demanded with an expectant look on her face.
“Incendio,” I said with a click of my fingers and a wry grin on my face, choosing this time only to channel a much smaller part of my anger instead of burning rage, and both the itching in my fingers and the resulting small flame proved my hypothesis on the matter had been correct. “You weren’t wrong, he was pretty good.” It was difficult to keep the mirth from my voice despite my quickly fleeting anger.
Her eyes flicked between mine and the flame. I couldn’t tell what was going through her mind, but there was only one thing on my mind at that moment.
My self-imposed obligations were complete, and it was time to let release the hound and really see how far and fast it could run. First things first, where the hell is that damned house elf?