Chapter 55. Another Ritual?
In the quiet, gloomy sitting room of the ancient Black family, which was surprisingly cozy despite the dark walls and heavy curtains, a couple sat on the sofa under the light of a table lamp—a boy and a girl, wrapped in each other's arms. Because of their fair hair and pale skin, it almost seemed as if the light was coming not from the lamp, but from them.
They were reading a book for the mere possession of which, under the laws of magical Britain, they would be facing at least a life sentence in Azkaban. The worn cover read: "Anatomy of the Invisible: Why Wizards Are Wizards."
The essence of this undoubtedly brilliant and utterly immoral work lay in a detailed analysis of the structure of the soul and the search for the part of it responsible for magic. The author explained why Muggles cannot perform magic, and yet how Muggle-borns continue to be born. It was terrifying to even imagine how many people had suffered for the sake of this knowledge. It was doubtful that the creator of the book cared in the slightest about those he turned into lab rats.
"Isn't it creepy for you to read that in here?" came the voice of a man who had just entered.
He walked over to a large armchair by the wall, where a TV remote lay on a low table, and sat down.
"I think it's quite cozy here," Andromeda replied calmly.
"And the book, looks aside, is actually very interesting," added Regulus.
"Yeah, sure. And the Blacks are all pure and fluffy as well," Sirius rolled his eyes theatrically. He'd long since resigned himself to his niece and nephew's oddities. Their tastes were, to put it mildly, specific: to endure so much just for the sake of… throwing ice better. He couldn't understand it, but he was willing to admit: even that was far better than the "beloved" family he'd grown up with.
He turned the remote over in his hands, but was in no hurry to turn the TV on.
"I heard you want to do something to yourselves again," he finally said.
"Mm-hm," the pair answered lazily, in unison, without looking up from their reading.
Sirius nervously licked his lips. The image of "the adult handing out serious advice" suited him about as well as a tie would suit his old leather jackets. He understood himself that his life experience was, to put it mildly, meager. School had been far too easy, and he'd landed in Azkaban before he'd had any real chance to grow up. What kind of wisdom could there be in a place where the only form of development was decay?
And yet sitting in front of him were his brother's children. A brother who had turned out, in the end, to be much better than Sirius had ever been ready to admit. And what they were currently doing with their lives and bodies frankly scared him.
"Maybe you really should reconsider?" he began carefully. "All these rituals… Even my parents didn't go that far. It's too dangerous."
His answer was a soft chuckle.
"Didn't they use them?" The twins finally tore themselves away from the book and looked him straight in the eye at the same time. "Looks like you still think better of your family than you're willing to admit."
Something icy crawled unpleasantly through Sirius's chest.
"Don't look at us like that," Andromeda said calmly. "What your father did actually makes us happy."
"We always have each other," Regulus picked up. "And we can avoid many… unnecessary mistakes."
After those words, the way they were pressed so closely together suddenly looked very different to him.
"That's… not normal," the man whispered, feeling nausea mix with old, repressed memories. Long ago he had already run from this house, deciding this family was too disgusting to remain part of it. And now everything he had once fled from was pouring back over him in a landslide. The only things keeping him from breaking down were the things far too out of place in this house—the television, and the cold plastic of the remote in his hands.
The twins frowned at the same time. They clearly didn't like Sirius's reaction.
Andromeda pulled slightly away from Regulus and said gently:
"Sirius, all that is already in the past. Just turn on the TV and watch something interesting. No need to wind yourself up."
"Yeah…" he exhaled. "I suppose that really is for the best."
His finger pressed the button, and the heavy atmosphere of the sitting room shattered under the cheerful voice of some TV show host. And we, deciding not to make it worse and not to dig any deeper into someone else's scars, simply slipped out quietly.
"No wonder he didn't want to stay in this house," we muttered once we finally found ourselves in the hallway.
"Kreacher," Regulus called.
"What does young master require?" With a soft pop, the house-elf appeared.
"Take this book to our room."
"As you command, sir," the elf bowed and reached for the book.
"Wait," we stopped him. "And one more thing: make some hot chocolate for Sirius. Looks like he still hasn't recovered from Azkaban."
We frowned involuntarily. We weren't about to climb into his head—we had more than enough of our own plans for the day.
"The unworthy son of the mistress brought it on hims—"
"Shut it," we snapped before he could finish. Honestly, if we had the chance, we'd have replaced him with another elf long ago. "Do as you're told."
The elf sucked in a loud breath but said nothing. A second later—pop—and he vanished along with the book.
We, meanwhile, headed deeper into the house until we found ourselves in a room cluttered with all sorts of things. But the eye was immediately drawn to the long case on the table.
As we opened it, we felt the temperature in the room drop sharply by a couple of degrees. Inside lay our rapiers—finally ready to fulfill their purpose. We took the blades with bare hands. Unlike last time, they no longer harmed us—except that our bodies, adjusting to their cold, became noticeably colder to the touch.
"There's still half an hour before we start, but I doubt Dumbledore will mind if we come early," Andromeda remarked.
With a flash of pure white, we teleported to the old man's doorstep in Godric's Hollow. The door had long since become almost familiar to us: we opened it without the slightest hesitation.
"Trri-uu!" A melodic trill greeted us even before the smell of tea from the kitchen did. The phoenix, flying out of the sitting room, landed on the hall dresser and tilted his head at us with interest.
"Hello to you too, Fawkes," we couldn't help but smile at the bird.
"I see you've come early," the master of the house appeared shortly thereafter.
"Yes, we decided there's no point in putting it off," said Regulus.
"Well then, come in," Dumbledore nodded. "Everything is ready."
"By the way, Professor," Andromeda began as they walked down the stairs.
"Yes?"
"Is there any chance Harry could come to us a bit earlier? Coraline's distracting Sirius as much as she can, and he acts like everything's fine when she's around, but… It looks like he still hasn't recovered from Azkaban."
Dumbledore sighed heavily, for a moment seeming older than his years.
"I'm afraid that wound will remain with him for the rest of his life. Unlike the body, the soul and mind are extraordinarily difficult to heal. As for Harry… I cannot allow his protection to weaken. At least, not yet."
"I see," we muttered.
We walked the rest of the way in silence until we descended into the basement where the previous ritual had been performed. It was time for the next step.
Stripped to the waist, we stood in two ritual circles facing each other. Each of us took our own rapier in both hands. A chill of anticipation hung motionless in the air.
"Kocitus Liberatio!" we intoned.
The basement was instantly filled with cold unbearable for an ordinary human. Next to each of us, spiked icy chains began to appear, as if reluctantly. Even with our immunity to cold, we felt not our bodies tremble, but something deeper—the very essence inside.
The chains resisted, writhed, unwilling to tear themselves out of their reality. They felt the threat, and we pressed down on them with a flow of mania, forcing them out into our world.
At last, the first links touched the rapiers' blades.
"Absorptio!" we shouted, our voices breaking.
The resistance weakened sharply. Dozens of meters of spiked, icy chains, with a muffled clang, poured into the blades, making them even colder, even more dangerous. With each passing second, the pressure increased. It felt like one more moment and our control would snap.
"Vega, stop! That's enough!" Dumbledore called to us in alarm.
"Impressio!" we shouted back.
For a heartbeat, the world froze. Then a heavy rumble echoed—and the chains broke.
"Finite Incantatem," Dumbledore immediately said.
The chains reluctantly began to withdraw back into the unknown, as if trying to leave at least a scratch on whoever had dared to touch them. Their movement was slow, dragging, as if they were taking revenge by the very fact of their existence.
"Finite Incantatem!" we joined in.
A few seconds later, everything went quiet. Only the cold remained—dense, almost tangible. It was emanating from the rapiers we still held in our hands.
"You may continue," said Dumbledore, surrounding himself with flames to shield against the cold.
"Very well," we nodded.
Each of us pressed our rapier to our chest, over the heart, and literally hugged it, driving the blade into our own skin.
We sent mana along the lines of the ritual circles. They flared with a pale light, and we pronounced the final incantation:
"Conflare in Anima!"
The metal in our hands flared brightly—then began to slowly sink inward. The first sensation was almost pleasant: like cold ice cream at the height of summer. Freshness, clarity, lightness.
But that lasted exactly until the steel touched the soul.
"AAAAAAAH!" A twin scream exploded through the basement.
The floor, the walls, the ceiling—everything was rapidly being covered by a thick layer of ice. Only Dumbledore himself, wreathed in roaring flame, remained untouched. His face twisted—he was clearly not pleased by what they had to go through. But he could not interfere. Such turmoil of the soul was like pouring concentrated acid on an exposed nerve. It was impossible to endure it in silence. And even merciful oblivion was impossible.
"On the other hand, perhaps this will finally knock the urge out of them to keep experimenting on their own souls," the old man thought grimly.
It went on for almost a minute. The ice grew, the screaming weakened, until at last it broke off. The twins, who had not imagined the kind of pain they would face, lost consciousness and crashed to the floor, no longer radiating the unbearable cold.