The Ghost of You

“Hanging around the thestrals again?” The black flared nostrils of the animal noisily exhaled a cloud of steam. The creature threw back its silky-skinned muzzle and wheezed in concern, making its long black mane tremble. In one long and confident movement, the man ran his hand over the smooth fur on the flexible neck to the sticking-out protrusions of the ribs. The thestral, as if enchanted, instantly calmed down and, folding his sweeping wings like a bat, snorted, poking his wet, hot nose into the wizard's neck. San closed his eyes and counted to five before opening them again. The girl, crossing her arms somewhere behind the creature, smirked indulgently. "I'm a Magizoologist, Dora, where does that sarcasm come from in your voice?" Bakar answered muffledly, following the prancing thestral with his eyes. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t call me that,” Morganach said, narrowing her eyes slightly. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't come here anymore," he said bitterly, finally raising his eyes to her figure. In the twilight of the Forbidden Forest, her dark hair with a copper tint seemed almost black. Her eyes glittered in a witchy way on her unnaturally pale face, as if Isidora could see right through the Care of Magical Creatures professor and read his mind like an open book. “I come here because you want it, San,” the girl shrugged her shoulders and slowly walked towards the cluster of thestrals. "You can lie to yourself, but not to me – you spend a lot more time here than in the hippogriff pen." “And so what,” Bakar raised an eyebrow, closely following her every step. “People talk all sorts of nonsense now, they say that thestrals bring only misfortune. If left unattended, the village idiots might wipe out their entire population in Britain.” Morganach chuckled and stretched out her hand to the shiny, smooth side of the animal. It lazily turned its head at her and peered at the professor, causing everything inside him to shrink. "Could you see them before?" she asked, toying with the wand, which seemed just to appear in her hands out of nowhere. San Bakar broke off. A lump rose in his throat, and the knot under his ribs tightened. In the light haze of the Forbidden Forest, a flock of birds flew by, chirping, forcing the thestrals to raise their muzzles with interest. “You know I could," he said shortly. “And you?” "My brother died before my eyes," turning away from Bakar, she raised her head to the darkening sky. Her voice sounded completely ordinary, making a wave of goosebumps run through the skin of the magizoologist, even despite the warm jacket and the mantle thrown over it. "My father was holding his hand, but my brother was looking right at me. I could see thestrals even before I was accepted to Hogwarts. I remember that first time I ran to tell my father, and he just looked at me and grimaced.” “I'm sorry that this happened to your father, Dora,” San approached and froze a meter away from her. “Truly sorry.” Isidora turned sharply at him and, slightly lowering her chin, stared with a wild gaze. For a second, he thought he saw red sparks run across the iris of her eyes. “We all feel pain, San," she whispered fervently, her voice now sounding as if from the depths of his consciousness. He, spellbound, watched her bitten cracked lips move, unable to tear himself away, shackled by an unfamiliar feeling. “I know you, I know that you are not the kind of person who will just watch others suffer. You can still redeem yourself!” The mind-numbing, vile worm seemed to crawl into his head, forcing him to grab his temples, suddenly erupting with drilling pain. The thestrals, sensing something was wrong, cautiously retreated further into the depths of the forest, leaving him alone with his tormentor. “Dora, please don't…” “San, I know that you are suffering too,” a scalding icy palm lay on his cheek and gently led down to the deafeningly throbbing vein in his neck. “You can help yourself to get rid of the guilt, once you convince the others!” “That's enough! You're not here!” Bakar screamed heart-rendingly and covered his face with his hands, throwing away her fingers and sinking powerlessly to the ground. “You're just in my head!” Morganach sat down opposite him, taking her hands away from his face and looking into his very soul again. "I'm here because you want me to," she repeated, and stood up, waving the hem of her dark blue high-necked coat. “And you know what you have to do to let go.” San angrily punched the frozen ground, where a second ago there was such a realistic mirage. The skin on the knuckles of the fingers peeled off and burned. Isidora Morganach was no longer here. He was the one to have killed her.   *** The dried-up well towered over a small trampled dark-brown patch, forcing everything inside to shrink again. Bakar left the small house in Feldcroft, carefully closing the door behind him. The last thing that caught his eye was the once cozy room where a stooped figure was weakly swaying by the fire, casting long trembling shadows. Another stab in the heart. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he felt the smooth metal pendant that he had removed from the cold body before burying her. He would come here almost every day after Isidora's death. Rackham and Rookwood repeatedly tried to explain to Mr. Morganach that his daughter was dead, even took him to her grave, but he only looked with an emotionless, detached gaze through a small tombstone engraved with a symbol of ancient magic — Percival's idea. Probably, Isidora would have liked this, she reveled in her gift, absorbing all available knowledge. “And you are willing to let this knowledge be buried like this?” A shrill voice reached him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. San cast a quick glance to the well — there, with both palms and hips leaning on the crumbling stone edges, she was standing again. "Stop messing with my head," he replied irritably. "How could you let this happen to your own father?" Morganach bit her lip and frowned. “This happened to my father only because he suffered for too long! If Rackham and the others hadn't been so stubborn, I would have been able to put him out of pain sooner!” with a twisted mouth and pain in her voice she answered. "If I hadn't let the pain consume him completely before my research succeeded, things would have been different!" Bakar chuckled. “No, Dora, it's not like that. Niamh and Percival were right, you can't take away other people's emotions. You've changed after your experiments. Before that, you were different.” The girl pushed away from the well and approached him again, coming close. He had always been taller, but now her eyes were at his level, drilling through his very essence again. Her dark scarlet lips on a deathly pale face were very close. “Was I different when I squirmed under you and crumpled the sheets with pleasure?” With contempt, enunciating each syllable, she spoke hotly. “After all, you liked that untamed beast that came to your chambers at night to amuse your ego and relieve tension? I wonder what the prudent Percival would think if he saw you driving your cock into me up to the balls and whining my name?” “I loved you," Bakar said bitterly through his teeth. “And if I had dared to say it earlier, it wouldn't have ended like this.” Isidora raised an eyebrow and leaned into his ear. He felt neither the warmth of her body nor the tickling breath, but every word she said was burning with a scorched icy mark in his brain. "It's not too late to fix anything, San. You can prove to me that you love me," she whispered, tilting her head and brushing a snowflake off his shoulder. “Persuade Rackham not to destroy the repository. Let my legacy live on!” “How do you know that Percival is going to destroy the repository?” Bakar froze, belatedly realizing the meaning of his words. Of course, she knew everything he knew. Trying to drive away the obsession, he shook his head and walked past the woman who fell at his hands. “You have crippled so many destinies, they were just children, Dora! And now they will never again be able to feel all the incredible beauty of this world, so many happy moments — and you stole everything from them!” “I saved them from pain!” Morganach raised her voice as she caught up with him, continuing in a piercing tone. “All-consuming, poisoning their existence! No one else could understand me: Niamph, Charles, Percival — they refused to even listen to me, but I know that you are not like them! San, you're the only one who can save the memory of me. You won't have to wake up in a cold sweat every night, seeing the same nightmare over and over again!” Bakar closed his eyes. At the same moment, his consciousness drew him a dazzling emerald ray shooting from the end of his wand, Isidora's eyes lighting up with the same bright green for a split second, just to shine with a glassy luster the next moment. "I did what I had to do," he said quietly, feeling Morganach's icy gaze on the back of his head. “Leave me alone.” *** A short knock on the door. Bakar, shaking his thick black curls, hurried to let the guest into his hut. He hadn't seen much of Percival lately — Professor would stay in the repository for hours, often missing meetings in the Great Hall. The Seer nodded majestically and entered the humble abode of the magizoologist. San glanced at him with a quick appraising look — when they first met, the elder was already around a hundred years old, but he always seemed to Bakar quite cheerful and full of strength. Perhaps the ancient magic had been giving him vital energy for so long — now Percival was very thin, only his eyes stood out on his wrinkled face, wearily reflecting the glare of candles lit in the hut. The Divinations teacher inhaled the aroma of burning incense with his nose and sat down at the table, resting his chin on the lock of his hands. "I'm missing something, San," Rackham informed him without greeting. “With the repository. Perhaps we were too hasty in deciding to destroy it unconditionally?” Bakar sank in his chair opposite the guest and spread his palms in confusion. “Percival, what happened? Wasn’t this your idea to destroy it?!” barely restraining his indignation, he exclaimed, stubbornly trying not to look behind the Keeper's back, where a familiar figure stood with her arms crossed and grinning contentedly, making everything inside him shrink. The Seer looked up at him with a worried look and took his eyes to the rounded window, covered with light frost. “We have already found Bragbor and erased his memory. No one else knows about the repository except for the Keepers. Maybe not us, but someone will be able to use this magic for good?” There was hope in his voice. “After all, someday there should be a worthy person with the same gift that Isidora and I shared.” Hearing her name, she froze for a moment and, this time clasping her hands behind her back, turned to the window. San glanced at her silhouette and immediately turned his eyes to Rackham. “How can we trust some stranger?” Bakar replied indignantly. “Even Isidora was not who we believed she was.” Morganach turned over her shoulder and gave him a cold look. For a split second, her eyes flashed red again. “We shall leave the trials aimed at ensuring whether they are worthy of this knowledge,” Percival had obviously already thought of everything, inspiration was born in his tired voice. “I have already talked to Niamh and Charles, and they agreed.” “So you decided everything without me? I don't recall receiving an owl about the meeting," Bakar replied resentfully. “Come on, San,” Rackham coughed into his fist and looked away. “We shall not act without your consent. I'm just asking you to consider it.” The magizoologist ran his palm through his hair and exhaled noisily. Something had obviously changed about the white-haired sage he had always known. But, dryly promising to ponder on this proposal, he escorted the guest out and sat down on the table again, this time with his back to Isidora. “Who did you believe I was, San?” her ironic voice reached him. “I thought you were prudent, Dora,” he said without turning around, closing his eyes again. “But you didn't know when to stop.” Footsteps approached from behind. Morganach put her cold hands on his shoulders and leaned closer. For a moment, the professor thought he inhaled a faint musky scent. "You're lying again," she murmured in his ear and ran her fingers through his black curls, pointing to his canopy bed with thin carved wooden pillars. "You've been losing the last of your prudence with me, over there on that bed. Remember?” Bakar raised his exhausted gaze to his bed and memories immediately came flooding over him. Her hair spread over his sheets, shining dark copper in the flickering lights of the floating candles, the wild glare of her eyes, and muffled moans. Her long fingers sliding over his body, passionate bites and sweet bliss afterward, when both of them, happy and tired, fell on the bright pillows. She was like another, new and unknown magical creature that he needed to tame. Turned on, San tried to catch the nimble fingers playing with his curls, but the girl deftly put them away and he found her in front of him, watching with almost sadistic satisfaction as his gaze clouded. "So you thought I was one of your little pets," she said, tilting her head and not taking her teasing gaze from him. “Very noble, Professor Bakar.” “It's not true! You were dear to me!” immediately waking up from the flooding memories, he slammed his fist on the table. “The day it all happened when I saw your father for the second time… I was coming to you. I wanted to confess everything, but what I found opened my eyes to who you really were.” Isidora leaned back in her chair, and the irises of her eyes flashed with a cold red light again. Long minutes later, she got up and walked over to the bed, passing the thinnest translucent fabric of the canopy between her fingers. "Think about Rackham's offer, San. And I promise that you will find peace.” *** “A graphorn?” Headmistress Fitzgerald was sitting in her office chair with her usual grace and stateliness. Her expression didn't change much, only her eyebrows lifted for a split second. “Isn't that a bit much, Professor Bakar?" "Trust me, Niamh. If we want to entrust the repository to a worthy person, magical creatures have an incredible inner flair. Not to mention that the battle with a graphorn has never been the lot of the faint-hearted.” The headmistress looked up at him thoughtfully and nodded curtly. The arcs of armillary spheres that lined her office slowly rotated around their axis, reminding San of the magic core encased in goblin silver under Hogwarts. “All right, San. The rest of the Keepers and I have already finished preparations for our trials," Niamh replied in a measured tone, getting up from her chair and heading for the tall, stained-glass window, serenely glancing at the still snow-covered mountain tops. If we want to make sure that the secret of the repository goes into the hands of the right person, we need to maintain our presence in the future, at least partially. I'll contact the artist who paints portraits for the Hogwarts headmasters. We need the best master of this craft if we want them to absorb at least a fraction of our character.” “Great idea! “ Bakar replied, unable to take his eyes off one of the armillary spheres. "Let me know when you need me." After politely saying goodbye, the magical creatures professor headed out of the headmistress' office. For several months they had been actively engaged in preparing the trials, during all this time Isidora had never appeared to him again. And if at first, it brought him unspeakable relief and peace, over time he started to desire her appearance. San was searching for her in his thoughts and dreams like a madman, waking up with her name on his lips. Again and again, he would come to Feldcroft, to the indifferent tombstone, with tears in his eyes, begging her to come again. He saw her in every blue-robed figure, in every gleam of copper hair, in every flickering candle flame. But each time he eagerly rushed to passers-by, the dull dagger of disappointment, with which he was now learning to live, would only drive deeper into his heart. She promised him peace, but it turned out to be not what he wanted. Fumbling in his pocket for the heavy pendant, he squeezed it again in his palm, allowing the prickly edges to dig into the skin. His legs led him from the tower to the dungeons, along a secret passage to the repository. Percival had already begun to create a rounded hall, with high arches, which, it seemed, were to become a haven for the echoes of their long-forgotten lives. San, as if led by an unknown hand, did not even stop, descending lower and lower, into roughly hewn catacombs with suspended wrought-iron chandeliers. The power in the repository became agitated and light discharges started running through as soon as he approached. “You promised yourself that you wouldn't come back here anymore,” a soft voice came from behind, and the dagger in the heart melted in one second, burning the wounded organ with red-hot metal. “I did everything as you asked, Dora,” with a sinking heart, turning to the leniently grinning mirage, he took the pendant out of his pocket and pressed it to his chest. “Why can't I find peace?” Morganach glanced at his white knuckles, clutching what once belonged to her, and smiled tenderly, dropping an icy palm on his trembling hand. “Because you want forgiveness, San," she answered softly, looking into his eyes, the discharges reflected in her pupils fascinating him. "Remember, it was here, on this very spot, that you killed me.” His lungs seemed to be squeezed by icy fingers, preventing him from inhaling. The temples flared up again with a mind-rending pain, Bakar fell, trying to grab her knees, but she only arrogantly walked forward, leaving him there, with his nose buried in the cold stone on which her lifeless body had once fallen. “What should I do to make you forgive me?” raising his tearful eyes to her, he pleaded. Isidora, bending over him and lifting his chin with her sharp nails, ran the scalding cold pad of her thumb over his cheekbone. Her touch made everything inside the professor shrink painfully again. "You don't need my forgiveness, San," she said softly, leaving a weightless kiss on his forehead, which sent a chilling icy wave through his entire body. “You have to forgive yourself.” *** “Thank you, Professor Bakar, we’re done for today,” the wizard in the plumed hat creaked with satisfaction, meticulously assessing his creation through his monocle. “We will have to meet a couple more times, I'm afraid – to preserve the imprint of your character in the portrait, one session is not enough. After that, I will need to finalize the details, so I will make sure to send all the canvases together a bit later.” San nodded curtly and stood up, flexing his muscles. In the artist's studio room, everything was lined with half-finished canvases — most of them were pompously blowing cheeks portraits with lush frills and expensive robes stretching across the floor. The professor, looking around the bright room with tired eyes, noticed a corner of the frame hidden by a heavy velvet curtain and thin fingers folded on somebody’s knees, covered with a long cobalt hem. Without taking his eyes off them, he walked closer on wobbly legs and pulled the cloth aside with a wand. The girl in the portrait opened her eyes lazily, as if squinting from an unexpectedly bright light, and her lips stretched into a slight smile. Bakar couldn't move. “Dora," he whispered soundlessly, stretching out trembling fingers to the portrait. “Oh, yes, this one was never collected,” San suddenly found the artist behind him and hurried to pull his fingers away, as if from a fire. “It's been standing like this for more than a year, I still can't find the strength to clear the canvas. A very engaging young lady, I must tell you!” “She was," the professor replied hoarsely, turning to the master's face, which instantly assumed a sympathetic expression. “How much do you want for it?” "I'm sorry, did you know her?" the artist took out his wand and, pointing it at the portrait of Morganach, muttered something. “She paid for the portrait in advance, you can take it. I will be pleased to know that my work was not in vain and someone will keep the memory of her.” “San?” The painted plump lips moved in surprise. “What are you doing here?” “I’m taking you away, Dora,” Bakar, shaking the artist’s hand with gratitude, grabbed the edges of the frame crowned with a wide triangular spire at the top, and apparated. *** “Why are you here?” The oily eyes in the painting stared at him accusingly. There were no red flashes in them, no ice, binding his whole body — but for some reason, the image of Isidora in the portrait seemed less real to him than the mirage that poisoned his existence a few months ago. An echo of her that he knew, just something barely perceptible in the tone of her voice and the way she constantly straightened her hair – but not herself. San kept Morganach's portrait in his hut for a long time, talking to her in the morning, repenting on his knees, and desperately trying to make her explain how she could let everything happen. Although an exact copy of her, the girl in the portrait squinted with incomprehension, only sometimes starting to talk again about how she only wanted to save the world from pain, and how she would like to save him from suffering. Bakar was tormented, but he could not bring himself to tell this last remaining part of Isidora about what had happened to her. He lied that she had fallen victim to her own repository, that that magic was dangerous, but the painted Morganach still stood her ground and did not want to admit guilt, only begging him every now and then not to let her life's work be destroyed. During one of these arguments, San moved the portrait to Feldcroft to show her what she had done to her own father. Mr. Morganach was still sitting, swaying limply, staring blankly at the image of a girl stubbornly denying the futility of her actions. Even the image of his daughter did not make him express even a fraction of emotion. Bakar went berserk and, slamming the door left the portrait in a small house overgrown with ivy. For several days he could not bring himself to touch food, sent an owl to the headmistress that he needed to take a short vacation, and, locked inside his brightly carpeted hut, just lay on the bed, looking at the ceiling, feeling his own emotions slowly mix in him, forming an exquisite poison that made him feel the sweet pangs of conscience. When she first kissed him, returning from her wanderings to teach, she was already different. Her eyes were already burning with passionate charming despair, she would have done anything for the sake of what she had planned, but he did not want to admit it. She was never innocent. San looked up at the portrait looking at him reproachfully. "I lied to you, Dora," he replied softly, passing by the indifferent man. “It wasn't the repository that killed you.” "Then what? What was it?" she asked worriedly. “Me.” There was a ringing silence, Morganach opened her eyes in shock, glancing at his inconsolable face in disbelief. Bakar had already decided everything. It would be better this way. “Why?” “You almost killed Niamh, you almost killed Percival and Charles, you deprived so many students of emotions. Look at your father, Dora! You had to be stopped.” The girl in the portrait pursed her lips and looked at her father with a downcast glance. There was a serene expression on his face, but his eyes couldn’t fool anyone — only an all-consuming emptiness was read in them. Morganach turned away. “Do you regret it?” she asked, looking up at her once-lover again. "No,” Bakar said. “But it hurts me. It pains me to realize that the one I fell in love with turned out to be somebody completely different. You betrayed me. And I did the same to you.” "What are you going to do now, San?" The girl in the portrait asked calmly, blinking. “I promised to the other Keepers that we would keep the repository a secret and trust such knowledge only to a worthy person. To do this, I must remember your betrayal and where your thirst for power had led you. But every time I think about it, I can't help but think about the girl I loved," Bakar swallowed noisily and closed his eyes in resignation, as if in search of courage to voice for the first time what he had been thinking about for so long. “I have to forget about the secret we shared, Dora. Otherwise, it’ll drive me mad.” Morganach in the portrait looked at him piercingly and stood up, placing her hand with barely visible strokes on the other side of the canvas. "San, please, you are the only one who can keep my memory," she said in a trembling voice. "Don't betray me again.” Bakar took a step closer, putting his fingers to her painted ones. No, it wasn't her. But even her faded shadow was ready to push until the end, ignoring common sense and the fate of others. There was an aching tenderness in the expression of the painted face, but even that could not change his decision. "I'm sorry," he whispered, touching the canvas with his lips, and took a few steps back, taking out his wand. "I'll take care of your father." Isidora shook her head violently, not wanting to believe him. The professor raised his hand and took a deep breath. Back then, in the catacombs with the repository, he, wounded by her betrayal, acted quickly. Now he couldn't even summon the courage to destroy the portrait. His head felt like lead. “Wait, San," she said suddenly in a humble voice, shifting her gaze from his raised hand a little further away, where the forgotten Morganach was sitting. “Before you do what you have in mind — just one request. Save my father from this fate.” Bakar turned to the man. The latter, as if realizing that it was about him, turned his head towards the sound. The chest of the professor was squeezed into a vice again. He lowered his wand limply. “Please, San. If you cared about me.” Isidora's father was still looking straight through him, although somewhere in the depths of the whitened pupils an echo of something alive flashed for a moment, the corners of his lips barely trembled. Bakar tightened his grip on the wand. “Avada kedavra!” The half-smile, frozen on the serene face of the old man, imprinted on the brain like a hot metal. Mr. Morganach went limp, his head lolled to one side. The professor turned back to the portrait, the outline of the girl on it blurred because of the tears filling his eyes. “Thank you, San. Goodbye.” “Goodbye, Isidora. Confringo!” A fiery flash rushed towards the canvas, leaving black scorched traces on it, with trails of soot running in different directions. The figure in the portrait froze forever, motionless, humbly folding her thin fingers on her knees. He's doing what he has to do. Clutching the wood with unruly, trembling fingers, he bit his lip and brought the wand to his temple. “Obliviate.”