- Pronouns
- Male
Silent already said to stop
Spells in Silence (Harry Potter)
- Thread starter Silently Watches
- Start date
- Location
- Canada
I mean it's an interesting headcanon I guess, I think the issue you are running into is it seems like you are trying to pass this of as canon, where it just isn't. Harry Potter is a modern day fantasy children's series where JKR didn't even spend enough time world-building the modern society of wizards, let alone the habits and beliefs of those in the past. So, the chances of ancient wizards (in canon) being heavily influenced by anything other than caricatures of what magic users were in their respective country/region are low.
If you want to make early wizards in Europe heavily influenced by Christianity, *shrug* that's fine, that's the point of fanfiction after all, to fill in the blanks JKR left when creating her world. But if Silently Watches or other fanfic authors do something different, they aren't any more wrong than you are in your headcanon either.
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- Location
- Hell
I mean
I did call it headcanon from the very start and that it very much was a riff against not spending more time worldbuilding
- Location
- Here
Not necessarily. He built the Chamber, sure, but modern indoor plumbing (and especially flush toilets) didn't exist at the time of the Founders; the bathrooms must be new, and so at least some of the pipes must also be new. Perhaps Salazar left an enchantment to make sure that any alterations to the castle would shift to add secret passages for the basilisk to get around in, or perhaps there was a Parselmouth involved at the time of the addition of plumbing who had learned of the Chamber.
Roth963
If I become inactive with this massage, I died
I gave a source and it didn't really have anything to do with the chrisitian hogwarts conversation, I made a claim that is based on canon and I should back it up if I am asked to.
Now I got the cool idea that Hogwarts might be naturally growing, as in the castle started out as a few rooms like the main hall and the chamber of secrets and had been growing ever since to modern day.
It isn't necessarily true, but it is a cool idea if it is.
Silently Watches
Professional Stalker
- Location
- Right behind you
Hmm...
I mean, Portia would best be described as a genius loci, which is technically a type of spirit. If a building is alive enough to have a soul, is it alive enough to continue to grow and develop in its own way?
RoninSword
Sky God
- Location
- Canada
There is a HP story I read where the location of magic could change how magic itself would react. Hogwarts is a school, a place of both learning and safety. Its easier to experiment there with less chance of something going wrong, than if you were out in the country side. It did a whole thing about why magic was the way it was now rather than the feats of myth. Ended with them wondering how one might go about destroying a spell (as in, someone could try to AK someone and nothing would happen because its no longer a spell).
- Location
- Hell
I remember reading a story where Peeves is the simple result of housing hundreds of magical school children and is basically the personification of all wrongdoing kids do in school from cheating to horsing around to playing pranks. Banishing him does nothing as he will just reform over the year again.
RoninSword
Sky God
- Location
- Canada
I thought that was indeed how Peeves was?
- Location
- Hell
All I remember is that he is a poltergeist, but nothing about what that means or why they leave him alone.
Ch. 16, The Cave
Silently Watches
Professional Stalker
- Location
- Right behind you
By the end of the night, Hazel almost regretted figuring out how to write in the air.
Or no, that was not quite right. The writing itself she was very happy with. It was showing her new spell to anyone else she regretted.
Marcel was the first person she went to, both because he set the challenge for her and because she wanted to thank him for showing her that it was possible. Hazel knew that his real reason for suggesting she try to learn this was because he wanted her to go away and not ask him about his time at wizard school, but she thought he would at least be impressed that she had figured out how to do it provided she quit poking at his massive sore spot. He might not have finished his schooling, but he still knew useful stuff, and her success was a testament to that. Instead he had watched her form letters made of glowing white sparks, and his thoughts had passed through disbelief and eventually settled on wariness.
The rest of the commune had either yet to return from work or were waiting to use the shower stalls set up in the back of the compound, so not everyone saw her demonstration. Jean Luc and Elise, however, did. Elise had the same reaction to seeing this as she had when Hazel started stirring the cauldron with her ghost hand: disbelief and confusion, including telling herself several times that what was there in front of her eyes was impossible.
Jean Luc's reaction was the most interesting of the three, though it did not bring her any relief. His thoughts had actually become quieter to her ears, and rather than forming sentences they were broken phrases. Hazel had only experienced something like this once two years ago, when Miss Brandine, the school librarian back in Little Whinging, had found out her husband was divorcing her. She had gotten quieter and paid no attention to anything going on around her, and she wore the same deeply contemplative expression that Jean Luc had.
After demonstrating her new talent to three people and with zero positive responses, she decided quickly that she was not going to show anyone else, or not right now anyway. Not until she could figure out just why she was eliciting such…
Her heart sank as she finally put a name to the emotion the werewolves felt upon seeing her magic. Such fear. It was not the same kind of fear the Dursleys had felt, not a fear that turned into anger, but it was present nonetheless. She just could not understand why.
She sat at her own when everyone started eating the roast beef Elise and Amorette had prepared for dinner, her mind half on the conversations going on around her and half on her own task for the evening. When she had started writing her response to Marcel, he had to come to where she was standing in order to read it. She had not thought about that issue, so now she let her fingers drift in the air tracing letters backwards. If she was looking at somebody and writing backwards, they should be able to read it more easily. She was also using her left hand to do this; she was right handed, so if she could write with her left hand and do other things with her right, she would be able to multitask in conversations as well as anybody else could!
Assuming she would ever be able to hold a conversation with anybody without freaking them out, that was.
Movement to the side of the group caught her attention, and she glanced over to find Jean Luc and Marcel walking away towards the cabins. They did not look like they were just headed the same way, either, but instead they were standing close together. What in the world are they doing, she wondered to herself. Setting her plate down on the bench in front of Morgan, who started eagerly pecking at the scraps of beef still sitting there, she breathed out a thin cloud of ignore-me smoke around herself and carefully chased after them.
The pair took a wandering course towards the middle of the compound before they stopped and turned to face each other. "What do you want to talk about," asked Jean Luc, "although I think I know already."
"Hazel," Marcel replied without a moment's hesitation. "As if there was going to be any other topic. Jean Luc, what the hell is up with her?! She learned a brand-new spell she had never heard of in a matter of hours. She's casting multiple spells at the same time without a wand. That would be astounding if she were ninety and had been learning magic all her life. She's nine and a Née-Moldus at that! What she's doing is horrifying… creepy."
"I wouldn't say that she is creepy. Eerie is probably the better term." Jean Luc sighed. "But I understand your concern. The things she can do are unnerving. Impressive, but unnerving. Especially at her age."
"At any age. I couldn't do any of that before school. I can't hold multiple spells like she can now. I've never met anybody who could. Although from what I heard about him, old man Escrim would have given his left testicle to have her in his dueling class. If she learned to hold a Clipeo shield and could still freely curse people?" Marcel shook his head. "You've read a lot more than me. Have you ever read about anything like this?"
"Not that well-read. It is not like I ever thought knowing about wandless would be a priority of mine," Jean Luc told him with a sigh. "Now I wish I had. I want to say I read at one point that the Africans do not use wands, but I don't remember if they actually do wandless magic or use something else. The Gypsies use handmade jewelry to cast spells, I know I read about that years ago, so something like that is a possibility. Even then, they don't cast multiple spells at once like she did this morning. Nor does she have the same excuse. She doesn't have a wand-analogue like they do. It's just all her."
"So we still don't know how she does this. About the only thing I do know is that this isn't just accidental magic. She's totally in control of it. She can learn. And if she can do this now, what will she be able to do in the future?" Marcel wondered to himself. "Wizards can and have made our lives miserable, and with them we know what their limits are. We don't know what she's capable of, and that? That is terrifying. Her magic… It isn't natural, Jean Luc. It sounds almost like what my uncles told me about fighting Grindelwald's army during the War. Dark magic."
Hazel cocked her head and frowned. Dark magic? What was that?
The bald wizard scoffed. "Please do not tell me you think Hazel is a dark witch, Marcel." The younger man radiated embarrassment while Jean Luc continued, "That is preposterous for any number of reasons. Besides," he said after a moment, "I don't know that her magic is unnatural. It might, however, be inhuman."
"Inhuman? What do you mean? What is the difference?" Marcel asked, voicing the same question Hazel had.
"Exactly that. I've been wondering all night whether Hazel is entirely human, or if there is something… else in her bloodline. Part-humans normally inherit traits from their non-human parent, so if one parent was a Moldu and the other was some other type of being? That would explain how a Née-Moldus could have such phenomenal abilities."
"I guess that is not the least possible explanation. What kind of being do you think she is then?"
Jean Luc spread his arms wide. "That, I do not know. None of the combinations I can think of would explain her abilities, but there are too many options to say for sure."
With a frown, Hazel thought about that. She knew this was not the case for her; thanks to Aunt Petunia's memories, she knew her mother had the same talent with magic that she did. Could her mother have had this strange parentage? After a moment, she shook her head. Never mind, that was foolish. Her aunt was her mother's sister, so she should have the same powers.
Then again… It still did not explain why she and her mother had magic and her aunt and cousin did not. When she first heard about Nés-Moldus, she wondered if her mum was one. Did magic just pop up randomly, totally unrelated to whether other members of the family?
She had no way to tell, and really that was not the major problem. What was a concern was the fact that Marcel and Jean Luc were still this worried and scared about it.
As if reading her own mind, Marcel said in a low voice, "What should we tell the others?"
"Tell the others? Why would we tell them anything?"
"What do you mean? Jean Luc, don't you think everyone else needs to know about this?!" he demanded. "This is too big to keep a secret?"
"Is it? Really?" Jean Luc crossed his arms and watched with narrowed eyes before continuing in an almost lecturing tone, "What would you tell them?"
"What we just talked about. What she can do, that she might not be fully human."
"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. And how, exactly, would that help the group? What would we do differently as a whole with this knowledge?"
"I… don't know."
Jean Luc nodded. "I don't see that anything would change in a beneficial matter. What I worry about is that they would be just as scared of a lone little girl as you are. Will that do Hazel any good?"
Marcel sighed. "…No."
"So my question remains. If there is no benefit to anybody in announcing our suspicions – and that is all they are – we should not do it in the first place. Should Hazel show more of us what she can do, that is her decision, but we will not make it for her. It is not our place to do so. Do you understand?"
Marcel nodded, and Hazel decided this was the time to back away and go somewhere else. Anywhere else. She skirted the edge of the central cooking and dining area and kept walking until she slipped between the trees again into the darkened forest. Only once the campfires were almost out of sight and the rest of the compound was out of earshot did she stop, lean against a tree, and slide down to the ground.
Fluttering in the shadows reached her ears seconds before Morgan flew to her and landed on her knee. He looked up at her and twittered in confusion and concern.
I'm sorry for not coming back for you, she told him as she ran her fingers down his back. I just needed to get away from there.
I'm starting to worry what the future's going to look like. Morgan blinked, so she explained, So far I'm nought for I don't know how many times I thought I would be accepted by other people. It's like no matter what I do, I scare them away. The Dursleys were afraid of me. Everyone I ever met in Little Whinging was afraid of me. She nodded her head in the direction of the compound. Now they're becoming afraid of me. You and that hellhound in Wistman's Wood are the only living things that aren't.
Her head fell to her chest, and tears started welling up in her eyes and dripping down her cheeks. Is it my fault? Is there something wrong with me, and that's why I scare everybody away? How would I change that to make people like me?
How do I become something I'm not when I don't even know what I really am?
Waves gently sloshed against the shore, wet slaps as water hit rock occasionally reaching Hazel's ears. The last time she had walked the shores of Tintagel, rain had been pounding on top of her, and the sea had been a vicious beast eager to gobble her up. Now, in the early afternoon sun and the warmer air as spring was rapidly giving up ground to summer, it was actually rather pleasant.
She made sure to stay close but not too close to the family in front of her. Her ignore-me smoke was wrapped tightly around her, and as long as she looked like she could possibly be an additional member of the family of five, she was confident that no one would pay her any mind. She assumed so, anyway; no one had made any mention nor had any thoughts yet about her colorful clothing or her strange satchel or the songbird on her shoulder. She was not eager to try testing that conclusion, though, not when that might mean dodging well-meaning strangers who wanted to take her back to her 'family'. She had too many plans still to work on that running away would interfere with.
Plans such as finally – finally! – returning to Merlin's Cave.
Sand slid and crunched beneath her feet, but she continued her walk towards the large entrance of the cave. No light came from the depths, and she tilted her head this way and that while she drank in its appearance. Any sharp edges were long since worn away, but the interior still had large shelves and protrusions of stone. Several people were already there, talking animatedly and taking pictures, but Hazel found herself both confused and disappointed.
According to legend, this was where Merlin himself had lived during the birth and raising of King Arthur. She had expected... she did not truly know, but something grander. Something worthy of the home and workshop of such a marvelous sorcerer. Arthur and Merlin might have lived roughly 1500 years ago as best as she could figure it, but even with the erosions of time she thought there would be some sign that it had been inhabited at one point in time. From what she could see, it did not look very homey.
She left the family she was following and moved deeper into the sea cave. Her feet splashed through puddles of standing water while the light coming from the mouth dimmed as she ducked behind stone slabs. There had to be something, she knew it. Turning her head slowly along the back wall, she stopped and blinked.
Part of the wall was... undulating, like it was made of paint that had not quite dried and was trying to drip away.
A glance around to make sure nobody was looking at her, and she stepped towards the strangely distorted wall. The closer she got, the more it rippled and shifted like a living thing trying to squirm away from her. She had seen a strange, ever-changing phenomenon before, and following a hunch she closed her right eye and stared at the wall with only her left. Just as she expected, without the help of her crystal lens the wall looked like just an ordinary stone wall.
Her fingers reached out to touch the wall, and it parted before her like oily smoke. What do you think?, she asked Morgan. When he made a small curious chirp, she nodded. Yeah. Me too. Taking a deep breath, she gave the rest of the room one quick glance before stepping into the wall.
She opened her eyes to find darkness waiting for her, so she pulled up the flap of her satchel and started reaching around. Clothes, water bottle, notepad, more clothes... I really need a better way to organize this, she grumbled as she continued digging. Curling her fingers, she summoned her ghost hand to try holding things out of the way while she kept looking for her bloody torch—
A slight coolness washed over the skin of her fingers an instant before a hard metal tube slammed into her palm. Pulling it out, she reached over with her other hand and touched the flared head of her torch. ...Huh, she finally thought. That's convenient. Her thumb pressed the switch to ignite it, and she swept the beam over the new area that had been revealed.
Her grin rivaled her torch in its brightness. Pieces of rotten wood had been jammed into clefts in the wall above natural stone shelves. Remnants of a low frame to one side must have been a bed, and a still functional-looking table was pushed to the back of the cave. It was in the middle of the room that the greatest prize sat, however: a statue carved from a single flawless piece of crystal. A statue depicting an old man only a little taller than herself, his right hand outstretched with fingers curled and his left hand raised above his head grasping a thin wand.
A statue that could be of only one man.
Hazel moved forwards and looked over the many facets of the massive crystal. It might not be a tomb, but it was a beautiful remembrance nonetheless. Merlin was a well-known and well-loved figure of myth in the modern day, but this was proof that he had been respected by others capable of magic back when he was alive. His abilities were magnificent, and he was widely regarded as the greatest wizard ever to have his story told.
A frown crept onto her face at that thought, and she seated herself on the ground with her eyes still fixed on the sculpture. You were a legend even in your day, she told the statue. Your gift of prophecy was famous. You were a marvelous magician. You stood head and shoulders above anybody and everybody, and for this you were adored.
She sighed. I can't help but wonder what the difference is between you and me.
If the legends are right, you were different from the moment of your birth. The son of a mortal woman and a demon. You should have been feared; people should have seen you as a monster. And yet, everyone came to you for answers, for your guidance and wisdom. How?
I'm different, but not like that. I have no voice of my own, and I need no wand to use my magic. Why do people fear my abilities but loved you for yours? To be able to see someone's future is no less scary than hearing their thoughts, and that skill I've kept hidden. Nothing I've done should be terrifying. Why, then, am I looked at with fear and mistrust? I don't understand.
The statue, as expected, had no reply to her questions. Instead she let her gaze play over the speckles of light that were scattered by the facets of the crystal. Her mind followed her eyes in their aimless wanderings, and several minutes passed before a thoughtful expression took over.
Other than your parents, I know nothing about your childhood, she told the statue. I've found no books about it. It makes me wonder. Is the difference between us that your legend has already been told? You accomplished so many incredible things, but they all happened when you were an adult. To be that kind of an adult, you must have been gifted just as much when you were a child. What was that like for you?
Were you adored and praised as a child just like you were when you were grown? Or was young you more like me? Were you also feared for your powers, and that fear just became replaced by awe as you got older and people stopped worrying about how young you were and instead focused on what you could do? She drummed her fingertips on the stone ground. Does that mean that all I need to do to be accepted is just to keep going? To not let their fear get to me?
Silence surrounded them for a while longer before she pushed herself to her feet. I think I understand a little better now, she told the statue. Laying her hand on the crystal, she gave Merlin a small smile. Thank you.
And don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.
The next several days were... unremarkable, at least on the surface. Hazel attended magic-related classes with the other younger werewolves, whether that be potions or history or some basic magical herb lore. On days they learned about maths or writing, she ducked away to walk the woods with Grégoire and check the snares he had set out, in the process learning how to set said snares or identify animal tracks. Other days she pestered Jean Luc, and once he found that she had already learned long multiplication and division in school, he let her help out working with the heavy ledgers that contained all the information about the commune's finances. When he was working he was focused, but whenever he took a few minutes' break he was happy to answer questions and share some of what she soon realized was a font of information on all sorts of subjects.
And as she continued not doing anything unusual, everyone's tension drained away.
Those were the days, though. Night, on the other hand, was her time. Under the cover of darkness with only the trees and the stars to witness her, she stole away from the camp. There was no way she would simply abandon her experiments, but she now recognized that it was in private that she would be allowed to continue pushing her boundaries and learning more about her magic.
Blowing out a frustrated huff, Hazel crossed her arms where she sat on the ground. It would be better if her experiments would actually work. Every night she had tried something different as a means of fighting back if something attacked her, and so far she was not seeing any success. She had tried throwing a fireball. She had tried throwing icicles. She had tried lightning bolts. She had tried blowing out a cloud of poison gas. She had even tried creating a magical shield strictly meant to defend herself.
None of these attempts had shown even a shadow of success.
That did not mean it was a waste of time, not exactly. These failures had taught her a few things about the capabilities, and more importantly the limits, of her particular brand of magic. Her magic could change things, like her healing and her cleaning spells did. She could manipulate both objects and people. What she could not do, on the other hand, was create things out of thin air. That was the conclusion she had drawn from her various attempts. It was also understandably frustrating.
If she could not create something with which to hit back, how was she going to defend herself the next time a hungry fairy or ghost came after her?
Scrubbing her face with her hands, she let her mind relax and her vision go a bit blurry. Creating a new construct, a new tool, was not working out this time around. The last time she was stuck like this, she had gone back to the basics and figured something out from there. Did she already have a spell that would let her do what she wanted?
Teleporting and cleaning were of course right out. She did not think she could lock or unlock anything about an angry fae creature. Her ignore-me smoke... She shrugged. If she was at the point where she was fighting something, she did not think her smoke would do much good. Her ghost hand probably was not strong enough to lift anything the size of the red cap off the ground, although that would have been a neat way to keep it away from her. Her healing, maybe? Could she un-heal something? A small shiver worked its way down her spine. Somehow, she could see that ending badly.
Sure enough, nothing she already knew would help her here. Hazel slapped her hand against the ground and glared into the distance. A moment later, she blinked once. Twice. Thrice, and then she slowly pulled her eyes back to her hand and the dirt below it.
Morgan? The little songbird opened one eye at her and chirped sleepily. I'm an idiot.
He chirped again and closed his eye.
She ignored his dismissal and glared at her dirty hand. She had a hand. If her ghost hand could pick things up and move them around, if it acted just like her normal hand, she could slap with it. She could punch with it.
A good-sized rock sat a short distance away from her, and she climbed to her feet to walk towards it. Would this work? She curled her fingers one by one and called forth her ghost hand. It made a fist that matched the fist her real hand was in. With nothing else to try, she swung her arm in a wide arc. The ghost hand followed and hit the rock.
Nothing happened, but with a silent groan she realized that was not a surprise. Did she really think she could punch a hole in a rock? She looked around for another rock to put on top of this one, but nothing was immediately visible. Fine. Punching the ground it is. Winding up again, she drove her ghost fist into the dirt and knelt closer to peer at the her impromptu target.
It was hard to make out, but was there a little tiny bit of an indentation where she had punched?
She punched several more times trying to make any evidence of its collision larger, but between the dark and how hard the ground was, she could not really tell. She eyed her flesh fist and her ghost fist again. I wonder how hard I'm even hitting. Worst case I guess is that it isn't doing anything, but what if the best case is that my ghost hand punches as hard as I can? Going back to her knees, she reared back and slugged the ground only to pull back from the pain that was now bouncing around between her hand bones. There were definitely rocks just underneath the dirt!
After a minute of waving her hand around to make the pain stop, she looked down again and sighed. She could not say for sure that even her real fist had done anything. Poking her little twig arms explained why that was the case. I'm not going to get much more power out of that, I don't think.
If she could not swing her ghost hand harder, was there anything else she could do to make it just that little bit stronger? Could she change it somehow? She had never tried to do that to any of her spells, but there was no reason she couldn't, she supposed.
Maybe she could make it smaller? She could remember getting hit in the face by a dodgeball a few years back during recess, and that had not been nearly as painful as the time when Dudley threw a cricket ball into her ribs. If she made her fist more compact, it might hit with more force.
She stared at the still-closed ghost hand and narrowed her eyes. It took a few moments, but the fist eventually started getting a little smaller. The more she pushed on it with her mind, the smaller it got, and by the time it was no bigger than a large marble it had also lost all definition between the fingers. It was just a single solid sphere. It still moved in time with her real hand, and with a shrug she swung again at the dirt. This time when she leaned in, she could see a definitive dent in the ground.
Finally! She dropped onto her bum and then her back, looking up through the break in the trees' canopy to the stars above. Turning her head to face Morgan, she continued, It isn't great, and I don't know how much of a punch it will pack, but it's better than what I had before.
She turned her head back to the stars and sighed. Despite the enthusiasm she wanted to display to her friend, she had her doubts that it would work all that well. Dirt was not very hard, and if all she could do was dent it a little, how much would it really scare anything that wanted to eat her?
Her eyes glanced around the sky. She did not know many of the constellations, almost none of them in fact, and she could find even fewer. The only one she had really been able to pick out reliably over the last few months was Orion, and so it was that figure she sought in the night. Maybe it was because her window was so small, or maybe it was just the wrong time of night, but despite a minute or two searching she was unable to locate the Hunter. She would have to try later on, she decided while closing her eyes. It was unfortunate Orion wasn't a real person. It would have been incredible to learn how to defend herself from a mythical hunter, although for all she knew his advice would just be to shoot a bow at whatever was coming after her—
Pushing herself upright again, she stared at nothing with wide eyes. Would that even work? She could not create fire or ice, so how would she create an arrow? She couldn't.
But... But. She raised her hand and nodded to herself. If she could turn her ghost hand into a ball, could she continue to reshape it? One by one her fingers curled in, and once again her ghost hand appeared. She sighed in relief. She was not sure how she would have reacted had she lost the ability to cast one of her first spells.
It took less effort this time to shrink the fist down to an orb, but that was not the end of it. She stretched, for lack of a better description, the orb as if it were a ball of caramel or chewy candy. Two lumps pulled apart, a string of magical whatever-it-was she used to make her constructs strung between them. The far lump became a diamond-shaped head, and the close lump became tilted rectangles that looked mostly like the feathers on an arrow.
The arrow drifted the short distance into her palm, and she rolled it between her fingers. It was... not terrible, she eventually decided, but it did not feel good in her hand. It was just too unbalanced or awkward or something. Maybe if she were older, if her hands were bigger, it might not be as bad, but right now it was not what she needed.
Still, she told herself, I think I'm on the right track. Just not there yet. Twirling the arrow between her fingers, she wondered just what she could do with this. Stab something, maybe? She certainly could not throw it, not as large as it was. If it were smaller? That would be better.
A thought started making the arrow get shorter, and as it shifted she realized what it was starting to look like. The Christmas before she left the Dursleys, almost a year and a half ago now, Dudley had begged and demanded to get a dart board and darts. He snapped the board in half the very next day when he discovered how bad he was at aiming, and then the darts were lost one by one as he remembered he had them and threw them at Hazel while she worked in Aunt Petunia's rose bushes. She might have helped them disappear so they would not get them thrown at her a second time.
Almost as though it knew what she had in mind, the head of the arrow narrowed into a long almost-teardrop shape and fused with the shorter fins. She tossed the dart in her hand a couple of times, then a flick of her wrist flung it into the dirt.
It could have been entirely due to the angle, or possibly this shape truly was stronger, but instead of putting another dent into the ground it threw up a small cloud of dirt.
Hazel stared at the ground where it landed, and a small sharp smile alighted onto her face. As far as driving something off, this had potential. The real question now was whether she had to take the time to reform her ghost hand into the dart every time, or could she go straight to the dart form? Her wrist twitched, and she imagined she could feel the smooth surface of the dart that reappeared in her hand. Again she threw the dart, not with the careful overhand pitching movement Dudley had used but instead by slinging her hand to the side and releasing it from between her index and middle fingers.
This time a trail of glittering sparks, not unlike those formed by her sparkler, followed the dart as it flew true and hit the rock she had aimed at the first time. She shined her torch at the rock, and unless she was very much mistaken, there might actually be a small dent in the stone's surface this time.
Another twitch of her wrist, and Hazel dismissed the dart that appeared yet again. Instead she curled her fingers and watched her ghost hand, completely unharmed by her experiments, take the torch from her fleshy hand and flick off the switch.
She shot her sleeping friend a smile. Morgan, I do believe we have a winner. We don't need to be afraid of fairies or weird ghosts ever again.
Or no, that was not quite right. The writing itself she was very happy with. It was showing her new spell to anyone else she regretted.
Marcel was the first person she went to, both because he set the challenge for her and because she wanted to thank him for showing her that it was possible. Hazel knew that his real reason for suggesting she try to learn this was because he wanted her to go away and not ask him about his time at wizard school, but she thought he would at least be impressed that she had figured out how to do it provided she quit poking at his massive sore spot. He might not have finished his schooling, but he still knew useful stuff, and her success was a testament to that. Instead he had watched her form letters made of glowing white sparks, and his thoughts had passed through disbelief and eventually settled on wariness.
The rest of the commune had either yet to return from work or were waiting to use the shower stalls set up in the back of the compound, so not everyone saw her demonstration. Jean Luc and Elise, however, did. Elise had the same reaction to seeing this as she had when Hazel started stirring the cauldron with her ghost hand: disbelief and confusion, including telling herself several times that what was there in front of her eyes was impossible.
Jean Luc's reaction was the most interesting of the three, though it did not bring her any relief. His thoughts had actually become quieter to her ears, and rather than forming sentences they were broken phrases. Hazel had only experienced something like this once two years ago, when Miss Brandine, the school librarian back in Little Whinging, had found out her husband was divorcing her. She had gotten quieter and paid no attention to anything going on around her, and she wore the same deeply contemplative expression that Jean Luc had.
After demonstrating her new talent to three people and with zero positive responses, she decided quickly that she was not going to show anyone else, or not right now anyway. Not until she could figure out just why she was eliciting such…
Her heart sank as she finally put a name to the emotion the werewolves felt upon seeing her magic. Such fear. It was not the same kind of fear the Dursleys had felt, not a fear that turned into anger, but it was present nonetheless. She just could not understand why.
She sat at her own when everyone started eating the roast beef Elise and Amorette had prepared for dinner, her mind half on the conversations going on around her and half on her own task for the evening. When she had started writing her response to Marcel, he had to come to where she was standing in order to read it. She had not thought about that issue, so now she let her fingers drift in the air tracing letters backwards. If she was looking at somebody and writing backwards, they should be able to read it more easily. She was also using her left hand to do this; she was right handed, so if she could write with her left hand and do other things with her right, she would be able to multitask in conversations as well as anybody else could!
Assuming she would ever be able to hold a conversation with anybody without freaking them out, that was.
Movement to the side of the group caught her attention, and she glanced over to find Jean Luc and Marcel walking away towards the cabins. They did not look like they were just headed the same way, either, but instead they were standing close together. What in the world are they doing, she wondered to herself. Setting her plate down on the bench in front of Morgan, who started eagerly pecking at the scraps of beef still sitting there, she breathed out a thin cloud of ignore-me smoke around herself and carefully chased after them.
The pair took a wandering course towards the middle of the compound before they stopped and turned to face each other. "What do you want to talk about," asked Jean Luc, "although I think I know already."
"Hazel," Marcel replied without a moment's hesitation. "As if there was going to be any other topic. Jean Luc, what the hell is up with her?! She learned a brand-new spell she had never heard of in a matter of hours. She's casting multiple spells at the same time without a wand. That would be astounding if she were ninety and had been learning magic all her life. She's nine and a Née-Moldus at that! What she's doing is horrifying… creepy."
"I wouldn't say that she is creepy. Eerie is probably the better term." Jean Luc sighed. "But I understand your concern. The things she can do are unnerving. Impressive, but unnerving. Especially at her age."
"At any age. I couldn't do any of that before school. I can't hold multiple spells like she can now. I've never met anybody who could. Although from what I heard about him, old man Escrim would have given his left testicle to have her in his dueling class. If she learned to hold a Clipeo shield and could still freely curse people?" Marcel shook his head. "You've read a lot more than me. Have you ever read about anything like this?"
"Not that well-read. It is not like I ever thought knowing about wandless would be a priority of mine," Jean Luc told him with a sigh. "Now I wish I had. I want to say I read at one point that the Africans do not use wands, but I don't remember if they actually do wandless magic or use something else. The Gypsies use handmade jewelry to cast spells, I know I read about that years ago, so something like that is a possibility. Even then, they don't cast multiple spells at once like she did this morning. Nor does she have the same excuse. She doesn't have a wand-analogue like they do. It's just all her."
"So we still don't know how she does this. About the only thing I do know is that this isn't just accidental magic. She's totally in control of it. She can learn. And if she can do this now, what will she be able to do in the future?" Marcel wondered to himself. "Wizards can and have made our lives miserable, and with them we know what their limits are. We don't know what she's capable of, and that? That is terrifying. Her magic… It isn't natural, Jean Luc. It sounds almost like what my uncles told me about fighting Grindelwald's army during the War. Dark magic."
Hazel cocked her head and frowned. Dark magic? What was that?
The bald wizard scoffed. "Please do not tell me you think Hazel is a dark witch, Marcel." The younger man radiated embarrassment while Jean Luc continued, "That is preposterous for any number of reasons. Besides," he said after a moment, "I don't know that her magic is unnatural. It might, however, be inhuman."
"Inhuman? What do you mean? What is the difference?" Marcel asked, voicing the same question Hazel had.
"Exactly that. I've been wondering all night whether Hazel is entirely human, or if there is something… else in her bloodline. Part-humans normally inherit traits from their non-human parent, so if one parent was a Moldu and the other was some other type of being? That would explain how a Née-Moldus could have such phenomenal abilities."
"I guess that is not the least possible explanation. What kind of being do you think she is then?"
Jean Luc spread his arms wide. "That, I do not know. None of the combinations I can think of would explain her abilities, but there are too many options to say for sure."
With a frown, Hazel thought about that. She knew this was not the case for her; thanks to Aunt Petunia's memories, she knew her mother had the same talent with magic that she did. Could her mother have had this strange parentage? After a moment, she shook her head. Never mind, that was foolish. Her aunt was her mother's sister, so she should have the same powers.
Then again… It still did not explain why she and her mother had magic and her aunt and cousin did not. When she first heard about Nés-Moldus, she wondered if her mum was one. Did magic just pop up randomly, totally unrelated to whether other members of the family?
She had no way to tell, and really that was not the major problem. What was a concern was the fact that Marcel and Jean Luc were still this worried and scared about it.
As if reading her own mind, Marcel said in a low voice, "What should we tell the others?"
"Tell the others? Why would we tell them anything?"
"What do you mean? Jean Luc, don't you think everyone else needs to know about this?!" he demanded. "This is too big to keep a secret?"
"Is it? Really?" Jean Luc crossed his arms and watched with narrowed eyes before continuing in an almost lecturing tone, "What would you tell them?"
"What we just talked about. What she can do, that she might not be fully human."
"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. And how, exactly, would that help the group? What would we do differently as a whole with this knowledge?"
"I… don't know."
Jean Luc nodded. "I don't see that anything would change in a beneficial matter. What I worry about is that they would be just as scared of a lone little girl as you are. Will that do Hazel any good?"
Marcel sighed. "…No."
"So my question remains. If there is no benefit to anybody in announcing our suspicions – and that is all they are – we should not do it in the first place. Should Hazel show more of us what she can do, that is her decision, but we will not make it for her. It is not our place to do so. Do you understand?"
Marcel nodded, and Hazel decided this was the time to back away and go somewhere else. Anywhere else. She skirted the edge of the central cooking and dining area and kept walking until she slipped between the trees again into the darkened forest. Only once the campfires were almost out of sight and the rest of the compound was out of earshot did she stop, lean against a tree, and slide down to the ground.
Fluttering in the shadows reached her ears seconds before Morgan flew to her and landed on her knee. He looked up at her and twittered in confusion and concern.
I'm sorry for not coming back for you, she told him as she ran her fingers down his back. I just needed to get away from there.
I'm starting to worry what the future's going to look like. Morgan blinked, so she explained, So far I'm nought for I don't know how many times I thought I would be accepted by other people. It's like no matter what I do, I scare them away. The Dursleys were afraid of me. Everyone I ever met in Little Whinging was afraid of me. She nodded her head in the direction of the compound. Now they're becoming afraid of me. You and that hellhound in Wistman's Wood are the only living things that aren't.
Her head fell to her chest, and tears started welling up in her eyes and dripping down her cheeks. Is it my fault? Is there something wrong with me, and that's why I scare everybody away? How would I change that to make people like me?
How do I become something I'm not when I don't even know what I really am?
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Waves gently sloshed against the shore, wet slaps as water hit rock occasionally reaching Hazel's ears. The last time she had walked the shores of Tintagel, rain had been pounding on top of her, and the sea had been a vicious beast eager to gobble her up. Now, in the early afternoon sun and the warmer air as spring was rapidly giving up ground to summer, it was actually rather pleasant.
She made sure to stay close but not too close to the family in front of her. Her ignore-me smoke was wrapped tightly around her, and as long as she looked like she could possibly be an additional member of the family of five, she was confident that no one would pay her any mind. She assumed so, anyway; no one had made any mention nor had any thoughts yet about her colorful clothing or her strange satchel or the songbird on her shoulder. She was not eager to try testing that conclusion, though, not when that might mean dodging well-meaning strangers who wanted to take her back to her 'family'. She had too many plans still to work on that running away would interfere with.
Plans such as finally – finally! – returning to Merlin's Cave.
Sand slid and crunched beneath her feet, but she continued her walk towards the large entrance of the cave. No light came from the depths, and she tilted her head this way and that while she drank in its appearance. Any sharp edges were long since worn away, but the interior still had large shelves and protrusions of stone. Several people were already there, talking animatedly and taking pictures, but Hazel found herself both confused and disappointed.
According to legend, this was where Merlin himself had lived during the birth and raising of King Arthur. She had expected... she did not truly know, but something grander. Something worthy of the home and workshop of such a marvelous sorcerer. Arthur and Merlin might have lived roughly 1500 years ago as best as she could figure it, but even with the erosions of time she thought there would be some sign that it had been inhabited at one point in time. From what she could see, it did not look very homey.
She left the family she was following and moved deeper into the sea cave. Her feet splashed through puddles of standing water while the light coming from the mouth dimmed as she ducked behind stone slabs. There had to be something, she knew it. Turning her head slowly along the back wall, she stopped and blinked.
Part of the wall was... undulating, like it was made of paint that had not quite dried and was trying to drip away.
A glance around to make sure nobody was looking at her, and she stepped towards the strangely distorted wall. The closer she got, the more it rippled and shifted like a living thing trying to squirm away from her. She had seen a strange, ever-changing phenomenon before, and following a hunch she closed her right eye and stared at the wall with only her left. Just as she expected, without the help of her crystal lens the wall looked like just an ordinary stone wall.
Her fingers reached out to touch the wall, and it parted before her like oily smoke. What do you think?, she asked Morgan. When he made a small curious chirp, she nodded. Yeah. Me too. Taking a deep breath, she gave the rest of the room one quick glance before stepping into the wall.
She opened her eyes to find darkness waiting for her, so she pulled up the flap of her satchel and started reaching around. Clothes, water bottle, notepad, more clothes... I really need a better way to organize this, she grumbled as she continued digging. Curling her fingers, she summoned her ghost hand to try holding things out of the way while she kept looking for her bloody torch—
A slight coolness washed over the skin of her fingers an instant before a hard metal tube slammed into her palm. Pulling it out, she reached over with her other hand and touched the flared head of her torch. ...Huh, she finally thought. That's convenient. Her thumb pressed the switch to ignite it, and she swept the beam over the new area that had been revealed.
Her grin rivaled her torch in its brightness. Pieces of rotten wood had been jammed into clefts in the wall above natural stone shelves. Remnants of a low frame to one side must have been a bed, and a still functional-looking table was pushed to the back of the cave. It was in the middle of the room that the greatest prize sat, however: a statue carved from a single flawless piece of crystal. A statue depicting an old man only a little taller than herself, his right hand outstretched with fingers curled and his left hand raised above his head grasping a thin wand.
A statue that could be of only one man.
Hazel moved forwards and looked over the many facets of the massive crystal. It might not be a tomb, but it was a beautiful remembrance nonetheless. Merlin was a well-known and well-loved figure of myth in the modern day, but this was proof that he had been respected by others capable of magic back when he was alive. His abilities were magnificent, and he was widely regarded as the greatest wizard ever to have his story told.
A frown crept onto her face at that thought, and she seated herself on the ground with her eyes still fixed on the sculpture. You were a legend even in your day, she told the statue. Your gift of prophecy was famous. You were a marvelous magician. You stood head and shoulders above anybody and everybody, and for this you were adored.
She sighed. I can't help but wonder what the difference is between you and me.
If the legends are right, you were different from the moment of your birth. The son of a mortal woman and a demon. You should have been feared; people should have seen you as a monster. And yet, everyone came to you for answers, for your guidance and wisdom. How?
I'm different, but not like that. I have no voice of my own, and I need no wand to use my magic. Why do people fear my abilities but loved you for yours? To be able to see someone's future is no less scary than hearing their thoughts, and that skill I've kept hidden. Nothing I've done should be terrifying. Why, then, am I looked at with fear and mistrust? I don't understand.
The statue, as expected, had no reply to her questions. Instead she let her gaze play over the speckles of light that were scattered by the facets of the crystal. Her mind followed her eyes in their aimless wanderings, and several minutes passed before a thoughtful expression took over.
Other than your parents, I know nothing about your childhood, she told the statue. I've found no books about it. It makes me wonder. Is the difference between us that your legend has already been told? You accomplished so many incredible things, but they all happened when you were an adult. To be that kind of an adult, you must have been gifted just as much when you were a child. What was that like for you?
Were you adored and praised as a child just like you were when you were grown? Or was young you more like me? Were you also feared for your powers, and that fear just became replaced by awe as you got older and people stopped worrying about how young you were and instead focused on what you could do? She drummed her fingertips on the stone ground. Does that mean that all I need to do to be accepted is just to keep going? To not let their fear get to me?
Silence surrounded them for a while longer before she pushed herself to her feet. I think I understand a little better now, she told the statue. Laying her hand on the crystal, she gave Merlin a small smile. Thank you.
And don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
The next several days were... unremarkable, at least on the surface. Hazel attended magic-related classes with the other younger werewolves, whether that be potions or history or some basic magical herb lore. On days they learned about maths or writing, she ducked away to walk the woods with Grégoire and check the snares he had set out, in the process learning how to set said snares or identify animal tracks. Other days she pestered Jean Luc, and once he found that she had already learned long multiplication and division in school, he let her help out working with the heavy ledgers that contained all the information about the commune's finances. When he was working he was focused, but whenever he took a few minutes' break he was happy to answer questions and share some of what she soon realized was a font of information on all sorts of subjects.
And as she continued not doing anything unusual, everyone's tension drained away.
Those were the days, though. Night, on the other hand, was her time. Under the cover of darkness with only the trees and the stars to witness her, she stole away from the camp. There was no way she would simply abandon her experiments, but she now recognized that it was in private that she would be allowed to continue pushing her boundaries and learning more about her magic.
Blowing out a frustrated huff, Hazel crossed her arms where she sat on the ground. It would be better if her experiments would actually work. Every night she had tried something different as a means of fighting back if something attacked her, and so far she was not seeing any success. She had tried throwing a fireball. She had tried throwing icicles. She had tried lightning bolts. She had tried blowing out a cloud of poison gas. She had even tried creating a magical shield strictly meant to defend herself.
None of these attempts had shown even a shadow of success.
That did not mean it was a waste of time, not exactly. These failures had taught her a few things about the capabilities, and more importantly the limits, of her particular brand of magic. Her magic could change things, like her healing and her cleaning spells did. She could manipulate both objects and people. What she could not do, on the other hand, was create things out of thin air. That was the conclusion she had drawn from her various attempts. It was also understandably frustrating.
If she could not create something with which to hit back, how was she going to defend herself the next time a hungry fairy or ghost came after her?
Scrubbing her face with her hands, she let her mind relax and her vision go a bit blurry. Creating a new construct, a new tool, was not working out this time around. The last time she was stuck like this, she had gone back to the basics and figured something out from there. Did she already have a spell that would let her do what she wanted?
Teleporting and cleaning were of course right out. She did not think she could lock or unlock anything about an angry fae creature. Her ignore-me smoke... She shrugged. If she was at the point where she was fighting something, she did not think her smoke would do much good. Her ghost hand probably was not strong enough to lift anything the size of the red cap off the ground, although that would have been a neat way to keep it away from her. Her healing, maybe? Could she un-heal something? A small shiver worked its way down her spine. Somehow, she could see that ending badly.
Sure enough, nothing she already knew would help her here. Hazel slapped her hand against the ground and glared into the distance. A moment later, she blinked once. Twice. Thrice, and then she slowly pulled her eyes back to her hand and the dirt below it.
Morgan? The little songbird opened one eye at her and chirped sleepily. I'm an idiot.
He chirped again and closed his eye.
She ignored his dismissal and glared at her dirty hand. She had a hand. If her ghost hand could pick things up and move them around, if it acted just like her normal hand, she could slap with it. She could punch with it.
A good-sized rock sat a short distance away from her, and she climbed to her feet to walk towards it. Would this work? She curled her fingers one by one and called forth her ghost hand. It made a fist that matched the fist her real hand was in. With nothing else to try, she swung her arm in a wide arc. The ghost hand followed and hit the rock.
Nothing happened, but with a silent groan she realized that was not a surprise. Did she really think she could punch a hole in a rock? She looked around for another rock to put on top of this one, but nothing was immediately visible. Fine. Punching the ground it is. Winding up again, she drove her ghost fist into the dirt and knelt closer to peer at the her impromptu target.
It was hard to make out, but was there a little tiny bit of an indentation where she had punched?
She punched several more times trying to make any evidence of its collision larger, but between the dark and how hard the ground was, she could not really tell. She eyed her flesh fist and her ghost fist again. I wonder how hard I'm even hitting. Worst case I guess is that it isn't doing anything, but what if the best case is that my ghost hand punches as hard as I can? Going back to her knees, she reared back and slugged the ground only to pull back from the pain that was now bouncing around between her hand bones. There were definitely rocks just underneath the dirt!
After a minute of waving her hand around to make the pain stop, she looked down again and sighed. She could not say for sure that even her real fist had done anything. Poking her little twig arms explained why that was the case. I'm not going to get much more power out of that, I don't think.
If she could not swing her ghost hand harder, was there anything else she could do to make it just that little bit stronger? Could she change it somehow? She had never tried to do that to any of her spells, but there was no reason she couldn't, she supposed.
Maybe she could make it smaller? She could remember getting hit in the face by a dodgeball a few years back during recess, and that had not been nearly as painful as the time when Dudley threw a cricket ball into her ribs. If she made her fist more compact, it might hit with more force.
She stared at the still-closed ghost hand and narrowed her eyes. It took a few moments, but the fist eventually started getting a little smaller. The more she pushed on it with her mind, the smaller it got, and by the time it was no bigger than a large marble it had also lost all definition between the fingers. It was just a single solid sphere. It still moved in time with her real hand, and with a shrug she swung again at the dirt. This time when she leaned in, she could see a definitive dent in the ground.
Finally! She dropped onto her bum and then her back, looking up through the break in the trees' canopy to the stars above. Turning her head to face Morgan, she continued, It isn't great, and I don't know how much of a punch it will pack, but it's better than what I had before.
She turned her head back to the stars and sighed. Despite the enthusiasm she wanted to display to her friend, she had her doubts that it would work all that well. Dirt was not very hard, and if all she could do was dent it a little, how much would it really scare anything that wanted to eat her?
Her eyes glanced around the sky. She did not know many of the constellations, almost none of them in fact, and she could find even fewer. The only one she had really been able to pick out reliably over the last few months was Orion, and so it was that figure she sought in the night. Maybe it was because her window was so small, or maybe it was just the wrong time of night, but despite a minute or two searching she was unable to locate the Hunter. She would have to try later on, she decided while closing her eyes. It was unfortunate Orion wasn't a real person. It would have been incredible to learn how to defend herself from a mythical hunter, although for all she knew his advice would just be to shoot a bow at whatever was coming after her—
Pushing herself upright again, she stared at nothing with wide eyes. Would that even work? She could not create fire or ice, so how would she create an arrow? She couldn't.
But... But. She raised her hand and nodded to herself. If she could turn her ghost hand into a ball, could she continue to reshape it? One by one her fingers curled in, and once again her ghost hand appeared. She sighed in relief. She was not sure how she would have reacted had she lost the ability to cast one of her first spells.
It took less effort this time to shrink the fist down to an orb, but that was not the end of it. She stretched, for lack of a better description, the orb as if it were a ball of caramel or chewy candy. Two lumps pulled apart, a string of magical whatever-it-was she used to make her constructs strung between them. The far lump became a diamond-shaped head, and the close lump became tilted rectangles that looked mostly like the feathers on an arrow.
The arrow drifted the short distance into her palm, and she rolled it between her fingers. It was... not terrible, she eventually decided, but it did not feel good in her hand. It was just too unbalanced or awkward or something. Maybe if she were older, if her hands were bigger, it might not be as bad, but right now it was not what she needed.
Still, she told herself, I think I'm on the right track. Just not there yet. Twirling the arrow between her fingers, she wondered just what she could do with this. Stab something, maybe? She certainly could not throw it, not as large as it was. If it were smaller? That would be better.
A thought started making the arrow get shorter, and as it shifted she realized what it was starting to look like. The Christmas before she left the Dursleys, almost a year and a half ago now, Dudley had begged and demanded to get a dart board and darts. He snapped the board in half the very next day when he discovered how bad he was at aiming, and then the darts were lost one by one as he remembered he had them and threw them at Hazel while she worked in Aunt Petunia's rose bushes. She might have helped them disappear so they would not get them thrown at her a second time.
Almost as though it knew what she had in mind, the head of the arrow narrowed into a long almost-teardrop shape and fused with the shorter fins. She tossed the dart in her hand a couple of times, then a flick of her wrist flung it into the dirt.
It could have been entirely due to the angle, or possibly this shape truly was stronger, but instead of putting another dent into the ground it threw up a small cloud of dirt.
Hazel stared at the ground where it landed, and a small sharp smile alighted onto her face. As far as driving something off, this had potential. The real question now was whether she had to take the time to reform her ghost hand into the dart every time, or could she go straight to the dart form? Her wrist twitched, and she imagined she could feel the smooth surface of the dart that reappeared in her hand. Again she threw the dart, not with the careful overhand pitching movement Dudley had used but instead by slinging her hand to the side and releasing it from between her index and middle fingers.
This time a trail of glittering sparks, not unlike those formed by her sparkler, followed the dart as it flew true and hit the rock she had aimed at the first time. She shined her torch at the rock, and unless she was very much mistaken, there might actually be a small dent in the stone's surface this time.
Another twitch of her wrist, and Hazel dismissed the dart that appeared yet again. Instead she curled her fingers and watched her ghost hand, completely unharmed by her experiments, take the torch from her fleshy hand and flick off the switch.
She shot her sleeping friend a smile. Morgan, I do believe we have a winner. We don't need to be afraid of fairies or weird ghosts ever again.
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- Location
- edinbrugh
What??? I am so, so, so intrigued. Is she just talking about the ideas and conclusions she reached about Merlin's childhood? Or the cave? Or was she actually getting some subconscious feedback that led to her conclusions and realized that?
Also, a fantastic chapter.
Lagoon12002
How far have I fell down into this deep deep sea
Hazel now has a ghost arrow. That, even minutes after forming it, is enough to put holes in the ground. Can wizards see it? Can Hazel kill ghosts and other spiritual entities now? Is Hazel going to mimic The Gamer and form hundreds of them at once to turn any baddie into a pincushion?
- Location
- Hug the Moebot; Save the world
I assume the secret she is refering to here is the hidden chamber in the cave that she discovered.
Roth963
If I become inactive with this massage, I died
I think that it is currently only a telekinetic arrow, (although she might improve it or added attack, I am hoping she will added anti healing to it, it will probably make it much more lethal, but it will be also cooler and more effective) can this hurt ghosts, maybe, if her telekinetic hand touch them, We don't know yet.
As for making more than one, we don't exactly know how much focus making them will take, I think less than her ghost hand and she might be capable of making more than one, hundreds is another level and we can't be sure if she can do this yet.
- Location
- Germany
Or (40% / 40%) the secret might be that Merlin was feared as child. (Which would be a big deal for Hazel)
Very suprised that Hazel didn't go with her "tool" idea and created an imaginary bow to shoot the arrow (or an imaginary knife or sword as attack).
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Silently Watches
Professional Stalker
- Location
- Right behind you
Mostly about the sculpture (or is it?) and the remains of his home.
Less that no one has noticed it and more that in comparison to some of the other things she can do, wearing a slightly tinted (not multicolored, either) monocle is not the strangest thing about her. Also I've had other things to talk about so haven't specifically mentioned their thoughts about it.
Dopplerdee
Accident Prone(Yes the caps are necessary)
- Location
- Happy Place
- Pronouns
- She/Her
...yeah theres a 50/50 chance that thats actually Merlin considering how his story ends.
My question about the sculpture is... was that really a sculpture? From the description:
I'm rather reminded of a duelist's stance (was gonna post an image of Snape as an example but it ain't working). Which, combined with the fact that it's a single, solid piece and that someone went to the effort of concealing it (seems weird to make a statue dedicated to someone only to hide it away in a cave)...
Mayhaps I'm reading too much into it, but it almost seems as though Hazel's having a conversation with the statue/treats it as though she's speaking to Merlin himself.
Roth963
If I become inactive with this massage, I died
She can read thoughts, so it is certainly possible that we had only seen one side of the conversation and that he started to reply in the middle of it, it is also possible that he is sleeping and that she felt his mind even if it is not awake, and it could have just as well been just a status, maybe his last project, maybe something wizards left out of respect, I think it was meant to be ambiguous, we will probably never know.
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