Magick Moste Evile
With Marie departed and the dinner hour looming, the library fell into a gentle hush—a hush Elijah found infinitely more inviting than the bustling chatter of the Great Hall.
He slipped deeper among the towering shelves, lit only by the soft glow of enchanted lanterns.
Elijah surveyed the library's winding rows with a measured calm, taking in the labyrinth of knowledge with keen interest.
So much stored within these walls—yet how little they truly know.
Hogwarts had always been an institution of formidable power, but it was so often content to bury its darker truths.
Pausing at the threshold of the Restricted Section, Elijah felt the faint tingle of protective spells.
A layered barrier shimmered just beyond sight, carefully maintained by the castle's magic.
Most students would have no hope of penetrating it undetected.
Elijah merely smiled, white lashes half-lowered.
Nothing I've not done before, he thought wryly.
Long ago—far longer than any living wizard might suspect—he had roamed these very halls under different names, wearing other mortal disguises.
Each time, Hogwarts had changed a little, but its essence remained constant. And thus I remain as well.
He allowed his form to slip into near-silence, focusing on stillness until he could feel the old magic bristle warily around him.
Yet the castle did not reject him, and instead, it welcomed him—one could say that it was one old spirit recognising another, perhaps.
With a slight bow, Elijah stepped forward and felt the wards part.
He passed between them like a shadow cast by moonlight without alerting anyone.
The Restricted Section, a tomb of forbidden tomes, felt even quieter.
Polished wooden racks reached higher here, and the faint odour of dust and time was more pronounced.
Titles of curses, hexes, malevolent theories, and archaic conjurations glimmered under the warm candlelit sconces, most of them forgotten.
Some whispered menacingly when he approached, while others rattled their chains in silent protest of intrusion.
Elijah's gaze flickered over the many spines, sifting through his memory.
Where might it be…?
He was primarily curious whether the wizarding world's recorded knowledge about his kind had changed since his last visit.
He recalled centuries past when certain authors penned volumes on vampiric lore, though very few dared commit to parchment anything about the Original vampires. Myths, rumours, and half-truths abounded, but seldom the unvarnished reality.
He found one volume titled Night-Beasts and Nocturnal Horrors—the same battered binding as a century ago.
He plucked it from the shelf and flipped through it with idle disinterest.
The usual trifles—garlic, silver, nonsense. Nothing about me or my kin.
Satisfied it held no new revelations, he set it aside.
Another tome, one that he hadn't read before, Vampirium Traditum, teased him with an elaborate sigil on the cover.
He opened it and skimmed, his pale eyes moving swiftly. Repetitive nonsense about lesser vampiric clans—how they feed, how they hide… Nothing on us.
He continued perusing, methodical and unhurried, yet soon found himself surprisingly disappointed.
Should that not please me? After all, I tried to enforce their ignorance a couple of centuries ago. Brother had gone too far…
At last, deciding he'd gleaned all he could from the typical references, Elijah replaced Vampirium Traditum on the shelf and turned to leave.
And then he felt it—a subtle pulse like the hush before a storm. An echo of magic not belonging to Hogwarts.
It was old, cunning.
Elijah paused.
For once, he didn't believe his senses which were honed in the last millennia.
He turned his head toward one of the back corners of the Restricted Section.
Surely not…
Taking a silent step forward, he followed the ripple to a high shelf shadowed by an ancient tapestry.
The tapestry depicted a coiling serpent devouring its tail—a symbol of cycles and eternity.
Tucked behind it, lay a single, unremarkable tome wrapped in a dusty sheath.
No visible title adorned the exterior, yet from it radiated a muted hum of concealed power, the faint glimmer of ward-work layered upon it like protective armour.
Elijah reached out, pressing his fingertips gently to the invisible barrier around the book.
Magic flared—an ancient withering curse, cunningly woven.
Even the greatest wizards might have baulked at such wards.
Elijah merely tilted his head, lips curving faintly in recognition.
With a gentle yet insistent push, he coaxed the wards to stop, feeling them yield to his presence.
There was a moment of tension before the barrier collapsed with an almost inaudible sigh.
He withdrew the tome and peeled away its dusty covering.
His eyes alighted on a time-worn title etched in archaic script:
Magick Moste Evile.
Elijah stilled, a faint ripple of unease—excitement, perhaps—washing over him. "Magick Moste Evile," he murmured under his breath, voice echoing in the silence.
"I believed them to have destroyed every copy centuries ago."
He remembered well the ruckus this book had once caused, how could he not, when it had almost cost him his one sister.
The book's author was unknown; it contained references to the darkest, most forbidden practices—Horcruxes, necromancy, and unholy conjurations.
But for him, the real interest lay in a specific chapter—one that had only appeared in a few copies, from what I know, at least.
Gently, he opened the cover.
The pages were thick, the parchment coarse and riddled with runes serving as wards.
An index scrawled in spidery handwriting guided him.
Scanning quickly, his gaze seized upon a single phrase.
Ah. Here we are.
§§§
Excuse me for not posting a chapter yesterday. That said, can you guess where this is going?