JohnnyZ
patreon
[Castling] Chapter 38
🕑 Added 2025-01-01 22:02:34 +0000 UTCAfter breakfast, the portal transported us to the settlement. I was curious to see how other wizards lived and to meet an actual shaman.
To be honest, I had no idea what to expect. The only time I'd seen anything close to a shaman was in a past life, when a round-faced Yakut or Buryat in traditional furs performed a dance at a cultural festival I attended during a class trip.
This community, though, reminded me more of a Romani camp. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, always smiling, with mischievous glances and quick movements. The only thing missing was the bright, colourful clothing you’d associate with Romani’s. The men had just one flashy item—a red silk scarf with fringe tied around their waists—while the women wore full skirts in bold colours and white blouses with embroidered sleeves.
They lived in fabric tents about the size of yurts, with the most beautiful one—a white tent adorned with floral patterns—belonging to the leader. It was set a bit apart from the others, and that’s where we headed.
We weren’t allowed inside. Instead, the leader came out to meet us. He was a striking old man with a pipe clenched between his teeth and a piercing gaze, dressed in fancy red leather boots—yes, boots, in that heat!
The shaman wasn’t much of a talker. He nodded, scanned our group, and silently puffed on his pipe, his sharp eyes moving from one of us to the next as if he were reading us. Then, just as wordlessly, he gestured towards the settlement and went back inside.
The others—who had been waiting behind us, watching in silence—suddenly broke into excited chatter. Smiling, they led us off to find our lodgings.
Living among the tribe turned out to be unbelievably fascinating. It was like stepping into the pages of an old book about a forgotten civilisation. Everything here felt different, even time itself seemed to flow at its own pace. Their magic was unique too. They didn’t use wands—instead, they worked magic without them.
Out of curiosity, I visualised the Path, and everything around me burst into colour. The whole camp seemed to sit within some kind of magical vortex, with energy streams swirling and intertwining in vibrant patterns. It was stunning and entirely unlike anything I’d seen before—though far too chaotic for me to navigate. There were simply too many currents to latch onto anything specific.
Charlie explained that while wizards channel magic through their wands to cast spells of any strength, nature mages worked differently. They “drew” magic directly from external flows, harnessing it for specific tasks instead of channelling it through themselves as we do. Their method might not allow for the complex and powerful spells we’re used to, but it made simple charms effortless—and wand-free.
They didn’t use incantations, either. Instead, they manipulated raw magical energy. For more advanced magic, they relied on a dozen or so symbols, similar to runes. These however weren’t like the runes we study at Hogwarts; they looked more like primitive, stylised drawings carved into small stones—things like a drop of water, the sun, or a snowflake. They’d combine these runes in different ways to suit their needs.
With these symbols, they could control the elements: a fire that never went out or needed wood would ignite by placing a fire rune in the hearth and activating it with magic. A combination of fire and air runes heated their homes, while water runes kept reservoirs full. The stones were embedded into the walls, ensuring the water level stayed constant. If they didn’t need it anymore, they’d just remove the rune, and the water would evaporate.
Air, fire, and water runes could also boil or heat water—place the stones into an empty cauldron, activate them, and it would fill with water and heat up or boil, depending on the magic used. Even their lights worked this way. Essentially, their entire way of life revolved around elemental magic.
While their methods weren’t particularly useful to us—we couldn’t replicate them—it was fascinating to see how other magical folk lived.
And their horses? They blew my mind. They were actually a visible breed of Thestrals. But when I first saw them, I nearly wet myself. They almost looked like vicious dinosaurs with hooves, somehow resembling the horses.
Harry spent his days galloping through the forest on one with the local boys, and even Hermione had a go, though she opted for a cart ride instead. As for me, I kept my distance all week, but just before we left, I finally worked up the nerve to ride one around the settlement. Can’t say I was thrilled—Harry and Hermione hadn’t grown up watching dinosaur films with modern special effects. Basilisks and dragons might’ve been frightening, but this? These beasts, with their tiny, cold, shark-like eyes and three rows of razor-sharp teeth, were next-level terrifying.
We also went fishing. The locals attached their magic stones to fishing lines and pulled out one fish after another. They even had nets with these stones, and fish would leap straight into them the moment they dipped the net into the water. Of course, we gave them a hand with Accio. It was a laugh.
Hermione was housed in the women’s tent, while the three of us lads were crammed into one together.
On our first evening, we were invited to the leader’s tent—though not Hermione. As I gathered, the women had their own kind of magic and their own shamaness, Hansa, so they didn’t meddle in men’s business, and vice versa. Hermione was a bit miffed about being left out and sulked for a couple of days, but then she got her fill of “mysterious knowledge” from her new friends. She walked around with a proud look and a twinkle in her eye after that. Apparently, the shamaness had told her she was a strong witch, which absolutely made her day—as if she didn’t already know that.
In her free time, she busied herself making protective charms under the shamaness’s guidance, humming along to some kind of chant, and looking very pleased with herself.
This time, we were allowed inside the tent. I’d been expecting something like an old film—stifling heat, smoke, and people in a drugged trance—but it was more like a game.
We all sat down, and the shaman handed Charlie a large drum made of stretched hide, with a deep, hollow sound. He asked Charlie to tap on it with his knuckles in rhythm. Behind the tent, someone started playing the beat, and Charlie did his best to match it while the shaman shook his smaller drum—this one had rattles, making a strange, unpleasant sound, like a rattlesnake shaking its tail.
Charlie passed the drum to me, and I gave it a go, tapping out my own rhythm. The music and beat were the same, but somehow, each of us played differently.
At first, I didn’t feel anything—just focused on keeping time. But then, all of a sudden, I realised I was swaying and nodding along without even noticing, my head feeling oddly fuzzy. That snapped me out of it. I cleared my head and caught the shaman’s sharp, approving look. Charlie didn’t seem too affected, though he was tapping his foot a bit. But Harry? By the time the drum was passed to him, he was completely zoned out—swaying, eyes closed, nodding his head to the rhythm.
Suddenly, the old man leaned toward Harry and gave him a light tap on the forehead with his drum. The lad collapsed onto the rug like a puppet with its strings cut, and the music outside the tent came to an abrupt halt.
Me and Charlie instantly reached out for him, but the shaman’s voice, calm and steady, cut through the tension:
“Don’t touch him,” he instructed. “The boy is merely asleep.”
He began moving his hands over Harry, murmuring barely audible phrases, occasionally shouting out words in a low, guttural tone while shaking his drum every now and then. Time seemed to drag on endlessly. My bum had gone numb, and my legs were stiff as boards. Yet when the ritual finally ended and we stepped outside, leaving Harry to rest in the tent, it wasn’t even nightfall yet.
We sat around the campfire, and the shaman, silent as ever, lit his pipe, staring thoughtfully into the flames.
“There’s a shard of foreign Achek-kargo in the boy,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “It can no longer be removed—the scar has healed, and partial integration has already occurred. But I can help the boy absorb it fully. In the end, he’ll dissolve it himself, though it’ll take longer and be far more painful.”
“Will it harm Harry?” Charlie asked, his face tight with worry. “I mean, it’s the soul of a monster in a child’s body…”
The shaman gave him a look like he’d just sprouted an extra head.
“Soul?” he squinted, his voice laced with disbelief. “What nonsense are you babbling, Ahouat?”
Charlie glanced at me, flustered. Back in Britain, barely anyone knew about Horcruxes. What Charlie did know, he’d gotten from me, and even that was secondhand at best.
“Aren’t Horcruxes... part of a soul, split through murder and stored in an object to ensure survival after death?” I ventured, though not without some hesitation. The old man looked like he was stifling a laugh, but instead, he just sighed, shook his head, and fixed me with a serious stare.
“Do you even know what a soul is, boy?” he asked. “The soul is the spark of Vihar—the Creator. He is so vast and unknowable that He perceives Himself through the divine spark in each of His creations. As a fragment of the divine, the soul is impassive and whole; it cannot be broken. If I were to ask you, ‘Who are you?’ what would you say?”
I froze. Philosophical discussions had never been my strong suit. Who am I, really? Sure, I could’ve said, “I’m Ron, a boy, a Hogwarts student, a son, a brother, a friend…” but he clearly wasn’t after something that simple. Luna had asked similar questions before, and her answers always seemed to float somewhere far beyond the obvious. How on earth was I supposed to figure this one out?
“All that you think you are now,” he continued, seeing my silence, “is but your mind and body, animated by the divine spark. But who you truly are is Achek—spirit.” He gave a nod, as if my lack of an answer had proven his point. “The soul is a mirror, reflecting the Creator’s light into the world. The spirit connects the soul to the mind. If you live by the laws of good, your soul reflects more divine light, shining upon others, warming them, drawing them toward the Creator. But if you commit evil, the mirror darkens and clouds, distorting the light. When you break the law, the mirror cracks, ceasing to reflect the Creator’s light properly. It grows dark and eventually loses its connection to Him, losing its capacity for redemption. The farther from light you go, the closer to darkness—and there is no in-between.
“Murder is a crime against the body. Horcruxes, as you call them, are crimes against the very soul—a repugnant abomination. The madman who creates one not only destroys his own soul but also lays claim to another’s.”
“How’s that even possible?” Charlie finally blurted, shooting me a bewildered look.
“When a Horcrux falls into the hands of its victim,” the shaman explained, “it first influences their mind, subjugating it until it aligns with the Horcrux’s Achek. Once it has taken complete control, it absorbs the victim’s Achek to make itself whole, eventually seizing not just their body but also corrupting their soul, which belongs to the Creator. It becomes Achek-kargo—a cursed, wandering spirit.”
He fell silent, puffing on his pipe as he stared into the fire. I couldn’t help but think there was a strange sort of logic to his words. I didn’t fully understand it, and I didn’t entirely agree, but it made some sense. Horcruxes did have a way of messing with people’s heads—playing on strong emotions like Harry’s hatred, Ginny’s trust, Dumbledore’s guilt, or even Ron’s jealousy and resentment. They fed off those emotions, then completely took over, destroying the person’s mind in the process.
“So, if we dissolve the Horcrux now, what’ll that do for Harry?” I asked. “Would it mean he won’t have to fight Voldemort and die at his hand to come back?”
“I don’t understand you, Achehar,” the shaman said, frowning.
Charlie gave me a pleading look and started explaining the prophecy, but the shaman cut him off.
“Let the boy show me himself,” he suggested, standing up and approaching me.
“Uh… Ron,” Charlie said hesitantly, “he’s asking permission to use Legilimency on you. Will you let him?” There was worry in his voice, and it was making me nervous.
“Don’t be afraid, Achehar,” the shaman said, his voice lowering. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
“Alright,” I agreed reluctantly. “It won’t hurt, will it?”
“Not if you don’t resist,” he replied evenly.
He sat down beside me, taking my face in his hands and forcing me to look into his eyes while murmuring strange words that didn’t register with the translator.
It didn’t hurt, but it was... strange. At first, nothing seemed to happen, but then I realised I was reliving my memories, as if I’d closed my eyes and hit replay. It started slow but quickly sped up, everything blurring past like a rapid-fire slideshow—books I’d read, conversations I’d had, people I’d met. It felt like I was reading every book again and watching every moment from a distance, like I was in some kind of Pensieve, but in my own head.
Then it got worse. My memories accelerated, spinning faster and faster until I felt like I was drowning in them. It was like I’d downed way too much Firewhisky—everything was swirling, and I couldn’t get a grip.
And then reality snapped back. Pain ripped through me, and I clutched my head with a groan. My skull throbbed, my stomach churned—it was like the worst hangover I’d ever had.
"Here, drink this," my brother said, rushing over and thrusting a mug into my hands. The shaman had added a few drops from a vial. "How’re you feeling, Ron?"
"Rubbish," I croaked, taking a sip. To my surprise, I felt a bit better straightaway, and by the time I’d finished the whole thing, all the nasty symptoms were gone.
"I’ll give you my answer tomorrow," the shaman said calmly, "but for now, rest."
He disappeared into his tent, leaving us alone. I thought we should fetch Harry, but the idea of going back into that tent didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Hadzi—it’s just not wise to trust a stranger too much, especially a magical one. Leaving Harry alone with him seemed daft.
Charlie made the decision for me. Once he’d made sure I was alright, he carried Harry out himself and brought him to our tent. Harry was still fast asleep and didn’t look like he’d be waking anytime soon.
"Charlie," I said once we’d settled in, "I reckon it wouldn’t hurt if you taught us the Patronus Charm."
"I thought the same," Charlie sighed. "Even if you can’t manage a full Patronus, a shield of light, no matter how faint, will keep the Dementors at bay. We’ll start practicing tomorrow. Have you decided what to do about Black?"
"I’ll hand him the rat as soon as he shows up," I said with a shrug, though Charlie couldn’t see me in the dark. "As long as he kills it before it can scarper, that’s all I care about."
"I’m glad you’ve decided not to do it yourself," Charlie said, rolling over. "Goodnight, Ron."
"Night, Charlie," I yawned, wrapping myself in the blanket. Sleep didn’t come easily, though. My mind was churning with thoughts about the third book. After the Legilimency session, I remembered it all vividly—even the bits I’d forgotten before. It felt like I’d reread the entire series. I knew the effect wouldn’t last, so I tried to make sense of everything while it was still fresh in my head.
The shaman worried me too. He knew who I was now—what if he told someone?
Morning came too soon. Charlie looked knackered—he must’ve had a rough night as well. I was bleary-eyed, but Harry, well-rested, was practically bouncing with energy. After breakfast, Charlie kept his promise and began teaching us the Patronus Charm. His Patronus turned out to be a large owl—an eagle owl, made of that odd, translucent, blueish light. It even spoke in his voice. Handy little spell. We immediately wanted one of our own and practiced every spare moment, trying to guess what forms ours would take.
Unfortunately, the charm wasn’t easy. All we managed at first were a few sparks and a faint wisp of something like smoke. Skipping ahead a bit, I’ll say we didn’t manage to produce proper Patronuses until just before we left. Even then, they were only steady shields of light—not fully formed animals. But Charlie was chuffed all the same. He said we’d gotten the hang of the basics, so we could practice on our own. The key, apparently, was finding the right memory and feeling it, not just recalling it.
That evening, the villagers lit a massive bonfire in the centre of the camp, though only the men and boys who’d come of age—fifteen by their standards—were allowed to sit around it. To become a man, they had to kill a bear or a lynx.
A large jug of some sweet-tasting drink was passed around. It went straight to my head, so when the younger blokes jumped up and, to the rhythm of some lively music, started turning into wolves and darting around the fire, yapping and barking, I thought it must’ve been the drink playing tricks on me. When I realised it was real, a cold dread crept over me. For a moment, I thought we’d transform too and end up prancing around the clearing. Luckily, nothing of the sort happened.
"Don’t fret, Achehar," the shaman said with a smirk. Turns out, he’d been watching me the whole time. "It’s not the drink that does it."
"You’re werewolves?" I asked, watching as Harry, encouraged by a nod from the shaman, chased after the wolves. They playfully nudged him with their paws, trying to knock him over.
"We’re shapeshifters," he said cryptically. "Like werewolves, but not bound to the moon. More like Animagi, but born with the ability."
"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed, clearly eavesdropping. "Can you teach us to become Animagi? I want to be a wolf too!"
"I can," the shaman said nonchalantly, puffing on his pipe, "but I wouldn’t recommend it. Wolves are part of who we are. Animagi, despite their merits, adopt traits of their animal form into their minds. It doesn’t elevate the Achek—your spirit—but drags it down to the level of an animal with a human mind. And even if an Animagus resists indulging in their animal’s urges, they’ll still feel them."
"What d’you mean?" Harry asked, drawing our collective curiosity.
"Would you put a dead mouse in your mouth?" the shaman asked. "Lose your wits over the smell of catnip, meowing and rubbing against people’s legs? Lick your own paws or sniff someone’s tail as a dog? Would you give in to the urge to kill or mate with a she-wolf as a wolf?"
"Ugh, no!" Harry said, looking horrified. I shuddered at the thought myself.
"But I thought Animagi just transform into animals," I said, confused, "not actually become them."
"They do," he said, "but echoes of their animal form will always remain, even in their human shape, after the first transformation. Those instincts can be controlled, but they’ll always be there. Animal forms aren’t meant for humans. Still, each of us carries an inner beast we haven’t recognised yet. That’s the form we take upon transforming. But your beast could be courageous to the point of recklessness—or cowardly to the point of betrayal. It’s best not to awaken what’s dormant," he concluded, leaving us with an uneasy silence. I couldn’t help but think he was right. No wonder the Marauders had forms that suited them so well.
Later, when everyone had dispersed, Charlie and I were summoned to the shaman.
"I’m ready to help the boy dissolve the Horcrux," he said. "In exchange, I’ll take a piece of the Serpent King’s skin. But you, Achehar, must know that the responsibility will fall on you. Are you ready for the consequences?"
