The Staring
Hariel is paralyzed in her seat.
Her teacup lies forgotten in her hand, and she is lucky that her body has gone rigid instead of slack, for if not the hot tea would have spilled all over her dress.
Her world has narrowed down to this child innocently walking up to the display of confectionaries, as though choosing a sweet of all things could hold any minor importance when the child is burdened by one of the most terrible curses Hariel has ever seen.
Hariel has seen many horrors on the battlefield – she has seen children younger than the one in front of her disemboweled by Death Eaters, seen them cry over the death of their parents, seen them howl in pain as their blood was literally turned into mud and they slowly died.
So she should not sit paralyzed, unable to move, at the horror in front of her.
But- But it is so unexpected.
It is an ordinary day, in fact a fairly pleasant, sunny day. Hariel is sitting in one of her favorite cafes, eating a lovely chocolate confectionary, drinking her favorite tea, enjoying the way people come in the shop in all sorts of moods, only to have their faces light up at the array of sweets in front of them.
Like receiving a gift in colorful packaging on Christmas Eve, covered with a cheerful red and green ribbon, only to open it and find a dead bird inside.
Hariel thinks Fate is a very cruel thing.
Just when she has left the war behind, when she has left the Magical World and all its lies, its ugly pretenses, its blind prejudices, behind, just when she is moving on with her life and finally taking the time to relax in a small Parisian café she has claimed as her own, she is confronted with the horror that is this small child and his curse.
And the curse-
The curse is like nothing she has ever seen before.
She can see the curse, and it is a dark, ugly thing. It swarms the child so that it envelops every toe, every bit of his skin, every hair on his head. It is so thick, so black, so suffocating, Hariel is shocked at how the other customers are not running away in a panic when the child passes them by. Hariel, herself, cannot take her eyes off the curse that encircles the child so, like a parasite. It seems to be concentrated on the pacifier the child wears, which Hariel thinks glows a certain color, but all she can see is the nebulous black of the curse. Greedy, toothless, black mouths that remind Hariel of gruesome sea creatures with bulbous eyes and mouths too big for their bodies that dwell at the bottom of the ocean where the sun never reaches suck on something of the child's, although she's not too sure what it is-
Hariel shudders.
With a fresh pang of horror, Hariel realizes it is the child's soul they are sucking from, like gluttonous pixies feasting on magical blood.
Soul magic is some of the darkest magic in existence, and Hariel is reminded of how she felt when she was near Voldemort's horcruxes, but somehow this is infinitely worse.
For it is not a shard of a madman's soul that is simply embedded in the child's soul, though that in itself is bad enough. It is a disgusting miasma, a void, like a pit of black, carnivorous worms slithering around the child and feeding on his soul.
Just the idea of touching one of the curse's creatures has bile rising up her throat.
So upset is she by this image, so horrified is she that Hariel is helpless to do anything but watch.
She watches, paralyzed, as the child points to the confectionary he wants.
She watches, paralyzed, as the patissier says something to the child, and they both laugh.
She watches, paralyzed, as the child takes out a few euros and pays the patissier for the cake he chose.
And she watches, paralyzed, as the child takes the package the cake is in with small, careful hands, and walks towards the door of the café.
Sometime during his walk to the door, Hariel feels eyes too old for the face they are set in look at her for a moment - and it feels as though eons have passed and worlds have been destroyed in that one, fleeting a moment – before the child turns away and walks out the patisserie door, as though he has not just turned Hariel's life upside down.
It is only when the child and the dark, soul-sucking curse have left her sight that Hariel realizes she isn't breathing, and takes a deep, gasping breath.
She quickly turns to the window - to see him, to call out, to take him into her arms and let nothing hurt him ever again, she's not sure, but to do something– but the child is gone.
Hariel clutches at her chest, feels her heartbeat racing, and takes a deep, steadying breath.
She heads to the counter.
"Sebastien, who was that child?" Hariel asks in rapid-fire French, not bothering with any pretense at casualty in her agitation.
Luckily, the listener is too distracted to notice. "Hmmm?" Sebastien, the patisserie owner, finishes delicately decorating a small cake – an action that would have previously amused Hariel, for his exceeding care in making delicate edible roses and his big, burly arms and rough-looking face are so very incongruous to each other, but now leaves her bristling as this is no time to be decorating cakes when a child is suffering - before turning to one of his most loyal customers. "Oh, little Bise? His family moved a few streets down from here about a month ago, and now he comes here every Thursday for sweets."
He has a family then. Do they know about his curse?
"He's adorable," Hariel forces herself to gush in order to not look strange, because while the child is adorable, she vaguely remembers, all Hariel could focus on was the weight of the curse pressing against her and swirling around him, so much that his exact features seem a blur to her. "Does he usually come at this time?"
"Yes, quite right. He's really quite punctual, that boy," Sebastien smiles fondly. "And so independent, too! Coming here to pick up cakes all by himself when he's so young. His parents must be so proud!"
"Oh, yes." Hariel agrees, and then, in her most airy and nonchalant voice, as though this is not matter of the gravest importance to her, asks "I hope to see him again soon. Next Thursday, you said?"
"Taken in by his charm already, have you, Hariel? It seems like I'll have some competition for your attention then," Sebastien flirts, but Hariel knows he is devoted to his wife and would never cheat. "But yes, every Thursday, same time."
"Thank you, Sebastien. I'll have to make sure I'm here at the same time next week, then." Hariel smiles.
And she will be here.
At the end of next Thursday, the child will no longer be cursed.
Hariel will make sure of it.
The witch quickly leaves some money at her table and packs her things. If everything is to be ready in a week's time, she had better start preparing immediately.
There is no time to waste.
"Hello, Hermione? Yes, how are you? Listen, I need your help with a ritual..."