Chapter 14
London Central, north wind!
On the way from Belmarsh, there’s no end to the evil!
There is a heavy burden on my heart!
London Central, north wind!
When I was banking, life was exchanged!
But it’s not usually the tail that kills,
And by eleven, milk!
That creepy bastard hasn’t shut up for two hours now. Even though my first day at the estate started out routinely, nothing foreshadowed trouble. At precisely six o’clock in the morning, Victoria, dressed in a sports bra and short shorts, gently woke me up and told me I had fifteen minutes to get ready before morning practice.
As soon as I washed up and changed into my tracksuit, we headed down to the basement, where we found a large, well-equipped gym. It was slightly smaller than the one at the orphanage, but its three-meter-high ceiling was more than sufficient. Integra was already waiting for us in the gym, wearing the same black tracksuit as me. The workouts were calm and even fun; the vampire turned out to be cheerful and, strange as it may seem, very upbeat. I wasn’t overwhelmed, as Lady Hellsing explained, because she’d carefully reviewed my medical records and that the best healer from St. Mungo’s, the wizarding hospital, would be arriving at noon that afternoon. My questioning look was met with the explanation that the ruling aristocracy of the Empire often utilizes the services of wizarding doctors, as witchcraft is far more effective than traditional healing.
After training, there were water treatments and breakfast, attended only by Integra and myself. Afterwards, I was sent to my quarters to rest and await the healer.
I’d barely settled into a comfortable position on the couch in front of the TV when there was a knock on the door, and four soldiers, led by Victoria, entered the living room: one was carrying a nightstand, another a fancy terrarium for Vasya, and the remaining two were lugging other necessities for the scaly one: some sawdust for bedding, a drinking and bathing bowl, branches, and even a wooden snag for the snake to bask on under the heating and lighting lamp. We quickly found a free corner and set up the entire structure; incidentally, the nightstand turned out to be a mini-freezer. But most importantly, this snake’s dwelling had a latch on the top and thick curtains that blocked out the light! Now I can leave the lights on at night, and the scaly one won’t be able to crawl out on his own.
However, my joy did not last long…
As soon as I placed the reluctant Vasya in the terrarium, he immediately tried to climb out, and, of course, he failed. He cursed for the first half hour, then begged me to let him out, and then he started singing…
Where the fuck is this from? Where the hell does this little snake, hatched in the back of an English forest, even know Russian chanson? I’ve been listening to this prisoner’s impromptu concert for two hours now.
Tattooist, prick me with domes, next to the miraculous tail with icons!
So that the bells would play there with trills and chimes!
Dig me a hole by the stream, let it flow freely in a thin stream!
So that the tailor’s mistress doesn’t fence me off from him with a lattice!
Adding to the headache was a twitching eye—I’d finally given up. I silently walked up to the terrarium and opened the door on the top lid, then positioned the snag so Vasya could easily crawl out. The little bastard finished his song and quickly climbed out onto the lid of his “prison.”
– Mistress! – the bastard squeaked.
– What else do you want? I won’t lock you up anymore, are you satisfied?
– With a fork in the eye or in the ass? – No, he’s really gotten too brazen.
” I’ll definitely tie you in a knot now! ” I stood up and went to my pet, but he quickly scurried back.
” Mistress, you’re wrong! Vasya’s an honest sucker, and you’re throwing me in solitary confinement! For no fucking reason! What did I do wrong? ” The voice was so pitifully offended that all the anger disappeared. I just can’t stay mad at him, that’s all, and this bastard brazenly takes advantage of that.
Our squabbles were interrupted by Integra, who knocked politely and entered the room.
“Rigel, let’s go, the healer is already approaching the estate. Leave the snake, it could interfere with the diagnosis.”
“Okay,” I turned to Vasya, ” stay in your room, I’ll be back soon! And we’ll talk about your behavior!”
A tall, dark-haired, and slightly plump man, no more than forty, walked down the corridor of St. Mungo’s Hospital toward the portal room. Everyone around him nodded respectfully and greeted the leading master healer, Hippocrates Smethwick. A couple of days ago, he had received an invitation to visit yet another estate of aristocrats from the non-magical world. The powerful, and especially the royal family, were meticulous about their health. No matter how far Muggle science and technology had advanced, they lagged far behind in medicine, and what the average mediwitch could fix with a single potion and a couple of spells, Muggle doctors could treat for years. After all, magic is far more effective in some aspects of life. Moreover, Muggles paid in pure gold, which could then be sold profitably, since almost all of Wizarding Britain’s precious metals were in the hands of these vile green-skinned monsters.
Today’s challenge was of interest to another. He’d been invited to the Hellsing estate. He didn’t understand why they needed a master healer; these Mordred “defenders of the Crown” had their own quite competent specialists, which meant something complicated or unusual had happened. Unlike many modern “most ancient and noble,” he knew perfectly well who the Order of Protestant Knights was and why, shortly before the adoption of the Statute, their name and any mention of this cursed family had been erased from all available written sources in magical Britain.
Smethwick had such weaknesses as curiosity and a thirst for knowledge; he sincerely believed that any true wizard must learn and develop throughout his life. At eighty-two, he had read a vast amount of both ordinary and forbidden literature; after all, the master of magical healing had access even to such obscene material that possession of it would lead to a Dementor’s Kiss. Hence his knowledge of history; not all books and chronicles were destroyed. In these old and Ministry-banned books, historical events were sometimes radically different from those described in modern textbooks.
He had already visited the Hellsing estate ten years ago, when he examined the head of the Order, Lady Hellsing. Due to the intensification of her family curses, she had become almost a Squib, but that wasn’t what worried her—she was completely sterile, and no medical treatment had been effective. Hippocrates had felt a mixture of emotions: on the one hand, he was glad that this cursed line would finally die out, but on the other, he felt a little sorry for this strong, strong-willed, and still very young woman.
Here he entered the portal room; the portkey would activate precisely at noon, and he would soon know everything. Hippocrates clutched the silver cross in his hand and braced himself. A familiar tug below his navel, and he found himself on a paved patch in the middle of a field, under the gunsights of two soldiers and the watchful gaze of a welcoming officer.
– Good afternoon. Lieutenant Douglas, are you Hippocrates Smethwick? – The officer didn’t ask, he stated.
“Yes, it’s me. I’ve been here before, so I’m familiar with your Mordred check. Let’s not delay.” The healer didn’t want to waste his time.
Douglas nodded silently and handed Smethwick a folder containing a bloody quill and a complex non-disclosure and non-harm agreement. After carefully reading it, the healer signed the document and prepared for the unpleasant procedure. The warrior waved the artifact in front of his face, causing the healer to wince, and nodded affirmatively.
“Follow me, I’ll show you the way,” the officer said, turning on his heel and walking down the stone path toward the estate.
The most disturbing thing was that these paranoid wizards didn’t lower their guns. But what guns, Morgana? These rune-covered, magic-fueled contraptions could have maimed or even killed Dumbledore himself! Smethwick felt the threat from these artifacts with all his might. There you have it—a masterful fusion of Muggle technology and magic. At that moment, he wanted to spit in the face of any pureblood who spoke of Muggles’ stupidity and worthlessness.
Another step and he involuntarily shuddered with discomfort—an anti-magic field, and judging by the estate’s grounds, over a hundred of these Mordred artifacts were buried here! Few knew, but their creation required the sacrifice of a powerful mage. So, he was now walking through a graveyard of powerful mages, whose long and painful deaths had become the guarantee of the safety of the residents here. All important Crown properties and the homes of the ruling aristocracy were surrounded by such rubbish. The creator of the first such artifacts was Philip Hellsing, a loyal son of the Crown and the Church of England. It was his invention that gave the ruling Muggles a sense of security and marked the beginning of the open Witch Hunt.
But Muggles remained Muggles, and outside their castles, they had no way to combat the wizards. But here, too, the Hellsings distinguished themselves again, when Philip’s son, David, with the support of the English King and the Church, began gathering Squibs and weaklings from the villages—whose existence only offended the wizards of the time—and began training them. Training them to kill wizards! And, it must be said, they were extremely effective. Yes, they traded ten or even a hundred souls for a single wizard, but they were capable of finishing off both a Master and even a Master of Magic. Thus, the Hellsings, loyal to the Crown and the Church, proved that wizards could, and, most importantly, should, be killed. And they showed how. In those years, the Order of Protestant Knights numbered nearly ten thousand sentient beings, including squibs, weaklings, and mudbloods. They gathered all the dregs of the magical world under their banner and launched a crusade against wizards. Suffering enormous losses, the Hellsings advanced, destroying all in their path. Then the mages united and saw a chance, but disaster came from the continent.
The Thirteenth Department of the Holy Inquisition came to the rescue, unsought or requested. While Hellsing targeted the truly deranged or those suspected of murder or Muggle abuse, the Vatican’s envoys didn’t care: they killed anyone with magical abilities. A master necromancer and a village herbalist burned at the stake with equal precision. For a couple of years, the Hellsings didn’t interfere with the Inquisition and even sometimes worked together, but when visiting fanatics burned down a village where the wives and children of Hellsing’s fighters, all possessing rudimentary magic, lived, the head of the Order was furious.
That’s when the massacre began. David was very concerned for his people and openly declared war on the Vatican, supported by the English king and the Archbishop of the Anglican Church. All available forces were thrown into the fight against the visiting fanatics, and while Hellsing and the Inquisition were killing each other, the mages debated their course of action. The wizards understood that no matter who won, the war was already lost. But while they could still negotiate with David, the Vatican fanatics would simply burn everyone at the stake.
Then the Council of Lords of Magic decided to aid Hellsing in exchange for preferential treatment and independence from the Muggle world. They sent a messenger proposing to first expel the invaders and then resolve the internal conflict together. The Crown agreed and demanded immediate entry into war with the Inquisition. But while the honorable lords were making decisions and choosing who they could spare to send to war, David, working with the Anglican Church, defeated the Inquisition’s army at the Battle of Norwich and, mortally wounded, handed over the reins of the Order to his daughter, Iriga. This vengeful bitch never forgave the wizards for their inaction and, when drafting the Treaty, demanded that Her Order of Protestant Knights be preserved as a deterrent.
Things weren’t going any better in Europe. In desperation, wizards unleashed a plague on Muggles, only for something to go wrong again and the virus mutate. A deranged necromancer conceived the idea that his virus would only kill Muggles, leaving wizards harmless. However, two months later, the first wizard fell ill, followed by his family and friends, and finally, noble wizards began to die alongside Muggles. The Vatican, having lost its most loyal and combat-ready unit on the islands and limited recruitment by the plague, offered to negotiate with the wizards. And just in time, a copy of the English treaty arrived.
The wizards liked the idea of their own state. Yes, they were formally subordinate to the ruling monarch of the country in which they resided. But the monarch had no right to interfere in the internal affairs of wizards, who received their own lands, laws, and even their own financial system, independent of the Muggle economy. It was simple: the magical and Muggle worlds would be separated until wizards declared war or showed open aggression. Then the Muggles would burn everyone at the stake. And if the Muggles interfered with the wizards’ affairs, they had the right to fight back; the plague virus was not the only invention of the time. The Ministry of Magic was to ensure wizards complied with the Statute, while the Muggles retained the Holy Inquisition in Europe and Hellsing in England. Just in case.
After all the agreements were signed, the Great Ritual of Concealment was performed, and for ordinary Muggles, wizards ceased to exist forever, remaining only in children’s fairy tales and legends.
The healer was distracted from his thoughts on the history of the wizarding world by the sound of the gates opening. Smethwick was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice they had reached the estate grounds. A Muggle car awaited him beyond the gates—a comfortable, but still very impractical, as long-distance travel takes a long time, and an apparition and a Floo network are much more convenient. After driving the rest of the way, Hippocrates stepped out of the car at the estate’s porch, where he was greeted by a pretty, golden-haired girl in a maroon uniform that accentuated her shapely figure. Taking a closer look at the beauty, the healer involuntarily reached for his wand, while the creature disguised as a human grinned contentedly at his actions, revealing needle-like fangs.
Mordred and Morgana—there are all sorts of rumors about these servants of the Crown, but to keep a true vampire on a short leash?! How did they manage to subdue that creature?! She could easily kill half the Aurors without breaking a sweat. But the worst part is, he won’t be able to tell anyone about this; the magical contract is carefully drawn up, and everything seen in the estate and on its grounds will remain a secret.
“Good afternoon, healer! My name is Victoria, I’ll take you to the patient.” The creature greeted her politely.
“Hello, my dear. Lead the way,” the healer responded automatically and followed the vampire.
Having climbed the stairs to the third floor, they turned right, and after ten meters, the dark creature opened the door to a spacious office for Smethwick, gesturing for him to enter. He really didn’t want to be alone with this monster. Hippocrates knew in his mind that she couldn’t harm him, but, manticore be damned, the mediwitch felt extremely uncomfortable around the monster.
“Make yourself comfortable, the lady will be here soon and bring our patient,” the monster said, still polite and courteous.
A couple of minutes later, Lady Hellsing entered the room, still stately and quite attractive, dressed in a black business suit, white shirt, and red tie. But Hippocrates was greatly surprised by the next guest, or rather, guestess. Following the woman into the office was a small, frail girl of about five years old, with a spiky head of short black hair, as if she had been shaved bald about six months ago and was only just beginning to grow it back. Dressed in a simple black dress that fell below the knees, the girl stood modestly next to Integra and looked at him with her enormous green eyes. He had seen such eyes before; Sirius Black invited him every year to examine his godson… And yet she resembled him. But how? She had died that night; he had personally been at the heroes’ grave and seen three tombstones!
Meeting the child’s gaze, Hippocrates shuddered involuntarily. While little Harry had radiated joy, restlessness, and childish naivety, these eyes were filled with coldness, calculation, and danger. That look definitely couldn’t belong to a child; children don’t look like that. She had the look of an adult who had lived through a ton of dragon crap. What had they done to her, and why had they declared her dead?
“Healer Smethwick, I am very grateful that you have accepted my invitation. Meet Rigel Hellsing, my adopted daughter.” Integra placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder; the child flinched at the touch but did not shake it off. The lady continued, “In her short life, she has seen much and endured many traumas. We need a full diagnosis and the best possible treatment. Financial considerations are not an issue.”
The healer nodded politely in response. He would say or ask anything after the diagnosis. The mistress of the estate closed her eyes, and the healer felt the familiar warmth in his chest again, and the discomfort disappeared. Excellent, he was finally allowed to perform magic.
– Hello. – The girl nodded politely.
“I trust Victoria completely. Besides, she’s my daughter’s nanny and responsible for her safety,” Lady Hellsing added, noticing the healer’s sideways glance at the vampire.
Morgan’s crazies, trusting this creature with the safety of a child? It’s like leaving a manticore to guard a large piece of meat! Oh well, time to get to work. Smethwick, with a practiced gesture, pulled a scroll of parchment and a quill from his pocket, which, obeying a gesture from his wand, hovered in the air. He addressed the girl.
“Please stand in the center of the room and don’t move. I’ll cast a couple of healing spells on you. It won’t hurt, I promise.” He spoke as gently as possible and smiled kindly.
The girl looked at her adoptive mother, and after the blonde nodded in agreement, she stood in the center of the office. Hippocrates waved his wand, and the first diagnostic response confirmed his suspicions: this was definitely the sister of the Boy Who Lived. He had personally delivered the babies and checked their health. The Mudblood turned out to be very cunning, and upon feeling the first contractions, she Flooed to St. Mungo’s. After the birth, she proudly declared that James Potter was the children’s father and that they would definitely marry after the war, for they were in love. The scandal that followed was quite remarkable.
Half an hour later, James showed up at the hospital with his friend Black. Potter yelled at the Mudblood, asking why she’d gone to St. Mungo’s when there was a war going on and it was so dangerous; they should have called a healer to the house. Sirius laughed at his friend and teased him about how he definitely wouldn’t get out of it now, and what he’d tell his parents.
An hour later, the elder Potters arrived at the hospital. Euphemia immediately slapped her son and declared that the Mudblood would not defile their noble home with her presence, even calling James a zoophiliac. Philemont was more reserved, but demanded a full love potion test on his son and a kinship potion on the children. He then categorically declared that he would not allow his son to marry that red-headed whore, that he would soon find him a suitable bride, and if it was confirmed that the children were indeed Potters, he would take the bastards to the manor and raise them in the traditions. No one asked the Mudblood’s opinion; Euphemia even promised to strangle the red-headed creature who dared seduce her son. The noble family screamed at each other for about an hour, after which they Flooed out of the hospital, leaving a crying Lily alone with the children.
The next day, the wizarding world was shocked by the news: James Potter had been exiled from his family and disinherited, having disgraced the family with his unholy affair with a Mudblood, rumored to have been ravished by everyone at Hogwarts and even the centaurs of the Forbidden Forest. However, Philemont acknowledged the bastards, but they had no access to the family’s money or assets; the children would be given detailed terms for inheritance later or specified in his will. Then came the fateful night: the boy became a national savior, and his twin sister died tragically along with their parents. Everyone was declared heroes, and even a monument was erected, while the unholy affair and the flighty Mudblood were quickly forgotten.
And now, receiving information about the girl’s health, Smetvik frowned more and more, his left hand clenched into a fist, and when the first parchment ran out of space and he had to get a second scroll to record all the injuries and damage to the body, he was on the verge of rage!
First, a massive amount of magic was pumped through the child, nearly destroying her core and rendering her weak. But that wasn’t enough for her tormentors, and they began mutilating her physically: three compression fractures of the spine, more than seven concussions, skull fractures, twenty-three poorly healed fractures throughout her body, numerous healed hematomas and bruises on her internal organs. There were also signs of malnutrition; the girl had clearly been starved. But the icing on the cake was the irreversible damage to her reproductive system—she was brutally raped, in every nook and cranny, so to speak.
Trying to survive under such incredible pressure, the body expended the remaining magic on maintaining itself. And as the intensity of the torture and beatings increased, the demand for magic increased, causing the core to slowly recover and even generate its own magic. And then something truly terrible happened, triggering the full activation of the magical core, and the healer had a hunch. He’d read in old books about such inhumane experiments, attempts to turn a weakling into a full-fledged mage, but they always ended in failure, with the subjects simply going mad from pain and torture.
Smethwick was furious, the air around him trembled, and he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white. The vampire, standing silently in the corner of the office, tensed, but Hippocrates didn’t care; he wanted to strangle the man who had done THIS to the child.
“Are you kidding me?! You called me to confirm the success of your Mordred experiment?! And where are the other test subjects?! Have they been buried or burned yet?! Do you even realize WHAT you’ve done to that child?!” He screamed the last sentence at the top of his lungs.
“What experiment?” Integra and her “adopted daughter” asked in unison, staring at Smethwick in confusion.
“The girl was just taken from the shelter yesterday,” the vampiress said.
And then the healer realized he didn’t understand anything. He needed to calm down and have a serious talk; it was important for him to find out who and, most importantly, why had done this to the girl.
