“Incendio!” At the command, green flames shot out of the wand, and the forest path was alight as the flames sped towards the hapless pogrebin.

“Wrong. Try again.”

The spiraling flames vanished, evaporating in the dank air. A figure, hooded and cloaked, stood atop a small rock, a faint orb of red light coming from the ebony twig in his hand. “I told you to use your will, not magic.” The voice was harsh, cold, different from the casual, mocking tone Alfonso had heard it use before. “You asked for this lesson; I am teaching it. If you do not wish to learn, sod off.”

But Alfonso only glared, a ferocious glare at that. Again, he raised his wand, staring at the petrified pogrebin in the distance. His brows arched and his eyes shut. He mustered the will to concentrate, to think.

“If you were ever angry in your life, you could summon that hate again. And only then could you truly do what is needed.”

Hate. He had been warned against hate. His forebears had known hate, and it was not to their liking. Still, it would only be for the sake of knowledge.

His eyes, those solid black eyes, snapped open, suddenly livid. It was these arrogant berks, these deluded but power-hungry madmen whom he hated, the fools who destroyed the beauty of true power by flaunting it, making it a tangible thing. These were the unworthy ones, trying to make power fit their needs. No more will their kind rest peacefully.

A sinister bang erupted.

He looked up. The pogrebin was nowhere to be found. Rocks lay there, lay like the cold, dead stone they were.

“I’m impressed. I’m actually impressed.”

Alfonso turned to gaze at the figure, but found nothing standing on the large rock, no cloaked man that tittered jeeringly. “Lumos!” A jade glimmer of light shot out from his wand, but he found only trees and slithering creatures. “Come back here! We are not done, señor! Come back!”

Only the buzz of blue crickets answered him. The Slytherin wizard tucked his wand in his coat and sighed, looking at the skies above the forest. Canopy shielded the glade from the afternoon sun’s orange rays. With a defeated sigh, he summoned the last remainder of his strength to disillusion himself, and he set off, trudging back to the castle as a knarl began to nibble at a destroyed pogrebin that fell from the sky.

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Playing:
Alfonso Madrigal de Guerrero y Fabian - Seventh Year Slytherin

…and with these fatalities in mind, such a curse is banned in more than 75 wizarding communities worldwide.

Alfonso sighed heavily, placing the navy blue quill in the inkwell as he leaned back on the old armchair. He was in a cozy room, with a fireplace crackling with warm, green flames. The Slytherin house shield of green and silver hung magnificently atop the wall, and a number of paintings lined the rest of the space. A group of philosophers in toga snored in one of the frames, and a bleary man in a thick brown friar habit muttered Spanish absentmindedly beside them.

“Hypno.” Alfonso’s wand was aimed lazily at the friar, and the man’s head drooped in his sudden stupor. The Slytherin straightened himself and picked up a piece of neat parchment. A hopeful smile formed on his lips as his eyes scanned the paper.

Well? What? Let it wait forever?

A black snake slithered up his arm, curling up on his wrist. “Asaltante.” Alfonso looked at the snake. “It’s not yet time. I still have to write the next chapter.”

Say what you want, boy. And you are gathering more letters, I see. Quite the celebrity hog, Alfonso.

He leered at the snake. “Anything new, then?”

Clarisse Synders replied about the fan.

“And?”

She does not know.

“Ugh, I meant progress. I suppose she just bought it off someone, then?”

Naturally. Hogwarts is, as always, a free enterprise.

“And it should stay that way. But the fan…”

The fan had been brought to his attention only days ago, in his reading. The last known location was in the resting place of a royal servant.

I truly do not see your motivations, my dear boy, for pursuing such a trinket. You would not be the first to covet it, in any case. It is apparel, Alfonso Madrigal. Like adornments! Men do not, in our part of the hemisphere, bear fans!

“Mhm. I remember Gilberto telling me that in your time you sought to wear trousers while everyone wore,” Alfonso pointed at the philosophy painting, “those. And look what happened.” The snake, he could tell, was glaring at him.

“And besides, I have my reasons. Reasons even you might not relate with, Señor Catidratico.”

Alfonso stood, taking out an obsidian pocket-watch and clicking it open. 11:30. Curfew. The snake slid smoothly from his wrist to the desk. Do what you wish, boy. I will meddle no further.

Alfonso smirked. “I value your advice, Catidratico. But I only pray you trust me.”

Suddenly, a blast sparked from the room door. The Guerrero boy glanced at it casually: it remained intact, but he heard pained groaning outside.

“There's an empty room beside this one. And welcome to Hoggy Warty Hogwarts.”

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Playing:
Alfonso Madrigal de Guerrero y Fabian - Seventh Year Slytherin

“Petrificate.”

The sharp sound of shattering glass filled the hall. A wisp of light had turned solid and lay broken on the floor. A flurry of illumination remained, however, as dozens of wisps flickered about rapidly, humming in their eerie manner. Alfonso rapidly looked around, head turning in all directions.

“Luminowasi!” A crimson orb of light, seemingly out of its will, was suddenly forced to ram a blue wisp and an explosion of purple echoed. The lights began to move faster, the blur of colors tantalizing to Alfonso’s eyes. “Rayamalo!” A beam of red burst from his wand, and another satisfying spark sounded.

This is sad. You’re casting so loud, mooing like a cow. The serpent Asaltante hung on a pillar, eyes watching his master intently.

“Do not interrupt me!” A score of force missiles were sent darting from Alfonso’s wand to several of the wisps, and they spun rapidly as they vanished in colorful blasts. Panting, Alfonso lowered the wand and from his fingers a fan flashed open. He fluttered it around, the accessory made of dark wood, silver runes seemingly carved on the emerald silk.

I should make your challenge harder. The snake’s eyes flickered over to the wisps, and they suddenly disappeared. The hum remained.

What did that boy say again? Always see your enemy? Or something to that effect? He was a weird one. Looked like a ruffian. I can sense the insecurity.

“I don’t want to judge Pedro. Diricalus.” The wisps suddenly appeared at the flick of his wand.

But you judge oh so many people. Millington? Seville? What about that Harley boy? I hear you talk in your sleep, muchacho. And why do you practice your dueling? Self-defense, hah! My vain, proud egocentric boy, wanting to fit in this school so far away from his village.

“I’m used to your goading, Catidratico. Incendio!” A wisp was set alight and burned to the ground.

I forget. You’re getting too entrenched here, Alfonso. When did you last write home?

“This morning, for your information. It surprises me you don’t know that. Relashio.” White sparks engulfed two of the wisps, and they were gone.

And your brother. Do you even know where he is?

“He’s in Japan, Catidratico. He’s studying with a group of hermits. And…I do believe you’re asking too many questions that have answers you should know by now. Paracelsus Tremo.” A final wisp of bright pink burst with Alfonso’s electric jolt. He tucked his wand in his robes and shut the fan with a snap, pointing it at the snake.

Asaltante’s black figure turned green, then slowly ethereal as it floated in the air. Then, with a sudden twitch, the ethereal snake darted inside the fan. The silver runes turned obsidian, and a triumphant grin spread over the Spanish features.

“Time to rest.”

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Playing:
Alfonso Madrigal de Guerrero y Fabian - Seventh Year Slytherin

Cocks crowed as the noon sun began to reach its zenith. A cold breeze swept past the sienna-colored plateau, cooling the small village that lay nestled atop it.

Alfonso folded his arms and looked up to read the writing on the weathered arch.

Bienvenido
Pueblo Busqueda
Poblacion 100

He glanced at the town. Creaking wooden shacks. Plenty of bystanders. Drunkards sitting outside a tavern. Mules, horses, oxen, chickens.

Just like home.

He sighed in relief and pulled on his hood, walking across the dusty path, evading running children, angered hens and gruff coolies. He found a quaint two-storey building labeled ‘Posada’. Outside it sat a group of five guffawing their lungs out, bottles of alcohol in their grubby fists. Donning a contemptuous smirk, Alfonso entered the inn.

The large room was brightly lit with the noon sun, and a few people ate their meals on antique tables. The caretaker stood behind a thick counter, studying the Slytherin up and down. “Yes, what do you want?”

Alfonso coughed. “I’m here to meet Gregorio del Fuente. Compadre, do you know where he might be?”

The caretaker wrinkled his nose and knelt to fetch a small scroll from underneath the counter. He thrust it at Alfonso. “Mr. Guerrero, your parcel.”

With little hint of surprise, Alfonso took the scroll. “Many thanks, friend.” The caretaker grunted in return as Alfonso head out, sitting by the inn’s front steps.

He unrolled the parchment, eyes scanning as they began to read once more. The text was untidy, a messy scrawl undoubtedly done by one with little regard for such luxuries like penmanship.

Boy,

I will await you at the highest cave in the Sierra Discorde. Take your time preparing. I expect you are ready. Think of what you want. I’d reveal what I have, but that would be telling, wouldn’t it?

F.

Alfonso grinded his teeth. Oddly, he was reminded of Maxwell Stone. ‘That would be telling…’ Urgh. Secret-keepers. Blast them all.

He crumpled the parchment and threw it on the ground as the tipplers let out their drunken revelry once more. Mocking laughter…

Pray tell he not be mocked this time.

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Playing:
Alfonso Madrigal de Guerrero y Fabian - Seventh Year Slytherin

The howling winds of the mountain tore across the range, a shout of thunder and might. The setting sun could do no less than to fall in slumber as dark clouds began to cast shadows upon the world at rest.

Look in any atlas, and you will find no Sierra Discorde. Hidden in the mountainous regions of Southwestern Europe, such a great peak is unplottable. Legends speak of a sorceress who bewitched a young man and brought him to the mountain to be wed with her in an eternal bond. Yet the man broke free of the witch’s enchantment and cast her upon the mountainside. The sorceress, vehement wrath in her eyes, cursed the mountain and the man as she fell, and all vestiges of civilization on the mountainside were annihilated by the elements. Today, a few wizarding communities reside upon the Sierra Discorde, and is now a haven for the wizarding world’s most esoteric.

The crimson rays of sun filtered in through the dark cave entrance. Alfonso Madrigal Guerrero sat silently, back against the wall, as a green fire crackled before him. His hair was matted, gray strands beginning to side with the jet black, and dark bags could be seen under his eyes. His robes of silver, green and black were weathered; his long emerald cloak did not gleam. His features were weary, and he looked thinner. His wand was in his left hand, and a fan was in another.

From the cave’s shadows emerged a black, hooded figure. “You came,” it sneered in a familiar manner. A dark, bony hand clutched an ebony wand, an orb of scarlet light sparking from its tip. Alfonso looked up.

“You’ve come a long way.”

“I came to fulfill my oath.” Alfonso’s voice was raspier, beaten by the winds.

“Goes to show oaths are meaningless.” The black hood tilted to the side. “So what secrets do you wish to learn today?”

“I need to learn.”

“Learn what?”

Alfonso’s eyes sidled over to his wand, studying the shaft of pale wood. “Magia Siniestro.”

A high-pitched giggle echoed throughout the cave. The red light from the figure’s wand vanished.

“Stupid boy. Ambitious boy. Why do you want to learn such things?”

“For the sake of knowledge.”

“Knowledge.” The figure tucked the wand in its robes, hovering closer to Alfonso.

“Funny how people wanting knowledge are fools.” Alfonso did not budge from the retort. His eyes now went to the flickering flames of the fire before him, gazing at the depths.

“But you know, I kind of agree with you. Oh, yes. I think I should teach you that.” A thin claw of a finger lifted itself from the figure’s fist, pointing at the campfire. In a split second, the green fires turned a purplish black, and the only light left in the cave were the dregs of roseate sun, slowly slipping away. The moon’s shadow began to rise over the horizon.

“Are you ready for pain?”

Alfonso was suddenly kneeling on the ground, crying a silent cry, strands of his hair covering his face. It was excruciating. He felt the bite of a thousand ants, a torrent of manticore spikes, an unending banshee’s wail. He felt hot liquid dropping from his eyes as he gritted his teeth, stretching his gums painfully.

“Need a tissue?” Mocking, words dripping with sarcasm and tantalizing with their taunting tone.

Then it suddenly stopped. Alfonso panted, face drained of blood, sweat poring from his brow. He reached for the hem of his cloak, wiping everything off like it were a poison.

“That was but a slight sip. Return when you’re more prepared, mewling tot. Get out of here. I’ll let you Apparate away.”

Alfonso was staring at the darkness, still in shock, as the figure crept away. The black flames vanished.

The cloak still in his hands, he buried his face inside. Tears began to drip messily.

It felt like a slap to his face.

He was just a boy.

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Playing:
Alfonso Madrigal de Guerrero y Fabian - Seventh Year Slytherin