The headache was the first sign—the first call to awaken from slumber. My limbs screamed in terror as electricity pulsed through my veins. In my dreams, those memories lingered... I should have noticed them. In hindsight, I should have recognized the thousand white-hot knives stabbing through my body. I should have known from the strange rush that followed—that twisted ecstasy! Even the scratches across my skin brought undeniable pleasure.
"Ego torqueo nebulones! EXCRUCIO!"
Pain receptors across my skin flared, forcing me awake. I wondered what it felt like to be both loved and hated at once. Alderam wasn't me; I wasn't him. I was Morpheus Lestrange—unbridled, unconstrained chaos. The only thing on my mind was PAIN—that wretched toad!—I realized as I tried to soothe the torment in my body. "Why? Why! I don't know why I have to feel this," I murmured inside my head.
My eyes landed on the silver-haired maid, a child of about five or six, her skin as pale as moonlight. Her delicate smile concealed her true sadistic nature—or maybe not. There was something deeper beneath the surface, beneath the mask, beneath the walls she built around herself... A kind of calculation I'd only expect from someone like me—the kind of fakeness refined through trauma. In hindsight, I should have known: people like Lucius Malfoy only raise broken people, and that cycle never ends until it devours itself. Was she like me—forced, confined, trapped in this gilded cage, unable to escape, destined to serve, as obedient as a loyal dog fetching bones for its master? Humans forced into obedience—at least it wasn't as degrading as the slavery they forced upon house-elves. Where had empathy gone?
"Morpheus Lestrange," she said coldly, her voice sharp with authority. "This is the last time you will be addressed as such. From now on, you are Magite 35."
Her tone carried an authority stronger than any I had ever heard. People like her terrified me—those who couldn't be easily manipulated, who deviated from expectations, who refused to fit the narrative.
I had a name. I said it. She said it: "Magite 35, insubordination is punishable by lashing."
As she spoke, a whip cracked somewhere in the distance, followed by the scream of a boy—one who sounded no older than me, one who had missed the first five years of my life. His cries pierced the silence like a warning. My chest tightened. The truth settled in: this wasn't discipline. It was law.
Darkness swallowed me again, and when my eyes opened, I found myself elsewhere. I awoke in a marble-walled dormitory, its surfaces carved with serpents. The architecture was an eerie masterpiece—a perfect mix of intricate designs woven into endless, monotonous corridors. The woman's intimidating figure broke the stillness.
The iron bars on my door told me this wasn't a place for training—it was a cell. At her side, the maid seemed to favor one arm—bruises, perhaps. Her gaze flickered toward me, a fleeting glimmer of empathy crossing her face.
Everything outside these walls looked perfect, but within lay discrimination and cruelty—just like Alderam's life: flawless on the outside, broken within.
Her hair carried the scent of lavender blossoms warmed by sunlight—a luxury people like me weren't meant to have. In their eyes, people like me didn't deserve privilege. I'm sorry to everyone, but I will shame you all—and at this point, I don't give a flying fuck, I thought, entranced by her scent.
Her face was flawless—she'd be the perfect best friend at school: pretty, popular, kind. But her nose was too straight, her posture too stiff, her calmness unnaturally precise. Her apathy could put psychopaths to shame. Her voice struck me like a physical blow. I had forgotten this—this feeling of losing control.
"Talking to my lawyer…" Why did I say that? I wondered. The pain returned—the pain from his memories. The tune he hummed before I disappeared, something that carried over along with his memories and even his skin. "Talking to my lawyer"—he knew he'd never have one, knew he would die. He planned it all. Alderam wasn't just a victim; he was the embodiment of relentless decisiveness. His death proved his purpose—it was meant to teach that girl a lesson. But was it worth it? No. I thought, how could that be worth it? Yet he had known exactly what he wanted. Life was dull, futile, meaningless.
Polished marble serpents coiled in precise symmetry. Beneath the perfume hung a faint stench of mildew. The room was filled with unfamiliar floral scents. I noticed bruises on her hand—pale skin marred beneath her gloves—and I knew the feeling, for I had one too: purple, swollen, and aching. The pain wasn't only physical but symbolic—a portrait of human trafficking at its finest, a swan strangled by the chains it was born with. Inevitably, nature always overpowers nurture.
Her gaze drifted toward the stained-glass window behind me. Its blurred panes mirrored my life now—distorted, trembling as the sound of another whip echoed. She was just like me: a wounded lamb, desperate for salvation.
Daffodils usually adorned estates like this. But here, we were outliers—black, decayed petunias scattered blasphemously across unseen acres of land, stretching endlessly along the confines of this medieval estate.
Pain! Stop it! No, not that—"Stop, please!""Magite 35," she snapped. "Training is mandatory. This school tolerates no tardiness, you tyke. Report to the training room immediately."
I ran—through the dark mahogany door, out of the room, away from the pain. I fled from the situation once more. But I vowed, I wouldn't run again. I would prevent things like this from happening again. Prevention is always better than cure.
"Talking to my lawyer," he said again. "Where'd you find this guy?"
I hummed softly as I ran—though I didn't know where I was going. The training rooms... they were in the book I'd read last night. Why hadn't I stayed awake to memorize them? Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me—an eye watching with curiosity and intrigue. I turned sharply, sprinting toward it, but whoever it was didn't want to be caught. I ran through the gardens—through lilies that were really black velvet petunias, past daffodils that shimmered faintly. The scent of pollen brushed my nose. The evergreen trees beyond made me smile—not the calculated smile I wore before, but one of pure joy, pure ecstasy, and unfiltered freedom.
Maybe pain wasn't going to be painful anymore.