How is the world perceived by a soul freed from the flesh? What form does it take? Will the soul see and hear in the usual sense? And does this soul even exist at all?
Such questions surfaced occasionally in my head, but I never specifically sought an answer. However, man proposes, but God disposes, as they say. Consequently, I received answers to these questions completely unexpectedly and, as required by the laws of the genre, at the most inappropriate moment. The moment of my career success, personal growth, and well-being. That was phrased complexly, but it is the truth; when everything in life is going well, fate can quite possibly throw a curveball, and in the worst case, you die. And I died.
Death is frightening not only because of the unknown awaiting you but also because of the process itself. A stupid confluence of circumstances, several deep cuts, and here I am, dying absurdly, bleeding out, while sudden realization, adrenaline, and a rapid heartbeat only accelerate the process. The slowly encroaching darkness dissolves resentment at the circumstances. When even thoughts disappeared into this darkness and it seemed that nothing remained around me, something felt as if it exploded.
It is difficult, extremely difficult to describe in words. It was as if you had always been blind, deaf, unable to smell, and even tactile sensations were inaccessible. One could call it sensory shock, yet at the same time, you are still blind and deaf in the usual sense. It was like a certain awareness of the space surrounding you, but this space was strange and incomprehensible. There was no up, no down, nor any other directions, and the space itself was far from three-dimensional; it was something greater, all-encompassing.
Fear shackled my consciousness; in this space, you lose yourself. Not in the sense that you forget and become someone else, no. You feel, you feel with every grain of consciousness how these very grains chip away from you and fly away, mixing with the space around. You know that you have lost something, but you no longer know exactly what. It is like looking at a body slowly crumbling into dust, knowing that it is crumbling, knowing that you just lost something, but a brief moment passes, and this loss seems normal to you. Or rather, as if it had always been that way. At the same time, you understand that this is wrong, and the remnants of logic hint that sooner or later nothing will remain.
I do not know how long I was there, but at some imperceptible moment, fear for myself transitioned into certainty; something had to change. Gathering the remnants of my will into a fist, I concentrated and began trying to hold onto the particles of myself, not letting them scatter. This did not work immediately, and by that moment, I had lost quite a lot. Probably a lot. It is hard to judge the severity of a loss when you no longer know its value.
Once convinced that particles were no longer flying away from me, I decided to try to return what was lost, even though I did not know exactly what I had lost. I simply tried to pull anything at all toward myself at random and secure this "something." However, contrary to my expectations, the attracted particles either did not want to cling or clung but immediately broke away again, taking particles of me with them. This situation touched some chords in my soul, and resolving to deal with this bad world while neglecting my own safety, I set about trying to absorb "something" from the surrounding space with renewed vigor.
There is neither pain nor fatigue here. It is hard for me to judge the success of my attempts, although over time various attracted particles stopped flying away from me and held on quite reliably. However, another question matured; how many are needed for integrity? And the integrity of whom? Seriously! Who is "I"? Did my particles get attracted? Each particle carries a grain of information; an association, a tiny memory, a once-thought opinion or idea, a thought, and the like. They are all so different, and logic suggests that they most likely contradict each other. Some sense of wrongness does not allow correlating the associative rows of the consciousness of a knight in iron armor who lived in a small fortress, a genetic engineer assigned to some "Second Fleet" of the Space Forces, or, well, some stray dog. There were countless such shards, and all different, incomplete fragments, but I diligently collected them.
"Who is 'I'?" is an obvious question, but the meaning and importance of the answer to it were somewhere far, far away. The main thing was to gather particles so as definitely not to dissipate, to be the most complete. It seemed to me that even then, when I had just appeared here, I was not whole.
One day something changed. With a tiny part of my consciousness, I saw life. As if I were alive again, small, lying in a crib with a wooden railing, if only I knew what this construction was called. Occasionally people bustle around, do something, look at me with a strange gaze. I felt all this in snatches, in pieces, with the edge of my consciousness. Yes, with the edge of my consciousness, but it was life. An ordered linear chronology, and everything is happening right now; I could not look further ahead as with the shards. But why then am I still here, in this inhospitable world that first tried to destroy me, to dissolve me into itself? I am not assembled yet. Not all the shards. The collected is not ordered. Is this the reason? I need to collect...
In a rather wealthy house in Crawley, a town south of London, a festive atmosphere reigned. The Granger couple was celebrating the eleventh birthday of their second child, Hector. The first child was Hermione, and in July of the following year, a boy, Hector, was born. And everything would have been wonderful if not for his strange deviations in the mental plane.
From birth, Hector showed an absurd minimum of any activity whatsoever. As an infant, he did not cry. Never. Even having soiled his diapers or gotten hungry, he could maintain silence and remain in some detached state, as if not here at all. They had to devote very, very much time to him. At times, Hector seemed to return to this mortal world with one eye, showing some activity and independence. But this was rare and brief. It was very hard for Emma and Robert.
Later, when Hermione was already learning to walk and incoherently babble something in her child dialect, Hector, who should have already been learning to crawl at least, maintained complete detachment from what was happening, still occasionally "returning" and participating a bit more actively in his development.
At three years old, the boy suddenly stood up and walked. Without preparation, without anything. And the goal of his trek was a change of location; from one corner of the nursery to another, where there was more sunlight.
Things were roughly the same with absolutely everything children usually learn. Hector would simply start doing something while maintaining an absolutely indifferent face, looking somewhere deep into space with empty eyes. This frightened Emma and Robert. This frightened little Hermione. This frightened the nanny they had to hire, after all, they needed to work sometime.
Over time, Hector acquired a certain independence. While still just as detached from the world and people around him, he engaged in some incomprehensible affairs of his own, contemplation, comprehension, or something else. At least, that is what everyone in the house thought when the boy stared at the wall for a couple of hours. Someone might think, "Did they really not consult doctors?" They did, and quite often. It was just that no one could really say anything. However, the encephalogram, coupled with other diagnostic procedures, showed extremely high simultaneous activity of all parts of the brain. They built assumptions, theories, and the like, but no one could draw any conclusions.
For example, Hector could, if he was in the mood and a pencil with paper fell to hand, create a drawing of photographic quality in a couple of minutes. But a drawing of what? That was another question. Some transcendental objects and forms unthinkable to man, in which a logic completely inaccessible to understanding could be traced. And it was like that in everything. Once Hector filled three notebooks with tiny formulas, but even an acquaintance of Robert's, a professor of mathematics, broke his brain trying to comprehend what was written and ended up in the hospital for a month.
On the other hand, Hector was quite independent, unlike children with autism and other deviations. Yes, he could not perform complex sets of actions, as he quickly withdrew into himself, but he performed immediate needs and operations as if acting on pure reflexes according to a long-established scheme. And, as always, he looked somewhere into the distance, forcing everyone to worry about him very strongly. Worry, yes, but for an unaccustomed person, this is a scary picture.
Hermione, like her parents, had struggled plenty with Hector. From the age of seven, when a final understanding cut through that without outside help Hector would perish, the girl began to actively help her parents in everything so that they could devote more attention to her brother; she herself really did not want to do it. She helped around the house, did her homework independently, looking for information and ways to solve her childish but important problems. Deep in her soul, she, albeit slightly, disliked Hector; he was a source of simply a phenomenal amount of problems and worries! And also, because of this, her parents devoted almost no time to the girl. Even if in reality this was not so, children see everything in a completely different light.
And Hermione had a big secret. She could do incredible things, albeit mostly accidentally, uncontrollably. The girl hid her gift for various telekinesis and the like from her parents, for they had enough trouble as it was.
So even now, on the fourth of July, nineteen ninety-one, no one expected anything unusual. Another modest holiday, quiet and calm. Hector would eat cake along with everyone else, receive gifts in the form of drawing sets, because he simply did not have enough time away from his "glimmers of consciousness" for anything more complex. In general, he would receive gifts and go to his room, and the rest of the family would catch their breath and congratulate each other on another difficult year. Hermione would definitely tell about her successes at school and modestly look down at the question about friends; no friends, no time for them.
Everything was going that way, and Hermione modestly stared at her knees while sitting at the table; that very question had been voiced. But the unexpected and not at all musical sound of the doorbell rang out.
"I'll get it," Robert, a medium-height light-brown-haired man, the father of the family, got up from the table and headed to the door.
Emma, a beautiful brunette with short hair, set aside her cup of tea, listening to the conversation at the door. Hermione did exactly the same. The girl took after her mother in face, but her hair was a mixture of both parents, a curly, wayward, and disobedient mop of different shades of light brown, from dark to very light.
A couple of minutes later, Robert returned to the living room to the set table, and following him was a tall, stately lady in an emerald floor-length dress and a black robe. Her age was indeterminate, but not young; light, sparse wrinkles and gray hair betrayed her as a lady much older than Emma, although if you did not look closely, you would not give her more than forty.
The lady introduced herself as the Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall. With a deft movement of her magic wand, she convinced those present of the existence of magic, which delighted Hermione and surprised the parents. In short, she came to deliver two invitations to study at Hogwarts. To Hermione and to Hector.
"Professor," Robert's face literally darkened. "There might be some problems with Hector."
"Whatever for?" the professor was surprised, sitting at the table with everyone and sipping the offered tea. "Where, by the way, is the young man?"
"He is in his room," Emma answered.
Everyone got up from the table and headed to the second floor. Right before the door, they stopped, and Emma spoke again:
"Are you familiar with a condition known as autism?"
"I have an idea," McGonagall nodded, shifting a strict gaze to Emma and Robert.
"A very similar situation, but not it," Robert nodded, and Emma opened the door, and they all stepped inside.
A simple room in light tones. The ordinary bed was neatly made as always. Chalk and whiteboards on the walls were covered in completely incomprehensible symbols, signs, and diagrams, rarely interspersed with familiar numbers. From the far corner to the window stretched a wardrobe clearly for clothes, and nearby was a low table meant for sitting on the floor; Hector sat on chairs only in case of necessity, for example, in the kitchen. Leaning his back against the wardrobe, a black-haired boy sat on the floor, the empty gaze of his blue eyes directed somewhere into the distance. McGonagall was even slightly surprised at how handsome the child's face was. True, this face expressed no emotions and bore no traces characteristic of people with mental disorders; simply a mask without emotions. And this caused subconscious anxiety and fear.
"Allow me to clarify," the professor spoke after a minute's pause. "Does Hector sometimes become more lucid?"
"Rarely and not particularly noticeably."
"Has he been like this since birth or after some incident?"
"Since birth. We conducted every conceivable and inconceivable analysis, visited various specialists, but the only thing we managed to find out was anomalously high brain activity."
McGonagall pursed her lips and adjusted her glasses with a finger.
"I would advise calling a Healer from St Mungo's."
Seeing the uncomprehending look of the adults and the girl, McGonagall explained:
"St Mungo's Hospital is a magical medical institution. Perhaps our Healers can help or at least determine a course of treatment."
Of those present, only Robert noticed the shadow of sadness on the professor's face. The professor had clearly encountered something similar, but it was better not to pry into that matter.
Having received consent to call a medic and realizing that the Grangers themselves could not handle this issue, McGonagall conjured a ghostly cat, whispered something to it, and it galloped away, dissolving into the air. As the professor said, in this way she summoned her acquaintance Healer, and a couple of minutes later the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood a middle-aged and slightly plump man with light gray in his dark short hair. He was dressed in an ordinary dark robe and introduced himself as Healer Smethwyck.
For about half an hour, the Healer bustled around the still motionless Hector, waving his wand, murmuring something, while curiosity and enthusiasm were clearly visible on his face. Robert clenched his fists indignantly, but Emma stroked his shoulder.
"Now you understand how the parents of that boy felt, around whom you bustled during an examination and kept saying: 'What an interesting case!'"
A few minutes later, Healer Smethwyck put away his magic wand and approached the observing adults.
"What has been clarified?" asked the professor.
"Strange and unusual, but not critical," the Healer answered with a slight smile. "The boy became lucid more often over the years, didn't he? I see that he did. And no oddities, magical manifestations, or the like were noticed about him?"
"Just like with Hermione, too."
Of course, Hermione's mom could not help but notice certain oddities that were so easy to attribute to superpowers. Therefore, McGonagall's appearance was not perceived so acutely. But Emma, like Robert, was now interested in whether their little girl would wiggle out of it, and if so, how?
Smethwyck glanced at the embarrassedly blushing Hermione and smirked.
"Is there something we don't know?" Emma asked with a smile, only this smile hinted at a mandatory conversation of an educational nature.
"Not that you don't know..."
"That is not what we are discussing," the Healer interrupted the moment and looked again at the boy's parents. "Physically he is completely healthy, albeit somewhat thin, but I think that is due to the lack of much physical activity. The problem is that his brain and magic are completely occupied with a far more important task. He is seemingly restoring the integrity of his soul."
"The integrity of the soul?" McGonagall literally took the question from Hector's parents' tongues.
"Yes. You know, Minerva, we have been observing the Longbottoms for ten years now and trying to cure them. We learned a lot, advanced far, it is a pity that it is so far to no avail. One of the colleagues' theories was that such severe dementia was caused by damage and disintegration of the soul, and the resources of the body and magic, even with external support, are simply not enough to stop the process and restore it. in their case, the theory was not confirmed, but here it is exactly that."
"Wait, but does a soul exist? Can it be destroyed?" asked Hermione, catching a pause in the conversation. Catching her parents' gaze on her, she blushed slightly and lowered her head. "Sorry..."
"It is nothing, nothing. A good question. They argue about the properties of the soul to this day, and there are many theories. Some believe that it is like some infinite pudding; cut and divide as much as you want. Others believe it is like an onion; many layers, and deep inside an indivisible core. There are many theories, but the problem is that each of them has confirmation, but some are mutually exclusive, hence the impossibility of coming to a unified opinion. But overall, yes, the soul exists, it can be divided... The only thing common to all theories is the connection of soul, body, and mind—the mental triad. Pull on one, and the other two will change. So in Hector's case, all resources of this triad are directed toward restoring the soul. However, he is lacking something very strongly."
A dramatic pause, during which everyone waited impatiently for the continuation.
"Hector lacks magic. Magic as energy is a product of the interaction of the mental triad. Without one of the three, there will be no magic. Given the state of the boy's soul, his magic is weak."
"It was enough to end up on the list for enrollment at Hogwarts. Without accidental outbursts."
"That means the boy has a very strong mind, as well as body, which partly compensates for the damage to the soul. The situation can be compared to building a sandcastle. You have hands, you have the desire, you have sand. But you cannot build a castle from dry and shifting sand; you need water. Magic acts in the role of water here. He has little of it, which is why the process has dragged on so long."
"How is all this even possible?" Robert rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. Emma had long since been thoughtfully leaning against the wall, while Hermione listened attentively, memorizing new and unprecedented knowledge.
"Are you familiar with the phenomenon of stillbirth?"
Receiving confirming nods, Smethwyck continued:
"Aside from pathologies in fetal development, in an extremely rare case, the cause may be the soul. It can be rejected by the body, can decompose and leave it; there are many options, although cases are singular in centuries of history. It so coincided that something similar happened with Hector, but something stopped the decay, and now he is recovering."
"And what should we do?"
"Place the boy in a more saturated magical background, issue a course of strengthening and stimulating potions. But even in the current situation, Hector will manage on his own by age fifteen, maybe a bit later. He has passed the critical stage. With our help, it is quite possible to recover within a year. Give or take."
"And where do we get this magical background?" asked Emma, tearing herself away from the wall.
"Minerva," Smethwyck looked at the professor. "Talk to Albus."
"You want to place the boy in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts?"
"Yes. At St Mungo's, we would have to create the background artificially, and that costs a lot of money. And Poppy will ensure care even better than ours. She has patients once in a blue moon, while we have a whole hospital. The potions needed are the simplest ones; anyone can handle brewing them, and the ingredients cost a couple of Sickles."
And so it was decided. Professor McGonagall spent about half an hour telling the parents of the two young wizards various nuances of life in the magical world, speaking about the features of education at Hogwarts, about subjects, among which were general education ones too. Only after the professor answered questions that parents of Muggle-born wizards had been asking like carbon copies for many years did she accompany Hermione for school shopping. Smethwyck had long since departed for the hospital and was discussing the obtained diagnostic data with colleagues to be two hundred percent sure of the correctness of the diagnosis and method of treatment, while Hector, for no apparent reason, covered a couple of sheets of paper with another chaotic heap of symbols and multidimensional structures.
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