Like a hellish flower blossoming in the mortal world, flickering flames danced around it, spattering fiery sparks in every direction. The soul-like petals appeared ethereal and illusory, yet they possessed an immense and corrosive power that defied their flimsy appearance. Upon making contact with the nearby desk and floor, the surfaces underwent a rapid and unnatural transformation, as if experiencing countless seasons compressed into an instant. Their deep, rich colors gradually faded to shades of ashen gray and pale white, crumbling into powdery ash in the mere blink of an eye!
"Success!" Bryan exclaimed, pursing his lips to stifle an expression of sheer elation and joy that threatened to burst forth. It had been a long time since he last felt such an intense rush of joy from overcoming the challenges during spell research.
A gloomy, ominous light shrouded the room, casting eerie, elongated shadows that danced across Bryan's handsome features as he silently admired the nimble, undulating flames, savoring the sight of his freshly-crafted 'masterpiece' with a sense of pride. However, just as he was reveling in the intoxicating feeling of achievement, a dull thud resonated from beyond the door, shattering the silence. Bryan's eyebrow furrowed in a slight frown of displeasure at the interruption.
It was Kreacher, the devoted house-elf who had been obediently standing guard at the door per Bryan's orders. However, the aged creature's weathered body could no longer withstand the overwhelming tide of magical energies emanating from the room, causing him to suddenly lose consciousness and collapse in the hallway just outside.
Snapping out of his reverie, Bryan realized that his inattentiveness after successful experimentation with the Blood Curse had severely impacted the surrounding environment. Half of the Black Manor was now coated in a shimmering, pale blue frost that crept along the walls and surfaces like an icy cancer. Many portraits depicting somber-faced Black family ancestors hung frozen in their frames, their expressions of perpetual disdain and haughty arrogance now rendered frozen, only able to convey their outrage through the furious glint in their eyes.
The Muggles residing in the adjacent Manors numbered 11 and 13 of Grimmauld Place were not spared from the unsettling disturbance either. Despite the brilliant crimson hues of sunset still streaking across the evening sky and the tranquil clarity of the heavens above their heads, an unnatural and bone-chilling cold had descended upon their humble abode, rendering the rooms almost unbearably cold.
Bryan's frown deepened as the realization dawned upon him that it was not yet time to celebrate for his accomplishment. There was still work to be done.
During this time, the captive Irish leprechaun stirred briefly from its enforced slumber, but after being viciously bitten by the venomous serpent coiled around its tiny form, it quickly turned a sickly pale shade and promptly lost consciousness once more.
Exerting his control over the captured Fwooper's soul, which now floated ethereally above the creature's feathered head, Bryan inhaled deeply and pressed down the tip of his wand. In an instant, the hapless bird was engulfed in roaring emerald flames that licked hungrily at its body. A scream of pure, agonizing torment tore through the ancient Manor, surpassing even the shrill, piercing shrieks of the infamous Walburga Black at the mere sight of 'Mudbloods' defiling her home.
The Irish leprechaun, barely larger than a goblin, was now covered in grotesque magical sigils and patterns. These bizarre markings, shining with an unsettling bloody crimson glow, appeared to possess a sinister life of their own as they ruthlessly constricted around the creature's form, greedily devouring its very life-force and stripping away its soul in agonizing increments.
This was among the most vicious and cruel of all known curses in the arcane world of magic. Even if the Irish Leprechauns did not perish here and somehow managed to produce offspring, then for a thousand years and beyond, its descendants would remain forever cursed and unable to escape from Bryan's inflicted curse!
The curse took insidious effect with terrifying swiftness. Within the span of a mere two minutes, the leprechaun underwent a hideously grotesque transformation that defied the known laws of magical nature.
Like a soft lump of malleable clay, the leprechaun's body became extremely flexible and fluid, its protruding facial features rapidly collapsing inward upon themselves, while its stubby fingers elongated into cruelly sharp points. In stark contrast, its feet quickly retracted inward, disappearing into the shifting mass of its tormented form.
Shining feathers erupted from its flesh in chaotic patterns, sprouting like clusters of vibrantly-hued mushrooms blooming after a spring rain. All along the length of its back, a series of curved wing bones pierced agonizingly through the stretched skin in a crimson fountain of gore, steadily unfurling outward as nerves, vessels, and newly knitted flesh rapidly enveloped the exposed bones, hastening to shape these gruesome new addons into their final form.
The leprechaun's howls of utter agony and despair gradually transmuted into something wholly other, something primal and bestial, as it had lost the capacity for clear speech. Its eyes, however, still blazed with an unforgettable expression of pure hatred as they remained locked unblinkingly upon Bryan!
Caw!
At last, a highly recognizable cry, infused with an unmistakable aura of bewitching power, echoed harshly through the confined space of the room, signaling the brutal transformation's horrific conclusion.
It was neither a transfiguration spell, nor the product of a Polyjuice Potion, nor the magic of an Animagus at work here. What had just transpired before Bryan's very eyes was the complete metamorphosis of a once living, sentient Irish leprechaun into an entirely different breed of a unique magical creature!
"Amazing," Bryan marveled in a hushed tone, scarcely able to contain his sense of awe. "Truly the work of a genius!"
Bryan, who had risen step-by-arduous-step from an ignorant young boy to a powerful wizard now admired by many, could not help but be struck by a profound sense of wonder at this grotesque display of the curse's power.
Although he had painstakingly reconstructed and restored the obscure Blood Curse through mere fragments of experimental records and remnants of the curse's spell structure, a feat that demonstrated his immense talent, he still paled in comparison to the rumored inventor of not only the Blood Curse itself but the terrible creation of the Horcrux as well - that ancient and detested Greek wizard of legend, 'Herpo the Foul'!
Even Muggles knew the fundamental biological truth was that mismatched blood and organ types would inevitably result in catastrophic rejection and death if forcibly transplanted. Yet the Blood Curse possessed the ability to completely embed a unique sentient soul into the very essence of a different species. Even those wizards possessing formidable Magical Prowess found such a seamless method of spiritual hybridization to be "unscientific" in nature!
Bryan's piercing gaze followed the terrified, newly-transfigured 'leprechaun' as it scurried about in a blind panic, unable to comprehend the horrific metamorphosis that had just been inflicted upon its body. A smile slowly curved the corners of his lips in a mask of satisfaction.
The foul process of creating a Horcrux, the darkest of all arts, involved committing a cold-blooded murder, the severing of one's very soul in order to cut off a fragment to be stored within an object, thus ensuring one's immortality as long as that detached portion remained intact and untarnished.
The original soul would linger on, unable to move to the afterlife, and the split soul can only return to the main soul under one condition: the complete remorse, sincere regret, and heartfelt acceptance of the unforgivable actions committed against one's victims. Only then could the soul possess even a chance to unite together. However, the agonizing pain of reintegrating the severed soul fragments was said to far surpass any mere physical torment, to the extent that the tormenting process could potentially prove fatal even to the original soul's owner.
Yet, the Blood Curse could 'glue' different souls together.
Bryan silently withdrew a small glass vial from his robe's inner pocket. Contained within was a cluster of milky white light, its ethereal texture and soft radiance bearing an unsettling resemblance to the severed soul of the Fwooper bird from earlier.
Holding the vial's base delicately in his palm, he slowly rotated it back and forth, his inscrutable expression instilling a deepening sense of dread as the ethereal contents seemed to shift and ripple hypnotically in response to the subtle motion.
As what was truly imprisoned within this glass prison was an actual fragment of Voldemort's own soul!
Not the locket, nor Ravenclaw's diadem, but the first Horcrux created by Tom Riddle—the soul fragment hidden within the black diary.
Describing it as a soul fragment seemed inaccurate because, at that time, in the Chamber of Secrets at Slytherin, Bryan had used his magic to dismember and extract this portion of Tom Riddle's soul. What now resided in this vial was the 'purified' essence, the core desires and emotions Voldemort had discarded.
The memories he had personally stripped away and later recovered from Draco's dormitory after meeting Harry told Bryan that what he held in his hand would be the winning move to defeat Voldemort.
When Bryan emerged from his contemplation and put the glass vial back into his pouch, the newly-transfigured "Fwooper" had already reverted to its base leprechaun form. The little creature now cowered in the corner, emanating waves of helplessness and naked fear as it stared up at its tormenter. Even the vengeful defiance that had previously burned in its eyes had been utterly extinguished, leaving only a hollow, haunted expression.
The Blood Curse was not a one-time permanent transformation. Initially, it was an unpredictable phase of random periodic transformations. As time passed, the frequency of forced transformations increased until the soul could no longer absorb and convert the pure magical energy in the surroundings. Its own power would be completely contaminated, and the intelligence of a sentient being would be clouded, permanently transforming into a beast.
And if, by chance, the cursed victim managed to produce offspring during the agonizing transitional phase, the power of the Blood Curse would persist, passed down through the veins of future generations via inherited blood ties, ensuring that the tragic, inescapable fate would be inherited by their descendants as well.
In Bryan's admittedly evil estimate, the Killing Curse, the Dementor's Kiss, the agonies of the Cruciatus Curse, or the all-consuming fury of Fiendfyre itself paled in comparison to the sheer cruelty inherent to the Blood Curse.
Bryan shot a red light from his fingertips, knocking the Irish leprechaun unconscious. Though it had cost him a fortune of two thousand galleons to acquire this rare specimen, it seemed an unfortunate waste to simply "dispose" of this creature now that he had gained at least a preliminary understanding of the Blood Curse's functions. A series of crucial derivative experiments still required the unwilling cooperation of this newly transfigured and uniquely magical creature hybrid.
For the moment, Bryan was content to bask in the fleeting days of relative tranquility within the secluded confines of the Ancient Black Manor. It was an ideal sanctuary, isolated from the prying eyes of the world, where no one would disturb the extremely wicked magical experiments he was conducting. Even Kreacher, the increasingly devoted house-elf, regarded Bryan with a new level of admiration and respect as the aged, toothless house-elf could keenly sense the prevalent aura of strange, ominous dark magic leaking from the makeshift laboratory.
Pure-blood wizarding families all keenly guarded their own secret stashes and traditions of Dark Arts, passed down from generation to generation. Their heirs and other members of high standing within the family were always indoctrinated and trained in these forbidden arts from a young age - Only that weirdo Sirius Black was the black sheep of the Black family who had spurned and despised the Dark Arts.
Alas, such blissful days of undisturbed productivity were always fleeting. A letter from the Wizengamot itself, forwarded through intermediary channels by Dumbledore, arrived like an ominous harbinger to abruptly put an end to Bryan's comfortable "working vacation" within the Ancestral Black Manor.
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