How does the world look to a soul freed from the flesh? What form does it take? Does a soul see and hear in the traditional sense? Does the soul even exist at all?
Questions like these occasionally floated through my mind, though I never actively sought the answers. However, as the saying goes: Man proposes, God disposes. I received my answers unexpectedly and, true to the laws of the genre, at the worst possible moment.
It happened at the peak of my career, during a time of personal growth and prosperity. That sounds fancy, but the truth is simple—just when life is going well, fate loves to throw a wrench in the works. In the worst-case scenario, you die.
And so, I died.
Death is terrifying not just because of the unknown waiting on the other side, but because of the process itself. A stupid coincidence, a few deep cuts, and there I was—dying absurdly, bleeding out. The sudden realization, the adrenaline, and the rapid heartbeat only hastened the end. The slowly encroaching darkness dissolved my resentment toward the circumstances.
When even my thoughts vanished into that gloom, and it seemed like nothing remained, something felt like it… exploded.
It is incredibly difficult to describe in words. Imagine you have always been blind, deaf, unable to smell, and devoid of tactile sensation. You could call it sensory shock, yet you remain blind and deaf in the usual sense. There was an awareness of the space around me, but that space was strange and incomprehensible. There was no up, no down, no direction. The space itself was far from three-dimensional—it was something greater. All-encompassing.
Fear paralyzed my consciousness. In this space, you lose yourself. Not in the sense of forgetting or becoming someone else, but literally. You feel it. You feel, with every grain of your being, how those very grains chip away and fly off, mixing with the void.
You know you've lost something, but you no longer know what. It's like watching a body slowly turn to dust; you know it's disintegrating, you know you've just lost a part of it, but a brief moment later, that loss feels normal. As if it had always been that way. Yet, a sense of wrongness remains, and the remnants of your logic hint that sooner or later, nothing will remain.
I don't know how long I drifted there. But at some imperceptible moment, the fear for myself transformed into certainty: I need to change this.
Gathering the scraps of my will into a fist, I concentrated. I began trying to hold onto the particles of myself, stopping them from scattering. It didn't work immediately. By the time I managed it, I had already lost a great deal. Probably a lot, though it is hard to judge the weight of a loss when you no longer know the value of what is gone.
Once I was sure no more pieces were flaking off, I decided to try and retrieve what was lost. I didn't know what I was looking for. I simply reached out at random, trying to pull something toward me and anchor that "something" in place.
Contrary to my expectations, the attracted particles either refused to stick or would latch on only to tear away again immediately—taking even more chunks of me with them.
That situation struck a nerve. Determined to deal with this hostile world and disregarding my own safety, I renewed my efforts to consume "something" from the surrounding space with fresh vigor.
There is no pain here, no fatigue. It was hard to judge the success of my attempts, although eventually, various attracted particles stopped flying away and held on quite reliably. However, another question arose: how many are needed for integrity?
And the integrity of whom?
Seriously! Who am "I"? Did I attract my own particles?
Every particle carries a grain of information—an association, a tiny memory, a once-considered opinion, an idea, a thought. They are all so different, and logic suggests they likely contradict each other. A sense of wrongness makes it impossible to reconcile the associative chains of a knight in iron armor living in a small fortress, a genetic engineer assigned to the "Second Fleet" of the Space Forces, or… a stray dog?
There were countless such shards. All different, incomplete fragments. But I diligently collected them.
Who am "I"?
It was an obvious question, but the meaning and importance of the answer were somewhere far, far away. The main thing was to gather particles so as not to dissipate, to be as complete as possible. It seemed to me that even when I first arrived here, I wasn't whole.
Then, one day, something changed.
With a tiny part of my consciousness, I saw life. It was as if I were alive again—small, lying in a crib with wooden bars. I wished I knew what the construction was called. People occasionally bustled around, doing things, looking at me with strange expressions. I felt all of this in snatches, in pieces, with the edge of my mind.
Yes, the edge of my mind, but it was life. An ordered, linear chronology, happening right now. I couldn't look ahead like I could with the shards.
But why was "I" still here, in this inhospitable world that had tried to destroy and dissolve me?
I am not assembled yet. Not all the shards are here. The collection is not ordered. Is that the reason?
I need to keep collecting…
In a rather affluent 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.
Their first child was Hermione. In July of the following year, a boy, Hector, was born. Everything would have been perfect if not for his strange mental deviations.
From birth, Hector showed an absurd minimum of activity. As an infant, he didn't cry. Ever. Even when he soiled his nappies or was hungry, he remained silent, existing in a detached state, as if he weren't there at all. He required a tremendous amount of time and attention. Occasionally, Hector seemed to return to this mortal world with one eye, showing some activity and independence. But this was rare and fleeting.
It was very hard on Emma and Robert.
Later, when Hermione was already learning to walk and incoherently babble in her toddler dialect, Hector—who should have been learning to crawl—remained completely detached from reality. He still only occasionally "returned" to participate slightly more actively in his development.
Then, at three years old, the boy suddenly stood up and walked.
No preparation, no stumbling. His goal was simply a change of location—moving from one corner of the nursery to another, where there was more sunshine.
It was roughly the same story with absolutely everything children usually learn. Hector would simply start doing something, maintaining an absolutely indifferent expression, staring somewhere deep into space with empty eyes.
It scared Emma and Robert. It scared little Hermione. It scared the nanny they had to hire because eventually, they had to go back to work.
Over time, Hector acquired a certain independence. While still detached from the world and the people around him, he busied himself with his own incomprehensible affairs—contemplation, comprehension, or something else entirely. At least, that's what everyone in the house assumed when the boy stared at a wall for two hours straight.
Some might think, "Didn't they see a doctor?"
They did, and very often. The problem was, no one could say anything definitive. An encephalogram, combined with other diagnostic procedures, showed abnormally high simultaneous activity in all parts of the brain. There were assumptions, theories, and guesses, but no one could draw any conclusions.
For example, if Hector was in the mood and happened upon a pencil and paper, he could create a drawing of photographic quality in a couple of minutes. But a drawing of what? That was another question. He drew transcendent objects and forms unthinkable to man, following a logic completely inaccessible to human understanding.
It was like that with everything. Once, Hector filled three notebooks with tiny formulas. Robert's friend, a mathematics professor, nearly broke his brain trying to comprehend what was written and ended up in the hospital for a month with exhaustion.
On the other hand, Hector was quite self-sufficient, unlike children with severe autism or other disabilities. True, he couldn't perform complex sequences of actions because he would quickly retreat into himself, but he handled immediate needs and operations as if acting on reflexes or a long-established scheme. And, as always, he looked somewhere into the distance, causing everyone to worry about him deeply.
Hermione, like her parents, suffered alongside Hector. Since the age of seven, when she finally understood that without outside help Hector would perish, the girl began actively helping her parents with everything so they could devote more attention to her brother. She didn't really want to do it herself. She helped around the house and did her homework independently, looking for information and solutions to her childish but important problems.
Deep in her soul, she—even if only a little—disliked Hector. He was the source of a phenomenal number of problems and worries! And because of him, her parents paid almost no attention to her. Even if that wasn't strictly true, children see things in a different light.
Hermione also had a big secret. She could do incredible things, mostly accidentally and uncontrollably. The girl hid her gift for telekinesis and similar phenomena from her parents; they had enough trouble as it was.
And so, on the fourth of July, 1991, no one expected anything unusual. Just another modest celebration, quiet and calm. Hector would eat cake with everyone, receive gifts in the form of drawing sets—he simply didn't have enough time between "flashes of consciousness" for anything more complex—and retreat to his room. The rest of the family would catch their breath and congratulate each other on surviving another hard year. Hermione would tell them about her success at school and modestly look down when asked about friends—she had no friends; she had no time for them.
Everything was going to plan. Hermione was modestly staring at her knees while sitting at the table—the question had just been asked—when the doorbell rang, sudden and unmusical.
"I'll get it," Robert, a brown-haired man of average height and the father of the family, got up from the table and headed for the door.
Emma, a beautiful brunette with short hair, set her teacup aside, listening to the conversation at the door. Hermione did the same. The girl had her mother's face, but her hair was a mix of both parents—a curly, willful, and unruly mop of various shades of brown, from dark to very light.
A couple of minutes later, Robert returned to the living room. Following him was a tall, stately woman in an emerald floor-length dress and a black cloak. Her age was indeterminate, but she wasn't young; faint wrinkles and grey hair betrayed her as being much older than Emma, though at a glance, you wouldn't give her more than forty.
The lady introduced herself as the Professor of Transfiguration and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall. With a deft wave of her wand, she convinced those present of the existence of magic, which delighted Hermione and shocked her parents.
She had come to deliver two invitations to study at Hogwarts. One for Hermione, and one for Hector.
"Professor," Robert's face darkened visibly. "There might be some problems regarding Hector."
"Whatever is the matter?" the Professor asked, surprised, taking a seat at the table and sipping the offered tea. "Where is the young man, by the way?"
"He's in his room," Emma replied.
Everyone got up from the table and headed to the second floor. Before the door, they stopped, and Emma spoke again.
"Are you familiar with a condition called autism?"
"I have some idea," McGonagall nodded, shifting a stern gaze between Emma and Robert.
"It is a very similar situation, but not quite that," Robert nodded, and Emma opened the door. They all stepped inside.
It was a simple room in light tones. The ordinary bed was, as always, neatly made. Whiteboards and plastic boards on the walls were covered in completely incomprehensible symbols, signs, and diagrams, rarely interspersed with recognizable numbers. A wardrobe stood in the far corner near the window, and next to it was a low table designed for sitting on the floor—Hector only sat on chairs when necessary, for example, in the kitchen.
Leaning his back against the wardrobe, a black-haired boy sat on the floor, his empty blue eyes directed somewhere into the distance. McGonagall was slightly surprised by how handsome the child was. However, his face expressed no emotion and bore no traces characteristic of people with mental disorders—it was simply a mask.
It evoked a subconscious anxiety and fear.
"Allow me to clarify," the Professor spoke after a minute of silence. "Does Hector ever become… more lucid?"
"Rarely, and not very noticeably."
"Has he been this way since birth, or after some incident?"
"Since birth. We ran every conceivable analysis and visited various specialists, but the only thing they managed to find was abnormally high brain activity."
McGonagall pursed her lips and adjusted her glasses with a finger.
"I would advise summoning a Healer from St. Mungo's."
Seeing the uncomprehending looks 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. She had clearly encountered something similar before, but he knew better than to pry.
Having received consent to call a medic—and realizing the Grangers couldn't handle this question themselves—McGonagall conjured a ghostly silver cat. She whispered something to it, and it bounded away, dissolving into the air. The Professor explained she had summoned a Healer she knew.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood an elderly, slightly plump man with light greying in his short dark hair. He was dressed in ordinary dark robes and introduced himself as Healer Smethwyck.
For about half an hour, the Healer bustled around the still motionless Hector, waving his wand and muttering. Curiosity and enthusiasm were clearly visible on his face. Robert clenched his fists in indignation, but Emma patted him on the shoulder.
"Now you understand how the parents of that boy felt when you circled him during an examination, muttering, 'What an interesting case!'"
A few minutes later, Healer Smethwyck put away his wand and approached the watching adults.
"What have you found?" the Professor asked.
"Strange and unusual, but not critical," the Healer replied with a faint smile. "The boy has become lucid more often over the years, hasn't he? I can see that he has. And no oddities, accidental magic, or similar things have been noticed with him?"
"Just like with Hermione, too."
Of course, Hermione's mother couldn't help but notice certain oddities that were easily attributed to superpowers. That was why McGonagall's appearance wasn't perceived quite so sharply. But both Emma and Robert were now interested: would their little girl try to wriggle out of this, and if so, how?
Smethwyck glanced at the blushing Hermione and smirked.
"Is there something we don't know?" Emma asked with a smile, though the smile hinted at a mandatory conversation about honesty later.
"It's not that you don't know…"
"That is not the point," the Healer interrupted the moment and looked back at the boy's parents. "Physically, he is completely healthy, albeit somewhat thin, but I think that is due to a lack of physical activity. The problem is that his brain and magic are fully occupied with a much more important task. He is, as it were, restoring the integrity of his soul."
"The integrity of his soul?" McGonagall literally took the question from the Grangers' tongues.
"Yes. You know, Minerva, we have been observing the Longbottoms for ten years, trying to cure them. We learned a lot, made great progress, though sadly without result for them yet. One of my colleagues' theories was that such severe dementia was caused by damage and decay of the soul, and the resources of the body and magic, even with external support, simply aren't enough to stop the process and restore it. In their case, the theory was not confirmed, but here… this is exactly it."
"Wait, but does a soul actually exist? Can it be destroyed?" Hermione asked, catching a pause in the conversation. Feeling her parents' gaze, she blushed slightly and lowered her head. "Sorry…"
"No, no. Good question. People still argue about the properties of the soul, and there are many theories. Some think it's like an infinite pudding—cut and divide as much as you want. Others believe it's like an onion—many layers, with an indivisible core deep inside. There are many theories, and the problem is that each of them has evidence, yet some are mutually exclusive. Hence the inability to reach a consensus. But in general, yes, the soul exists, and it can be divided… The only thing common to all theories is the connection between soul, body, and mind—the Mental Triad. Pull on one, and the other two change. In Hector's case, all the resources of this triad are directed toward restoring the soul. However, he is missing something very important."
A dramatic pause followed, 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 any one part, there will be no magic. Given the state of the boy's soul, his magic is weak."
"It was enough to get him on the Hogwarts enrollment list. Without accidental outbursts."
"That means the boy has a very strong mind and 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, shifting sand—you need water. Magic acts as the water here. He has too little of it, which is why the process has dragged on for so long."
"How is all this even possible?" Robert rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. Emma had long been leaning thoughtfully against the wall, while Hermione listened intently, memorizing this new and unprecedented knowledge.
"Are you familiar with the phenomenon of stillbirth?"
Receiving confirming nods, Smethwyck continued:
"Aside from pathologies in fetal development, in extremely rare cases, the cause can be the soul. It might be rejected by the body, or it might decompose and leave it. There are many variants, though such cases are unique across centuries of history. It so happened that something similar occurred with Hector, but something stopped the decay, and now he is recovering."
"And what do we do?"
"Place the boy in a richer magical background and administer a course of strengthening and stimulating potions. Even in the current situation, Hector will cope on his own by the age of fifteen, maybe a little later. He has passed the critical stage. But with our help, he could fully recover within a year. Give or take."
"And where do we get this magical background?" asked Emma, pushing off from the wall.
"Minerva," Smethwyck looked at the Professor. "Talk to Albus."
"You want to place the boy in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing?"
"Yes. In St. Mungo's, we would have to create the background artificially, and that costs a lot of money. And Poppy will provide care even better than our staff. She has only a few patients now and then, while we have a whole hospital. The potions required are simple; anyone can brew 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 about the various nuances of life in the magical world and the specifics of education at Hogwarts, including the general subjects. Only after the Professor had answered the questions that parents of Muggle-borns had been asking like clockwork for years did she accompany Hermione to shop for school supplies. Smethwyck had long since returned to the hospital to discuss the diagnostic data with colleagues—wanting to be two hundred percent sure of the diagnosis and treatment method—while Hector, for no apparent reason, covered a couple of sheets of paper with another chaotic mess of symbols and multidimensional structures.
The next evening, a tall, white-bearded old man in violet robes covered in runes and symbols paid a brief visit to the Granger home. He introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts.
The purpose of his visit was simple: transporting Hector to the castle. Usually, Hogwarts rules do not allow anyone not related to the staff to stay in the castle during the summer holidays, but cases of providing medical assistance were always an exception.
Transporting Hector was quite simple. The adults reasonably decided that traditional methods—train, Floo powder, or side-along Apparition—could have a detrimental effect and were rather problematic. Therefore, Albus Dumbledore decided to use his phoenix, Fawkes.
He is capable of Apparating with people so gently that it has no effect on the wizard and causes no discomfort. It was absolutely safe, and Hector could be delivered directly to the Hospital Wing. Some personal items, such as clothes, albums, notebooks, and his mobile whiteboard, would be delivered separately.