Bad Faith

The red haired girl hurrying down the dark alley stopped short, catching her reflection in the greasy tavern window. She couldn't recognize her face peering from the deep shadows of her hood through the sheets of rain. Though it was well after hours, sudden shouts and crashes indicated a brawl inside, and Ginny snapped out of her reverie and rushed along. There was no time for reflection. She'd cast a spell on the family clock, but should her mother discover one of her children's beds were empty, she'd have no trouble breaking the simple charm. Best not to hesitate.

Still, Ginny couldn't entirely prevent the nervous thoughts from churning in her head. She'd seen the Daily Prophet the day after her change. The Ministry of Magic was hurling accusations at the American Department of Magical Affairs because they'd neglected to respond to the danger of a self-trained young upstart in California. Despite the Ministry's request for intervention the DMA had to chosen to ignore the problems she caused before, and now she'd managed to cast a spell strong enough to alter the nature of the slayers. Instead of a manageable one at a time, there were now thousands, overnight. Wizards had been involved in the creation of the Watcher's Council centuries before, but none of the muggles that dominated the institution now remembered that. Nowadays the wizarding world generally left the slayer business to the Council and the girls themselves, but with a dangerous number of young women suddenly finding they have inexplicable superpowers, many wizards were advocating stepping in to guide or control them.

She hadn't paid too much attention to the particulars of the debate; the news was chilling and distracting. It was such a strange coincidence, but it couldn't be the reason for her change. Witches simply couldn't become slayers, everyone knew that. Not once in the records that stretched back millennia had a witch been called. Slayers were always seemingly normal girls whose part demon nature emerged only when stimulated by the death of their predecessor. They could come from wizarding stock, one or two had been squibs, but never witches. Most believed that the demon part somehow prevented the wielding of magic even before it fully emerged, but a few thought the reverse was true, a witch could use her magic to suppress any demonic forces.

That was a comforting thought, at least. She was not a slayer, a creature produced through union with a demon, intimately bound to a purely evil force. That would mean no longer being truly human, and losing all of her rights under wizarding law, even the right to practice magic or own a wand.

The not so comforting thought was that since she couldn't have been slayerized, there had to be some other reason for her new power, and Tom was the only possible cause that leapt to mind. He still haunted her dreams occasionally, and she'd grown to accept the flashes of memory and knowledge that didn't belong to her. The teachers had explained that he'd somehow invaded her very soul, but she never revealed to anyone that he had left an imprint on her. The thought that this was his doing, even though she couldn't understand the reason for it, was absolutely terrifying. Could he be building her power to mold her into a more useful tool for his manipulation? Ginny shivered violently under her heavy woolen cloak, even though it shielded her quite well from the cold and damp.

She stopped short as she passed a dingy shop window, doubling back to read the peeling lettering of the crooked sign through the downpour. A quick glance at the display window suggested more slimy, slithery, and decomposing bits than the Potion Master's personal supply cabinet. The girl took a deep breath and started up a partially obscured stairway to the right of shop entrance, a precarious construction of half rotten wood. She needed to understand what was happening to her before she would reveal it to anyone, and this old hag was infamous seer--very talented, but as a non-human, she practiced divination illegally without a witch's license. A legitimate seer would be legally required to reveal the results of a reading to the parents of a minor, but Hypostaea couldn't report anything to either the girl's parents or the authorities without inviting her own prosecution. She was disreputable enough to be trusted.

The hag welcomed the girl as if she were expected and directed her to wooden chair at a small table. The only other furniture in the main room consisted of shelves packed with jars and bowls of herbs and other magical substances, and small stove and cauldron. Drying plants hung from the ceiling beams, and herbs that had finished drying filled jars and bags all around the room. Other jars had contents of the more disturbing variety, newts' eyes, lizard tongue, dragon heart and liver, insect legs, and other unidentifiable organs and goos. One glass jar of bluish tinted liquid held what looked like several floating human fingertips.

"How 'bout a cuppa afore we get started, love?" The hag offered a friendly gesture as she bustled about the kitchen area. The girl's voice failed her. "I'll just put the kettle on awhile, let ye get yerself settled then." Once she'd lit a burner and arranged everything for the tea, the seer settled down opposite her visitor.

"No need to be nervous now, ducks. 'Tis a burden, I suppose, but ye can tell Hypostea all 'bout it." The girl still hesitated, so the hag continued to prompt. "Yer here about the slayer thing, then?"

"Yes--I mean no. I mean I know it's not that, but I want to know why I changed to be like this...stronger and all."

"An' how do ye know it's not that?" The hag queried as she straightened her skirt without looking up.

"It's impossible. I'm a witch."

"Well, then it must be possible now, mustn't it?"

"Beg your pardon?"

The hag sighed patronizingly. "You're a slayer, dear, I know one when I see 'em. Had a few even come after me in me day, ye know."

"But how?" Ginny's voice was still incredulous.

"An' how should I know, pet? That's not me business. Ye'd have to ask a proper wizard. I only tell what I see, I dinna bother with the whys and what fers."

"But a witch cannot be turned into one of th--into a slayer." The girl's tone was aggressive as she defended her humanity.

"Is that what they tell ye now?" the decrepit creature chuckled raspily. "No my sweet, it's that a witch can't be called against her will. They're too strong fer that, know how to protect themselves, they do. A witch has to invite the demon in."

The hag leaned toward her and grinned broadly, revealing a crooked smile decorated with greenish fungus. A wave of her putrid breath invaded the girl's nostrils, inciting her to shove back her chair from the rickety table.

"I didn't invite him in!" Ginny shouted, thinking of someone entirely different.

"Course not, dearie, course not." The hag raised her voice over the shrill whistle of the kettle. She turned to the small stove, and poured the tea into a pair of mugs. She placed a cup in front of the girl, who pulled her seat back to the table with mechanical politeness. The hideous seer sat down again, sipping from her own chipped mug. After placing it daintily on an equally worn saucer, she looked up piercingly at the girl again.

"I'm not saying ye'd have a fancy ritual or said some 'fficial words, no, no. What I mean is some part of yer mind or soul wanted it--thirsted for the power of it." The girl swallowed hard. "Ye must 'ave wanted it a little, ducks." The hag tried for a fond smile, but the girl barely repressed her revulsion. "Otherwise it couldna have gotten into ye. Even a little brat of a witch like yerself has the power and natural, involunt'ry instinct to protect her mind and spirit from possessions an' invasions. Simple fact, that is." The grin stretched even farther, distorting the already hideous features into a predatory gaze. "So's ye must have been wantin' the power, my poppet, so much that ye didna mind the cost."

The girl stared down into her untouched tea as if scrying for answers. She hesitated before responding, afraid of the implications in that grotesque smirk, wondering if somehow she could be to blame. She'd wanted Tom to be real so badly, to be there with her, that she'd given him access to her soul and will without understanding what she was doing. But that was years ago, and it was different situation. Even the dark lord didn't have the power to call slayers.

"No. I'm not like that that. I'm good--I don't care about power! That would be evil." Her protests were more forceful than she'd intended. Patting the girl's hand in a grandmotherly fashion, the old hag tried to be comforting.

"Don't fret about it so, pet. Lotsa these lasses do the whole fightin' fer good thing."

"They don't know what they are." The girl's voice was cold and empty.

"That the they don't," the hag amiably ceded, clucking her tongue. "Yer kind saw to that a long time ago, convinced 'em all they were champions fer the good instead. But since ye do know, ye might as well accept it." The seer fixed the girl with a piercing stare. "Ye know better, ye don't have to pretend to be some sorta champion or martyr. Ye do what ye like, love, yer free."

"I won't listen to you. I will not be manipulated or tempted by evil," the girl pronounced determinedly as she pulled her arm back.

"Now, now, my sweet, I'm not tellin' ye to be evil." She took another long sip. "But I'm not tellin' ye to try an' be good like ye've got no choice neither. I'm sayin' ye have the power of demon, and ye wanted it pretty bad, bad enough to risk yer rights to yer magic, so's ye do whatever ye wanted with it." The girl resisted the hag's efforts to engage her, staring without emotion, completely withdrawn into herself. "Ye don't have to be so suspicious, ducks, I'm tryin' to help ye. Ye can take this power and do whatever ye want with it, and ye might as well, seein' how ye've turned part demon to get it." The girl's blank stare turned to a hateful glare.

"I'm not a demon!" she snapped viciously. Locking her grip around the repulsive bony old arm, she hurled the hag across the room. The harridan flew like a rag doll, smashing clear through the table before slamming against the moldy wall with sickening thud that brought a row of shelves down on top of the decrepit seer. She collapsed, unmoving, at an awkward angle. Horrified by her sudden rage, the girl ran over to the body, pulling out her wand instinctively to heal, or at least awaken her victim.

"Oh shit--I'm sorry. I'm so sorry--Fuck! Please be alive." She crouched down to examine the hag's condition, but before she could cast a healing spell, the hag's eyelids cracked open and she began wheezing loudly for breath. Whatever the old woman struggled to say was lost in the coughs and gasps.

The girl stood up and backed away, now feeling the full shock of her actions--but even as she condemned her loss of control she felt a sort of giddiness at realizing the extent of her strength. She started to giggle, a little drunk with the release of letting her power loose, seeing her potential and the possibilities it promised dance before her.

She stifled her absurd glee after a moment as she surveyed the mess surrounding her. With a look of resolve she stepped over an overturned bowl of shiny black beetle eyes, feeling the odd few pop and squish under her boot. Closing in on the hag, she aimed her wand squarely at the old woman's temple. Ginny Weasley pronounced the incantation though she's never before been aware that she was capable of performing this spell.

"Obliviate."