Marked by the Dark

Number 3: All the Fear of the Fair, Evander’s Story

The post-trial holding area at the Ministry of Magic is a cold, bare place. The walls, floor, and ceiling are solid stone, with a heavy door and no windows. The only furniture in the small space are two rickety chairs, and I cannot pretend I am not a little afraid as I take my seat and look into the eyes of the wizard occupying the other.

Evander Gerwald stares back at me, unflinching. He appears entirely relaxed, and were it not for the grim surroundings and the shackles around his wrists and ankles a casual observer would have no inkling that a mere twenty minutes earlier he had been sentenced to life in Azkaban for his part in the worst case of Muggle-Baiting tried in front of the Wizengamot in decades.

“I thought you only interviewed so-called ‘victims’, I do hope that you don’t consider me as such.” His right eyebrow raises and a smile plays at the edge of his lips. When I tell him that it is my opinion that being a perpetrator and a victim are not necessarily mutually exclusive, the smile becomes more pronounced.

“The only thing I am a victim of is this ridiculous system that masquerades as Justice. If you’re expecting a tale of woe and misfortune then I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.”

Indeed I would be, as Evander grew up in a happy middle-class household in the popular village of Tippleton. The third son of Elliana and Ichabod Gerwald, owners of a popular local apothecary, by all accounts his childhood was near idyllic. His siblings report that their parents were strict but very loving, and that as the ‘baby’ of the household Evander was showered with affection. How then, one wonders, did he become the type of man who would inflict pain and terror on others?

“After school I went abroad for five years to train as a wandmaker. It is not possible to become a wandmaker without studying and truly understanding the subtle intricacies of magic itself, if you are to build a successful conduit you must do so intuitively. I spent twenty-four months without touching any wood or core materials, purely learning to listen to my own and others’ magic. It does not come easy, and to many apprentices it does not come at all. You must understand, those of us who master this element, we feel magic in a way that the average witch or wizard will never know.”

Evander’s fingers splay as he turns his wrists in his cuffs to raise his palms to the ceiling, and I cannot help but jump in surprise when golden sparks dance across his open hands. The guard at the door shouts in alarm, provoking a deep chuckle from his prisoner as he balls his fists, smothering the residual magic. As the guard opens the door to shout for assistance, Evander leans forward, his voice so low I too have to lean forward to hear him.

“When you can sing to your magic, it can never be truly suppressed by potions or handcuffs.”

A second guard enters the room and an additional pair of handcuffs is snapped onto the prisoner’s wrists without a struggle. If anything, Evander looks amused by their efforts, and I find myself acutely aware that I am in the presence of a truly dangerous man. It is only when the second guard has left, and the first has returned to his post at the door, that Evander continues to speak.

“The first time I consciously felt my magic pooling in my gut was a rush greater than any intoxicant or emotion could ever invoke. To hear it whispering to me as it coursed through my veins and spread through my flesh, to push it out through my fingers and command it into being, it changed everything.” Evander’s eyes shine with hunger and something akin to pride. His lips part, exposing his teeth in an almost feral grin, and I find myself unconsciously shifting back in my seat. Noting my reaction, Evander relaxes his posture and inclines his head in apology.

“I beg your pardon, it is a powerful memory. You have nothing to fear from me.”

One could argue that it is natural to be afeared of a man who has been convicted of the murder of twenty-seven muggles, and the grievous bodily harm of a further forty-six, however, it is certainly true that Evander Gerwald has never been implicated in any crime or incident involving magic folk. On the contrary, a great number of character witnesses were veritably queuing up to testify to the Wizengamot about the many charitable and altruistic acts attributed to Evander in the ten years since he returned to his childhood village as a qualified wandmaker.

“My awakening to the true majesty of my magic was equally the dawning of my understanding about the necessity to protect our gift. The muggle world is ever expanding, their cities and their technology are ravaging our natural world, forcing magical society into smaller and smaller corners, making us hide like vermin. They breed at a terrifying rate, and something must be done. Magic is precious. We must overcome.”

As unsettling as this speech is, perhaps even more unsettling is the calm and matter of fact tone in which it is delivered. Evander is certainly charismatic, but he shows none of the showmanship often seen in those who seek to brainwash or capture their audiences. Equally, there is little overt menace or mania in his body language or cadence. Evander expounds his beliefs in much the same way that one may discuss the increase in property prices, or the current standings of the National Quidditch League. He is not trying to convince me, he is merely explaining the truth as he sees it.

When I ask him how this ‘understanding’ evolved into the incident on 31 October 2021, a shadow crosses his face, his lips drawing together tightly for a moment.

“It is,” Evander swallows before continuing, “regretful that such an incident became necessary. I take no pleasure in harming anybody, Muggle or otherwise, but the position in Tippleton had become intolerable. The muggles have been encroaching on the village for years, slowly destroying the magical fields and forests where my brothers collect the herbs and fungi for their apothecary. They built their boxy cookie cutter homes, and then built more, and then built more. Us residents had reached out to our local counsellor, had pleaded for discussions to be undertaken with the muggle authorities to protect our homesteads, preserve our right to our way of life, but to no avail. The muggles kept creeping closer, devouring our lands, and by summer last year the boundary between the muggle town and the village consisted only of the fields and one drystone wall. When they tried to take that too, well.” Evander shrugs lightly. “I had no choice.”

Whilst it is easy to sympathise with the concern that the village was coming under threat, it is certain that no reasonable wizard could agree with the action that Evander took when the muggle fair set up shop on the land adjoining the village boundary on 30 October 2021. Known as a ‘funfair’, the field was filled with large, noisy muggle machines referred to as ‘rides’ along with numerous tents housing games and food vendors. In the centre of the field, the main draw for the Halloween crowds was an attraction known as a ‘ghost train’; a large enclosed trailer with a mechanised car that takes riders along a track where there are mannequins, drop down models, and luminous paint designed to make riders jump and to portray a spooky atmosphere. It was here that Evander found the inspiration for his horrific vengeance.

“These muggles, they say they come to these places to be scared.” Evander waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “All I did was give them what they claim to seek.”

What he did was somewhat more extensive than that. As fairground workers were setting up the attractions on the morning of 31 October 2021, Evander and two alleged accomplices incapacitated them with a mixture of stunning spells and use of the imperius curse. They then layered numerous dark spells, curses, and jinxes across the many machines and games across the field, and in a horrifying yet impressive display of magic they were able to apply triggers to activate the magic in response to different factors, including time and number of muggles within the vicinity.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement interviews with surviving muggles shown in the trial described that the daytime festivities passed without incident, but that began to change as darkness began to fall and the crowds began to build. Witness reports indicate that the first incidents were relatively minor in nature; muggles vomiting uncontrollably during specific rides, muggles speaking in tongues after eating the candy floss. In and of themselves, these could be classed as distasteful but not harmful muggle baiting incidents, but it is clear when looking at the evening as a whole that these incidents were not seen by the muggles for what they were, a warning.

When the festivities continued, the magic became more impactful and overtly dangerous. At 20:45hr, a new train of riders set off into the ghost train attraction. There were ten muggle riders when the train set off. When it returned to the beginning of the ride, only three muggles remained conscious. Four were dead.

“It was supposed to take them all. There were sequential curses, to be triggered by the train passing. Severing curses mostly, intended to take them two at a time from the back of the train up to the front. I still don’t know why it didn’t work. They won’t tell me.”

It didn’t work, I later learned, due to an error in the casting of one of the curses. This error meant that whilst four of the curses triggered as intended, the middle curse did not trigger at all. The two muggles who had been seated in the third car, and who survived physically unharmed, were instead doomed to watch, helpless, as the riders ahead of them fell victim to the successful curses. DMLE experts later concluded that the third unharmed muggle had avoided the effects of the curse as they had been ducked down inside the car in an effort to avoid the spooky decorations, having not wanted to take part in the first place. The three injured muggles each lost limbs, and were only saved as a muggle medic on site was able to stem the bleeding shortly after the ride concluded.

Evander rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck from side to side as I ask him what he recalls of the evening.

“I was watching from my home, you know. I knew that things were starting because the sound of the screams changed. There had been screaming all day, but the pitch changed quite suddenly. It wasn’t pleasure any more, it was terror. And then I could see the magic from the other rides dancing in the night and the crowds surging down below. It was quite beautiful really, like a dance.”

What the fairgoers witnessed that evening was far from beautiful. In addition to the severing charms placed on the ghost train, spells throughout the fair resulted in muggles being tipped out of rides approximately 50 feet above the floor, spontaneous eruptions of flame from the seats of ride cars, and garrotting gas emanating from popcorn machines. Many muggles were injured not by the malicious magic, but as a result of crush injuries from the stampede for the exit. By 21:30hr the field was deserted but for the injured, dead, and muggle authorities. Due to the number of witnesses, most of whom had fled the site, Ministry officials were unable to locate all of the muggles present and therefore stories of the evening spread quickly through the local muggle population. Muggle newspapers reported a series of mechanical failures as the cause of the tragedy, and after the area was cleared following muggle investigations Ministry officials layered new protective and muggle-repelling wards around the circumference of the village to prevent any copycat occurrences in the future. This, Evander considers a victory.

“I’m sorry that those muggles had to lose their lives, I truly am, but it was necessary, and it worked. As a direct result of my actions, Tippleton is protected from future incursions. If the authorities want to blame anybody for this, they should blame themselves. But for their inaction, it would not have happened.”

Evander looks me dead in the eye as the second guard returns to take him to Azkaban, his gaze strong and proud.

“I would do it again.”

As he is led towards the door of the holding room to take the journey to what will be his final resting place, I remember to ask him the question. I ask him how he has been marked by the dark. Looking over his shoulder as he is hauled through the door, Evander flashes me a winning smile, and his words hang in the air of the room long after he has left.

“My dear, I haven’t been marked. I’ve been anointed.”

by u/neeshky

illustrated by u/7ustine