Curse

They were decorating the manor for Christmas. The manor had to be prepared in advance. Though magic made things convenient, some tasks still had to be done by hand.

Sherlock, who was only four at the time, had wanted to help as well. While hanging ornaments on the Christmas tree, he accidentally cut a small gash in his hand.

To be honest, the sight had broken his mother Aili's heart. She wanted to fetch some dittany potion, which was highly effective at treating injuries. It could even heal the horrific wounds suffered when a wizard was splinched during Apparition.

But when Aili returned with it, she witnessed something unbelievable.

Her eldest son had actually picked up the wand she had hurriedly set on the floor, pointed it at the wound on his hand, and repeatedly chanted a spell. Under the spell's magic, the wound on Sherlock's hand slowly healed at a visible rate, until it was completely restored without even the faintest scar.

"This is incredible... You're only four, yet you can already cast spells! Did your father teach you this?"

Aili instinctively assumed that, in this manor, aside from herself, only her husband Fumengde could have secretly taught their son spells.

"No... I came up with this spell myself by studying the family books in the manor. I call it 'Scarless Healing.' But with my current magic, I can only treat minor wounds like this. At least it won't leave a scar." Sherlock waved his fair little hand, which showed no trace of injury.

"Mom, am I smart?"

Smart? He's far more than smart. Could my son be some kind of fairy in disguise?

"Uh... y-yes, you're smart. Your father really didn't teach you?"

"Mom! I really invented it myself!"

Seeing the doubt on his mother's face, Sherlock protested in a spoiled, pleading tone.

That evening, after Fumengde returned to the manor from visiting friends with his three-year-old daughter Axinsha, Aili immediately told him about it. It was one thing for a four-year-old to have gone through a magical outburst, but to actually invent a spell as well—even one with a simple function—was terrifying.

Fumengde was also shocked when he first heard his wife's words, but he quickly calmed down. In silence, he called over his eldest son Sherlock, took out a knife, and cut his own palm.

Axinsha, standing nearby, was so frightened that she began wailing.

Fumengde then handed his wand to Sherlock and had him cast Scarless Healing on him once more. After a moment of flustered panic, Sherlock carefully took his father's wand and cast Scarless Healing on his bleeding palm.

"Scarless Healing... Scarless Healing... Scarless Healing!"

Because his father's wound was rather large and had bled quite a bit, four-year-old Sherlock's magic was limited, so he had to repeat the spell several times.

In the end, Fumengde looked at his fully restored palm and clenched it hard. There was no sign of a scar at all, nor did he feel any discomfort. It was as though he had never been injured.

"This really is incredible... Even when the healer-wizards at St. Mungo's use healing spells, scars are often left at the site of the wound. I'm afraid only the head of St. Mungo's could cast a healing spell so well that it left no scars behind!"

He murmured to himself, though he was also speaking for his wife to hear.

Then, as though he had thought of something, he took off his shirt and exposed the three claw marks on his chest. They were scars left by a werewolf he had encountered while exploring Italy before he got married.

"Try it on this! See if you can heal it!"

Faced with his father's eager expression, Sherlock nodded and cast Scarless Healing on the claw marks.

Fumengde's chest felt slightly itchy, as if little bugs were crawling over it, but the claw marks gradually disappeared bit by bit.

This left Fumengde surprised and delighted, with a small hint of disappointment as well. The claw marks left by that werewolf had been proof of his courage in his youth, and he had shown them off plenty of times in front of his close friends. Now that they had suddenly been healed, it felt as though he had lost a medal representing his bravery.

"Haha... My son truly is a genius! I'll get you the best Christmas present."

The disappointment lasted only an instant. What he felt most was joy. Aili was also extremely excited; she had never expected her son to possess such extraordinary talent at such a young age.

Seeing how happy her parents were, his three-year-old sister bounced and hopped around her brother.

Fumengde and Aili had originally intended to keep this secret hidden for the time being. Their son was still young, and even if he possessed great talent, it was not suitable to flaunt it outside at his age.

In any case, as he grew older, their son would gradually reveal his unparalleled gifts.

But secrets that were hidden often ended up becoming known to everyone.

It happened after Christmas, when several of Fumengde's friends came to visit Mephisto Manor. Though the Mephisto Family had become reclusive, that did not mean they had cut off contact with their friends in the outside world.

After a lavish dinner and some wine, everyone began boasting. At first, they were all bragging about their own brave exploits, but Fumengde seemed somewhat quiet. In the past, he would certainly have exposed the claw marks on his chest and told them how a werewolf had left them there when he was young.

Now that the scars had healed, he no longer had any proof to show. Besides, his friends already knew the story.

But seeing Fumengde so quiet, they teased him, asking why he was no longer recounting the tale of the scars the werewolf had left on his chest.

Fumengde gave an awkward smile, which only drew everyone's attention and suspicion.

When they caught Fumengde off guard, pulled open his clothes, and saw that his chest was smooth and clean without any claw marks, they angrily drew their wands and aimed them at him.

The claw marks on Fumengde's body were an extremely private secret. Only a few of his closest friends knew about them; outsiders generally knew nothing. Now they suspected that the Fumengde before them was another wizard in disguise, one who did not know the secret of Fumengde's scars.

"Good heavens! Listen up, brothers, I'm the real one! The claw marks on my chest were merely healed... If you don't believe me, you can give me Veritaserum!"

Fumengde said helplessly.

"Bullshit! A werewolf's claws are vicious weapons with immense destructive power. Even highly skilled wizards at St. Mungo's can't heal the scars they leave!"

"I happen to have some Veritaserum here. I was planning to use it for a Muggle game called 'Truth or Dare,' so let this bastard have a taste!"

The other wizards had no idea what Truth or Dare was, but they still made Fumengde drink the Veritaserum. They asked several questions that made Fumengde blush and his heart race, all about his most private matters. They even dragged in details about his wife Aili—her figure, her skin, and certain matters in that regard...

Fumengde was furious.

When they finally asked why the scar on his chest was gone, he honestly explained that his son had invented a spell not long ago called Scarless Healing, which could not only treat wounds but also leave no scars behind.

Even injuries as difficult to heal as those inflicted by a werewolf's claws could be completely cured.

Hearing Fumengde's truthful explanation, everyone turned suspicious looks toward the fellow who had brought out the Veritaserum and asked, "Does Veritaserum expire too? How did it make him start talking nonsense?"