In a dim room, a single kerosene lamp struggled against the encroaching darkness. A thin man wrapped in black robes sat alone on a frayed, shabby sofa. His shoulder-length dark hair hid most of his face and his prominent, hooked nose. Aside from the occasional bubbling sound from a cauldron, the room was completely silent.
The man stared through strands of greasy hair—ruined by years of potion-brewing—at the boiling cauldron, his ink-black eyes betraying not a single trace of emotion. He could no longer remember when he last bathed, nor when he had last eaten. Aside from going to school to teach, he imprisoned himself in this gloomy room during the holidays.
It was as though he were punishing himself, yet he relished it. Apart from necessary meals and purchasing ingredients, he spent his entire day researching and brewing potions. He possessed a profound passion for potion-making, and he enjoyed the wondrous reactions that occurred when various ingredients were mixed together. Potions had accompanied him throughout his life; now, perhaps, they were all he had left.
The man stood up, his chest rising and falling slightly. Although a wave of dizziness caused by prolonged starvation quickly washed over him, he swiftly gathered the potion from the cauldron, put on his coat, and left the room. Because of the school holidays and his habit of never storing food, he had no choice but to go out and buy some sandwiches to barely appease his hunger.
The sky was gloomy, and a fine drizzle fell in sheets. The humid air was thick with the stench of garbage. Though the man paid it no mind, his furrowed brow deepened. He cast a waterproofing charm and walked briskly down the narrow, gloomy alley. Fortunately, thanks to the rain, there were very few pedestrians on the street. Compared to engaging in meaningless socialization with fools, staying in that dilapidated house he refused to call home brought him far more contentment. His face grew even darker, and his pace quickened accordingly.
Suddenly, the man's keen sense of smell caught a hint of the smell of blood, which rapidly grew thicker. He stopped abruptly, his body crouching slightly, his Wand already gripped tightly in his right sleeve. Clearly, this alley was not as safe as Diagon Alley; curses echoed back and forth. "It must just be a few drunkards brawling," the man sneered, turning to leave. He had no interest in the events transpiring here. However, the moment he took a step, a shrill dog's bark pierced the air. Before he could even react, an immensely powerful surge of magical backlash erupted from behind him.
The cursing voices that had echoed back and forth suddenly fell silent, replaced by the dull, heavy thuds of falling stones: *thud, thud, thud*. Faintly, a halting, melodious yet desolate humming could be heard. The man could not make out the lyrics, but the rhythm was hauntingly beautiful. The voice was childish, clearly not belonging to any of those men whose curses had just grown so abrasive. The man tensed all over, raising his Wand, his pitch-black pupils trembling slightly. Garbage was strewn everywhere in the alley, and four men lay on the ground. Expressions of anger remained frozen on their faces, their fists still raised in mid-punch. Yet every single one of them lay motionless on the ground. The striking sound did not stop; a tiny figure sat astride one of the fallen men.
A child? The child hummed a tune of unknown origin, grasping a stone in both hands and bringing it down, strike after strike, onto the face of the fallen man. Transparent raindrops trickled down her body, turning into crimson liquid as they hit the ground. Not far from the child lay an injured puppy, whining as it watched her. Not until the face of the man on the ground was completely caved in did the child slowly stand up. She walked unsteadily to another fallen man and resumed savagely beating his face with the stone, humming intermittently all the while.
Severus Snape frowned deeply as he watched from not far away—a child covered in blood, repeatedly bludgeoning a man lying on the ground. There were no superfluous movements or words; every single blow brought the stone down with pinpoint accuracy upon the victim's temple. She looked utterly calm, expressionless even. Snape stared fixedly at the tiny figure. She was wrapped in dirty, tattered clothes resembling a burlap sack, her hair cut very short, and her feet bare. A child smaller than a first-year wizard was... killing someone.
He hesitated over whether to intervene; this child was extremely dangerous. But the magical backlash from moments before had clearly been caused by her—what on earth had she done? As Snape raised his Wand, preparing to cast a Stunning Charm, he noticed that the child's waist was also soaked in blood. Damn it! If she kept losing blood at this rate and it wasn't stopped immediately, she wouldn't hold out much longer.
Snape flipped the child over, his dark eyes locking onto a pair of blood-red eyes. Those eyes seemed to possess a magical power that firmly arrested Snape's gaze, rendering him completely immobile. Immediately afterward, he felt a stabbing pain shoot from his thigh—he had been petrified! The child's movements did not stop; she snatched up a fallen stone from the ground and swung it viciously toward Snape's temple. Suddenly, the child felt a tremendous force blast her backward, sending her crashing into the opposite wall.
She tried with all her might to stand up, but her eyes were already bloodshot, and warm, pungent blood gradually blurred her vision. Collapsing once more, the child did not look at the man who had ultimately struck her down, but instead forced her eyes open, searching through the dimming scenery for the puppy in the corner that was watching her with the same gaze. The last shred of light vanished from her eyes, replaced by emptiness and silence.
"Angus..." Severus Snape swore this was his unluckiest and most foolish day. He had actually grown soft-hearted enough to try and save a murderer, only to be ambushed by this pint-sized killer. Lumping along on one leg, he temperately searched his ingredient cabinet for Mandrake; his left leg was still paralyzed in a state of petrification. Fortunately, the child's magic had been severely depleted, and his reflexes were sharp. Otherwise, he would have become just another plaster statue on the street. Unfortunately, reversing petrification required fully matured Mandrakes, and he had none in stock.
Snape glanced down at the little girl lying on the ground. The bandaged wounds on her body had stopped bleeding, and her breathing was steady, though she remained unconscious. Snape sneered coldly and slammed the cabinet shut. He limped over to the frayed sofa opposite the little girl, keeping his Wand trained on her as he observed her closely. Aside from the wounds on her waist and eyes, her face, limbs, and even her back were covered in bruises and long, narrow scars. Her hair was cropped very short, and her entire body was severely malnourished, her cheeks hollow. She could not have been more than five or six years old. If he hadn't just tended to her wounds, it would have been impossible to tell her gender at all.
Keeping his Wand steadily aimed at the little girl, Snape walked over to the fireplace to contact Dumbledore. Such a massive trouble naturally needed to be handed over to the greatest of white wizards. Recalling the old man's habit of chewing overly sweet candies all day while pretending to be senile, a flicker of sarcastic sneer crossed Snape's face. However, at that moment, the little girl's body began to tremble slightly, her reactions growing more intense. Was she having a nightmare? She was about to wake up. Snape quickly steadied himself, standing directly in front of the little girl with his Wand pointed right at her.
"Angus!" Cold sweat beaded on the girl's forehead as she abruptly sat up, the movement pulling at her injuries and making her actions much slower. Then, she felt her vision blocked; the moment she raised her hand, a Wand was pressed against her throat. "If you still want to keep your head, put your hand down." The voice was low and magnetic, irresistible yet sounding somewhat hazy. Snape noticed the little girl's movements freeze noticeably, after which she slowly lowered her hand. Even so, she remained entirely tense, striking a pose ready for combat at any moment, though her movements ultimately grew abnormally sluggish and fell limply away with zero force.
"If—the organs in your neck are still functioning properly, you should clearly feel the effect of having your strength drained away." Seeing that she offered no reaction, Snape returned to the sofa and sat down. His left leg was utterly numb, the agonizing pain persisting. Yet he kept his eyes locked on the little girl; strangely enough, she appeared remarkably calm—so calm, in fact, that she seemed entirely devoid of emotional fluctuation.
Snape kept asking questions, but the little girl gave no answer whatsoever, as if she couldn't hear him at all. Snape's expression grew steadily darker, yet further questioning failed to elicit even the slightest response from the child. Had he not examined her earlier, he would have thought the child was deaf and mute. He had a lingering sense of being played with by this child; his brow furrowed, and his chilling tone turned even harsher.
"That dog..." Snape said in a low voice, but before he could finish, he saw the girl's hand twitch. Remembering the name the girl had shrieked before waking, he sneered sarcastically, "So you aren't deaf after all, just mute. Even your pet has a name, yet you don't. Let's just call you Silence!" Snape felt as though he were hallucinating, because upon hearing those words, the girl actually gave a slight nod. He found it deeply bizarre; this girl's eyes were fraught with peril, yet she was utterly incapable of normal communication.
Leaving her to go free might mean that tomorrow the entire street would be filled with plaster statues. Furthermore, he was in no position to contact anyone else right now. He was growing intensely irritable, feeling the numbness in his left leg slowly creeping up toward his thigh. Thus Snape stood in a standoff with the girl, knowing that the moment he let his guard down, she would seize any opportunity without hesitation. Yet, as his petrified state worsened, he said:
"If you can still move, get out! Go back to wherever you came from! I hardly think a dog has enough intelligence to track you down..."
Time rolled back three hours. Breaking free from the control of the girl's gaze, Snape heard the sounds of someone approaching in the distance. Dragging one leg, he scooped up the little girl and departed immediately. He glanced at the puppy lying on the ground; its injuries were not fatal. At that moment, he had no leisure to worry about other dangers. The puppy watched the man carry the little girl away, letting out a frantic howl. Snape cast a look of weary danger over his shoulder: "Noisy beast! How repulsive..."