The rest of the tour of the Salem Institute of Witchcraft was surprisingly enjoyable. Margaret Sayre, with her slow but imposing gait, guided them through halls with high ceilings, libraries filled with all kinds of books, and inner courtyards protected by thick stone walls.
As they walked, the elderly headmistress explained a little about the place's dark history and its unique teaching methods. She told them how the tragedy of 1692 had forced the survivors to create an impregnable sanctuary. The curriculum was not based on the theory they were accustomed to at Hogwarts, but on pure survival, with a special emphasis on potions, healing magic, and advanced defense.
Furthermore, Margaret explained why it was a school exclusively for witches. Historically, in North America, magical women and girls had been the primary targets of Muggle persecution, hatred, and bigotry. The school had been founded to provide them with a refuge, forging an unbreakable sisterhood where young women could learn to defend themselves without relying on anyone else. Hestia and Flora nodded respectfully at this information.
Finally, they reached the end of a dimly lit hallway, standing before an ordinary wooden door.
"This is the real entrance… or exit, as the case may be," Margaret announced, stopping in front of the door. She turned to the three of them, and her expression grew stern and protective once more. "Be very careful out there. The streets of Salem can be treacherous. And if you wish, the doors of this academy will always be open to you. You can come back anytime."
Aurelian nodded, offering his thanks with a smile.
"Of course we'll be back before we leave town, Madame Sayre. And I thank you—truly—for helping us at the cemetery and getting us out of that tunnel."
Margaret waved it off with a slight gesture of her hand, shaking her head.
"Nonsense, boy, nonsense. We wizards and witches must help one another, especially in dark times," said the old woman, leaning on her cane with a deep sigh. "War serves absolutely no purpose. It only wipes wizards and witches from our world for stupid reasons and the egos of others. We can't afford to lose any more magical blood."
Upon hearing those words, something clicked in Aurelian's mind. That was exactly the same reason driving his crazy plan to take the entire magical race to the stars to prevent their extinction and bring about a plausible improvement.
Aurelian took a step forward and shook her hand firmly.
"You're absolutely right, Headmistress."
Hestia and Flora also bid farewell to the Headmistress with small bows and smiles on their faces, setting aside their usual hostility toward strangers.
As they pushed open the wooden door and crossed the threshold, the magic of the protective barriers faded. The three of them squinted as their eyes adjusted to the new light.
They immediately realized they had just stepped out of what appeared to be a closet filled with toiletries, straight into the back room of a colorful Muggle "magic and witchcraft" shop right in the heart of Salem. Through the beaded curtain separating the back room from the main shop, they could see dozens of tourists buying plastic wands, fake crystal balls, and printed T-shirts.
Aurelian, Hestia, and Flora exchanged a glance for a second and burst into soft laughter. It was simply brilliant. Hiding the most important magical institution in this part of North America behind a tourist souvenir shop was the best way to keep the school under the radar in broad daylight.
They left the shop, blending in with the Muggles, and began walking back to their hotel.
As soon as they were a safe distance away, Hestia leaned toward her husband and whispered.
"I'm absolutely certain that old witch didn't tell us the whole truth in her office."
Flora nodded, frowning as she dodged a group of tourists with cameras.
"I agree. Maybe all old people in power are like that; they always love to keep secrets up their sleeves and speak in riddles. It reminds me of a certain headmaster with a fondness for lemon drops."
Aurelian didn't say anything. He simply walked between his wives, letting the murmur of their theories accompany him as he lost himself in his own thoughts.
It was more than obvious that Margaret Sayre hadn't told them everything about the cemetery. The way she sidestepped the question of how she knew about the Deathly Hallows, and the gleam in her eyes when she spoke of souls… she was hiding something. Whether she was doing it to protect them from danger, or if she had other hidden intentions, was a complete mystery.
But Aurelian didn't care. His pride had been stung. He couldn't—and wouldn't—leave this damned place without finding out what was really happening to the souls of those tormented wizards and witches. If there was a curse that allowed us to cross over, he would break it.
Suddenly, a sharp pain in both cheeks yanked him abruptly out of his inner monologue.
"Ouch!" Aurelian groaned.
Hestia and Flora had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Realizing that their beloved husband was completely lost in his thoughts and hadn't heard a single word they'd said in several minutes, they'd raised their hands and were pinching his cheeks quite hard.
"Are you paying attention to us, Mr. Gaunt?" Hestia demanded, tightening her grip with a dangerously sweet smile.
"It seems your mind is elsewhere, darling," Flora added, stretching the other cheek.
Aurelian, his face contorted by his wives' grip and his pride in tatters right there on the public street, quickly apologized.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" stammered Aurelian, trying to speak with his cheeks stretched tight. "Forgive me, my loves! You are the most beautiful, perfect, and understanding witches in the world!"
Hearing his clumsy yet tender words of apology, Hestia and Flora couldn't help but laugh. They sighed, satisfied, and finally let go of his face.
"Just this once, and only this once, we'll let it slide, my love," Hestia warned, affectionately adjusting the collar of his coat, which had become disheveled during the struggle.
Aurelian rubbed his flushed cheeks, letting out a weary laugh. He raised his hands and tenderly stroked both their heads, once again thanking the universe for having them by his side.
But for now, the secrets of the cemetery, the cursed souls, and the red-eyed ravens would have to wait. All the young lord wanted at this very moment was to get to their hotel room, collapse onto the softest bed he could find, and simply sleep in the arms of his wives.
Exactly three days had passed since they'd met Margaret Sayre and the young orphans from the Salem Institute of Witches.
During those seventy-two hours, Aurelian had devoted himself almost exclusively to thinking of a way to do something for those tormented souls. On the first day, driven by curiosity, he had approached the boundaries of the old cemetery once more. However, as soon as the sole of his shoe touched the cursed ground, the town's magical oppression multiplied a hundredfold, crushing the air in his lungs. Immediately giving up on entering again, he backed away, realizing that venturing in there without proper preparation would be tantamount to suicide.
He decided to spend the next two days in the safety of the hotel room with Hestia and Flora. As rain fell on the streets of Massachusetts, the trio spent their time proposing and discarding theories on how to break a curse.
Right now, the three of them were lying on the bed. They were on their backs, staring at the white ceiling of the room.
"We could channel demonic fire and purify the earth down to its very foundations," suggested Flora, waving her hands slightly in the air.
"Too unstable. We could accidentally burn down the entire town," Aurelian dismissed the idea immediately.
"What if we perform a blood ritual to force them to cross over?" Hestia proposed.
"Blood magic requires something alive; it wouldn't work on specters without physical bodies," he replied, letting out a long sigh. "Next idea."
Silence fell over the room. The three of them, with their complex minds, seemed to have hit a wall.
Suddenly, Hestia tilted her head on the pillow to look at her husband's profile.
"Hey… what if we just went in and tried to talk to them face-to-face?"
Flora's eyes widened, instantly understanding what her twin sister meant. She jumped up, sitting on the mattress with a beaming smile.
"Of course! Aurelian, if you use the Resurrection Stone, we could pull it off!" Flora exclaimed, resting her hands on his chest.
Aurelian smiled slightly, caressing Flora's hands.
"I'd already thought of something like that, my loves," he confessed, shaking his head slightly. "But I don't think it's possible. As far as I know, the stone only brings back from the dead those we care about or love deeply. I don't think it would work to summon hundreds of unknown souls—especially when they're filled with so much hatred."
Upon hearing his refusal, Hestia also sat up. Both of them leaned over him and stared intently at him. They used neither persuasion, nor sarcasm, nor coldness; they simply wielded the deadliest weapon in their arsenal.
They gave him the most adorable and tender expressions they were capable of. They pouted slightly, their big eyes sparkling with innocence.
Aurelian stared at them for a couple of seconds. He felt his will shatter into pieces. He let out a sigh, running his hands over his face in a gesture of defeat. He couldn't, under any circumstances, deny them anything when they looked at him that way.
"All right, you win," Aurelian conceded, surrendering with a smile. "I guess we've got nothing to lose by trying."
Early the next morning, the plan was set in motion.
It was three in the morning—the witching hour. The weather in Salem was freezing, and thick fog crept through the streets. The three of them slipped into the shadows of the cemetery, walking with extreme caution.
"Don't stray from me for even a moment. No matter what happens," Aurelian whispered to them, holding an arm out in front of them.
Hestia and Flora nodded silently, walking practically right behind him, wands at the ready in their hands.
When they reached the center of the clearing again and stood before the unsettling monument of the seven bronze women, the reaction was instantaneous. The cold intensified, and out of nowhere, hundreds of crows began to materialize on the dry branches of the trees, cawing in that eerie tone that heralded tragedy.
Before the birds could begin their chorus, Aurelian stepped forward and cleared his throat, projecting his voice with magic so it could be heard throughout the cemetery.
"Calm down. I just want to talk," Aurelian declared, raising his empty hands to show he wasn't holding his wand.
He reached into the right pocket of his coat and pulled out the small black stone engraved with the symbol of the Hallows. He held it in the palm of his hand, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
"I hope this works," he whispered to himself. "Lady Death, give me a hand, will you?"
Slowly, Aurelian spun the Resurrection Stone three times between his fingers.
A moment later, the crows stopped cawing. Their forms began to dissolve into the fog.
The cemetery filled with figures. There were men and women dressed in the clothing of 1692; some had rope marks on their necks, others terrible burns. But what surprised Aurelian most were not the adults.
It was the children.
There were dozens of boys and girls—most of them too young to even understand the word "magic"—hiding, trembling, behind the thick tree trunks and gravestones. They were pure, innocent souls, condemned to wander because of the hatred and paranoia of the non-magical. Hestia and Flora lowered their wands, watching the little spirits with sadness.
From among the crowd of ghosts, the mist parted to make way for a woman.
She was a spirit who appeared to be about fifty years old. She wore a tattered dress, and her eyes reflected immeasurable weariness and pain. She floated until she was a few meters in front of Aurelian, looking at him with a mixture of hope and fear.
"I sense in you the shadow that all of us can see but not touch, young wizard," the woman said. "Can you… can you help us find peace?"
Aurelian put the stone back in his pocket, keeping his composure. He looked at the hundreds of wounded spirits and the frightened children and gave them a gentle, comforting smile.
"I'll try, ma'am. I give you my word."
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