Introduction
Harry Potter was intended to grow up with its readers. The first two books are very childish and have the aura of a safe and harmless fantasy, rather than one that has a very real impact on the characters. The characters are largely played for laughs and no one looks too closely into the unfortunate implications of the stories. As the stories grow older, this balancing act becomes harder to sustain and reading the earlier books can leave the adult reader wondering what is wrong with the Wizarding World? When you read the books as a child, watching Hagrid give Dudley a pig’s tale is hilarious; when you read them as an adult, you see Hagrid as (at best) a child abuser, convincing his parents that their fear and hatred of the wizards who have forced themselves into their lives is amply justified. There’s also the ‘minor’ joke about the Dursleys taking Dudley to have the tail removed, which would have revealed the existence of the entire Wizarding World!
This problem pops up in The Worst Witch too. In A Bad Spell for the Worst Witch, Ethel Hallow transforms Mildred into a frog (in the 2017 series, she adds to this by throwing Mildred out a window immediately afterwards) in an act of revenge. To a child, this is funny and Mildred is in no real danger; to an adult, this is the act of a sociopath, little better than attempted murder and should be treated as such. It works better in The Worst Witch because the books are aimed at children, but the point is still there.
Ethel, at least, lives in a school where there are experienced teachers that can and will help if a student gets into trouble. A minor magical mishap can be handled. The casual reaction of Miss Hardbroom to Ethel being turned into a pig, way back in the first book, may come from the experience really being little more than a bruise to the witches. But what happens if one lives outside a school, where there are no other magicians to help? The existence of such a large power imbalance is rarely a good thing.
It was a part of the Schooled in Magic books from the start, as Emily starts to explore outside Whitehall School, but my feelings on the matter sharpened after reading Anoria (Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett), in which Cordelia Cooper casually recounts the story of how she — a powerful witch — turned a girl into a goat for spying on her, an effective death sentence. She did not seem to regret it, at least at first, nor to realise that her constant habits are turning everyone against her and the only reason people tolerate her is because they’re too scared not to. She isn’t a bad person, and she does have a good heart, but she is blind to the effect she has on others. (Anoria is well worth a read.)
The story gave me an idea. Gorg Huff was kind enough to let me use it.
There are people, I was surprised to discover, who have fantasies about being hypnotised (in a manner impossible in the real world) or turned into animals or objects (also impossible). I suspect that many of those fetishes are safe, in the sense they cannot really become real. It is true a lot of kinks and suchlike can turn nasty very quickly, if one person goes beyond the other persons wishes, but that isn’t true of transformation fantasies because they literally can’t happen at all. If they could, they would be a lot less alluring…
This story, it should be noted, is set between Lessons in Etiquette and Study in Slaughter. But all you have to know is that Emily, having saved King Randor’s throne and being rewarded with a barony of her very own, is exploring the land before her return to school…
The Right Thing to Do
Emily didn’t want to admit, even to herself, but she was bored.
She knew she shouldn’t be. She was on a lordly progress around the Barony of Cockatrice, the lands King Randor had gifted her as a reward for saving his life and throne, and she knew she should show interest. And yet, it had all started to blur together. The towns, the villages, the hamlets, miles upon miles of farms intermingled with hedgerows, ditches and deep dark forests, the latter the sole preserve of the aristocracy. They were hers now, she supposed. The majority of the barony’s aristocrats and their families were either dead, for choosing the wrong side, or nothing more than wards of the king until they reached their majority and tried to reclaim their lands. It gave her a window of opportunity to make changes, permanent ones, before they returned home.
They’ll find their lands changed beyond all recognition, she thought. She’d reformed the laws, cutting through the tangle of rules and regulation so complex it was hard to avoid breaking the law at some point, and started a vast program of land reform. I’d like to see them take their lands back now.
Her lips twitched. A month ago, the peasants had been little better than slaves. Emily hadn’t seen any real difference, save perhaps for the handful of slaves who were enspelled to keep them from running away. They’d had no rights, no claim to the lands they worked and, if they dared escape to the nearest city, had to remain in hiding for a year and a day before they could claim their freedom. There was an entire cottage industry of serf-catchers who went to the cities to find the runaways, trying to bring them back before time ran out. Now, the peasants had rights — written rights, as freemen — and sole ownership of their land. And the serf-catchers had been banished from her lands.
The carriage bumped. Emily gritted her teeth, muttering a cushioning spell under her breath. She’d been urged to take the old baron’s carriage, but it was a gaudy nightmare that embarrassed her even when it was resting in the coachhouse. The new one was more respectable — it belonged to a merchant, who’d been happy to loan it to her — but hellishly uncomfortable. Emily felt as if her backside had been kicked, repeatedly. She almost wished she’d thought to walk or learnt how to ride properly. But she and horses had never gotten along.
“A rough ride, Your Ladyship,” Sir Blackley said. His aristocratic accent had gotten on her nerves, the first time they’d met, and it hadn’t improved upon further acquaintance. “The peasants haven’t been maintaining the roads.”
Emily shrugged, keeping her face under tight control. Sir Blackley — she’d mentally dubbed him Sir Hiss — was tall, dark and handsome, but with a nasty glint to his eyes that bothered her. She couldn’t help thinking he was a lot like Jack Harkness yet lacking in that character’s few positive traits. He’d flirted with her when they’d first met, in a manner that sent icy shivers down her spine, and hinted he’d be willing to go a long way for her — or with her — until she’d shut him down. It hadn’t been enough to keep him from eying every young woman they met along the way, from merchant daughters to peasant girls. Emily had no idea why King Randor had picked him as her escort. Surely, he had to realise Sir Blackley wasn’t the type of person to appeal to her.
Alassa would have turned him into a toad by now, she thought, mirthlessly. And she’d have left him that way until he learnt his lesson.
She turned away to peer out the window as the forest slowly gave way to croplands and fields. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that it was all hers. Cockatrice hadn’t looked that big on the map, but it was still a huge chunk of land. It took days for a man to walk from one end of the barony to the other. There were peasants whose entire lives were bounded by a small cluster of villages, where they thought the world ended somewhere within the dark woods. Emily knew where they were coming from, even though she knew it wasn’t true. The day belonged to humanity. The night belonged to creatures from myths and legends and anyone who went out after dark might never be seen again.
“You should have a word with the headsmen,” Sir Blackley pressed. “Or I’ll do it for you, if you like.”