Ignacio || The Unknown Tale of Beedle the Bard

Ignacio

Down in a green valley, bounded by dense rustling forest on the hills around it, there was a village where no witch had ever been burnt. Well, there was no need for such gore in a place like that anywise. Every citizen of the village led a rather boring, peaceful life of a Muggle and none of them had ever seen such things as occurrences of real magic.

The people living there, however, were exceptionally superstitious. Instead of on the rationality of their own minds, they were resting their beliefs on the pain in the bones of the elderly, the frequency of the rain falling each year, or the level of the quality of the yield the Mother Earth was giving them every summer. Moreover, they adored telling fantastic stories to one another, making them up in their free time, and writing them down occasionally.

Amongst many unusual legends excitedly yet frightenedly passed mouth-to-mouth by the villagers, there was one that particularly stood out. It was a tale so eerie and petrifying, it was sending the shivers down the spines of even the most dauntless ones living in the valley. In the village, there was no child nor a greybeard who would have never heard of the creature sent by the devil himself - Ignacio, the boy whose body was made of the dark deathly fire that was believed, when touched, to burn everything, including human souls.

The legend of Ignatio brought forth a sturdy prejudice towards one particular part of the forest – the part where the boy was heard to reside in. Everyone grimly avoided the eastward fraction of the woodland that was spread across the steepest hills above the village, scared for their pious spirits and dreading the day Ignatio would finally step out from within the trees and burn the town in vengeance for shattering the peace he lived in.

Ignacio wandered around the nearest woods indeed, carefully stepping between the woods so no man could hear the crackling fire his flesh was made of, however, the legends never did him enough justice. 

Although no one had ever closely met or seen the indistinguishable creature, the villagers had foolishly and, for certain, naively painted the picture of Ignacio in their heads anyway, as befits the confessors of the superstitions. 

For them, Ignacio embodied the mystic powers of pure evil. It was commonly thought that the boy was so wicked, even the leaves and the bushes never wanted to catch his flames. 

Unfortunately, no one eventually became aware that the assumptions circling around the boy weren't nearly as half as true as who he was in the cruel reality he lived in, which put Ignacio in obnoxious despair. 

Eternally misunderstood, he dwelled in the forest alone, with the towering pines and the birds on its branches as his only loyal friends. He would pointlessly stroll back and forth between the ends of the woods, mainly looking upon his past and the disastrous circumstances that had led him to the place he was sadly meant to be stuck in.

He would recall the happier times before the unfortunate day his life had irreversibly changed forever. The day he, a poor Muggle boy had learned about the unbelievable existence of magic. 

Ignacio had used to live in a house full of welfare and perpetual bliss. Brought up by his loving mother, whom he had sadly lost before the time of his seventeenth birthday, he had grown up to be a decent man with plenty of perspectives for his well-planned future. Unluckily, after the day Ignacio's only parent had passed away, the boy had found out that the fortune which had once let him have the childhood of his dreams had been long gone.

Within a week the boy had surrendered in fighting with the cruel capitalism and due to the lack of money, he had had no other choice but to let the authorities take his family home. Then, without even a penny and scared to the core of eviction to the filthy orphanage in the center of the valley he had lived in, he had chosen to let the streets welcome him warmly.