Disclaimer: Harry Potter is JK Rowling's. Bloodborne is FromSoftware's. I make no money from this.
Premise: The Good Hunter is a Black from before the Statute of Secrecy. After battling in the Dream for 300 years real-time, they awaken one day to find the world greatly changed. Lenore Black is not happy about this, but everyone else might be less happy about her kicking over the cabbage cart.
Enjoy, everyone! (and don't worry, I haven't abandoned my other, better Harry Potter fic for this)
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A Hunter For Hogwarts
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1
Return of the Hunter
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A field of white lilies stretched to the horizon, but all Lenore could smell was blood.
Her blood. Gehrman's blood. The Old Blood. The blood of the countless slain behind her.
The air was thick and cloying with sweet copper, but soon, it would be over.
Each step of her boots was not in loamy earth, but on cracked and stony ground.
A pressure weighed on her shoulders, but Lenore remained upright.
Deep within her mind, she could hear a child screaming in the dark, screaming for God, begging her, pleading, to run.
She didn't stop walking, nor did she take her eyes off the approaching Presence.
The thing sounded like a world screaming in homicidal madness… and, at the same time, it sounded like nothing at all.
Lenore's grip was tight on her blunderbuss, her saw-cleaver glinting in the red moonlight.
Her jaw was tight as the shrieking horror landed before her, amid crosses and bloodstained Stones.
Stones that reminded Lenore of Scotland… and her duty, nearly finished.
Knowing the Presence could comprehend her, she spoke, softly, compassionately, as a mother would to a child.
"Let me give you peace."
Her promise to Uncle Vega was fulfilled; she offered it a chance, mercy, in exchange for the memory of Arianrhod, the Goddess of the Moon and Hunt, who long watched over Man.
It struck like lightning, a wailing nightmare made solid.
No benevolence, no mercy, nothing of the former Goddess remained, save what the Gaunt Rituals had turned it into.
Lenore smiled and shot it as it passed her by, having already predicted the eldritch abomination's movements and dodged, slashing at the grasping tendrils to keep them at bay.
'So be it. I will show you the strength of my Dream.'
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Lenore woke to wooden rafters.
She never woke in the… worksho-
It was over.
A deep inhale of shock brought a lungful of dust halfway down her throat; Lenore curled up and coughed…
She was lying on a wooden table… a needle was in the inside elbow of her right arm, the tube leading to the transfusion vial above her head… which was cracked and broken; her arm… her white dress-shirt clad arm.
Looking lower, she found herself in black suspenders, a pair of leather trousers- and then she saw the badge.
A silver badge, on her belt, showing a sickle and a flintlock pistol; the badge of the Order of the Silver Crescent, a lodge… of…
Hunters. She was… she was a Hunter of Dark Wizards, one of the chosen few charged with keeping the forces of Darkness at bay, ensuring no commoners, whether mundane or magical, were ensnared by liches, demons, or other Dark beings; essentially a Magical Inquisitor, it was also Lenore's job to ensure responsible research practices amongst the common folk… at least on paper.
Her actual job was killing things, particularly things too dangerous to be left alone for someone stupid to stumble on.
In Lenore's experience, most people were, in fact, stupid enough to accidentally release an eldritch horror on some unsuspecting population; why, just look what the feck happened in Dunwich (forever banished to another dimension). Didn't matter if they were magical or mundane, stupid was as stupid did.
More recently, due to the Roman Inquisition – who were a little too good at aiding the tyrannical Church in its insane decrees – murdering an entire magical settlement in south France for being "heretics", witch-hunting was on the rise again, and this time it was seriously bad. Mainly because not everyone knew the Flame-Freezing Charm, being moronic inbred garbage pseudo-nobles. At least the Squib branches knew to keep their mouths shut, so not all was lost.
Unfortunately, this also meant that quite a few dangerous sites needed to be sealed off, because these same inbred swine decided using ancient magical history and trying to summon Them Under Stones or Them Outside was just feckin brilliant.
Her Order had been fighting fires all over Britain, and their brother and sister Orders throughout Europe were having just as hard a time making sure all the old sites were sealed, ensuring They wouldn't tread the world or be corrupted by fool nobles, many of whom thought magic was theirs to command.
At least the Department of Mysteries was aiding the Orders, but…
'Feck me, how long's it been?' wondered Lenore, finally coughing the last of the dust up; something caught her eye, and she looked up.
A circle of salt runes surrounded her table, their light blue glow showing a spell that was constantly active; just outside it was a wheelchair, which held the corpse of... someone dressed in Hunter's garb, the Silver Crescent badge over his heart, where the hilt of a silver dagger could be seen. The man's skin was stretched over his hands, mummified in death… and on his pinky was the Seneschal Ring of House Bones.
"Martine-hack! Hack-hack-hack-hack! Hack… feck," the rustle of parchment and something moving on her chest drew Lenore's attention from her dead fellow and dry, choking coughs; plucking the wax-affixed page off her shirt, she set it above her head and got to removing the transfusion needle. Once done, Lenore examined her skin, her body.
She looked just as hale and healthy as last she was awake, as a… her age, that was missing. She knew she wasn't an old lady, the memories she held weren't enough for that, but…
Sitting up, Lenore frowned at the corpse of her friend. It was over; Arianrhod was slain, but…
Picking up the parchment, Lenore finally read it.
Lenny,
Your memories are behind the mirror in the bathroom. You removed them so the Moon Goddess wouldn't be able to play with them; you kept the Hunter's knowledge, and the knowledge of your mission. Everything else is behind the mirror, as is your wand.
It's been 127 years; I've watched over you as you fought that monster in the Hunter's Dream, and I… I can't no more Lenny.
Been getting weaker, as time's gone on; it's showing me nightmares, of you killing innocents, but I know the thing's just lying to me, trying to make me doubt … which might mean it's getting past my shields. I can't have that, won't put you in danger. I thought I could handle it, but…
Vigilant all these years, Occlumency shields strong as adamant, but I'm old Lenny; it almost got in, last night. I was next to ya, boot dagger in hand, bout to knife you in your sleep. Fuckin' thing tried to get me to do the deed for it, can ya believe it Lenny?
Can't have that, obviously, so I made sure your transfusion won't run out till you wake – don't ask how, Lenny. Please, leave it. Remember Paulie, remember Greece – and got everything settled before writing this letter explaining it all.
Your weapons and the payment's in a trunk in my room, with an enchantment tied to your heartrate; when you wake, it'll unlock. Probably done so by the time you started reading this, actually; you may bask in my superior warding skills, you redheaded madwoman.
I set it up with the Department so you'll be paid an extra 100 Galleons for every year you're out of it, on top of the 10,000 for the job; the property's under a Fidellus, now, so while they'll know somebody just got paid out of the company pension, they won't know who until you go into the Ministry. Make sure you go in and make a report before doin' anything else, Lenny; times have changed since you went to face that thing.
Now, the circle around you: it's a Temporal Ward, also tied to your wakefulness, and fueled with the magic of my life; I've renewed the casting over the years, but as I'm on my way out… well, I know how much you hate Time magic, so I won't explain things. The salt's glowing because it's off now, so don't worry about breaking the circle and aging a few centuries in the span of a minute, alright?
Been watching them Stones for all these years, Lenny, hopin' for some sign of progress, somethin' to tell me how you're doin'.
They're cracking, slow but sure. Hope that means you're winning, Lenny.
Hope all that blood in my dreams is you winning.
Win, Lenore.
~Martine Bones
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After spending an hour or three bawling her eyes out on the floor, Lenore got up and went to the bathroom; once she was done with the longest, most satisfying bathroom break of her life – a hot shower; she'd forgotten how good those felt – Lenore checked her reflection, making sure everything was as she remembered it.
Sky-blue eyes that'd seen too much: check.
Nearly-black red hair: check.
Freckles across the bridge of her nose: check.
Face of a Witch in her mid-thirties: check.
"And not a single busted vessel, how about that?" Lenore muttered, looking closely at the sclera of her eyes, just as bone-white as ever; her pale skin remained blemish-free, and her hair was still pulled into the ponytail she'd left it in… and kept throughout the endless nightmare she'd been subjected to.
Shaking her head and working her jaw in annoyance – it was just a dream; a dream that resulted in the death of an Old God, but a dream nonetheless – Lenore opened the medicine cabinet in the white-themed lavatory.
She'd almost forgotten what clean linens and polished white tiles looked like.
Everything still smelt like blood.
Hopefully, reclaiming her memories would help… though, given how much time had passed, what she'd seen in Yharnam, the reverse memory-wipe would almost certainly be painful.
But Lenore was used to pain, long before the Dream began.
Ten vials full of blue light were lined up in a row, the psionic protection ward-paper still glowing with Martine's magic, sealing the stoppers to the bottles; her wand – Hemlock and sphinx feather, 10 and 1/8 inches, supple – was on the shelf beneath the memories, the ones too dangerous to risk the Presence using against her, such as most of the magic she knew, both from Hogwarts and from her tutelage under Uncle Vega, and her childhood.
"Hey there, mate. Didja miss ol' Lenny?" smiled Lenore sadly, plucking up her old friend and spinning him through her fingers, sparks of joy flying from the tip as Witch and Wand got a feel for one another again; a thrum of magic rippled through her hand, up her arm and into her core to spread throughout her body, and Lenny laughed, complete again… if scarred from her experiences, the horrors she witnessed and partook in, since they last saw each other. Stroking the length of wood and magic, she whispered, "I missed you, too."
Bloody hell, if she had magic in the Dream… no. It was deemed too great a risk, for something as dangerous as Arianrhod; if that thing had access to her magic, or her knowledge of magic… well, the Dream wouldn't have succeeded past the first hour. Lenore would've been the vessel for the corrupted Moon Presence, and, well, that would've been pretty feckin' terrible, for Scotland in an immediate sense and the world in general sense.
Picking up the first vial, Lenore popped the seal and drew out the memory within on the tip of her wand; childish laughter, the ringing of a school bell, and the harsh tones of adults rang in the air.
Taking a deep breath – because she just knew this was going to be really awful – Lenore placed the memory into her head.
It took several seconds, but she started wailing in agony, all right.
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Five days later, Lenore Black remembered everything. The Statute's proposal on the international stage, her upbringing as the third daughter of Rigel and Gertrude Black, the Noble and Ancient House of Black, her tutelage at Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place, and working for the Unspeakables, and various Ministries, as a Hunter of the Silver Crescent Order, becoming Warden of House Black, the Order of Merlin, First Class ceremony for her part in defeating Godelot the Reviled…
Martine Bones, her partner on the Hunt, always at her side; the briefing at Britain's Department of Mysteries, and their coming to Scotland, where the chapel guarding the Moon Stones rested; her current location. Six Hunters – three who Dreamed, and their three caretakers – had already died to the Moon Presence's abilities. It needed to be sealed, after the Gaunt's foolishness weakened the Stones.
Lenore played her friend best-of-three games at chess, to decide who would Dream, and who would Guard; they'd opened up to each other more than they'd done to each other's families, sharing their deepest secrets and regrets with one another.
She won two of the games, so the chapel was Warded, so no one could get in or out, she removed her memories, Martine sealed them, the salt Runes – to slow the Moon Presence's response and ensure Lenore's sanity wouldn't be instantly obliterated by the thing's thoughts – were prepared, and then… she entered the Hunter's Dream.
Martine guarded her until he couldn't any longer, and gave his life so Lenore could win.
Once she accepted how fully they'd underestimated the Moon Presence, Lenore picked herself up off the bathroom's floor, shook the dust off her cloak, put it and her hat on, and collected her friend and guardian.
She was happy it was raining when she carried his body outside; good for digging. Also hiding tears; Martine...
If it weren't for those rat-bastard Gaunts trying to set the Presence free and bind it to their wills, weakening the Stones in the process, Lenore likely wouldn't have slept for so long, trying to defeat it. They would've just bound the circle, hid it inside a ward structure or done a dimensional shunt, and that would've been that.
Instead, five thousand, five hundred and fifty-five mundanes were sacrificed for no reason, six Gaunt family members were executed for attempted treason, seven Hunters died, her dear friend Martine included, and Lenore slept for… how long?
It was worth it, in the end. She held the Presence at bay, slew it.
As she dug her friend's grave, Lenore sent a pulse of magic to her mind, closing her eyes in the rain for a moment.
The Plain Doll was standing on the footpath, waiting patiently for the Good Hunter to return to the Dream; for so long, they remained together in the Dream, and now it was real, if only in Lenore's mindscape…
Yet more, now; it could be visited, with the right materials…
Once Martine was buried, with a simple stone marker showing his name and year of birth – 1643 – carved into the surface with her wand, did Lenore find a reason to check the date and time; it wouldn't be the done thing, to give her friend a year of birth, but none of death.
"Tempus Omni," she cast the spell in a sorrowful voice, watching the mist rise from her wand and resolve into a series of numbers, flickering in the rain; numbers that made her jaw drop.
21:33
June 12th, 1992 AD
"Ooh, you've gotta be kiddin' me!" screamed Lenore, barely heard past the rumble of Scottish thunder; doing a quick sum in her head and inscribing 1819 as the year of her fellow Hunter's death, she then stomped her way through the muddy graveyard to the chapel and Martine's room, where her gear and payment and the Floo fireplace were located, "Three hundred feckin' years?!"
Behind her, past the Hunter's graves and a Gothic wrought-iron fence, twelve ancient Stones sat cracked and broken, white lilies surrounding the gray, wasted earth of the former ritual site to a dead Goddess.
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June 20th, 1992 AD
Eight days later found Lenore Black, in full Hunter's regalia and her oak-wood trunk floating behind her, stomping grumpily up the steps of the Black Townhouse at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, a heavy London rain pouring buckets onto the city.
The world was changed, since she was last in Britain. Algeon Croaker, the current Head Unspeakable, had debriefed Lenore over the past week, concerning major events that she'd missed.
Since the Schism between Mundane (she would find whoever came up with the word 'Muggle' and do something horrible to their soul for coining such a stupid term) and Magical, two worlds were created: a world that "preserved" the ideals of the Old World (Magical, presumably), and a world that developed technologies based on logical invention (Mundane, who'd stood on the Moon while Lenore was sleeping).
Apparently, there was a movement in the 19[sup]th[/sup] century that encompassed everything from tableware to architecture, dubbed "Victorian" after the ruling Queen of that time period, which effected both Mundane and Magical society, though the latter was more heavily influenced due to its excessive love of nice things. It was a flowery and full-of-ruffled-shirts age, one which still influenced high fashion in Magical Britain; while Lenore could… tolerate it, there was just something about this 'wallpaper' stuff that rubbed her the wrong way.
It was such an efficient way of hiding bloodstains…
"Gah, damnation," she shook her head on the top step of the house, dispelling the memory of the Dream, and looked at the heavy oak door, with its… serpentine door knocker? "Huh. That's new." Last time, it'd been a simple oval affair.
More had changed: her Order, the Order of the Silver Crescent, was gone. They'd sacrificed themselves to stop Jack the Ripper from completing his plan of summoning one of Them From Outside; in this case, an Aspect of Donar, the Germanic version of Thor. An Aspect of Slaughter, in particular.
The Ripper almost succeeded, too; apparently, the Silver Crescent needed to sacrifice themselves to change the Fate of the World, making it so that the Ripper was killed in a drunken brawl before he could collect his final victim and complete the ritual… and the counter ritual done by Lenore's Order apparently took place about three days after Jack finished the ritual.
Time and Fate magic was weird like that.
Since that day, with the decline of the various Hunter Orders into "old-boy's clubs", two Dark Lords had arisen, one on the international stage, and another who was mostly contained to Britain: Gellert Grindelwald – who propped up a third-rate painter named Adolf Hitler as Germany's dictator and basically raped Europe, to say nothing of the Dark experiments that took place in the work camps – and some tosser calling himself "Lord Voldemort", a second-rate corpse-fucker whose deeds sounded like his face was buried in a revenant's backside, much like Herpo the Foul and Emeric the Evil were.
It was a sad day when Lenore considered any corpse-fucker worse than someone who was openly consorting with Demonkind – fecking Grindelwald was suckling Lilith's tits, for Circe's sake!
Mainly because her family, House Black, a family who aided the unification of Britain under King Artur and Merlin, and were well-known in her time for being the most redoubtable Dark Hunters in all Europe…
The Blacks had served this Moldy-shorts abomination. The Heir Apparent and his brother were, by all accounts, kissing the madman's robe hem; the first was rotting in Azkaban, the latter was missing and presumed dead.
Worse, so had their allies: the Lestranges were in Azkaban – including Lenore's own great-great-grandniece, Bellatrix – the Goyles, while still free, were nearly as inbred and corrupt as the Gaunts were becoming in Lenore's day, and the Nott patriarch was, according to Croaker, nearly insane with dementia (due to a botched fertility ritual), having killed his own pregnant wife five years ago.
The Potters were gone, down to a lad named Harry who was protected by what seemed, to Lenore, a ritual blood protection of Selfless Sacrifice; nothing else in her library of magical knowledge could reflect or stop a Killing Curse, least of all one cast by a being as awful as Moldy-shorts. The Longbottoms only had four members of the main house left, two of whom had been tortured into insanity – by Lenore's great-great-grandniece, a fact which made the redhead's teeth grind in bitter loathing.
The Bones family… Lenore shook her head and reached for the door knocker, the Warden's ring gleaming on her gloved hand; once she'd raided the Lord's liquor cabinet and interrogated whatever portraits were still active in the house – she'd read of a Hogwarts Headmaster coming from House Black, Phineas or something – she'd bring Martine's ring back to the current Madame Bones, who also happened to be the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, according to Croaker.
First…
Gripping the knocker, Lenore banged it three times; wards – some of which were truly nasty – bent their vengeful gaze upon the Witch knocking at House Black's door. The silver serpent burned in her hand, but Lenore paid it no heed; instead, she spoke her claim.
"By the blood and water of Black womb, I, Lenore Black, right Warden of House Black, lay claim to this property as Steward, until such a time a Lord or Lady relieves me."
Centuries-old blood runes clashed with newer borderline-Dark wards, arguing over whether to allow the Witch entry; in the end, the old blood won out, the knocker released her hand, and a loud clank came from the deadbolt on the other side of the thick door.
Sighing with weary relief, Lenore doffed her hat and stepped through the door… and immediately kicked up a good two inches of dust.
Tasting the air with her tongue – and hanging up her hat, because she wasn't a barbarian – Lenore spat a little dust out, quietly shut the door and called out uncertainly into the dank, dark house, "Service?" The Victorian invasion hadn't spared her family's Seat, it seemed, but the dark wood went well with the thick rugs and tacky wallpaper. Too bad it seemed like no one had cleaned in a decade or two, at least; no doubt there were doxies, boggarts and lesser imps hiding all over the house, and that wasn't counting what changes the residence had experienced at the wands of her Dark-worshipping descendants.
Pop! "Who bees calling Kreacher with the voice of Black, getting water all overs the carpets and making noise?"
A positively ancient House Elf – or an un-Bonded one, more likely – appeared before Lenore, bent, haggard and covered in pitiful wrinkles, its toga barely worthy of being called a grease rag, let alone worthy attire of a butler to House Black. It, or he, given the tone of voice, kept muttering and whispering to himself, cloudy eyes looking the Good Hunter up and down, commenting disapprovingly on her appearance.
"…dressed as a frumpy Muggle, probably just as bad as Bad Master Sirius. Mistress will be displeased, so displeased, seeing a young Black lady acting like a common Mudblood tramp, woe is us, woe is Black…"
It was also a damn-near thing, to not fall back into her honed reflexes from the Dream and punt the creature's head down the hall.
"You are the Butler assigned to this house, Kreacher?" the Elf nodded, saying something disparaging about her heeled boots; huffing in derision, Lenore snapped, "If that is the case, why is my family's Seat not clean and prepared for its scion's return, Kreacher?"
That brought the House Elf up short, "…ah…"
Lenore gestured at the walls, "Why, just look at this place! Three centuries I've been gone, facing the Moon Presence in the Scottish Moors, but even that much time absent is no excuse to let House Black's Seat fall to such a state! Explain yourself to this House's Steward and Warden, Elf," the Hunter took a menacing step toward the now-quivering Elf, and asked in a sadly compassionate voice "Explain to Lenore Black, Warden and Steward of this House: why have you not dusted, my dear Butler?"
Kreacher's lower lip quivered… and then he fell to his knees, bawling like a baby. After a moment of this – during which Lenore wondered just how long the poor thing had been left alone – the House Elf started banging his head against the floor!
"Bad Kreacher! Wicked Kreacher! He has failed!" The Elf was going for an umbrella!
"Stop that this instant!" Lenore shrieked, grabbing the Elf's shoulder and pushing until it was leaning against the wall, where it continued its attempts to bash its own skull in, "I command you to cease harming yourself, and forbid you do so further, Kreacher!"
And then a voice shook the house, reminding Lenore of the Laughing Women so much that she drew her saw-cleaver from under her duster and searched for the threat.
"INTRUDER! DEFILER OF MY HOUSE! TRAITOR TO BLOOD, YOU DARE ATTEMPT TO LAY CLAIM ON MY HOME?! YOU WILL BE PUNISHED, FLAYED ALIVE! KREACHER! KREACHER, BRING THIS FIEND BEFORE ME NOW! YOUR MISTRESS COMMANDS IT!"
"Belay that order, Kreacher," hissed Lenore, glaring up the stairs, where the shriekingly insane voice was coming from; closing her cleaver with a snap, the Good Hunter ascended the black-red carpeted stairs, boot-heels thumping with every step, though that sound was drowned out by the continuing mad ravings of… a painting?
"YOU… who are you?" the clearly insane painting of a woman with Black features squinted at Lenore, whose icy cold gaze took in the Dark-imbued canvas, "You look like a daughter of my line, but I HAVE NO DAUGHTER, AND ALL WHO WOULD CLAIM BLACK BLOOD ARE IMPRISONED FOR THEIR LOYALTY, OR TRAITORS TO THE FAMILY! NAME YOURSELF, PRETENDER!"
"Bite your tongue, bitch," hissed Lenore in reply, making the thing before her recoil in affront, "I am Lenore Black, Warden of House Black, Order of Merlin, First Class-"
"LIAR!" screamed the blood-hued portrait; Lenore could see how it was done. The foolish woman had bound her soul to a painting of herself, using her own blood as a medium, and then tied herself into the Ward-Stones under the house; idiocy born of incest and Dark orgies, it had to be, "THE WARDEN SLEEPS, GUARDING HUMANITY FROM THEM OUTSIDE AND UNDER STONES IN THE HUNTER'S DREAM! HOW DARE YOU PRETEND TO HER GREATNESS-"
"I AM LENORE BLACK, THE SLAYER OF ARIANRHOD THE MOON PRESENCE! I AM THE LAST HUNTER OF THE ORDER OF THE SILVER CRESCENT, A KNIGHT OF THE HOLY KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN, AND YOU, YOU… DARK SLUT," the painting quailed as Lenore's bloodtinge created a violet aura about her body, ice blue eyes flashing dangerously, "HAVE SHAMED OUR HOUSE, CAVORTED WITH DARKNESS. HOW DARE YOU, MA'AM, ACCUSE ME OF LIES, WHEN YOUR SOUL IS A PLAYTHING OF THE DAEMONIC HOSTS! INRITA LIBERUM!"
She slashed her wand at the painting, a white-blue wave of fire sinking into the canvas and… disappearing.
"Ahhh…" choked the painting as its body was edged with light; seconds later, the light spread throughout the house, through every woodgrain and nook and cranny, before returning to the painting…
Which promptly burst into flames, shocking both Hunter and House Elf.
"Mistress!" cried Kreacher.
"Okay, that wasn't supposed to happen," reported Lenore calmly, extinguishing the fire with a wave of her wand; unfortunately, the painting hadn't survived with its magic intact, so repairing it would only give them an inert and non-magical picture of a mad bitch, "It was just supposed to unbind her soul from the house and cleanse the Darkness from her being… but," she sighed and sent an apologetic look to Kreacher, who seemed to be holding up well, all things considered, "she must've been deeper in the Dark than I thought. I'm sorry, Kreacher."
"No, Steward, Kreacher is sorry," sniffled the House Elf, "Kreacher knews it was really yous when yous spoke the words of Inheritance at the door, Steward. Mistress was…" the House Elf shivered, clearly trying to find a way to speak his mind without punishing himself. Lenore decided to have mercy on the old bean.
"A right ignoble bitch."
"If you says so, Miss Steward."
"I do," she looked around, then sheathed wand and cleaver with a sigh, "Well, that spell didn't dust the cobwebs, unfortunately, so we have quite a lot of work to do, Kreacher. I'll handle the library and family rooms, you handle the hallways and living spaces, like the kitchen and the sitting rooms. Is your bond reforming?"
"Yes, Missy Steward; Kreacher is still being… weak, but feels his strength returning by the second," bowed Kreacher.
"Right, let's get to it then," and the House Elf popped away, while the Hunter ascended the stairs to the second floor, searching for the Library, or a reading room with a liquor cabinet.
As soon as she stepped onto the top landing, however, the scent of blood came to her nostrils, wails and chittering drifting to Lenore's ears.
Grinning, the Good Hunter set her trunk down and drew cleaver and wand once more, pulling up her scarf and trotting into the dark of House Black, bloodtinge glowing on her shoulders; there were beasts and monsters in her family's house.
Pity them…