AN: RIP Queen Elizabeth. She really took a nose dive. She was well on her way to a century, when her body just up and quit, like, "Nah, I'm not doing this anymore." Anyway, at least Charles can say he is the King now, though I have no idea for how long he will even survive.
Also, again going back on what I stated earlier, Bellatrix Lestrange has again been replaced by Susan Bones in the harem, mainly because I plan to have her killed off early, and also because I can't really include Bellatrix and not Andromeda and Narcissa. So... yeah.
Again, sorry for the late update. I was working on my other book, Dealing with Drama, and got 6 chapters out in this time. If any of you are interested in reading a light-hearted though slightly angsty Percy Jackson fanfiction larger than 350K words, go to my profile, and check it out.
Happy reading!
Time: Early February, Black Forest, Germany
The entire forest was silent, almost unnaturally so.
A thin mist still hung in the air, giving the entire forest a vague mystical look, the black trunks of the tree contrasting the soft white mist of a morning in early spring, a morning that was shaping up to be an equally beautiful day, a morning that, along with the mysterious fog, and the tall, solemn trees, made the entire forest look haunted.
The tall figure clad in all black did not seem so out of place here, in this ruthless land of magical beasts that killed for fun, in the hallowed ground for horror and crime throughout history.
The Black Forest, Deutschland.
The figure cracked his neck, letting a soft breath escape his lips as he looked around, looking for any witnesses.
Being met with complete and utter silence, he relaxed, though only slightly, as he leaned on the sword beside him, ignoring the fact that it was embedded deep in the chest of a fallen figure on the ground. Blood seeped from the gaping wound of the man not long dead, making him wonder slightly if the heart was still beating to be able to bleed so profusely, but otherwise, the dead man was ignored. The blood formed a dark, glistening puddle around his feet, making his heavy boots sink into the muddy soil.
The entire world was silent, an eerie silence he was all too familiar with. A silence that Mother Nature seemed to understand almost instinctively, the silence of a hunt going on. The silence that always prevailed whenever an alpha predator showed its face, whenever a life was taken, lifeblood stolen.
The hunt was over for now, but the rush of adrenaline still lingered, making his fingers twitch excitedly unless he had them still around the hilt of his sword. His senses fine-tuned to pick up even the slightest of disturbances, whether they were in the form of sound, sight or even just a change in the surrounding atmosphere that disturbed the power balance currently reigning over the forest like an oppressive, suffocating blanket, where he was at the top.
The only sounds that he registered, even as he strained his ears in search of any Aurors, were the soft trickling of the beautiful, clear river a few ways off, visible only as a gentle sparkle of water through the trunks of the tall trees. The entire view looked like something right out of a picture, the scenic view completely contrasted by the bloody history of the entire place, or the life that had just been callously and coldly extinguished at its heart.
The man let out a soft breath, making mist gently curl upwards from his lips, dropping his hood to reveal his masked face as he looked upwards at the sky, seemingly undisturbed by the blood splattered across his mask as if it was a daily occurrence.
Seemed like it was going to rain.
He pondered for a few more moments on the depressing grey sky, before he decided to get a move on. That was enough dilly-dallying for the day, given the circumstances he was in, dawdling about like a reluctant schoolboy was a surefire way to get killed.
He put his foot on the corpse of the fallen man to hold it down as he extracted his sword, the cold grey steel that reflected his blood-splattered mask and the overcast sky, glistening with crimson blood yet to lose its warmth, dripping from it like luscious nectar of life, so tantalizing and yet monstrous.
Maybe it did not look so out of place in this land of paradoxes, after all.
The masked figure gave the sword a casual flick in a lazy attempt to clean it, not caring that it splattered the ground and the nearby tree trunks with more blood, leaving evidence all over the crime scene.
He couldn't be bothered less about it.
Nah, it would be a long while before anyone stumbled on this place.
Nature was herself a hypocrite, the man concluded, watching briefly the blood glistening on the tree trunks. She deemed murder to be a crime against life, and yet, she harboured predators who took lives to survive, demanded blood as the most potent of fertilizers.
Without even glancing to see if the sword was clean or not, the man banished it, leaving his hands free.
He leaned down, grunting slightly as he picked up the heavy body of the man he had just murdered in cold blood, slinging it over his shoulder in much the same manner as a satisfied hunter would sling the carcass of his dead prey over his shoulder. Hardened by years of similar work, he barely flinched at the deluge of blood that fell to the floor from the man's dirty clothes soaked in his own blood, or the gaping wound in his chest. Even the feeling of the blood seeping into his black trenchcoat failed to distract him, as he concentrated on a particular location in his mind.
There was a barely audible crack as the man apparated away with the dead body, leaving the clearing devoid of life.
But it would not be for long, as the little denizens of the forest would be soon to come out again and live life as if nothing had happened in their midst. Such was the way of Nature, turning a blind eye to a lost life.
The masked man appeared out of nowhere, in front of a tavern in the middle of a city, yet no one even paid it any attention, as if it didn't even exist. The ignorant Muggles just continued to flock around it as they went on with their inane daily lives, ignorant of the old-looking medieval tavern that looked so out of place in the modern city of glass and concrete, or the bloody man wearing a suspicious-looking black trenchcoat and blood splattered mask, carrying on his shoulder a carcass of a dead man like a sack of potatoes.
The charms of the Fidelius charm were endless.
Not deigning them worthy of even a glance, the man pushed the wooden door open, ignoring the ominous creak of ungreased hinges as he entered, his heavy boots sharp against the wooden floor of the tavern.
Immediately, all noise inside ceased.
Several pairs of eyes, each carrying a different emotion, from jealousy and lust to awe and fear, followed him as he walked over to the counter, unmindful of the mess he was making on the wooden floor with all the blood that he tracked in like a dog tracks in mud.
"Another successful hunt?" The man behind the counter grunted, not even flinching as the masked man deposited the carcass unceremoniously on the table like a sack of potatoes. The only sign he gave was a wrinkled nose as the blood splattered his clean, white apron, before he looked over at the rest of the tavern, sighing lightly.
The man in the bloody trenchcoat remained silent.
"You know, if you continue making messes like that, I'm going to have to start charging you extra from next time onwards." The man replied gruffly, his bushy beard moving with every word. His slightly bloodshot, rheumy eyes stared at the stoic man, uncowed even at his gaze that could make weak men break down into tears by itself.
Fetching an old, battered-looking wand from somewhere, he waved it over the dead body a few times until he was absolutely satisfied.
"Of course, there was no reason to doubt you, Levi." He spoke in a gruff voice, before reaching below the counter. A sack of galleons was deposited on the bar a few moments later with a metallic chime. "The best bounty hunter in the world for nothing, eh? Another easy one in the bag."
The bartender waved his wand, making the body disappear to the laundry, where it would be cleaned and packaged and sent to whoever had ordered the hit.
Levi remained silent still, before he reached out for the bag. His bloody fingers left moist marks on the moleskin pouch as he opened it, before tossing two galleons back onto the counter, the shiny gold marred by crimson stains from his fingers.
"The usual?" The bartender asked, smoothly sliding two glasses onto the table before swiping the glinting gold coins with his other hand. Reaching back, he extracted a bottle of cold gin, juggling it finely, with finesse that did not belong to someone with a healthy pot belly like his.
Levi hummed in agreement, though it came out as more of a growl. After a few moments, he added, "Draw a warm bath for me as well. I'll be staying the night."
The bartender eyed him for a moment, before sighing tiredly as he waved his wand, casting a cleaning charm on the bounty hunter.
"Must suck not being able to use magic, eh?" It was no secret that Levi was a vampire, and couldn't really use magic to the same extent as even the average wizard. However, that didn't equate to him being weak, as being able to conjure deadly weapons out of thin air faster than the blink of an eye, the signature trait of all Gorbachev vampires was more than enough to put him on an equal footing with ninety percent of the magical population, something a few unfortunate wannabe bounty hunters had to learn the hard way. Needless to say, they had had their careers ended prematurely, forced to take a permanent break from life, with a one-way ticket to an eternal holiday in la la land.
That, accompanied by his ungodly speed and lightning reflexes, and the combat skill that he boasted of, had rocketed him to the best bounty hunter in the world, with absolutely zero failed hunts.
Levi took his mask off, thankful for the cleaning charm, though he did not express it as he silently stowed it away in his now dry and clean trenchcoat. His long black hair fell over his sharp, handsome face, shadowing his expression as his dark eyes continued to roam over the tavern, watching the occupants, each occupied with their own thoughts and mead.
They were a tough crowd, all battle-hardened bounty hunters who had little apart from love of gold on their minds. No fears, no comforts and certainly no affections besides money.
"Bad day today?" He spoke softly, referring to the unusual number of empty tables, given the number of missions still posted on the noticeboard.
"Quite the contrary." The bartender boomed in his heavy voice, not even attempting to be subtle. "You might want to check out back for yourself, Levi. A big fish has just come in with a generous fortune as a reward but a seemingly impossible mission. Doesn't matter now, though, does it? If there's anyone who can complete the mission, it's you."
Levi pondered on it for a moment, before he left the bar, heading towards the small and inconspicuous back door that led to the recruiting room.
All sounds were hushed as the door shut behind him, as everyone turned to look at him, his mere presence enough to silence them.
He raised his head towards the platform, his dark eyes widening just a fraction at the recruiter.
Count Gorbachev stared back at him, a small grim smile growing on his scarred face, his pale skin almost deadly white. His smartly cropped short hair seemed as startling silver as the last time Levi had seen him a few decades back, almost merging with his skin.
The two recognised each other easily, as they had aged not a single day since the last time they had met, perks of being immortal vampires.
He already had an idea about what the mission entailed.
He was conscious of Count Gorbachev's expectant gaze as he walked over to the platform, the crowd of seasoned bounty hunters parting before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
At the foot of the platform on which Count Gorbachev stood, he drew another sword from thin air, before impaling it in the ground at the Count's feet. He waited for Count Gorbachev to acknowledge his token of loyalty as he raised a foot to lean on the hilt of the impaled sword as Levi kneeled.
"I need no reward, my Lord. It is my solemn duty to serve my Progenitor, and I shall today as you command me. My sword is forever yours."
If he had looked upwards, he would have seen the face of the normally stoic Count, one of the most feared men in the entire Magical world, split into an almost unhinged, dangerous grin.
"Then I think we have what we need to end the nuisance of the Stalker for once and all. Come, Levi." He extended his hand, inviting the kneeling bounty hunter to stand up again.
"Time to avenge the death of the First Progenitor."
"You know, they never recovered a body, Arcturus."
In another part of Europe, far away from the bounty hunters gearing up to go hunting for the enigmatic serial killer, two old men were doing their own preparations.
The two men, wizened with age, their grey hair betraying their years, sat beside each other in grand-looking armchairs, staring into the flickering flames dancing about in the fireplace.
The room was dark, the roaring fire the only thing providing illumination, sending long shadows dancing across the dull walls of the room, and giving the entire place a sinister, grim look that inspired silence and obedience. The two old men sat in two equally old-fashioned, high-backed armchairs that would not have looked too out of place in a museum save for their pristine condition, drawn closer to the fireplace for the warmth of the roaring fire, their weathered faces illuminated by the orange glow.
Their seats were separated by a small circular table that lay low, a curated bottle of Ogden's finest firewhiskey sitting on top of it. The liquid courage was swirled casually, tastefully in two artistically carved crystal glasses that the men held, catching the light from the fireplace and reflecting it in all shades of amber, dancing across the dark walls in beautiful patterns.
They had been sitting, chatting like two old friends catching up when the subject was brought up, causing an oppressive atmosphere to pervade the room, as the two went silent.
"You had one clean shot at killing him." The man continued, "I carefully orchestrated everything to tire him out, but apparently, it wasn't enough. Not only did he take out Elias, Elena and the other vampire Gorbachev sent, but he took out the decoy as well. You barely escaped with your life."
"The decoy who was already dead and eaten by the moment I arrived there." Arcturus snarled, unable to resist the hostile reaction.
"Relax, Arcturus. I'm not trying to undermine your magical prowess in any way. We went in completely blind, and your achievement of being the only person to survive actually fighting the Stalker is nothing to laugh at. You're one of the strongest people I know, it's only that both of us severely underestimated his strength. We were so caught up with the thrill of finally being able to trap him, we were completely blind to the threat he posed. We were as arrogant and careless as him."
"What do you mean to say?" Against his better knowledge, Arcturus' hand flew to the junction where his arm had once been, more out of a reflex than anything else, his mind immediately snapping back to a terrifying battle fought against a psychotic serial killer. Now only a stump remained of the arm that had once held off Grindelwald single-handedly, though it had been replaced by a magical prosthetic, that looked like liquid silver.
"I mean to say that we do not know for sure that the Stalker is dead, and nor will we know until and unless we see his dead body with our own eyes." The other man replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
"I did see his dead body with my own eyes. It was my own wand that robbed him of his heart. I saw the gaping hole in his heart, I cast the Reducto curse at point blank range. There is no way he survived." Arcturus defended vehemently, but the other was unperturbed.
"You saw his dying body, not his dead body." His companion responded, before expanding at the incredulous look he received.
"What if the Stalker is a rogue vampire? We know he can use magic very well, better than most, but vampires who can use magic are not completely unheard of. What if he never died?"
"What if the Muggles disposed of the body? That would certainly explain the silence we have had over the past year." Arcturus fired back, not eager to believe that the monster was still alive. He wasn't really dangerous per se, it was more of his tactics and his mind games, the sheer fanaticism to some unseen principle and the deranged, psychotic way he went about his business, with little in the way of patterns or plans, that completely threw everyone off.
The Stalker was no common serial killer. It felt like his actions were all actuated by a throw of a die, rather than thought, which could be somewhat predicted, no matter how difficult or complex.
"And what if he has reverted to his past ways?" The figure fired back, pausing for a moment to take a long sip from his glass of whiskey. "Both of us know that when he started out, he was very careful, sticking to the shadows and stealing away from the corners of society, slowly eating away at the edges till he grew confident enough that he was the top dog. He grew careless, and we wanted to exploit that. If he has indeed learned to be more careful and calculated, he will pose more of a bigger threat. We might have just handed a basilisk a wand."
The man glanced at Arcturus out of the corner of his eyes. "But now, he is still as unpredictable as before. However, he is more careful as well. Perhaps he didn't die, somehow, and is now biding his time. Licking his wounds and becoming stronger, focusing on the weaknesses that we exploited last time we fought him."
"The Stalker is a coward." Arcturus spat, unafraid of the baseless superstition among the common folk that insulting the serial killer could incur his wrath. The ex-head of the infamous Black family had faced worse Dark Lords, and this murderer, seen as a boogeyman by many, was only a man. He knew the fact best, as he had ended him with his own two hands.
Or believed he had ended him, anyway.
"No single person can kill the Stalker alone." The man commented, leaning on the armrest almost lazily, though his voice betrayed his excitement. "It is only if we target his weakness, his stamina that we can kill him, end his threat once and for all."
"And what do you want me to do about that?" Arcturus replied, a sharp edge to his voice.
"You're but a man, old friend. You're stronger than most, one of the strongest men I know. But at the end of the day, you're a wizard pitted against a monster. As long as we do not challenge the Stalker's magical stamina, we will not win." The man leaned back in his chair, crossing one knee over the other as he took a satisfied sip from his whiskey, almost purring at the plan he had concocted. "All the vampires are flocking to Count Gorbachev. Go to him, tell him that you will teach the vampires to master whatever magic they have. I know he is amassing an army to protect Dracula castle. The Stalker has no chance against an army, especially one as immortal and as powerful as the Vampires of all the Five Clans standing in a united front, all trained by you."
"He has already taken down similar. Nurmengard. Veela covens. He is unbeatable."
"Maybe. But they were weak. Divided. Single-minded. We will come at the Stalker with all we have got. Shadows, fire, ice, lightning, and cold steel all will dance in the night. The Stalker is powerful, yes, but he can only last for so long. Three hits, each capable of levelling cities, and he is spent, magically exhausted and barely better than the average wizard. If we can keep out of the blast radius, if we have ample cannon fodder, taking him down is easy work."
"Feeding makes him lazy as well. He seemed to be drunk when he fought me, very sloppy compared to what I saw of him when he fought Elena, it was like he had been magically switched with a first year." That was obviously an exaggeration, the gap in skills before and after he devoured the decoy Dracula was not so vast, but in a high-stakes battle against a duelist as accomplished as him, it was the difference between life and death.
"It is a wonder she was able to last so long against him at his very best, keeping pace with him and even forcing him to use his magic. I fear what she might be capable of with proper training." Arcturus continued, "He relies mostly on hand-to-hand combat, he depends on magic as a last resort in drawn-out fights. He doesn't have a wand of his own, but that matters little, as he is as comfortable with wandless magic as he is with a wand that is not his." Arcturus relayed his observations from what was probably the only long, drawn-out fight that the Stalker had fought.
"There are many things Elena is capable of. She might just be the one to finally kill him off." His companion commented offhandedly, seemingly lost in thought. "That only emphasizes on the importance of cannon fodder. As much as I am loathe to sacrifice my Vampires like that, it cannot be helped. For victory or death."
Arcturus remained silent, unable to agree to nor refute the quiet, calculated words. As megalomaniac as the plan might have sounded, it was their best shot. The Stalker was seemingly too skilled to be taken out quietly. Nothing short of an army on the proportions of the one just described, cornering him could keep him still. In the shadows, he was untouchable. They had to keep him in their sights constantly, a blink, a fraction of a second of darkness, and he would be gone.
"Don't lose hope yet, Arcturus. It is unbefitting of you. The battle is never lost until you're dead. Veelas are creatures of passion, they are easy to be swayed, to be seduced by a stranger. If they knew the identity of their seducer, maybe they would not be as eager to whore themselves out to him." He paused for a moment. "The mask is the Stalker's greatest weapon, and his greatest weakness. Terror is his sword, and the moment his prey fights back, he loses composure, gets hasty. Rob him of his mask, and he is powerless. Behind the mask of the world's most feared serial killer, hides a troubled child."
"Sounds like you're sympathising with him." Arcturus raised an eyebrow.
"Maybe." A small smile curled on the other's lips. "Maybe I see someone else in him, a troubled person out to change the world, to challenge society. A person fed up with hiding in the shadows, yet who thrived only in the darkness. A true Lord of the Night."
He stood up, throwing his glass into the fire, watching with a twisted satisfaction as it shattered into a thousand pieces, making a satisfying sound of breaking glass. The whiskey went up in flames, making a large cloud of flames spark up angrily, like an angry animal.
"Use your gifts, make Salazar Slytherin proud. Draw the Stalker in with traps, wear him down with attacks. Leave his face bare for all to see, let their wrath consume him in hellfire."
The man turned to look at Arcturus coldly, fixing him with a determined stare. The flames that flickered and roared in the fireplace cast a long shadow behind him, dancing across the wall.
The seemingly normal man had the shadow of a monster straining at his chains, a true demon of the night, with long fangs and claws, seeming to suck in all light, worse than a Dementor and a Lethifold and all the foulest creatures of the night combined.
Arcturus felt a grim smile tug at his lips.
"Show him the wrath of the true Lord of Night."
This was the First Vampire.
"Tell him, Count Dracula is coming for him."
This was Count Dracula.
How had it come to this? James Potter couldn't help but wonder as he sat on the uncomfortable plastic chair, trying to keep his hands from shaking. His long black hair fell across his face messily, his signature round glasses slightly steamed over, but he couldn't care less.
Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face, stinging cold.
Sirius sat beside him, equally shaken, and as stiff as him, if not more. Many people said that Sirius had loved Harry more than James had, and even though the elder Potter would argue, in some tiny corner of his heart, he felt happy that his children had people like Padfoot and Moony caring for them.
The room was filled with a tense silence that put the two occupants on edge. The silent ticking of the clock on the wall counting down the seconds made their hearts race faster. It was like they were on death row, waiting for their final end.
This felt like the silence of a hunt going on.
The silence that preceded the prey being ambushed. The silence of the forest as the predator lured it in, waiting to sink its teeth into its tender neck.
All the happy little scenarios James, and the entire family, in fact, had created in their heads about being finally reunited with Harry had come crashing down brutally when they finally found Harry.
He was not in the happy foster home they had hoped he would be in. Even the orphanage or the cold streets they had dreaded he would wander about, helpless and lost, that they feared would become his home, were better than this.
Being lost was better than being... this.
James wished he had never found Harry but of course, he could not speak that out loud.
Anything was better than finding their long-lost, incurably sick son in a high-security prison at St. Brutus' Penitentiary.
It was the cold slap of reality that all of them needed as a reminder that the bright, lively four-year-old they had lost was probably a jaded man of eighteen.
Several counts of suspected murder, suspected abuse of illegal substances, property damage, at least two counts of break-ins and armed robbery, resisting arrest and contempt of court.
Fuck. That list was more expansive than a few of those serving life sentences in Azkaban, though he guessed the Muggles were more lenient to criminals, something they could afford to be, given their population.
His punishment? Thirty years of jail, with an offer for bail. A hundred thousand pounds, to be precise. A relatively light sentence, not to include the surprising offer for bail.
For the average Muggle, it would be a fortune and for a convict, impossible to pay. However, in magical terms, it was less than 15000 galleons, pocket change for a family like the Potters.
Luckily or unluckily, the bail had been accepted, and Harry was scheduled to be released today.
James glanced towards his side, unnerved by the unnatural silence of his brother in all but blood. Sirius' face was awfully pale, drained of all colour, his lips set in a thin line that betrayed his nervousness, and his eyes seemed to stare off into space.
He bumped shoulders with the Black Heir. "Don't worry, Padfoot, I'm sure Harry is fine."
Sirius seemed to be shaken out of his thoughts abruptly at James' words. He gave him a slightly shaky smile. "I sure hope so, Prongs. But I'm worried about something else."
Whatever he was gonna say was cut off as the chick who had been sitting behind the reception area entered again, a strict-looking officer trailing behind her.
"Mr. Potter and Black, Commissioner Gordon wants to personally escort you to the cell of Harry Potter." Her voice was soft and sweet, as she gave a short bow before resuming her position behind the desk.
James and Sirius stood up hastily, the former extending his hand to greet the Commissioner, the gesture being returned with a firm handshake.
The man did not even bother taking off his cap to greet the two men, intent on keeping all the formalities short and crisp. If they didn't know better, he seemed almost eager to get Harry off his hands.
"If you would please follow me, Mr. Potter, Mr. Black." The man's voice was as cold and hard as his looks, or his icy blue eyes.
The man stayed quiet for the entire journey as he led them through a maze of cells as confusing as the interior of Gringotts, seemingly going off of memory.
The tall, steel doors that flanked them on either side, the cold stone sharp beneath their boots as the two Aurors struggled to keep up with the Muggle officer, all seemed to suck the life out of the inmates much more effectively than any Dementor. The dim lighting of the corridors that flickered occasionally, a sharp contrast to the bright, sunny day outside.
The three came across a few police officers who stood ramrod straight with a salute as soon as they laid eyes on the Commissioner, their clean, crisp blue uniforms tinted yellow with the poor lighting.
The entire prison was completely silent, a sharp cry from the loud wailing that accompanied Azkaban at all times of the day, a haunting peace that would make one think that it was abandoned. The inmates' eyes looked equally haunted, sunken and their cheeks hollowed, as if they were just awaiting their end, none of the rebelliousness or despair that usually accompanied prisoners. The quiet resignation seemed more potent at sapping away hope and life than anything in this prison.
Compared to this, Azkaban seemed more humane. It drove people insane, drove them off their rails till they couldn't even tell if they were being tortured anymore. But this... the prisoners seemed like they were always kept on the verge of insanity, neither allowed to live nor die.
All this put James on edge, and if Sirius' sour face was any indication, he as well. Perhaps they had feared all the wrong things.
James started when Commissioner Gordon stopped without any warning, turning towards a door in particular.
"Potter!" He rapped loudly on the cold steel door, sliding open a little slit on the door. "You know the drill!"
James' heart was in his throat, beating so loudly he felt like it was going to reverberate off the narrow, claustrophobic walls of the prison as he waited with bated breath to catch his first glimpse of his son.
A pair of fists were shoved roughly through the slut of the door, making the usually cold and stoic Commissioner jump back, despite his better knowledge.
The three heard a loud laugh from within the cell, disembodied and twisted through the thick steel door.
James observed the wrists with an almost unhealthy obsession, unable to believe that he was finally seeing his son again after so long, criminal or not, didn't matter. He carefully studied the fists, that seemed healthy and strong, setting his heart at ease of all suspicions he was being tortured. There were no visible signs of even any fights, letting him release a soft breath of relief that he hadn't even known he had been holding.
The two wizards held their breaths as Gordon recomposed himself after the brief lapse, coolly slapping a pair of handcuffs onto Harry's wrists, which were soon withdrawn.
"Against the bed." He ordered in his strong voice, waiting for a few moments before he threw the door open.
Gordon entered, eagerly followed by the two Aurors.
The room inside was dark, a small, barred window the only source of illumination apart from the open door, which was being blocked by the three men.
When their eyes finally adjusted to the darkness in the cell, the three were met with a tall figure, easily a few inches taller than James, sitting on the bed. His elbows rested on his knees as he leaned forward, presenting them with a predatory grin.
At that moment, it did not matter that his hands were cuffed. No.
All that mattered was his single emerald eye, gleaming maliciously with the same shade as the killing curse, staring at them.
All of James' instincts, the very same instincts that had kept him alive for so long in the Auror business, screamed at him to run for his life. The three of them were but prey lured in by the hypnotising, mesmerizing plays of the predator, that didn't even allow them to realise the danger they were in until it was too late.
He didn't know what was worse, his emerald staring unblinking at them, or the black eyepatch covering his right eye.
"You're free to go, Potter. You will find your belongings in the proper place." Commissioner Gordon's cold words seemed to break James and Sirius out of their trance, making them move to greet Harry, possibly hug him and tell him how much they missed him, how much his sisters missed him.
They stopped in their tracks, their throats drying up as Harry stood up, finally stretching himself to his full height.
His long, messy raven hair fell across his face, much like James' did so often. His sharp jawline was darkened with stubble a few days old, punctuated by the occasional scar.
But what made them stop was his physical dominance.
It didn't really matter much, not to them as wizards, but still, there was a primal fear in seeing a dangerous man who they knew had killed, who they felt could snap their necks within the blink of an eye, finally move. As if he was a sleeping dragon, finally awakened by their constant tickling.
They had to tilt their heads back to meet his gaze, the same signature look of superiority that Malfoy boasted of, but much more real, backed up by the strength that his body betrayed, the muscles straining against the tight, bright orange jumpsuit, or the slow, lazy pace he moved with that hinted at the strength he possessed. The very picture painted was that of a predator straining against its chains, a monster pressing against the flesh and skin, seeking release.
The intimidation factor was enough to make the two wizards take a nervous step back.
They were ignored, because Harry had his gaze locked onto the cold blue eyes of Commissioner Gordon.
A sharp metallic clang broke the silence, making the two start as they looked at the handcuffs lying on the ground.
They could have sworn that he never used any magic to break free.
Gordon seemed used to his little displays of casual power, as he continued to stare unflinchingly into Harry's eyes. The man had to have balls of steel to be able to meet his gaze so intensely, and the two Aurors felt almost afraid to break down the intense staredown that the two were locked in.
Harry rubbed his wrists, almost relishing in his newfound freedom, taunting Gordon. "I hope you know what you are doing, Commissioner."
His voice was rough, and any joy that James might have felt at hearing his son's voice was drained as all his ears picked up was the voice of a seasoned killer.
"I know you're more dangerous than you look, Potter," Gordon growled back. "But I don't control the law. If I thought myself better than society, then I wouldn't be any better than you."
"Good luck with that, old man. You love society so much, and see how it has treated you." Harry growled out, before giving a genuine smile towards the old man, his face softening barely, but it was still there. A hidden admiration leaked into his expression, for the man who was detective enough to be able to throw him into jail despite the complete and utter lack of evidence and the manipulation, both magical and otherwise that Harry pulled on the jury at his hearing. "You're one of the few people who still give me hope for humanity. Never lose your strength, Cap."
He touched his invisible hat in a little show of respect, before walking out of the cell, brushing past James and Sirius like they weren't even there.
"Oh, and just to celebrate me leaving this place, I'm gonna let you in on something. The shotgun that turned up missing from the armoury? Yeah, you might want to double-check your female officers. They bend over too easily." He stopped at the doorway to throw back a smug smirk, a swagger about his movements and a bastardised version of James' lady killer smirk that seemed tailor-made, unnaturally manipulated and calculated, lacking all the emotion and only conveying cold intelligence.
In another world where none of this had ever occurred, James and Sirius would have patted Harry on the back and congratulated him for managing to seduce girls. But right now, all they managed was revulsion and disgust at his words.
"And maybe I will finally drink enough to forget that Barbara Gordon studies in a boarding school in Norwich. Just maybe." Harry smiled as the colour drained from Commissioner Gordon's features. There were still weaknesses, everybody had weaknesses, even the most powerful. "Now come on, Dad, Padfoot, we don't have time to dilly dally and shillyshally all day. The train must be coming in any moment now. I want to be able to greet my sisters when they get home."
Saying so, he just walked out of the room, completely ignoring the three gobsmacked men and relishing in the feeling of freedom as he went to get his things.
The hunt was on.
AN: Alright, so I know I didn't really include the family's reaction to Harry, but that's gonna come next chapter. Tell me what you think of this one.
To everybody who thought Dracula was dead and Harry was OP. Fuck you. Harry has his own enemy.
There will be two parallel storylines, one with Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and the other with Dracula.
Also, Commissioner Gordon and Barbara are just two side characters who are gonna appear only for this chapter. Yes, I ran out of names.
And yes, Levi is also a somewhat minor character. I only included him so I could make Harry say, "Is this Levi?" *Insert Beast Titan voice*
Next chapter: Harry meets the family!
Keep calm and headbang!