Chapter 4 - Blood and Blush

Past

The air in Knockturn Alley always carried a kind of weight, damp and thick, as if it soaked up the sighs and whispers of its inhabitants. The alley was quieter now than it had been in the months prior. The bustle of winter's markets had waned, the chatter of merchants and the clinking of their trinkets muffled by the creeping fog of spring. Now the summer sun tried vainly to break through the soot-stained buildings, its light strangled by the alley's hunched architecture and heavy shadows.

The shack at the farthest corner of the alley had once been a ruin, forgotten and crumbling, but now it had taken on a strange kind of life. The door, warped and blackened by age, hung on reinforced hinges. A faint silvery glint shimmered along its edges—warding magic that Harry had learned to etch after months of careful observation. Inside, the air was stale but clean, the floor swept free of grime and littered instead with relics that spoke of both purpose and personality.

The remnants of the hag's presence had been stripped away—her bones buried deep, her belongings discarded. Harry had made this place his own. The walls were lined with mismatched shelves, some stolen, others cobbled together from scraps. They groaned under the weight of books, bottles, and peculiar artifacts: a jar of withered beetle legs, a tangle of blackened ribbons that whispered faintly when touched, a set of chipped chess pieces carved from bone. A single iron candlestick sat on a corner table, its wax pooling in slow rivers that gleamed faintly gray in the dim light.

In one corner stood a rickety cot, its thin mattress covered with a patchwork of stolen fabrics—rich velvet scraps, fraying lace, and the soft black wool of a cloak that once belonged to a shopkeeper too careless with his belongings. Above it hung a piece of frayed string, strung with dark, glittering beads that caught the light like miniature stars. Harry had no idea where the beads had come from, only that he liked the way they gleamed when the shadows danced.

Undead creatures skittered across the room, their small forms moving with purpose. A skeletal rat tugged a piece of thread across the floor, dragging it toward a pile of torn parchment. A bird, its feathers matted and dull, perched silently on the edge of the cot, its hollow eyes fixed on the boy at the centre of the room.

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, his back straight, his pale hands resting on his knees. The shadows around him seemed to breathe, flickering faintly in response to his presence. His eyes, sharp and unnervingly green, were fixed on the small box in front of him. It was old, its wood darkened and cracked, its lid carved with swirling patterns that might have been runes but seemed too twisted to translate.

He reached forward, his fingers brushing the box's lid. It opened with a soft creak, revealing a collection of small, mismatched objects. A sliver of obsidian. A vial of faintly glowing liquid. A worn piece of parchment covered in smudged writing. Harry tilted his head, studying them in the flickering light.

These were his tools. His weapons. The things he had gathered over the months since taking the shack. They weren't much—certainly not the polished wands and shimmering robes he'd seen in Diagon Alley. But they were his, and that made them powerful.

The shack had become a place of preparation, a place of purpose. He had waited here, watching the seasons turn, watching the children in their crisp robes buy books and wands, their laughter carrying through the alleys like birdsong. He had waited for his letter, knowing even as he did that it would never come. Wizards' magic no longer belonged to him. He had traded it away.

Harry closed the box, his fingers lingering on the rough wood. He had traded it all for her.

The memory of Death was not a memory at all, but a sensation. Her presence clung to him, a weight and a warmth that never faded. When he had watched the children milling about in Diagon Alley, when he had felt the hollow ache of their absence in his life, he would close his eyes and think of her. The way she had knelt before him, her dark eyes endless and unyielding. The way she had taken his hand and pulled the magic from his veins. He hadn't known what she'd given him in return. Not at first.

But now, he understood. Wizards' magic was thin and feeble, a pale imitation of the oily, infinite well that churned within him. This was her magic. The magic of endings, of decay, of shadows and silence. It whispered to him now, filling the room with its quiet hum.

Harry rose to his feet, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin. The bird on the cot cocked its head, following his movements as he crossed the room. He extended a hand, and the skeletal rat froze, its tiny head snapping up to look at him. He could feel its energy—the faint hum of death that bound its bones together. It wasn't much, but it was his.

His senses reached outward, brushing against the edges of the room, the street beyond, the creatures that scurried and lingered in the dark corners of the alley. He could taste their death energy, each one unique, each one humming faintly with its own melody. The closer a creature was to its end, the louder its song.

One song in particular caught his attention—a faint, faltering hum that prickled at the edges of his awareness. It was near. Harry's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.

He moved to the door, the shadows pooling around his feet, following him like loyal hounds. Outside, the alley stretched before him, its cobblestones slick and uneven. Figures moved in the distance, their shapes hunched and indistinct. The air was cool, carrying the faint tang of smoke and decay.

Harry stepped into the street, the shadows trailing behind him. His heart was steady, his breath calm. The hunt would begin soon, and he was ready.

The shack, the alley, the creatures that lurked in the dark—they were his now. And so was the power that churned within him, black and endless and waiting to be unleashed.

#-#-#-#-#-#

Present

Nervousness churned within her, roiling and excited and waiting to be subdued. The Great Hall shimmered with life, a soft haze of golden sunlight filtering through the enchanted ceiling, where faint clouds drifted lazily. Plates clattered. The hum of laughter and chatter ebbed and swelled, punctuated by the occasional burst of a bench scraping against the stone floor. The air smelled faintly of roasted chicken, pumpkin juice, and something sweeter—treacle tart, perhaps, though Hermione Granger had no appetite.

She lingered at the threshold, clutching a folded note to her chest. The parchment, creased and worn from her fingers tracing it again and again, carried only a few sharp words: "Meet me at lunch in the Great Hall. I have a request."

The writing was distinct; but it seemed to scrawl across the page, almost lazy, an afterthought. Hermione had read it a dozen times, each reread setting her heart fluttering in a way that was more unsettling than pleasing. A request. From him. As though the hours she had already spent guiding him around the castle weren't enough.

She exhaled sharply, willing her cheeks not to flush. Those weeks had been something of a blur. Professor McGonagall had chosen her, of course, praising her as the most organised and diligent student. And Hermione had dutifully shown Harry Potter the ins and outs of Hogwarts: the trick staircases, the disappearing hallways, the secrets of the library. She had spoken too much, she was sure—rattling off facts and histories he probably didn't care about. But he'd listened. Or at least, he'd watched her, his unnerving green eyes locked on her face in a way that made her words stumble.

And then, after weeks of being summoned at all hours to answer his questions—some mundane, some unsettling—her duties had ended. She had felt relieved. She had also felt... hollow.

Hermione shook the thought away and forced herself forward, her steps crisp and sharp. The Gryffindor table stretched before her, a sea of familiar faces, but it was the absence of one that pricked at her. Ron was near the end, laughing with Dean and Seamus. He glanced her way for the briefest second before turning his back, the knot in her stomach tightening as he leaned closer to his friends.

She turned away before the hurt could settle and spotted him.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

Harry Potter sat alone. His plate was nearly untouched, though his knife moved absently across the roast on his plate, carving neat, precise lines into the meat. The light caught on his hair, dark as the ink that still stained her fingers from copying notes earlier that morning. The students around him were loud, laughing, but no one seemed to notice him. No one looked at him. It was as though he existed just outside the reality of the room.

The shadows near him felt thicker somehow, almost alive. They clung to the edges of his robes, making the already dark fabric seem impossibly black. Hermione swallowed hard, the air around her suddenly feeling cooler. Her footsteps slowed, but her heart quickened, thrumming uncomfortably loud in her chest.

He glanced up, and that was all it took. Green eyes pinned her in place, unblinking, unrelenting. She felt exposed, as though he could see straight through her. Straight through everything.

"You're late," he said, his voice smooth and steady, without even the faintest trace of reproach.

"I wasn't sure I wanted to come," Hermione replied stiffly, tucking the note into her bag and crossing her arms.

Harry gestured to the bench across from him. "Sit."

She hesitated. "I don't have time for games, Potter."

"I'm not playing," he replied, his tone so calm it made her jaw clench. "Sit."

Her hands twitched at her sides, and after a moment, she relented, sinking onto the bench. The wood creaked faintly beneath her, the scrape of her bag against the floor louder than it should have been.

Harry folded his hands on the table, his movements deliberate. "I need help."

"With what?" Hermione asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"The tournament," he said.

She blinked. "The tournament? You need help with the tournament? I—" She faltered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "But the other champions don't have anyone helping them, and the—"

"Rules," Harry interrupted, his lips curving faintly. "Yes. It's cute you think anyone follows them."

Hermione bristled. "That's hardly—well, if you already know all about the rules, then surely you don't need me."

"I don't," Harry admitted. "But you'll do better."

"What?" she snapped, heat rising to her cheeks.

Harry leaned forward slightly. "When you guided me through the castle, you were thorough. Precise. You know things others don't, and you care enough to find the answers you don't already have. That's what I need."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. The compliment, if it could even be called that, left her stunned. And yet, there was something about the way he said it—like a fact, not a flattery—that made her stomach twist in ways she didn't want to name.

"Well, I can't help you," she said finally, her voice sharper than she intended. "I'm a Hogwarts student. My loyalty lies with Cedric Diggory. And with Hogwarts. I—"

"Nice speech," Harry murmured, leaning back. "But you'll help anyway."

"I will not."

Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated herself for it. The words spilt out faster now, tumbling over one another. "I'm not going to be another person's... pawn. Do you know how many times people have expected me to do their homework, to fix their problems just because I actually care about doing things properly? I've had enough of—"

Harry tilted his head, watching her as though she were an insect pinned to a glass slide. Then he laughed softly, and the sound was somehow worse than silence.

He stood, smoothing his robes with the faintest flick of his fingers. The motion was so casual, so dismissive, it made her blood boil.

"I'll expect you in the library after classes," he said, already turning away.

Hermione stared at his retreating figure, her fingers digging into the strap of her bag. The heat of her anger simmered, but it was eclipsed by something colder, heavier. She should have felt relief. Satisfaction. But instead, she felt the sinking certainty that she would be there.

She didn't know why. But she would be there.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

Past

The streets of Soho pulsed with life, a sickly kind of vibrancy that Harry could almost taste on the air. The shadows cradled him, whispering in his ears, promising concealment as he drifted unseen through the chaos of the night. The music was relentless, spilling out of club doors and vibrating through the pavement. It wasn't music, not really. It was noise, primal and raw, the pounding of drums and bass so deep it seemed to rattle his teeth.

The stench of sweat and alcohol rolled out of every doorway, mingling with cigarette smoke and the faint, acrid tang of something else—something sharper. Harry moved through it all, a wraith among the revellers. The shadows clung to him, curling protectively around his edges, and no one turned their head to question why a boy moved so freely in a place like this.

Inside the first club, the lights strobed in colours too garish to hold still in his mind. Reds bled into purples, blues twisted into greens, and every flash left an afterimage that clung to his vision like a ghost. Bodies pressed together on the dance floor, a writhing mass of limbs and desperation. Harry drifted past them, untouched, unseen.

He stepped into a bathroom where the air was thick with sweat and whispers. A group of young men huddled around a small square mirror propped on the sink. Lines of white powder sat upon it, stark and sharp under the dim light. One of them laughed, a sound too loud and too high-pitched, and bent down to sniff. The others clapped him on the back, their voices blurring together into indistinct approval.

Harry slipped away, deeper into the club. In a dark alcove, the shadows grew heavier, pooling like spilt ink. He paused, his senses stretching outward, and saw the shapes of a man and woman entwined. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her moans muffled against his neck as they moved together in a rhythm that matched the pounding bass. Harry's gaze lingered only for a moment before he moved on. He was not here for this.

It was in the third club that he felt it—a wrongness, subtle at first but unmistakable. He paused near the bar, his eyes scanning the crowd. The smell of sweat and perfume mingled with something coppery, faint but distinct. His gaze landed on two young men standing near the edge of the dance floor. Their conversation was loud enough to cut through the noise.

"Come on, Dick," the taller boy said, laughing as he nudged his friend. "Stop stressing about your stupid lecture. It's not even important."

Dick, shorter and slight with dark curls and wide, nervous eyes, shifted uncomfortably. "It's not stupid," he muttered. "I'm not failing just because you don't care about your grades, Tom."

Tom rolled his eyes, his grin wide and easy. "Mate, it's first year. Nobody cares about first-year grades. Come dance with me. Have some fun for once in your life."

Dick hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Tom laughed again and disappeared into the throng of dancers, leaving Dick standing awkwardly by himself.

Harry's gaze lingered on the boy. There was something faint, almost imperceptible, pooling in the shadows near his feet. It moved unnaturally, slithering and coiling in a way that shadows shouldn't. Harry's breath slowed, his senses sharpening. Something else was here.

The shadows parted, and a man stepped forward.

He was beautiful, in a way that was almost cruel. His age was impossible to guess, his face chiseled and ageless, his body lithe but undeniably strong. Muscles shifted beneath his perfectly tailored shirt, and his dark eyes scanned the room with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He could have been twenty-five. He could have been forty-five. It didn't matter. What mattered was the way the air around him seemed to shift, drawing attention without effort.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he watched the man approach the bar. The bartender's demeanour changed immediately; his movements were suddenly sharper, more eager. The man leaned against the counter, his presence commanding without a word.

Dick looked up, startled as the man turned his gaze on him. The older man smiled, and something in that smile disarmed the boy entirely. Harry could see it—the way Dick's shoulders relaxed, the way his nervousness melted into a kind of dazed fascination.

"You look lost," the man said, his voice smooth as velvet. He gestured to the bartender. "A drink for the young man."

The bartender moved without hesitation, pouring a glass of something clear and sharp. He slid it across the counter, and the man handed it to Dick, who blinked in surprise.

"Oh, I—thanks," Dick stammered. "But I don't have any—"

"It's taken care of," the man said, his smile widening slightly. Harry caught the faintest glimmer in the bartender's eyes, a glazed-over sheen that spoke of compulsion. The man hadn't paid. He hadn't needed to.

Dick took the glass, his fingers trembling slightly as he sipped. The man's gaze never left him, his dark eyes gleaming with something predatory and patient.

"What are you doing here all alone?" the man asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper. He leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming. "A boy like you shouldn't be left unattended."

Dick swallowed hard, his cheeks flushed. "I… I'm not alone," he managed. "My friend…" He trailed off, his eyes darting toward the dance floor where Tom had vanished.

The man chuckled softly, the sound low and intimate. "Then why don't you come with me?"

Dick blinked, his false confidence faltering. "Wh-why?"

The man's smile deepened. He leaned in, his finger tilting Dick's chin upward with effortless grace. "Because," he murmured, his voice honeyed and irresistible, "you deserve to live out your fantasies. And the best place to do that is somewhere private. On your knees, perhaps?"

Dick's breath hitched, his eyes wide and glassy. He nodded, the movement small and hesitant, but the man took it as permission. He straightened, offering his hand. Dick placed his own trembling hand into it, and the man led him toward the back exit, his movements smooth and deliberate.

Harry followed.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

Present

Hermione followed Harry's request and, despite her good judgement, found herself waiting in the library exactly ten minutes after classes for the day had ended. She sat stiffly, her hands folded tightly on the table in front of her. The air was thick with the musty scent of old parchment and the faint, metallic tang of ink, punctuated by the distant tick of an unseen clock. A low hum of whispered voices drifted from far corners, mingling with the occasional creak of aged wood as she shifted in her seat. The large oak chair creaked faintly under her weight as she shifted, a restless energy coursing through her. Around her, the familiar hush of parchment rustling and quills scratching should have been comforting, but today, it felt suffocating. The faint smell of ink and old books filled the air, normally soothing, now grating.

She checked the clock again. Late. Of course, he was late. Hermione's foot tapped impatiently against the stone floor, the dull rhythm filling the otherwise silent corner of the library.

"I came here to tell him off, not wait around like some… some house-elf at his beck and call," she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible. It was bad enough that she'd let his presumptuous note lure her here, but the sheer audacity of him to be late—when he didn't even attend classes—was infuriating. She'd come ready to lecture him, to give him a piece of her mind, and now she sat here stewing, her indignation building with every passing second.

A soft rustle broke her thoughts. Her head snapped up just as a girl stumbled out from behind one of the nearby shelves, her robes haphazardly thrown on, hair mussed, and cheeks flushed. The faint swish of fabric accompanied her hurried movements, and a lingering trace of floral perfume wafted through the air, sharp against the musty library atmosphere. The girl giggled, her sparkling eyes glancing back over her shoulder before she hurried off, nearly tripping over the hem of her robes. A strap of her bra peeked out from her robe pocket, and Hermione's stomach churned in irritation as she recognised her: Susan Bones.

And then, as if summoned by the tension thrumming in Hermione's veins, he appeared. Harry Potter.

He stepped out from the same shadowed corner Susan had emerged from, smoothing his perpetually untidy hair with a hand and adjusting his slightly askew robes. His lips curled in a faint, crooked smile that might have been charming if Hermione weren't already fuming. He looked unkempt, smug, and—Hermione's face burnt—freshly snogged.

"You're late," she snapped, her voice a sharp whisper that cut through the library's quiet.

Harry's green eyes flicked to her, unfazed. "Sit." He gestured casually to the chair across from her.

"I am sitting," she shot back, folding her arms tightly. "Unlike you, apparently, who has better things to do than keep your appointments."

Harry's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "I was here," he said simply, sliding into the chair opposite her.

Hermione's hands clenched into fists. "Oh, you were here? Busy behind the stacks, were you?" Her voice rose slightly, drawing a glare from Madam Pince, who hovered nearby like an ever-watchful hawk. Hermione lowered her tone but didn't soften the edge. "Some of us don't waste our time gallivanting with—"

"Susan," Harry supplied, his voice maddeningly calm.

"I don't care who it was!" Hermione hissed. "You're… you… I cannot believe you demanded I help you and then show up looking like… like that!" She gestured vaguely at his dishevelled appearance, her cheeks flaming.

Harry tilted his head, regarding her with an unsettling stillness. "What, exactly, do I look like?"

Hermione sputtered. "You know what I mean! You… you ordered me to come here. Who do you think you are?"

"I think I'm someone who needs your help," Harry said matter-of-factly. "And someone who recognises that you're the best person for the job."

The words caught her off guard, and for a moment she faltered. But then the frustration surged back. "That doesn't give you the right to… to… oh, never mind! Why am I even here?"

Harry's eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "You tell me," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Did you come here to help, and are you ready to leave because you're jealous?"

Hermione's jaw dropped. "Jealous? Of… of Susan Bones?" Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated herself for it. "Don't be ridiculous."

Harry shrugged, his expression infuriatingly neutral. "You have no reason to be. We're not together in any way."

"Obviously not!" Hermione snapped.

"But if I'm wrong," Harry continued, his tone maddeningly even, "and you are attracted to me, I'd be happy to snog you too. Would that convince you to help?"

Hermione's face burned hotter than the library's candles. "No thank you!"

Harry smiled, the expression almost mocking. "Noted. Shall we move on?"

Hermione glared at him, her knuckles white against the edge of the table. "Why should I help you at all? I don't even know you."

"I'm not hiding anything," Harry said.

"You're hiding everything!" Hermione shot back. "Where did you come from? Why are you even here?"

Harry's expression didn't change. "I came here of my own will."

"You entered the tournament of your own will too, I suppose?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes," Harry said simply. "I need to win. It's part of something important. A larger mission."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "What mission?"

Harry leaned forward slightly. "That's none of your business."

She huffed, exasperated. "Why should I help you if you won't tell me anything?"

"Because I'm asking nicely," he replied, his tone as smooth as silk.

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. "This is nicely?"

Harry's lips quirked. "Relatively speaking."

She groaned, rubbing her temples. "What do you even need help with?"

"The tournament," Harry said. "The first task."

"The first task?" Hermione repeated. "Do you need help to figure out what it is?"

"No. It's dragons."

Her breath caught. "Dragons? You need help with dragons?"

Harry shook his head. "No. I can handle that on my own. You misunderstood."

Hermione frowned. "Then what do you need?"

Harry's gaze sharpened, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Help sabotaging the other champions. Would you be willing to assist? Susan already gave me so much information about Cedric. Honestly, I thought it would be harder to get it out of the Hufflepuffs. Loyalty and all that," he said, the faintest trace of amusement colouring his voice. "But really, all I had to do was ask nicely."

Hermione's stomach twisted, a strange mix of disbelief and revulsion knotting tightly. She opened her mouth to retort, but no words came. Her fingers curled against the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood as her mind reeled. How could he be so casual? So… calculated? For a moment, all she could do was stare at him, her thoughts spinning out in too many directions at once.

Hermione's breath hitched. "Is that why you…" She gestured vaguely, her voice faltering. "Why you snogged Susan?" The words felt foreign on her tongue, and she quickly shook her head, forcing her gaze to the table. "Never mind. Forget it."

Her hands trembled slightly, and she clasped them tightly together to steady herself. "I'm not going to help sabotage anyone," she said, her tone sharper now. "But I…" She swallowed hard, hating the words even as they left her mouth. "I'll hear what you have in mind. Before I decide."

Harry's faint smile lingered, but he said nothing more, simply leaning forward in his chair. Hermione clenched her fists, unsure whether his silence was infuriating or oddly reassuring. The library's silence pressed heavily against her ears, broken only by the faint rustle of parchment and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the old clock. She told herself it was curiosity—and nothing else—that made her stay. Yet, in the back of her mind, a strange and reluctant relief settled, unspoken and unwelcome. The faint scent of Susan's floral perfume still clung to him, sharp and undeniable, but she forced herself to focus on his words. At least it had been about Cedric, she told herself firmly. Nothing more.

#-#-#-#-#-#-#

Past

The alley was alive with shadows, the sounds of Soho fading into a distant thrum. Harry watched from the cover of darkness, his senses attuned to the rhythmic pounding of music from the clubs and the muted conversations of revellers. His gaze sharpened as he spotted the man and Dick tucked away in a secluded alcove, their forms entwined. The shadows around them quivered, a rumble rolling through the inky blackness as if the night itself were growling in discontent.

Dick's nervous giggles were swallowed by the alcove's shadows as he lowered himself to his knees. His trembling hands fumbled with the man's belt buckle, his every movement tentative, hesitant. Harry's eyes glinted with a predatory awareness as he saw it—the man's eyes flaring crimson, the sudden emergence of fangs, sharp and glistening under the dim light.

Without hesitation, Harry slipped into the shadows, his form dissolving into the void like smoke caught in a breeze. The shadows embraced him, coiling around him like a cloak, and he extended his will to snatch the vampire into their grasp. The creature barely had time to hiss before it was wrenched from the alcove, dragged into the swirling nothingness.

They rolled through the shadow realm, a disorienting maelstrom of twisting black and grey. The vampire thrashed and snarled, his confusion palpable, but Harry's grip was unrelenting. Moments later, they tumbled into the decrepit confines of Harry's shack. The air reeked of damp wood and decay, a faint metallic tang lingering from his earlier rituals.

The vampire staggered to his feet, his chest heaving as he scanned his surroundings. His once-perfect composure fractured, fear flickering across his face as his gaze landed on Harry, who stood still and silent, watching.

"You," the vampire growled, his voice guttural. He lunged, a blur of inhuman speed and fury.

Before he could close the distance, Harry's undead creatures erupted from the shadows. They swarmed him with feral precision, their claws and beaks raking his flesh. A raven pecked at his eye, a wolf-like creature sank its rotting teeth into his shoulder, and skeletal hands clawed at his legs. The vampire's screams filled the shack, guttural and raw, as he struggled against the relentless onslaught.

Unbothered, Harry knelt by the edge of the chaos, calmly drawing a chalk circle around the writhing vampire. His strokes were measured, deliberate, the sound of chalk scraping against the floor barely audible over the cacophony of snarls and shrieks. As he completed the circle, he placed a shard of obsidian at the point where the lines met. The sharp click of his hands clapping once echoed through the room, and the creatures immediately dispersed, slinking back into the shadows.

Harry straightened, his eyes fixed on the vampire. Jerome's body twitched as his wounds began to heal, flesh knitting itself together with unnatural speed. Within moments, the vampire's pristine beauty was restored, though his crimson eyes darted with panic. He attempted to step out of the circle, only to recoil with a hiss as his skin sizzled where it touched the boundary.

"What is this?" the vampire demanded, his voice trembling.

Harry tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Sit."

The vampire hesitated, then sank to the floor, his movements wary. His gaze darted around the room, but there was no escape from the circle's confines.

Harry began his interrogation, his questions sharp and sparse:

"Is Sanguini your sire?"

"No," Jerome spat, his defiance faltering.

"Where is he?"

Jerome's lip curled. "Probably somewhere playing chess with wizards. He's odd like that."

"Your name?"

"Jerome," the vampire muttered, his confidence waning.

"When were you turned?"

"Thirty years ago," Jerome replied, his voice quieter now.

"The fastest way to contact Sanguini?"

A bitter laugh escaped Jerome. "A Slughorn party. Sanguini is always lurking around that fat old potions master. It's his idea of fun."

Harry's gaze didn't waver. He paused for a moment before asking, "Did you plan to kill the boy tonight?"

Jerome blinked, startled. "Who? Oh, the boy? I mean, maybe? I try to control myself mostly, but… accidents happen."

Harry's expression darkened imperceptibly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled parchment, its edges smudged with ink and ash. He glanced at Jerome, his tone devoid of emotion. "You'll make an excellent gift for my benefactor."

Jerome's eyes widened. "What? Wait, no—"

Harry began to read aloud, the words rolling off his tongue like thunderous whispers: "Oblivione tenebrae, vitae donum aufer." The circle began to shrink, the chalk lines glowing faintly as the space within constricted.

Jerome screamed, his hands clawing at the shrinking boundary as his skin sizzled and blackened. "Stop! Please! I'll do anything!" His cries grew more frantic, his once-impeccable composure shattered.

The denizens of Knockturn Alley, nestled in their dilapidated homes near the old hag's shack, heard the screams echoing through the night. They froze, exchanging uneasy glances as the shrieks rose and fell, each more agonised than the last. No one dared approach; their gazes remained fixed on their own crumbling walls, pretending the cries were distant echoes of something long forgotten.

Inside the shack, Jerome writhed in the shrinking circle, his skin blistering and burning where it grazed the glowing chalk lines. "Please! Mercy!" he shrieked, clawing at the boundaries as the space around him narrowed. His movements grew more frantic, squeezing himself into the ever-decreasing confines, his previously flawless features now twisted in desperation.

Harry stood motionless, his face illuminated by the faint glow of the circle. His expression was calm, detached, yet his emerald eyes gleamed with an unsettling satisfaction. He watched as Jerome's once-pristine beauty melted into charred flesh, then healed again in a grotesque cycle of pain and regeneration.

Outside, a child whimpered, silenced quickly by a nervous mother. The neighbours exchanged no words, their fear shared in a heavy silence as they listened to the monster's anguished wails. Whatever had killed the hag and claimed her home was far more terrifying than anything they cared to confront.

Within, Jerome's voice cracked, a final desperate plea escaping his lips: "I'll do anything! Just let me go!" The circle closed tighter, the chalk glowing brighter. Harry's gaze never wavered, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as though observing an experiment reach its inevitable conclusion.

The screams dwindled, then stopped altogether. The silence that followed was heavier than the night, swallowing the remnants of Jerome's agony. In the alley, the residents resumed their tense stillness, their unspoken pact to ignore whatever horrors unfolded nearby. Only the memory of the terror remained, lingering like the faint stench of burning flesh that seeped into the dark.