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The horizon gleamed with the distant glow of daylight, yet within the shadowed walls of Dracula's Castle, most vampires lay dormant in deep slumber. The air was unnervingly still, steeped in the oppressive aura of their presence—a perpetual dawn where the sun never dared rise.
Dracula and Selina, each gripping a parasol, leapt from the towering battlements, landing gracefully upon the ground.
To an uninformed passerby, the battlefield bore no resemblance to the gruesome war waged just hours prior. Instead, the landscape appeared as if touched by an unseasonal snowfall—ashen remnants covering every surface, obscuring the violent history beneath.
No blood stained the earth beneath the castle walls. Only a sprawling layer of pale, powdery residue lay evenly spread across the terrain. The occasional gust of wind stirred the fine dust, sending waves of gray mist swirling through the air.
Dracula and Selina stepped forward, their movements silent as their footprints traced shallow impressions upon the remnants of the Inferi.
"I still remember how the horde swarmed beneath the walls last night—countless, overwhelming," Serena murmured, breaking the eerie silence. "And yet, you managed to command an army of bats to burn every last one of them to dust?"
"Of course," Dracula replied, a smirk curling his lips. "Not a single Inferi escaped my reach."
Serena pursed her lips, momentarily frustrated.
"Well, I suppose I'll reach that level in a few hundred years," she muttered.
But before she could dwell on the thought, her expression shifted to surprise. She lifted her hand, pointing toward a figure in the distance.
"What's that? That's definitely an Inferi! Admit it—you missed one!" she exclaimed, her excitement rising. "Even you can't be flawless!"
Dracula cast a doubtful glance in the direction she indicated. A lone figure staggered through the battlefield—its pallid body unnaturally stiff, its vacant eyes murky with decay.
Frowning, Dracula vanished instantly.
When he reappeared, he stood beside the wandering corpse.
Unlike the others, this Inferi remained eerily intact. Its limbs were unscathed, its flesh bearing few signs of decay. Only slight swelling suggested prolonged exposure to liquid.
Dracula examined the back of its neck and found the skin charred black.
"Selena, come here," he called as she flew over. He gestured to the burn mark. "This proves I didn't miss it—the flame did touch him. But for some reason, he wasn't incinerated."
Selena studied the mark thoughtfully.
"Could your fire have failed?" she speculated. "Look at him—he's clearly been submerged for a long time. Maybe the flames were too weak, and the water extinguished them?"
Dracula stared at her in silence.
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked cautiously.
"I'm starting to wonder if you left your brain behind when you stepped out of the castle," Dracula said flatly. "Since when has our fire been so delicate that a little water could snuff it out? Besides, there's barely any moisture left in him."
"Well… I was just throwing out a possibility," Serena muttered, suddenly unsure.
Dracula sighed and turned his attention back to the Inferi, scrutinizing its features.
This one was lean, with long, thick black hair—surprisingly well-preserved despite the apparent exposure to water. The unkempt strands obscured half its face.
Dracula flicked his hand, conjuring a gentle breeze that swept the hair behind the Inferi's ears, unveiling a face once strikingly handsome despite its current swollen state. There was a trace of arrogance still embedded in its features, an echo of its former life.
"He wasn't just any ordinary wizard," Dracula mused. "I wonder what fate led him to this."
His gaze traveled downward, studying the Inferi's attire.
Though faded from prolonged submersion, the robes retained hints of their once-luxurious craftsmanship.
"Hold on—look at this!" Serena exclaimed suddenly. She lifted the Inferi's left arm, rolling up the sleeve to expose his forearm.
There, unmistakable, was a blood-red mark—
A skull with a serpent coiling from its mouth.
"The Dark Mark?" Dracula's eyes narrowed. Confusion flickered across his face.
As a former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, he had encountered the emblem many times before—even personally dismantling the Dark Lord's soul once.
This symbol belonged only to Voldemort's most elite Death Eaters—far beyond the ranks of Fenrir Greyback.
But why would a marked Death Eater be among the Inferi summoned by Voldemort himself?
Had the Dark Lord truly gone mad enough to slaughter his own followers, condemning them to a fate worse than death?
"If he was one of Voldemort's trusted men, we should be able to uncover his identity," Dracula reasoned.
He gestured toward the Inferi's chest, where the fabric had faded beyond recognition.
"Reparo."
A pulse of light surged through the cloth, restoring it to its former brilliance.
Upon the left side of the robe, an ornate crest gleamed—
A sigil depicting a mountain peak, two five-pointed stars, and a shield bearing a short sword, flanked by leaping greyhounds.
In heraldic terms: "Black, featuring a mountain between two stars as the central emblem, a silver sword at the base."
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No. 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England
The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a dull glow over an all-too-familiar household dispute.
"For the third time this week!" Vernon Dursley bellowed, his massive frame shaking with rage. "If you can't control that blasted owl, then let it go!"
Across the table, a thin boy with glasses attempted to reason with him. "She's just restless. She's used to flying outside—if I could let her out at night—"
But his uncle wasn't interested in explanations.
"Do you take me for a fool?" Vernon roared, bits of fried egg clinging to his thick mustache. "I know exactly what happens when you let an owl loose!"
Frustrated, Harry Potter hurriedly finished his breakfast, pushed away his plate, and stormed upstairs. Locking the door to his cramped room, he collapsed onto his old bed, staring at the ceiling in silence.
The famed Boy Who Lived—the hero who had helped Gryffindor win the House Cup—was now nothing more than a prisoner in his own home, cut off from his friends for most of the summer.
Ever since he had returned from Hogwarts, Uncle Vernon had treated him like a ticking time bomb. To a Muggle like him, Harry was unnatural, an anomaly.
He was a wizard, an outsider in the Dursleys' world. After finishing his first year at Hogwarts, he had no choice but to spend his summer in a home where he was neither wanted nor welcome.
But if the Dursleys resented his presence, their disdain was nothing compared to Harry's own misery.
He longed for Hogwarts—the castle, the secret passageways, the ghosts, and most of all, his magic classes. His mind drifted to his professors: the stern Professor McGonagall, the kind Professor Sprout, and even Professor Snape, whose presence had always unnerved him.
He thought about Professor Dracula, an eccentric but powerful figure. Then his thoughts circled back to Snape—a man he had once loathed but now regarded with complicated emotions.
Before heading home, he had quarreled with Snape, straining their already fragile relationship. The memory of their argument lingered, blurred at the edges.
Lying there, Harry reflected on his upbringing. He had grown accustomed to hardship—being bullied by his cousin Dudley and his gang—but he had always found small ways to bring himself joy, moments of solace.
Despite this, he rarely let anger dictate his actions.
Looking back, his fight with Snape felt more like impulsiveness—his desperation to mend things had clouded his judgment.
"Maybe I should write to Professor Snape and apologize," Harry thought.
But there was a problem.
As soon as Harry arrived home, Uncle Vernon had locked away everything related to magic—his books, wand, robes, cauldron, and even his prized Nimbus 2000—shoving them into the dark cupboard under the stairs.
The Dursleys didn't care if their actions jeopardized his studies or got him expelled from the Quidditch team.
To them, magic was a disgrace.
Hedwig, his owl, was imprisoned in her cage, unable to carry messages to his friends.
"Ron, Hermione... Neville... why hasn't anyone sent me a letter?" Harry thought miserably. "Surely they haven't forgotten me?"
His chest tightened with loneliness.
But then—
A soft rustling sound caught his attention.
Turning toward the window, he saw a black-covered diary lying on his desk, its pages flipping on their own, as if touched by an invisible hand.
"Tom?!" Harry whispered, hurrying to his desk. His eyes widened in surprise. "How did you get out of the cupboard?"
Realizing the diary couldn't hear his voice, he retrieved a quill hidden within his mattress, dipped it into his own saliva, and scribbled his question onto the blank pages.
Elegant handwriting appeared in response:
"Harry, I told you—I have some magic of my own."
"Then can you help me leave this awful place?" Harry wrote eagerly. "I don't have my wand—I can't fight back."
"Patience, Harry," the diary responded. "I can't take you away, but I do have an idea."
"First, we'll make sure those Muggles pay for what they've done to you."
Harry hesitated.
"Isn't that wrong?" he scribbled. "If I use magic, I'll be expelled."
"You won't have to lift a finger," the diary assured him. "I'll take care of everything. By the time school starts, you'll be on the Hogwarts Express like nothing ever happened."
A chill crept down Harry's spine.
The ink continued to scrawl across the page:
"Tell me—does your uncle have anything important planned soon?"
"I'll ruin it for him. And once the revenge is complete, I'll retrieve your wand."
Harry hesitated but ultimately gave in.
Tonight, Uncle Vernon was hosting a wealthy builder and his wife—crucial guests for his drill business.
"Perfect," the diary wrote. "Leave it to me."
Then the pages fell still.
Harry stared at them for a long moment, then carefully slid the diary beneath his mattress, hiding it from prying eyes.
No. 4 Privet Drive – The Dursleys' Dining Room
Night had settled over the quiet neighborhood, and inside No. 4 Privet Drive, Vernon Dursley entertained his wealthy guests over dinner.
"...Mrs. Mason, tell Petunia those American plumber jokes," Vernon said with what he assumed was a genial smile. "She's been dying to hear them!"
Mr. and Mrs. Mason exchanged awkward glances as the atmosphere turned more strained than inviting.
Meanwhile, perched on top of a cupboard in the dimly lit dining room, the diary stirred to life.
"Finite Incantatem."
The incantation appeared on its blank pages, glowing faintly before vanishing.
Instantly, the magical concealment surrounding the house—the unplottable charm and avoidance spell—crumbled away.
Outside, an owl that had been lingering aimlessly for hours suddenly sensed its path was clear. With a burst of energy, it swooped through an open window, spiraling wildly across the ceiling of the living room.
Disoriented, it flapped furiously, searching for direction.
Then, as though finally regaining its bearings, the owl darted toward Harry's bedroom upstairs.
Mrs. Mason let out a bloodcurdling scream.
She stumbled back, shrieking, "Madman! MADMAN!" before bolting toward the door in sheer panic.
Mr. Mason lingered only a moment longer. His face twisted with frustration as he turned to Vernon. "My wife is deathly afraid of birds—any kind, large or small. Was this some kind of twisted joke?"
Vernon paled, fumbling to appease him. But it was too late—Mr. Mason stormed out after his wife, slamming the door shut behind him.
The second the guests were gone, Vernon exploded into action.
His massive frame thundered up the stairs, moving with surprising speed despite his bulk.
Bursting into Harry's room, he shoved his face inches from the boy's, his eyes blazing with fury.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" he roared, his breath hot and reeking of dinner. "ANOTHER OWL? ANOTHER ONE?!"
Harry flinched but met his uncle's stare defiantly. "I didn't do anything! I've been in my room all night!"
His eyes darted toward the mattress instinctively—where the diary lay hidden beneath.
"You expect me to believe that?!" Vernon's face darkened to a furious shade of red. Last year, that wretched bird got us kicked out of our house! And NOW—it's RUINED the biggest deal of my CAREER!"
Spittle flew as he loomed over Harry, his presence suffocating.
Owl?" Vernon sneered, teeth bared like a rabid dog. Well, I've got news for you, boy—YOU'RE DONE!"
You will NEVER go back to that school! NEVER!"
True to his word, the very next morning, Vernon had bars installed over Harry's window.
The bedroom door was secured with a trapdoor, allowing only a small plate of food to be slid through three times a day.
Harry was let out solely to use the bathroom, morning and evening—otherwise, he remained locked away.
Sitting near his barred window, Harry gazed toward the setting sun, its light fragmented by the metal frame.
"Tom, look at what you've done," he wrote bitterly into the diary. "Ruining Uncle Vernon's meeting was nice, but I'm still trapped. I can't get out."
The response emerged instantly, stark against the dim glow of the sunset:
"Harry, never forget—you are a wizard."
"A wizard is not meant to be imprisoned by Muggles."
Harry hesitated before writing back.
"But I'm underage. If I use magic, I'll be expelled."
"Don't worry, Harry," the diary coaxed, its words flowing in deliberate, silky strokes. "The Ministry of Magic only issues a warning for first offenses."
"Would you rather waste away in this room, forever at the mercy of Muggles? Or will you fight back?"
"Think of the spell I taught you."
The pages flickered slightly before closing on their own—only the black cover remained, shadowed in the dimming light.
And beneath it, resting quietly, was a Holly wand.