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Harry held his wand in a loose grip, staring at it as if seeing it for the first time.
Eleven inches. Holly. Phoenix feather core.
A wand known for its resilience against darkness, yet now, under Tom's influence, it was poised for something far more sinister.
His breathing was shallow as he turned it over in his hands, the polished wood smooth against his fingertips.
"If using magic outside of school only results in a warning the first time… then maybe I can…"
The words felt hollow, uncertain.
He recalled the spell the diary had taught him, its incantation lingering at the edge of his thoughts like a whisper he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.
Tom's earlier message in the diary surfaced in his mind, written in bold, confident strokes:
"This spell is simple, Harry—but it requires something deeper. You must summon destruction from within. The greater your desire, the stronger the magic."
Harry's breath hitched.
He slowly raised his wand, its tip aimed at the iron bars across his window—the final barrier between him and freedom.
Beyond those bars lay everything he longed for.
Diagon Alley. The Burrow. King's Cross Station. Hogwarts.
Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but trapped in this room.
His lips parted, hesitant.
But as he prepared to speak the words, a flicker of doubt seized his heart.
Something felt wrong.
A voice inside whispered—don't do this.
This magic—it wasn't right.
Spells demanding pure destruction were never simple. They were never harmless. They led down paths one couldn't come back from.
Harry's hand trembled.
Half of him screamed for escape.
The other half recoiled in fear.
"If only I had studied ahead—like Hermione…"
The thought stung more than he expected.
Had he put in the effort, he could've learned the Severing Charm—a safer, more controlled spell to break free.
He wouldn't be standing at the edge of a choice that terrified him.
"No. I can't."
His hand shook as he slowly lowered the wand.
Reaching for his quill, he scrawled hastily into the diary.
"Tom, can you teach me the Cutting Charm? I don't want to use this spell anymore."
A response came swiftly, the ink bleeding into the parchment with sharp, jagged strokes.
"The Cutting Charm is difficult to master, Harry. I can't teach it through mere words."
Harry frowned.
Tom's handwriting seemed tense—frustrated.
"The spell I gave you is easier. It only requires anger."
The words pulsed across the page, urging him forward.
"Think about Vernon Dursley—the fat pig who locked you away."
"Think about how they treat you like a prisoner!"
"Doesn't that make you furious, Harry? Doesn't that make you want to break free?"
"Raise your wand. Your future is yours to command."
His fingers twitched around the wand.
He lifted it—then lowered it—then lifted it again.
The battle raged within him.
But in the end—desperation won.
A flicker of red light ignited in his eyes.
His grip tightened.
His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as he snapped his wand upward, pointing it directly at the bars.
"Avada—"
The incantation had barely left his lips when his wand convulsed violently, its core rejecting the spell.
The air shifted, thick with something unseen—something dark.
Then—
The black, inverted cross pendant hanging around Harry's neck burst into life, radiating a deep burgundy glow.
Its short horizontal bars flared, resembling bloodstained wings.
As though responding to the pendant's power, the scarlet in Harry's eyes was instantly purged, erased in a blink.
His chest heaved as his mind cleared.
His lips froze mid-incantation, the second half swallowed into silence.
His fingers loosened—his entire body collapsed onto the bed, drained of all strength.
"No… I can't…" Harry murmured weakly.
"I won't use that spell, Tom. I can't."
The pendant's eerie glow faded, retreating into a deep, empty black.
After several long moments, the diary flipped open once more, its pages shifting like something alive.
Then, in crisp, shadowed ink, a single phrase emerged—cold and unforgiving.
"You disappoint me, Harry."
---
A sudden rattle echoed through the silent room.
Harry flinched instinctively, hastily shoving his wand beneath his pillow—a reflex born from weeks of confinement.
Then, realization dawned.
No one beyond the trapdoor cared enough to look inside.
A pale, thin hand slid a chipped bowl throughthe small opening.
Aunt Petunia's silent, indifferent gesture was the only interaction he'd had all day.
Harry's stomach twisted painfully. Hunger gnawed at his insides, making him feel hollow.
Snatching the bowl, he gulped down half the cold soup in one go.
It tasted metallic—canned, stale—but he barely noticed.
Still, he stopped short of finishing.
Dragging himself toward Hedwig's cage, he tipped the last remnants—wilted vegetables soggy from the broth—into her dish.
She ruffled her feathers, fixing him with an unimpressed glare.
"Don't be picky—that's all we've got," Harry muttered.
Hedwig responded with an indignant swish of her tail feathers, turning away in protest.
Harry sighed, placing the empty bowl back at the trapdoor, then collapsed onto his bed.
The meager meal had only amplified his hunger, leaving his stomach more hollow than before.
What would happen if a month passed and he didn't starve—but never arrived at Hogwarts?
Would Dumbledore send someone?
Would his professors force the Dursleys to let him go?
If Professor Dracula came, surely it would be different.
Dracula never cared for rules. He'd probably turn the Dursleys into two oversized pigs and a carrot without hesitation.
The thought almost made Harry smile.
But the streetlights outside flickered off, plunging the room into complete darkness.
Harry rolled onto his side, exhaustion settling into his limbs.
Hunger throbbed in his stomach, intertwining with a deeper ache in his chest—uncertainty.
Had he made the right choice?
Had he thrown away his only chance at escape by refusing to use the spell?
His thoughts swirled endlessly, searching for answers that wouldn't come.
Eventually, uneasy sleep claimed him.
Harry was dreaming.
Again, he stood before the iron grating, the barrier separating him from the outside world.
Again, he raised his wand.
But this time—he spoke the incantation in full.
A burst of brilliant, terrifying green light shot from his wand—striking toward the bars.
But in the next instant—
A red-haired boy appeared just outside the window.
The spell hit him squarely in the chest.
His freckled face twisted in shock.
Then—lifeless eyes.
A body crumpling to the ground.
"No, Ron!"
Harry jerked awake, his breath ragged, cold sweat clinging to his skin.
He barely had time to process the nightmare before noticing—
Moonlight slanted through the iron bars, illuminating a shadowed figure peering in at him.
A boy with red hair, freckles, and a long nose.
Just like in the dream.
Ron Weasley was outside his window.
His bright blue eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Are you even dreaming about me, Harry?"
Ron knocked against the glass, grinning.
---
Under the dark night, the starry sky hung low, merging with the blood-colored lake below. At the edge of this bright red, mirror-like surface stood a majestic ancient tower.
Behind Dracula's castle lay a vast lake of blood, silent and still beside the ancient tower.
Dracula and Selina, clad in black and red robes, stood at the lake's shore. Floating beside them was a bloated Inferi, drifting as they moved.
The Inferi's expression was dull, his eyes cloudy, but a faint trace of pride lingered at the corners of his lips.
"Do you know how to use necromancy?" Serena asked curiously. "I've never seen you use it before."
Dracula chuckled and waved his hand, soaking the Inferi in the lake's blood. "I can't say I'm good at it. I can only say... I'm very good at it."
He drew out a wand made of eerie wood, long unused, and traced complex patterns in the air. Then, with another wave, he split the design into two parts—one sinking into the Inferi's eyebrows, the other piercing his heart.
Suddenly, the blood-red lake surged, covering the Inferi's arms, chest, cheeks, and finally the tip of his nose.
The corpse stirred.
Slowly, he rose from the lake, moving toward Dracula and Selina, stretching out stiff hands as if to drag them into the blood.
"Hey, isn't necromancy supposed to take longer to work?" Serena's eyes widened.
"No, the spell hasn't fully taken effect," Dracula said with surprise. "It seems the Inferi's instructions are linked to water—no wonder his entire body is soaked in blood, giving him this paraedematous appearance."
"What does that mean?" Serena pushed the Inferi back casually, still confused. "Has he been soaked this whole time? Then why did he attack us?"
"This relates to how Inferi are created," Dracula explained, binding the Inferi tightly with his wand and pushing him back into the lake. "There are two main types. One awakens corpses that died long ago—completely dead, like blank slates, following their master's orders with absolute obedience."
"But these are also limited—without commands, they're aimless, easy to deal with."
"The other kind," Dracula pointed to the soaked Inferi, "is like this one. Before death, the dark wizard cast a command. Whenever triggered, the Inferi acts uniquely."
"Did you see? When the water reached his nose, he activated and attacked."
"So, his order is likely to attack any life on the shore and drag it into the lake."
Serena nodded thoughtfully, furrowing her slender eyebrows as she watched the Inferi struggle violently in the blood.
"Wait, why would such an Inferi be here, far from the lake? Can the command trigger from so far away?"
"That's the advantage of this kind," Dracula chuckled. "They can act on commands even when the summoner is absent, or just wander mindlessly obeying orders."
"Considering Greyback brought a large number of Inferi, Voldemort likely deployed most of his creations, linking them to Greyback's instructions. So these lake-dwelling Inferi came out to roam the Romanian plains."
The necromantic ritual concluded.
Countless black rays shot from the Inferi's body, piercing the water and soaring into the sky. Gradually, a massive skull with a snake spitting from its mouth formed above.
Dracula waved his wand and began reshaping the skull.
"I have another question," Serena said, watching him draw.
"Ask. Whether I answer depends on my mood," Dracula smiled faintly.
"Why wasn't this Inferi burned to death? Most should have died."
"That's why I'm interested," Dracula answered, painting with calm focus. "These commands were cast before death. Most Inferi retain some memories and instincts, unlike low-level ones."
"This one had strong unfinished obsessions, preserving subconscious will, helping him instinctively avoid danger. Those phantom bats are easy to burn away—if you chase them off, they burn themselves."
"Voldemort's necromancy is advanced, perhaps surpassing mine... though that's impossible. He must've used a powerful artifact."
Dracula's confident yet disdainful expression showed he didn't believe Voldemort truly surpassed him.
"If you ask me, that artifact changed his necromancy's nature. I even suspect this Inferi remembers parts of his life."
"Whether I'm right depends on waking him up now."
Serena looked up curiously at the scene above the lake.
The skull in the sky faded as if erased, replaced by a pair of exquisite devil wings formed from bony spurs.
"Done!"
Dracula clapped, putting away his wand.
"What did you just do?" Serena asked.
"I just changed the necromancy mark from Voldemort's to mine. No need for grand projection."
He winked at her.
"But doesn't drawing like this feel ritualistic and atmospheric?"
"Just enjoy it," he smiled.
Serena smiled helplessly, looking back to the lake.
Suddenly, bubbles burst from the blood lake, ripples forming as those inside struggled violently.
"What's wrong? Is your necromancy failing?" Serena hissed, claws and teeth bared.
Dracula frowned.
"No problems. I changed the marks and awakened some organs…"
He rubbed his temples.
"I forgot one thing," Dracula admitted.
"What?" Serena asked.
"I forgot to untie the bindings holding him."
Snapping his fingers—
A handsome young man with black hair suddenly sat up from the lake.
Coughing painfully, he spat out bright red water.
"So you woke his lungs but kept him soaked?" Serena muttered, lowering her claws.
Dracula smiled awkwardly and stepped to the lake.
The young man gasped and shouted—
"Kreacher!"