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Chapter Text

Dudley

Dudley was 8 years old when he discovered that nature was not all that it appeared to be.

He had been lounging in their front yard with all his toys placed around him. Petunia had decided that since it wasn’t raining, Dudley could use some fresh air. To be more honest, she just wanted the house free so she could get the work done.

Dudley didn’t care to know about that. He was too busy enjoying a rare day outside. Since most of the neighbors had already left, he could be as loud and rowdy as he wanted. Suddenly, there was a wet growl near him and Dudley paused.

Dudley’s breath hitched. He cried out, once, then again, louder this time. “Mum! Dad!”

No answer. No footsteps from the house. No twitch of curtains. No shouting from the neighbors’ gardens either. Just silence.

The animal lunged.

Dudley’s scream died in his throat. He hit the ground, rolled, and scrambled backward. He scraped his palms on the rough gravel. Panic coursed through him like fire. The dog grabbed the cuff of his jeans, teeth sinking into denim, dragging him inch by inch.

Tears blinded him.

He flailed, kicking, but it wasn’t enough. No one was coming.

Then something changed.

His hands jerked up. He didn’t know why. They lifted like puppets pulled by unseen strings. His fingers trembled. The dog stopped.

Its paws kicked uselessly at the air as it rose from the ground, suspended as though by invisible wires. It writhed and yelped, confused. Then came the howling. The sound was sharp and high, like metal scraping against glass.

Dudley sat up, breathing hard. His eyes rolled up into the whites, his whole body was tense with emotion now.

The dog screamed again, shrill now, pained. Its limbs twitched like it was being pulled apart at the joints.

A voice shattered the moment.

“DUDLEY!”

He blinked.

“DUDLEY!”

The voice was closer now, urgent, terrified.

“Let it go!”

Harry

Harry scrubbed the window with the cheap cleaner, the kind that left streaks no matter how hard you wiped. His jaw clenched tight. The bottle squeaked against the glass with every stroke, and he imagined it was Vernon’s smug, red face he was erasing.

Forced into this again. Forced to clean while Dudley lounged about like some bloated prince. It made his stomach turn.

A scream broke through the afternoon stillness.

Harry paused. He heard it again, louder this time.

Dudley.

He rolled his eyes. Probably yelling because the grass wasn't green enough or a ladybug dared to touch his precious fat body.

Then came another scream. Sharper. Real.

Harry froze, hand still pressed against the glass. That wasn’t Dudley’s usual whine. It was something else. Something closer to actual fear. Harry decided he might as well check it out. He threw away the spray bottle and rushed outside – the sight outside made his blood freeze.

Dudley stood trembling, arms raised. In front of him, a dog hung in the air, suspended as if by invisible wires, yelping and thrashing, rising higher and higher. Dudley’s eyes were wide and empty, his mouth slack.

Harry’s mouth went agape in cold realization.

There was another one now. Another freak in the family.

He looked down the street. At any moment now, Vernon’s car would turn the corner. If he saw this, if he saw Dudley like this, it would be hell. Vernon barely tolerated Harry – Harry shuddered to think what would Vernon do if he found out that his own flesh and blood was a mutant, an abomination – a freak.

Harry ran forward, skidding to a halt near Dudley, and grabbed a hold of him.

“Dudley!” Harry said, but there was no response. Worse, a faint nosebleed emerged from Dudley’s left nostril. Whatever the boy was doing was too dangerous and beyond his control.

Harry could just feel a car entering their street. He was too late.

The air buzzed around them, thick with whatever force was holding the dog aloft. It felt wild, untrained, slipping out of control. Harry reached deep inside himself, desperate.

Harry changed tactics and focused on the energy around the dog itself and took control with whatever rudimentary understanding he had of the freakishness as his uncle delicately put it.

The energy around the dog. The invisible string holding it.

He seized it, willed it to break, to stop.

With a thud, the dog dropped onto the grass and bolted away without looking back.

Just as Vernon stepped out of the car and stomped over to them.

Vernon’s gaze swept from the patch of grass where the dog had fallen to Harry, who stood with his arms still half-raised. Then to Dudley, slumped on the lawn, blood trickling from one nostril.

The air around them thickened.

“So,” Vernon growled. “You’ve finally done it. You’ve gone and hurt my son.”

Harry’s mouth opened. “This was an accident, I didn—”

“Don’t you dare speak,” Vernon snapped, his face already purpling. “After everything we’ve done for you, this is how you repay us? Ungrateful little freak.”

He stormed forward, seized Harry by the collar with one meaty hand, and yanked him off his feet. Harry stumbled, struggling to stay upright as he was dragged across the lawn. They stopped right outside of his cupboard beneath the stairs and Vernon unleashed his fury on him.

“You think this is a game?” Vernon roared, his voice shaking the walls. “You think you can go around hurting my son and get away with it? Use your freakishness while I do nothing?!”

Harry tried to speak, but the first strike cut him off. The belt lashed across his back, pain blooming under his shirt.

He curled in on himself, shielding his head, but the blows kept coming. Leather cracked against the skin, each strike harder than the last. When Vernon’s arm tired, he used his foot instead. A kick to the ribs. Another to the stomach.

Harry gasped, the wind knocked out of him. Vernon grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled Harry’s head near his.

“You are nothing. Nothing but a hellspawn that I will one day personally send to hell,” Vernon sneered. Vernon opened the cupboard door and tossed Harry inside without further ceremony.

“And you can forget about any dinner tonight!” Vernon roared.

Later That Night

Dudley

Dudley crept down the stairs with as much grace as he would be allowed. A few steps creaked under his weight, loud in the dead silence of the house, but nothing stirred from the bedrooms behind him. He paused, heart pounding, then tiptoed the rest of the way down.

He bolted straight for the kitchen grabbing a plate and popping open the fridge only to cluelessly stand in front of it. There was no food. Well, there were vegetables, sauces, some meat, and pepperoni, but not in a way that Dudley was familiar with. Harry would know what to do, so he grabbed the stuff and marched outside.

He shuffled over to the cupboard under the stairs, his body flushed with nerves. He awkwardly stood outside, still unaware of what to say or do. What could he even say right now that would not just piss off Harry?

A tired voice spoke from the inside.

“I can smell you, lardo. If you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise, stop hovering. The door’s thin enough,” Harry spat from the inside.

Dudley winced and gingerly reached for the latch and lifted it. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked from the outside.

The door creaked open and Harry slowly crawled out. His hair was a mess, matted and sticking up in all directions, and his face gleamed with sweat. He leaned against the wall and stretched, bones popping.

His eyes fell on the bundle in Dudley’s hands. Then on Dudley. Then back again.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You really can’t make a sandwich? That hard for you?”

Dudley’s face turned crimson. “I got you out, didn’t I?”

Harry snorted, brushing dust off his trousers. “Yeah. Nice job, Dudders. You’re a commando.”

He turned and started toward the kitchen. Dudley followed behind, holding the food like a peace offering he didn’t know how to deliver.

Harry moved through the kitchen like it was second nature. He grabbed a plate, laid the bread down, and stacked the meat on top without a word. He found a knife, scraped off some congealed mustard he didn’t like, and pressed the sandwich shut.

Then he sat at the table and ate in silence.

Across from him, Dudley sat frozen, staring. His eyes were wide, almost unblinking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Harry didn’t look up and merely asked. “What?”

Dudley didn’t answer. Just kept staring.

Harry now glared at him, “Did I grow a horn? Or maybe a tentacle? You’re looking at me like I just crawled out of your closet.”

Dudley opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “How can you say that? After... after what happened today?”

Harry chewed. Swallowed. “You mean the part where your dad nearly beat me to death? Or the part where you tore a dog apart with your brain?”

Dudley flinched like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

Harry waved a hand dismissively, pulling something stringy from the meat and flicking it into the sink.

“What I really want to know is why you’re down here. Midnight. Sneaking food to me like some guilty conscience in pajamas. That’s the bigger mystery, isn’t it? Since when does Dudley Dursley, golden prince of Number Four, think I’m worth saving?”  Harry asked.

“I-i-uh….” Dudley stammered off,  unable to rise to Harry’s scrutiny.

“I what, Dudley?” Harry demanded.

“I’M sorry, okay!” Dudley screamed as he slammed his fists down at the table. Harry made a shushing gesture and glared at Dudley. For a whole panicked minute, they stood alert, waiting to hear the sounds of footsteps thundering down so that they could bail out.

When no such sounds arose, Harry turned back to Dudley and shot him an annoyed look.

“I didn’t know what to do, okay?! Dad was going on and on about you being able to do these, weird and strange things,” Dudley said, his, breath coming fast. “He said, that it was sickness. He said it was evil. I got scared.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Wait! What things? What do you mean you didn’t know what to do?”

Dudley opened his mouth, then shut it again. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his shirt.

“I kinda... I knew already,” he mumbled. “Before the dog.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“The first time was... was ages ago. I was chasing Malcolm Brower—you remember him? That scrawny kid with the spots?”

Harry nodded slowly.

“I was chasing him, and his skateboard just... flipped. Like, by itself. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t even kick it. He flew face-first into a bush.”

Harry stared at him. “You’re telling me you’ve done stuff like this, before.”

Dudley looked down at his hands.

“Once. I made my TV fly.”

Harry blinked again. “What TV?”

“The one I got for my seventh birthday,” Dudley muttered.

“You made that telly float and you didn’t tell me?” Harry demanded. “You have been hiding this from me for years now!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Dudley whispered angrily, voice cracking. “I thought it was broken or something. I turned around and it was just floating there, and then it dropped. I thought I imagined it.”

Harry let out a short, bitter laugh. “Unbelievable. And you called me a freak for years.”

Dudley looked like he’d been slapped.“I didn’t tell anyone because I thought Dad was gonna do the same thing to me,” he said, quieter now. “I thought he’d lock me up too. I was scared, alright?”

Harry didn’t say anything for a while. The sandwich crumbs lay in front of him.

Then, without looking up, he said, “You left me.”

Dudley blinked. “What?”

“You knew,” Harry said. “You knew you could do stuff. You knew I wasn’t making it up. And you just stood there. Let him beat me. Again and again. I wasn’t a demon.”

“What was I supposed to do?! He’s my dad!” Dudley snapped.

“You could’ve said something!” Harry shot back, finally turning toward him. “You could’ve said I’m not lying. You could’ve told them the truth. But you didn’t. You just watched. Every time.”

“I was scared!” Dudley shouted. “You think I wasn’t?!”

Harry stood, fists clenched. “Scared? I was the one locked in a cupboard. I was the one he hit with the belt. You just watched.”

“Well? I’m here. What do you want me to do, Harry?” Dudley said letting his arms fall around him in frustration. “Just say it!”

Harry’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Dudley’s voice dropped, quieter now but still shaking. “He’s my dad. And he scares me too.”

The kitchen fell silent again. The light kept buzzing.

Morning

The next morning smelled like burnt eggs and grease. It was Sunday after all. So that meant double the duties for him since he wasn’t “wasting” time at school.

Harry stood by the stove, flipping sausages while the pan hissed. His wrist ached. His back still stung from the night before. Every time the spatula clinked against the pan, he flinched slightly.

Behind him, the kitchen table creaked as Vernon sat down with a heavy grunt. The newspaper snapped open. Then came the muttering. “Ungrateful brat. Can’t even cook without stinking up the place.”

Harry said nothing.

A few seconds passed. He felt a nudge against his ankle—Vernon’s foot.

“Watch it, freak. That’s a hot pan. It would be a shame if you dropped it.”

Harry gritted his teeth. Said nothing. He kept cooking.

Dudley was sitting across the table, poking his eggs with the side of his fork. He hadn’t touched the toast. Normally he would be up in arms about it all, trying to gain as much of Vernon’s approval as possible. Today, he hadn’t even looked at Harry.

That, more than anything, was what was putting Harry on edge.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting some smug smirk, some well-timed insult. But it never came. Dudley just sat there, silent and glum, shoulders hunched, eyes unfocused.

Harry didn’t trust it.

He’d seen Dudley fake crying before, fake limping, fake everything. Maybe this was just another trick. A new game. Gain Harry’s trust, make him talk, and then laugh about it later with Edward and the others. Maybe Vernon was in on it. Maybe they’d all sit around and howl over how stupid Harry was to fall for it.

He kept his head down. One sausage at a time. One breath at a time.

Dudley didn’t say a word. Not to Harry. Not to Vernon. Not even when his mother called from the living room to ask if he wanted to watch his show.

He just kept poking his eggs. Like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

Harry walked over to collect the dirty dishes.

Harry kept one eye on him as he swept, the other on the reflection in the polished jar. It curved and distorted everything, but the shapes were still there. His own silhouette. The kitchen walls. The window. Dudley.

Except Dudley’s reflection was looking directly at him.

Harry paused. Real Dudley was still staring at his plate.

He blinked. The reflection shifted, aligning back with reality. Nothing wrong now. Nothing to prove.

Harry dried his hands and walked into the living room.

Soon Petunia screeched something about Dudley’s show being on and the boy groaned as if he was in pain. Alarms went off in Harry’s brain. Dudley was lazy but now he legitimately seemed to be in pain. Worse, he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

***

The telly was on. Volume low. Some grainy cartoons flash across the screen. Dudley was slouched deep on the couch, legs sprawled, face slack. His thumb hovered near the remote but didn’t press it. Harry walked past him, grabbing the broom from the corner. The television’s glow washed the room in a flickering light. Dust swirled through the beam, irritating Harry.

Then something caught Harry’s eye.

In the screen, Dudley’s reflection sat just like he did in the real world—but a second behind. It turned its head slowly after Harry moved. Its mouth curled into a faint grin. Wide enough to show rows of large, sharp teeth.

Harry whirled around in terror.

Dudley hadn’t moved.

He didn’t smile. He wasn’t even blinking. He just audibly groaned.

Harry’s skin crawled.

He kept sweeping, pretending not to notice until he found a spoon on the coffee table. He picked it up and turned it over, using the back like a mirror. The metal was clean enough. He angled it until Dudley’s face came into view.

The reflection was smirking again.

Harry looked up. Dudley’s face was blank. Pale. Eyes unfocused.

“Dudley,” Harry said.

No answer.

“Dudley.”

Still nothing.

Harry stepped forward and touched his shoulder.

Dudley gasped, jerking like he’d been shocked. His hand flew to his chest. His breathing came fast and shallow.

Harry stepped back, unsettled.

“You alright?” he asked. No sarcasm. Just wariness.

Dudley nodded quickly. Too quickly.

Harry didn’t press. He turned, walked toward the hallway, and paused by the mirror outside the stairs.

He glanced into it casually. His own face looked back. Tired. Gaunt. His shirt hung too loose on his shoulders.

Behind him stood Dudley, still slouched on the couch.

The reflection of Dudley slowly raised its head.

Then it smiled and winked at him.

Real Dudley hadn’t moved. His head was still down.

The smile in the mirror lingered one second longer and then faded.

Monday

The school halls smelled like the worst kind of detergent. Seriously, did they have to use such vile detergents? Were they actually trying to induce headaches in them to make them more stupid? Harry angrily grumbled but said nothing.

Violent fights broke out in the corridors and the teachers barked about maintaining order but nobody actually gave a damn. Harry drifted through it all with nonchalance. He was waiting for his next confrontation with Dudley. Perhaps being around his fellow bullies might raise Dudley’s mood, but nothing happened.

To Harry’s surprise, nothing actually happened to him because Dudley did nothing.

He didn’t trip Harry in the hall. Didn’t shove him near the bins. Didn’t laugh with others when they passed him by. He barely even looked at Harry.

That, more than anything, set off alarms in Harry’s mind. Once again in less than 48 hours, Dudley concerned him and raised his alarms.

It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t guilt. It felt like... nothing. As if Dudley were hollowed out.

Harry tried to walk from the opposite end of the hallways just to take a look at him.

Their eyes met.

Dudley didn’t glare. Didn’t grin. He looked... tired. Not in the sleepy kind of way. But in a sick way.

His eyes were red-rimmed. Harry tried to gain his attention but Dudley just walked past him like a zombie.

A While Later

Harry’s instincts roared at him that something would be happening with Dudley in the bathroom. He took two steps at a time since running would get too many eyes on him. Already the teachers and hall monitors were trigger-happy with the yelling and detentions.

Harry snorted in derision. The entire country was falling apart with schools on the front.

Harry pushed the door open. “Dudley?”

The door to the stall was ajar. Inside, Dudley sat hunched on the closed toilet seat, arms wrapped around himself, face buried in his sleeves.

Harry leaned against the door.

“You gonna start crying every day now?” he asked. “Is that your thing now?”

Still nothing. Just shaking his shoulders.

Harry stepped forward and shoved him lightly in the chest. “Say something. I know you’ve been seeing weird shit. You know. You ain’t gonna prank me. Enough with the weird smiles.”

Dudley just shook harder.

Harry shoved him again, harder this time. “Talk to me. Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Stop it!” Dudley choked out, finally.

Harry grabbed his collar. “Stop playing around, lardo! What is it?!”

“I don’t know!” Dudley screamed.

Harry pushed him back, fists clenched. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying!” Dudley sobbed. “I don’t know what it is! I hear voices now, okay? At night. In the drains. In the walls. I dream about...”

He broke off.

Harry’s voice was low. “You dream about what?”

Dudley looked up, face blotchy and red.

“About people,” he said. “Getting ripped apart. Screaming. Blood on the floor. It’s everywhere. I feel it. Like I’m doing it.”

He burst into full wailing sobs, loud and raw and snot-filled.

Harry slapped him. The sound cracked through the bathroom.

Dudley flinched. Harry stared.

Then he slapped him again, harder. “Snap out of it!”

It did nothing.

Dudley kept crying, loud and uncontrollable, like a baby lost in a nightmare.

Harry stepped back, breath catching.

Then he looked up.

The bathroom mirror stretched across the sinks, wide and cracked slightly in the corner.

In the glass, Dudley wasn’t crying.

He was staring directly at Harry.

His right eye was black. Not bruised. Black. Like oil. Like burnt glass. His mouth was stretched in a wide, too-sharp grin. His teeth looked longer. The skin around his eyes was sunken and bruised.

Harry’s blood went cold.

The real Dudley was still wailing in the stall.

The reflection was smiling.

Harry took one step forward. Voice quiet.

“I don’t know what you are,” he whispered. “But you’re not going to win.”

The mirror-Dudley tilted his head. Then began to laugh.

***

Harry sighed as he walked to the school’s exit. Hopefully, this entire stressful day would soon come to an end.

His frown worsened as he got outside and heard rambunctious shouting.

A group of kids stood in a rough circle near the back utility shed. Most of them were doing their best to look intimidating. Ripped jeans. Wristbands. Even a few stick-on tattoos, the kind you get with sour gum that tastes like vinegar.

“Gang,” Harry thought, was putting it generously.

He saw Piers in the middle, face twisted in his usual snarl. And in front of him, surprisingly still, was Dudley.

Dudley didn’t have his fists up. He wasn’t even moving.

Piers shoved him hard. Dudley stumbled but didn’t push back. Another shove. A slap to the back of the head.

Still nothing.

Piers raised a fist.

Harry blinked.

Something was wrong.

Dudley never backed down. Not in front of Piers. Not in front of anyone. Their dads hated each other from some ridiculous office feud over sales targets and coffee cups. The rivalry had spilled over to their sons years ago. Dudley and Piers had butted heads so many times, that it had practically become a ritual.

But this time, Dudley wasn’t fighting.

He was just standing there, taking it.

And of course, no teacher in sight. Not that it mattered. The teachers at this school acted like referees in a rigged match, half-blind and half-drunk, surrounded by mold and misery.

Harry stood there, watching. And for a moment, he felt it.

Satisfaction.

Dudley was getting what he deserved.

Let him taste it. Let him understand what it was like to be hit and not hit back. To be small. To be worthless.

Harry could have turned and walked away.

But he didn’t.

Because now there was something else. Something curled in his gut like rot and hope.

We’re the same now.

They were both freaks. Both were touched by whatever force, that had made dogs and tellys float.

And if Harry was ever going to find out what that meant, he needed the only other person he’d seen break the rules of the world.

He needed him.

Harry exhaled. Spat into the dirt.

Then he dropped his bag, rolled up his sleeves, and stalked toward the circle.

***

They walked side by side, if dragging one foot behind you could still count as walking.

Harry clutched his ribs with one hand and a cracked knuckle with the other. Dudley’s lip was split, one eye already swelling, and he kept muttering curses under his breath like chewing them might dull the pain.

Two against four.

Not bad odds, if the four hadn’t been larger, meaner, and apparently raised on raw spite.

Harry had expected to get crushed if he was being honest. What he hadn’t expected was Dudley, halfway through getting his head kicked in, to suddenly let out a howl and go wild. One second he was a lump, taking hits like he wanted them. The next, he was swinging fists like a lunatic, knocking Piers to the ground and sending the others scrambling.

Good thing Dudley was larger, meaner, and more feral than the other boys.

Unfortunately, they were both going to feel it for days.

Dudley limped a little ahead, then grunted, “I didn’t need your help.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah. I noticed that after you turned into a raging hippo with rabies.”

Dudley shot him a glare from his one working eye. “You just got lucky.”

“Lucky?” Harry scoffed. “I was the one who punched Henry. in the gut so hard he puked. That was me.”

“I had Piers down. Twice.” Dudley declared.

“You had Piers after I gave him a kick to the back of the knee,” Harry spat back.

They bickered like that all the way down the street. Every step was a wince. Every insult was weaker than the last, half-muttered between labored breaths. Neither had the energy to mean it, and both knew it.

But they kept going. Together.

And behind them, somewhere far too close for comfort, something in the reflections of shop windows seemed to …. Frown for once.

Thankfully by the time that they reached home, it was still empty.

Petunia and Vernon were both working late. The current state of the economy demanded that both parents bleed at the altar of 0.5% GDP growth in the third quarter and work 11 hours a day. Thankfully, for Harry that meant no shouting, slamming doors, or false cheerfulness over dinner. Just the heavy tick of the hallway clock and the occasional creak of the house rotting.

Harry sat at the kitchen table with a bag of frozen peas held to his side. His shirt was off, a bruise already flowering beneath his ribs in deep purple and yellow. His knuckles were raw, skin split where it had connected with someone’s jaw.

He winced every time he moved.

Dudley shuffled in from the hallway, holding a box of plasters and a half-used bottle of antiseptic.

He didn’t say anything.

Just dropped the box on the table and sat down across from him with a groan. His nose was red, his lip swollen. One of his eyes was still threatening to close entirely.

They sat in silence.

Harry pulled the antiseptic over, doused some cotton, and hissed through his teeth as he cleaned a cut on his forearm. Dudley watched. His own hands were clenched in his lap.

“Do you remember,” Harry said after a while, voice low, “what it felt like?”

Dudley blinked. “What?”

“When the dog screamed. When you had it in the air.”

Dudley looked down. The clock ticked.

“Yes,” he said.

Harry didn’t press.

After a moment, Dudley added, quieter still, “It felt like something wanted me to like it. Like... it was feeding me. I didn’t even feel scared until it stopped.”

Harry stared at the bruises on his hand.

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds about right.”

Dudley leaned forward, grabbed the antiseptic, and began dabbing at a scrape on his arm.

Neither of them spoke again for a long while.

They weren’t friends, but the room felt less empty than usual. Like maybe, just for now, they were on the same side of something they didn’t understand.

That Night

Rain lashed the windows like it was trying to crawl inside.

Harry stood in the hallway, barefoot on cold tile, clutching the banister with white knuckles. Something had woken him—he didn’t know what. A noise, maybe. A feeling, more likely. That kind of wrongness that coils in your gut before your brain catches up.

A faint voice drifted down from upstairs.

Harry warily walked upstairs. One at a time.

The hallway was dark. Dudley’s door was open. Harry pressed himself against the wall and peered inside.

Dudley was standing in front of the mirror. The one from school. It sat propped against the wall, tall and cracked, the glass slightly warped. No one had brought it home. It had just appeared.

Dudley’s reflection wasn’t moving with him. It was mouthing something else entirely.

And Dudley. The real one was whispering in a voice that didn’t belong to a nine-year-old boy. By the Gods, it didn’t even belong to a human at all. Shivers ran down Harry’s spine at that.

“He’s weak. You are stronger. You know what must be done,” Dudley spoke to someone. Harry glanced about, but there was nobody there.

This is a bad idea Harry thought to himself as he went inside.

Harry had barely breathed before Dudley lunged.

One second, he was crying on the floor. The next, he was snarling like a kicked dog, launching himself forward with surprising speed for someone so battered.

Harry cursed under his breath and ducked to the side.

Fair fights were for idiots.

He pivoted, swung low, and kicked Dudley straight between the legs.

Dudley folded with a guttural grunt and collapsed onto the carpet.

Harry didn’t waste a second. He pounced on him like a starving animal, grabbed the nearest roll of tape from the toy chest, and wrapped his hands, ankles, elbows, and thighs. Then a few extra loops around the chest just in case.

Harry backed toward the wall, heart hammering.

“What now?” he muttered.

Vernon? Out of the question. Waking him would be a suicide pact with gravity.

Arabella Figg?

His lip curled.

She’d taken his “reports” all right—little scribbled notes about floating chairs and lights that turned off when no one was near them. But she never did anything. Just blinked and offered stale biscuits. She was soft. Limp. No fire in her bones.

He needed someone who could do more than worry.

Harry grimaced bitterly. There was only one person he could think of. Someone who had looked at him like she already knew what he was, long before anyone else had said the word freak.

Sister Constance.

Chapter Text

The devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns...he comes as everything you've ever wished for

Privet Drive

Harry dragged Dudley along the dark, rain-slicked street, one arm hooked under his cousin’s shoulder as they staggered forward together. His soaked trainers slipped against the pavement with every step, and his muscles burned with the agony of trying not to fall alongside his cargo. The rain was merciless tonight.

But it was neither the torrent nor the rain that consumed him. His thoughts were a million kilometers away.

He was back in that silent church…

Once Upon A Time In The Past

Harry

When Harry was 8 years old, he had found the doors to salvation and stealthily entered it.

The massive door creaked shut behind him, and all the noise, stench, and viciousness of the outside world immediately ceased to exist. Harry marveled at the ability of the massive wooden doors to do just that.

Make the outside world cease to exist.

Harry took a deep breath, and for the first time that day, it did not hurt to breathe. The air inside the church was cool and dry, touched faintly by the smell of incense. It seemed expensive too.

His shoes squeaked once against the polished stone floor, then fell silent. He walked slowly, small hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes wide as he looked around. The church was mostly empty. There were no parishioners, hymns, or attendees. Only the faraway hum of a boiler and the flickering of votive candles along the walls.

Yet even with no one there, it felt full.

The space was vast, ceiling high and vaulted like a giant's ribcage. Stone arches curved into darkness overhead. Colored light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting patches of red and blue across the floor. The world outside was rotten, but this place was pristine, truly befitting its status as the Lord’s house.

Harry stared at the far end stood the altar.

Above it loomed the figure of the Savior, carved in pale marble. Arms spread wide with the cross behind him. His face was stern with eyes carved to look downward, watching over all who entered.

Harry swallowed, stepped forward, and then dropped to his knees on the cold stone, imitating what he had seen others do before. He looked down at the floor, unsure of what to say.

Then the words came. It started out quietly but then turned into a torrential flood.

He prayed for his uncle to stop being so mean to him and for the beatings to stop. He prayed for food, and the constant ache in his head to go away. He prayed for the bad kids outside to forget his name. He prayed for something, anything, to change for the better.

"You are very diligent, little one,” A voice said from the side. “Your parents must be so proud of you. A learned child is a blessing to his parents.”

Harry turned, startled. He was sure he had been alone.

A woman stood in the far shadow of the nave. She wore a nun’s habit, though her veil was pulled slightly back revealing jet black hair. Her lips were a glossy, blood red, like something out of a magazine. Her skin was bronze. She didn’t step into the light, staying just shy of where the golden beams from the high windows fell.

She wearily eyed the light around the alter before turning his eyes on Harry again and smiling. Harry felt his heart quicken at the undivided attention of the beautiful woman.

Harry looked down, embarrassed.

The woman tilted her head. The shadows clung to her shoulders like fabric. Her habit seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it.

“It is rude to not reply when adults are talking to you little one,” The woman said and Harry stammered before steadying his beating heart and continuing again.

“I-i-I am an orphan, miss,” Harry stuttered. The woman bowed her head and muttered a quick prayer.

"You must have a strong soul," she said, her voice softer now. "Would you sit with me a while? My office is just down the corridor. I would love to speak with you properly."

She kneeled down infront of him, pitch black eyes locked with his own. “Will you join me, little one?”

It seemed Harry was drowning in the darkness of her eyes. He lost control and drool started to spill from his mouth.

A woman’s panicked voice roared inside him.

Not Harry. Please no! Not Harry!

Stand aside, girl! Stand aside!

No!

Harry visibly shuddered at that. It was the first time he had heard such a panicked voice. The woman placed a hand on his shoulder and world roared back to presence. Harry blinked and the woman raised an expected eyebrow.

“Yes, Miss, I would like to meet you. Thank you,” Harry stammered.

She then gently placed a hand on his back and guided Harry through the rather large church. Strangely enough, almost all of it was illuminated by dull lights. Harry thought it weird. The main hall was illuminated well enough but the rest was deliberately kept dark. Still, he didn’t dare voice his thoughts aloud for the risk of offending her.

They paused outside another large wooden door. The woman gently pushed it. "Make yourself comfortable, little one. I just need to tend to something quickly. I won’t be long."

She disappeared through another hallway, soft as smoke.

She’s quiet as a cat, Harry mused before stepping into the office.

The room was large, taller and wider than any classroom at school, with a ceiling arched like a cathedral dome. The floor gleamed beneath his feet, polished so perfectly that he could see his own reflection in it.

A thick red carpet lay beneath the desk, its fibers plush and expensive-looking, the kind of thing he had only seen in catalogues. The air was cool and still, not dusty or heavy like the rest of the church. It smelled faintly of jasmine and something metallic.

There were shelves, dozens of them, stacked with books that looked older than the town itself. Scrolls. Maps. Charts scrawled in languages he didn’t recognize. A telescope pointed through a slitted window near the ceiling. On one side, a computer screen pulsed gently with moving diagrams.

Star maps, he thought. Nebulae. Data. Lights flickered along the edge of a black console, and above it floated a holographic display. A slow-turning spiral of stars, galaxies drifting in the dark like petals in water.

Harry stared, wide-eyed. He’d never seen anything like it.

He took a step forward, gaze caught by something else. A crucifix, but it was hung upside down.

Harry frowned. It must have been a mistake. He reached out, fingers brushing the base to try and turn it upright.

The grip came out of nowhere. Sharp nails sank into his shoulder, not piercing skin, but close.

He gasped and turned.

"That isn’t yours to touch, little one," she stared at him, eyes cold.

Harry winced. "Sorry. I… I thought it was the wrong way round."

Her fingers stayed where they were for a second too long. Then she released him.

His shoulder still throbbed as he stepped back.

She smiled again, soft and composed. "Intent does not erase trespass. Always ask before touching what is not yours."

Harry nodded quickly. "Yes, Sister."

She gestured to the chair near her desk. “Sit. I’ll make us tea.”

She approached the desk, fingers brushing against a lacquered tea set already waiting. A kettle steamed gently beside it.

"I realize I forgot to introduce myself," she said as she poured. "I am Sister Helena Constance."

Harry nodded, awkward in the high-backed chair. "I’m Harry. Harry Potter"

"Harry," she repeated, rolling the name across her tongue like tasting it. "And how old are you, little one?"

"Eight," he said, sitting up straighter. "Just turned."

Constance let out a small, musical laugh, not mocking but still amused. "So young to be carrying so much around on your shoulders."

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

Constance began pouring the tea, pale steam rising from the cups. "And how do you like yours?"

Harry hesitated. His mouth opened, then shut. Finally, he said, "Without sugar. Please."

Constance stopped mid-motion and turned her head slowly to look at him.

"Now, now," she said gently. "You don’t need to lie to me. Not in here. This is a sanctuary. A small one, perhaps, but mine all the same."

Harry looked down. His cheeks flushed. "...With milk. And sugar. Two spoonfuls."

Her smile returned, warmer now. "Much better."

She stirred his tea with deliberate care and slid the cup toward him. Her own, she treated differently. From a small black vial hidden behind the sugar pot, she poured a few drops of something thick and crimson into her tea. It swirled through the liquid like ink in water until the whole cup took on a deep copper sheen.

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching.

Constance caught his gaze and smiled again. This time there was something else behind it. Something unreadable.

"A family recipe," she said, voice low. "Passed down from my mother. If you are very good, Harry, perhaps I will share it with you one day."

She raised the cup to her lips, not breaking eye contact as she drank.

Harry looked away first. He pretended it was to take a sip from his cup, but the gentle smile on Helena’s face told him that she saw straight through the act.

"Tell me, Harry. How is home?"

Harry stiffened, then shifted in his chair, gripping the warm teacup tighter.

"It’s fine," he said quickly. "Uncle Vernon’s just... a bit strict. But things are okay."

Constance raised an eyebrow. "And that bruise on your neck that you are trying to hide since the last 10 minutes?"

Harry flushed. "It’s nothing. I fell. Wasn’t looking."

Her expression did not change. She simply sipped her tea.

"Lying in the house of God is a very serious sin," she said quietly.

Harry looked down. His ears burned, and he swallowed hard, "Sorry."

"You are forgiven, Harry," she said gently. "Now try again. The truth this time."

"My uncle... he hates me. He doesn't say it out loud, but I know he does. He’s angry all the time. He lost his job and blames me for everything. Food’s hard to come by. Sometimes he forgets to let me eat. Other times he remembers and does it on purpose. I get so tired of it. Sometimes I just wish I was never born at all," Harry said. "My auntie's no different.... sometimes I wish I wasn't born at all."

Constance gently placed the cup on the plate. "Life is difficult, little one. It weighs on the soul and tests the spirit. But we must bear it with perseverance. Every hardship prepares us for the life to come."

Harry hesitated, frowning in confusion. "You mean... heaven?"

Constance laughed. "One day, Harry, I will tell you about the world as it truly is. Beyond the primitive ideas of heaven and hell. There is so much more waiting than what they taught you to believe."

Harry felt a chill then, unsure why. It felt wrong, hearing that from a woman of the church. But he only shrugged and stared into his tea, unsure what else to do.

A brief pause followed before she spoke again, "Your uncle… Vernon?"

Harry hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Yeah. Vernon Dursley."

For the first time, something sharp flickered behind her eyes. Not anger exactly. Something more calculating. "Brother Vernon is known to our church. I shall speak with him."

Harry’s eyes widened in panic. He sat up, his tea forgotten.

"No, please. Don’t. If he finds out I told anyone, I’ll be in so much trouble."

Constance reached across the table and placed a cool hand on his.

"Hush now. You are safe here."

She waited a beat, then withdrew her hand.

"Why does he hate you so much, Harry?"

Harry flinched. His mouth opened, then shut.

"Please," he whispered. "Don’t make me say that."

Her eyes lingered on him, thoughtful. Then she nodded once. "Very well. You are not required to bleed in front of me, little one…..yet."

Harry frowned at that but said nothing further.

"You are welcome here," she said. "Any time you need. There will always be warmth and light waiting for you."

"I don’t want to be a burden," he mumbled.

Constance smiled, soft and strange.

"All the lost lambs are welcome back in Typhon’s embrace."

Harry blinked. "Typhon?"

She took another sip of tea, her gaze distant now.

"Something I will tell you about next time. When you come back."

She rose from her seat, crossed the space between them, and gently kissed the top of his head. Her lips were cold.

"You are a very special boy, Harry. Very special indeed,” Helena said. “I look forward to our meetings.”

After a few moments, Helena said it was late and bade farewell. Harry walked away from the church with a profound appreciation for a spiritual life.

Pushing Boundaries

At first, Harry tested the waters.

He didn’t ask for anything directly. He wasn’t stupid. Generosity always had limits, and his entire life had been one long lesson in not asking for more than you were worth. So he dropped hints all over.

"My head hurts," he said one afternoon, clutching the side of his temple as they sat in her office. “Especially when I’m trying to read. The board is too far off.”

She made no comment. Just picked up the phone and dialed.

An hour later, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows pulled up outside the church. No logos. No license plate Harry could see. A tall, silent driver opened the back door for him with gloved hands.

By sunset, Harry had his first pair of real glasses. Not scratched hand-me-downs. Not taped-up plastic from a charity box. They were clean. Comfortable. Light. The optometrist had even called them high-end.

Harry put them on and the world snapped into place. Edges sharpened. Letters on signs no longer danced. He read his schoolbooks faster. Wrote better. The headaches stopped. His marks shot up.

Two weeks later, he scored highest in the class reading exam.

Constance smiled when he told her. "That calls for celebration."

She led him down the block and bought him an entire Happy Meal.

One just for him.

No scraps. No “you can have the chips if I get the burger.” No Dudley reaching over and taking the toy.

She handed him the box and said, "Eat slow. This one's all yours."

Harry never forgot that meal.

The next time, he mentioned his clothes. "It’s just… I grow fast. They don’t really fit anymore. And I keep getting holes."

The following Sunday, a sealed box sat on the chair where he usually waited after mass. Inside was a full set of clothes.

For his ninth birthday, Sister Constance placed a wrapped package in his hands with a simple smile. Inside was a Game Boy, the screen gleaming in the candlelight of her office.

Harry gaped. It had two cartridges. One was Pokémon.

"You deserve small joys, Harry," she said.

But the greatest gift came quietly.

One morning, Harry woke and Vernon and Petunia were gone!

Somehow, Vernon had found a new job. A full-time one. Long hours. Rough location. Gone before dawn. Home after the sun set. For the first time in years, the house was not filled with their awful aura or voice.

Harry and Dudley had the run of the place. Both barely interacted with each other.

Still, he had yet to tell Helena about the episodes. This was the moment of truth. He swallowed before knocking at her office door. The door wordlessly swung open and let Harry inside.

Moment of Truth

 Harry stood outside the office door, clutching the edge of his too-long sleeve. He hesitated only a moment before lifting his hand and knocking twice.

“Enter,” said the voice from inside.

looked up as he entered, her dark eyes gleaming in the lamplight. 

“I vacuumed the rooms,” Harry said, trying to keep the pride out of his voice and failing. “All of them. Even under the sofas.”

Helena looked up and gestured him forward with a small motion of her hand.

Harry grinned and took one step toward her, then stopped cold. A jolt ran through his spine and his breath hitched.

The room darkened and Harry looked at Helena and fear tore through him at the awful sight.

For the briefest instant, her face was not her own. Her mouth stretched into a crooked, hideous grin, lips torn by the edges of long, wet fangs. Blood trickled from her teeth, bright and thin, down her chin like syrup. Her eyes gleamed red, sharp and ancient.

Harry forced himself to blink and vigorously shook his head – the vision thankfully cleared away.

She was seated again as before, serene and beautiful. Her eyes flicked to him, and she snapped her fingers once.

“Come along now,” she said gently. “You’ve done so well.”

“Sorry. Headache,” Harry shyly smiled before going up to her.

She took his hands in hers and kissed them both, cool lips brushing his skin. Then, without a word, she pulled him gently into her lap with surprising strength.

Her arms circled him, they oddly felt warmth in contrast to her unusually cold body, and her breath fell soft against his neck. Goosebumps sprang across his skin at contact. For a heartbeat, the dread returned - a tightening in his chest, a feeling like something ancient was peering out from behind her skin.

And then it passed.

“You work too hard for us,” she murmured. Her fingers drifted through his hair, smoothing it down with the gentleness of a mother. “Such a small thing. Such great efforts.”

Harry decided he liked it when Helena did and said things like that. It made something inside him….. feel calm.

“I just wanna help,” he mumbled.

“And you repay it in loyalty. In diligence. You are a treasure, Harry. Let none ever dispute that,” Helena declared.

Harry blushed at that and leaned deeper into her embrace, content to extend the moment for as long as possible.

Then the thought returned. The real reason he had come to the church today.

“Can I talk to you about something?” he asked.

“Of course, dear,” Helena said, patting his arm.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s a ugh…” He trailed off, struggling to find the words.

“It is what, poppet?” Helena purred, and she tickled his side with a teasing hand. Harry squirmed and laughed.

“It’s a bit secret-y,” he admitted, the word slurring slightly from nerves.

Helena gently lifted him off her lap and turned him to face her. Her hands rested on his shoulders as she leaned in close.

“Look at me,” she said softly.

Harry did.

Her eyes were golden brown, warm and deep like melted amber. The moment he looked into them, everything else fell away. The world outside the room, the rain against the church roof, even the sharp corners of his thoughts…. all of it faded away. There was only her gaze, drawing him in, calm and endless.

He felt hypnotized, held in place not by force but by the simple weight of her attention.

“You can tell me anything,” Helena whispered. “Especially secrets. Those are my favorite kind.”

Harry swallowed. Here goes nothing.

“I’ve been having these… things,” he said quietly. “They’ve been happening for a while now.”

Helena tilted her head. “Things?”

Harry nodded. “Episodes. That’s what she calls them. They happen when I get too scared, or angry, or sometimes even just excited.”

Helena said nothing. She simply waited.

“I can make stuff move,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Without touching it. Once, I made all the lights burst in school. Another time, I shouted and someone flew backward. I didn’t even touch him. Sometimes I hear voices. Or see things. Things that aren’t there. But they feel real.”

A flicker of …..unknown emotion passed through her eyes that Harry couldn’t identify.

“She?” Helena asked. “Who have you told?”

“Just one person. Mrs. Figg. Arabella Figg.” Harry said. “For some reason, she knew about them before I even explained. She has been interested in them since the beginning and keeps a log.”

“Tell me everything about her,” Helena demanded. “Where she lives. What she does. Who she speaks to.”

Harry shrank a little, the sudden change in her presence throwing him off. “She lives a few houses down from us. She’s old. She smells like cabbage. She watches me sometimes when my aunt and uncle are out. That’s all. She just asks questions. She never does anything else.”

Helena studied him. Then she softened, just a little.

Harry twisted the hem of his sleeve. “Do you think it’s true? What my uncle and aunt say? That my powers come from Satan? That I’m cursed or something?”

Helena said nothing.

A full breath passed.

Then another.

And then, without warning, tears welled in her eyes.

“Poor child. The trembling, ignorant children of Adam…..Their minds are so small. Their hearts so weak….They see beauty and call it blasphemy. They see light and call it shadow,” Helena wept.

She kissed the crown of his head, her tears wetting his scalp.

“You are not cursed, Harry. You are not broken. You are not evil.”

He clung to her, still uncertain and very afraid.

“You are a very, very special boy,” she whispered. “More than you could ever know. Your gift is not some Lucifer’s faustian bargain or Ahrimanic deception….. or even that wretched Ra.”

Harry blinked. “W-w-what?”

He was officially lost. He had no clue what Sister Constance was talking about.

Helena pulled back and affectionately cupped his face.

“It means you are not demonic, my little one,” she said. “You are blessed. Through and through. Not by the false lord of the archons. Not by the cruel jailor who keeps mankind bound in chains of flesh and ignorance. But by Typhon. The Master of Duat.”

She kissed his forehead, her breath hot against his skin.

“You are his chosen. His shade upon the Earth. Our …. Lightbringer……” Helena said as she embraced him in a tighter hug.

He wasn’t sure what to say. Her passion pressed against him like a chill wind in December. He didn’t understand what half of it meant, only that it sounded like something he shouldn’t be hearing. Something too big for him to care about, but if Sister Constance was onboard it – Harry imagined he could give it a go.

Paper Route

Helena penned a letter in that looping, strange script Harry had long given up trying to decipher. As long as Helena didn’t start having another manic episode about him being chosen, Harry was content to let her have her secrets.

Three sealed envelopes already rested beside her. A small black parcel, no larger than a paperback, sat next to them.

"Is that for the post?" Harry asked.

Helena looked up. "Of a sort."

"Want me to take it?" he said.

She smiled, read the letter one last time before setting it aside.

"You’ve already done more than enough, Harry,” she said. “I would rather you be working on your spirit.”

Harry stepped forward, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I want to help."

She tilted her head, "You help simply by being here."

"I can do more than that," he said, more firmly now. "I’m not stupid. I see you running this place alone. You’ve done... everything for me. If you’re sending stuff out, I can carry it. It’s not a big deal. I would love a job."

Helena studied him for a long moment.

Then she stood. "Come here."

Harry approached. She picked up one of the envelopes and placed it gently in his hand. It was heavier than it looked. Sealed in dark wax, no address.

"This is for Brother Ethan. Corner of Bay and Ash. The shop with the blue awning." she said and then pointed toward another. "And this is for a man named Roarke. Ask for him at the little locksmith’s off Penbury Lane. Use the back entrance."

She paused looking at the packages before turning to him.

“What I give is not poison. Not crime. The product is healing. Clarity. Sometimes the world is too loud, too cruel. This helps people see through it. Helps them cope. Helps them remember what they are beneath the noise,” She said.

“But if it’s good, why not just post it?” Harry asked and she laughed at that.

“Because the post answers to the law. And the law serves the Aeons. Their agents wear uniforms. Carry sticks and guns. Beat the innocent in the street and lock up virtue,” Her voice dropped into something calmer, quieter.

“The police are not guardians. They are jailers. They fear the soul unchained. And they fear people who wake up,” She spoke again.

Harry glanced up at her. She touched his cheek gently, like a blessing.

“They do not trust the people to heal themselves. But I do. And now I trust you,” She said.

“I will do it. You can count on me,” Harry declared.

“No one will question a child. And even if they do,” she said, straightening his hoodie, “the law is restrained when it comes to children. That is the one blind spot they cannot close.”

She pressed the package firmly into his arms.

“Deliver this. Return to me. And perhaps I’ll buy you something nice…. If you’re good,” She said.

She kissed his forehead. “Now, get going.”

Chapter Text

Harry Potter

Harry grunted as he hauled Dudley forward, his sight was obstructed more by the visions haunting him rather than the rain. Part of him still wished he hadn't done what he had done. Part of him wished he could just pick up the phone, make a call; and Helena would send an SUV to pick him up.

But he couldn't.

Helena's betrayal had shattered him to his core. He had to return the favor, come what may. If there's one thing his benefactor had drilled in him to his marrow, it was that eye for an eye, blood for blood – makes the whole world wiser. A blasphemy of a wise man's word; but blasphemies were Helena's bread and butter.

He staggered onward and then he heard it. Somebody was cackling in the rain.

Not far down the street, just beyond the flicker of a dying streetlamp, stood a woman. Her arms were outstretched to the heavens, face twisted skyward, soaked hair clinging to her skull. She spun in place, laughing like she'd found God hiding in a drainpipe.

"I can see all of you! The lights, the darks, the sick little ghouls on leashes, you stink of the grave! You think your cities are yours; but they are built on bones. The tower shall fall; and the worms will wear crowns!," she cackled.

Harry froze. This was too close to comfort. How did she know?!

She screamed again. "The Kindred, the Kine, the Unshackled - all one glorious soup! And I have tasted it! I drank deep from the gutter and saw truth! They are coming, they are watching, they are in your souls! Your forefathers will rise from the grave and reclaim the flesh they lent their sorry progeny!"

The woman clawed at her chest and pulled free a rosary, tearing it apart bead by bead.

Then she looked at him and pointed a finger. "Do not dissappoint us, Prometheus!"

"Who are you?!." Harry screamed at her and winced as Dudley weight on his shoulder seemed to grow only heavier. The woman cackled before running off into the night. Harry would have given chase if not for his precious cargo. Thunder pealed above as if reflecting the storm in his heart.

Once Upon a Time

Helena beamed when Harry marched into her office with the biggest grin. He proudly placed the stack of cash infront of her.

"Every last pound,." Harry declared.

"My, my. Look at you. Reliable. Efficient. Honest.." She coo'd at him. "Not like some of the others."

Harry frowned. "Others?"

Helana pouted. "Oh yes. I've had boys before; but temptation is such a cruel thing. Some took what they thought I would not miss."

Harry's face twisted in disgust. "You trusted them. And they stole from you?"

"Not for long,," she said simply. "And not twice."

Harry swallowed. "I'd never do that. Ever. I promise."

Helena's toothy grin stretched just a fraction too far. A pang of fear struck him; but it departed from his mind as soon as it came.

Were her canines longer than usual? Harry wondered but didn't voice the comment.

"Of course not, my little one. You're better by lightyears!." Helena said.

"Thanks, Sister!." Harry gave her a thumbs up.

"Well then,," she said sweetly, "since you've been such a good courier... would you like to learn something new?"

"Like what, Sister?." Harry asked.

"Oh, let's just say I might know a tad bit more about your specialness than the wretched." Helena's face darkened for a moment before recovering. "Hag Arabella Fig."

Harry was confused. "What do you mean?"

She laughed. "I mean something cool. As the children say these days."

By Blood

Helena walked upto an exotic-looking jar near her and pressed something within it. A few seconds later, a grumbling sound echoed as the wall of her fireplace turned to reveal a hidden pathway.

She winked at his shocked face and gestured at him to follow. Harry wordlessly did so.

The ritual chamber was narrow, windowless; and cold. In the center of it all sat a low stone basin filled with clear water. Beside it, a shallow bronze dish; and a dagger.

Helena knelt beside the basin and gestured for Harry to do the same. He obeyed, curiosity burning brighter than fear.

She mumured something in a foreign language and then looked at him.

"What is your happiest memory of your mother?," she said.

Harry blinked. "I... don't know. I don't remember her."

Helena's eyes softened. "Something remains. Not an image perhaps; but a scent? A sound? A feeling of … warmth?"

"There's a lullaby,," he said. "I don't remember the words. Just… the sound. Like humming. I think I used to hear it in the cupboard. In the dark."

"Good,," she said.

She handed him the dagger.

"Cut your palm. Let the blood drip into the dish."

Harry hesitated; but only for a second. The blade was sharp. He clenched his fist until three drops fell.

Helena turned the dish; and the blood thickened and darkened. Smoke then rose from it, curling into the air like snakes.

"Now,," she said, "speak the memory into the water. The hum. The warmth. The dark. Every part of it."

Harry leaned over the basin. He spoke softly, letting the words come. "I don't know if it was real, but I remember the hum."

The water rippled. Shadows moved beneath the surface.

"Place your hands in and repeat after me," she said.

"What the world gave me in weakness, Typhon demands I burn."

Harry spoke it.

"What I hold as comfort, I offer as kindling."

He spoke that too.

"Let what was be unmade. Let what is become stronger."

As the final word left his lips, the water turned black. Pain lanced up his arms. He gasped; but couldn't pull away.

The hum disappeared.

His mind reeled, searching for it like a hand grasping for a vanished string. The memory had always been faint; but it had been there. A glimmer in darkness.

Now it had vanished.

He looked up sharply. "What did you do?!"

Helena calmly wiped her hands with a cloth of soft silk, utterly unfazed. "Exactly what I said I would."

"You said you would teach me something … cool…. what?!." Harry protested, struggling to find his words. "You never said something about losing the only thing I remembered of my parents?!"

"You were never meant to hold onto it for so long,," she said coolly. "You are grown now, almost a boy. Does a baby still clung to pacifier? To a crib? Nay, you weren't meant to hold it. Rejoice, I have helped granted you vision."

Harry stood, staggering backward. "That was mine. It was mine, Helena. You said nothing about taking that from me."

Helena tilted her head in an ominous manner and Harry suddenly realized an invisible line had been crossed. He never used her first name. He had neither been invited nor granted permission to do so.

"And what would you have done with it, little one? Clung to it like a child's blanket? Curled around in fear when the world demands blood and teeth?

"It was my mother,." Harry said, the words sticking in his throat. "It was the only piece of her I had."

Helena stepped closer. Her voice never rose; but each word struck like a cold slap. She gripped his face in a wicked vice. "She was your softness. Your safety. Your pause. You cannot climb if you keep looking back at the cradle that held you. Ascension demands sacrifice. The world will not offer you strength and sentiment. Only one survives."

"Y-you are h-hurting me,." Harry stuttered; and she let realased her grip. Harry stumbled and fell down.

"Sentimentalism is poison. You cannot walk the Path while cradling a corpse from the past,." She said. "You are becoming. And every step forward means shedding what you were. What you loved. What you needed. That is the price of greatness."

Harry looked, desperately trying to rub away the angry tears that fell without restraint. Helena sighed as if indulging a petulant child. She reached into the folds of her robes and withdrew a small vial.

"You must drink,," she said softly. "It will settle the storm inside you."

Harry turned his face away. "I don't want it."

Her hand slid behind his neck. Not cruel or forceful. Just firm enough to demand obedience and be inescapable in their purpose.

"You do want it,," she murmured as the vial pressed against his lips and then she tilted it.

Rage & Emptiness

He scowled as he saw Piers push another kid into the locker room. Bitter rage seethed through him at the sight.

Rage.

Anger is honest. It is the voice of the soul, unfiltered. Do not fear it. Helena had declared.

That was all he felt these days without pause or change. Whatever Sister Constance had taken him from, it seemed rage is what had replaced it. He tried to recall the lessons of the good teacher at school; but couldn't. He knew rage wasn't supposed to be the answer; but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it.

He had protested at his enemies being too strong. Stronger than him and Helena had laughed.

Oh, my sweet child. You think strength has a monopoly on violence? No. Violence belongs to those who understand it. The predator pounces when prey knows not. The python waits. It studies the heat of its prey. It feels the breath. It strikes when there is no hope of retaliation. And once it wraps around the ribs, it squeezes until the lungs forget how to breathe.

All our enemies, the archons, Yaldabaoth himself, are more powerful than us. Do you think us foolish enough to confront them head-on?

Harry's neck spasmed. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head sharply, trying to ease the tension that had gripped him since morning. The bitter drink Helena had given him still clung to the back of his throat.

Everything around him felt like a threat. The light. The noise. The laughter.

Piers was gloating now, screaming insults through the narrow holes of the lockerdoor. Dudley stood behind him, looking sick to his stomach.

Harry turned without a word.

When the older boy slipped into the boys' toilet near the back hallway, Harry paused by the stairwell and reached into his backpack. The dull shine of the tire iron greeted him, Harry grabbed it and maliciously grinned.

He slipped the handle into his sleeve and stepped through the door after him.

He had later visited Helena with the tire iron still in hand.

He didn't speak. Didn't look at her. He walked straight to her desk and let the tire iron fall with a dull, wet clatter. Helena looked up from her writing with a feline tilt of the head and a smirk.

"Well, well,," she said.

She gestured to the chair across from her.

Harry sat. It all felt like a confession.

"Tell me,," she said gently, "how do you feel?"

Harry hesitated. His mouth was dry.

"Strange,," he admitted. "Kind of… powerful. Not happy. But lighter. Like I don't have to worry about him anymore."

She smiled like a cat offered cream.

"Liberated,," she said.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's the word."

Helena leaned back in her chair. "Another veil lifted from your eyes,," she said. "Another lie burned away. You have touched sanctity. Not the kind they preach with empty words and polished smiles. The kind that leaves bruises. The kind that protects."

Harry didn't answer. But he didn't look away.

"All the lectures they gave you," Helena went on. "The counselors. The teachers. The principals. All their soft, sickly advice. Did any of it stop him? Did any of them shield you?"

Harry shook his head.

"But in just a few minutes, with your hands and your will, you solved what none of them could. You answered the question with another answer you made yourself. What good are six figure salaries for a problem they aren't willing to confront?." Helena said.

Her voice dropped lower, almost reverent.

"That is the truth of violence, Harry. When wielded with purpose, it is not cruelty. It is clarity."

Harry looked down at the bloodstained pipe, then back at her.

"Was it wrong?"

"No,." Helena's said. "Does it matter?"

Strategic Acquisition

Violence was just the beginning.

Since then, many things had changed for him. Helena had opened more doors; and each one led further from the person he once thought he was. Stealing was next.

Obviously, she didn't call it that way. Stealing was a vulgar word not befitting the Church's grand work. She called it strategic acquisition.

"It is not theft,," she had told him after Harry had protested. "It is reclamation. The world was stolen from you first."

"That doesn't make it any better,." Harry had protested.

Harry sat across from her, watching as she tapped a pen against a list of targets. Shops, warehouses, homes; and more – she had quite the target list.

Helena smiled without warmth. "Do you believe the archons earn what they hoard? That the faceless merchants and middlemen who mark up necessities tenfold are sacred guardians of value? Of course not. They control through scarcity. They tighten the noose and call it economics."

Harry struggled to comprehend that, much less prepare a rebuttal.

"They sell you water in plastic and call it a miracle. Bread with chemicals and call it food. They tell the poor to wait. To starve politely. But we… we do not wait.." Helena said as she made a special brand of tea for herself.

"And we just take that?." Harry demanded.

"No. We return it to the rightful order. To those who need it and interrupt the lie,." Helena said. "At the crux of it all, that is what we do best. We raise blindfolds that people are too helpless to raise for themselves."

It was after dark when Harry reached the back of the building. The security light flickered above the loading dock. Thankfully, there were no cameras. Just a chain-link fence and a rusted padlock.

He checked the tag again. Unit 49-B. The key fit perfectly.

Inside, the air was musty with dust and engine oil. Shelves lined up the space, stacked high with shrink-wrapped pallets. Boxes labeled antiseptic. Bandages. Cereal. Diapers.

But of course he wasn't here for that. Just the shelf full of mobile phones, chargers, GPS devices; and other small electronics. Not something that would have actually helped people if they "redistributed," it.

Harry felt the tightness in his chest again. The same one he had felt before he hit Piers. Guilt tried to crawl up from somewhere in his ribs.

This is yours, he told himself. It always was. You are just reclaiming your property.

He swallowed it and started to toss everything into his bag before disappearing into the night.

No Traitors

They were losing people. Not many; but enough to be noticed. Mostly older folks, the kind who attended daily and without fault. They were the strongest contributors to the church as well. Now, they had started to leave because the incense smelt too strange or the chanting too weird.

Now they were starting to speak out as well. They wrote letters of protests and even staged walkouts. One even stood up during a reading and called Helena a fraud.

Harry had barely made it two steps into the office before she was waving him over with that clipped, precise tone she used when something was already decided.

"They think they're standing on principle,," she said, folding a letter and setting it aside. "But what they really fear is change. Their little empire of nostalgia is cracking."

Harry took a breath. "They're just old people."

Helena said nothing and kept on watching him.

Harry shifted his weight. "We don't have to do this."

"They are traitors.." Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

Harry opened his mouth; but she continued before he could speak.

"And traitors are the worst kind of sinner. The liar in the monastery. The smiling knife. We open the doors to them. We give them warmth. And in return, they spit on the altar and whisper poison to others,." Helena said.

"They are harmless. They didn't do anything too wrong……." Harry trailed off.

"Not yet,." Helena replied. "But confusion spreads. Doubt spreads. And when it does, it opens the way for the archons to gain a foothold in patches of purity and resume their work."

Harry looked at the floor.

"If we show mercy now,," she said, "we will be torn apart later by hesitation. That is how they win."

Silence settled between them since Harry didn't argue further.

She slid the small bag across the table toward him. It smelt like fireworks and something sharper.

"Do what must be done,," she said. "And do it quickly. Loneliness is not our concern. Loyalty is. Traitors must learn the consequences of their actions. Eye for an eye. Blood for blood. It kept the whole world wiser….. And a tad bit more respectful."

He picked up the bag without saying another word and left.

The house was just as she described. Small, stone-faced, windows covered with iron bars that had no purpose anymore.

Harry waited until just past eleven, when the curtains were drawn and the lights were dim.

He lit the first firework and tossed it against the fence. It popped loud enough to echo.

A porch light flicked on and some shuffling footsteps were inside. A confused voice called out. Another firework cracked against the driveway, sending sparks toward the hedge. He tossed another large cracker that exploded against the man's car windows and shattered it.

That brought them to the door. Old man Lee stepped out in slippers, his wife behind him.

They were still yelling about the racket when Harry moved to the side gate and dropped the bag into the yard.

The family cat always slipped out the back, lured by the promise of poisoned treats.

He didn't stay to watch. By morning, they'd know. It was time he headed back home.

Harry stuffed his hands in the pocket as he walked home. He counted the cracks on the pavement, the number of drains he passed by; and the different birds that flew by him. He needed something to do; but he feared he might just lose his mind.

That's when he saw the flashing lights. Two police cars and an ambulance outside of a house. Harry knew that building, he had delivered several packages to it at Helena's behest. Curiosity gripped him, Harry had to know what was going on.

He slipped around the side of the house and found the alleyway gate half open. A stretch of yellow tape blocked the back entrance. Harry ducked under it and crept up to the rear window.

A woman sat on the carpet, face crumpled, arms wrapped around a still body. Her hands clung to the girl's shoulders like she could hold her there if she just held tight enough. The girl was limp and pale, her lips were almost blue.

It was the same girl he had sold the packages too. Harry leaned in closer to overhear what happened.

"Looks like an overdose,," the medic said. "We found the powder on her credit card."

The officer mumbled something on his radio in response.

Harry stepped back, hands clenched into his fists, tears falling from his face. This wasn't what he wanted. This was NOT what he wanted. He turned and angrily ran back to church. Its high time Helena came clean to him.

Revelation

He reached the church steps and didn't hesitate. He slammed both hands against the heavy oak doors. They burst inward with a force he didn't know he had, crashing against the stone walls with a hollow boom.

Inside, everything was still. Still and dark.

Not even moonlight reached through the stained glass. In the darkness, the painted saints looked twisted. Their eyes were wide and staring. Their smiles were too sharp.

Demons wearing holy masks. Helena's voice whispered and Harry whirled around to see nothing but darkness. She wasn't there. For a moment, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself before going deeper into the building.

Helena's office door was slightly ajar. Harry kicked it open to find it empty.

He let out a snarl and slammed his fist against the edge of the desk. Of course, the all-knowing monster would have known he was coming and chose to run away.

Coward, Harry seethed.

He crossed to the far shelf and pulled it down. The latch inside clicked when he pressed it. He stepped back as the fireplace groaned and rotated slowly, the stone frame shifting with quiet strain. Harry stepped into the dark without pause. He didn't care what was down there. Whatever waited at the bottom, he would face it.

And Helena would explain.

Harry stepped carefully down the stone steps, one hand trailing along the damp wall for balance. The air grew heavier with each step; and the smell hit him before he reached the bottom.

Copper. Thick and hot.

It filled his nose, clung to his tongue; and made his eyes water. He gagged, bent forward; and nearly vomited.

The church workers were there. The ones who sang hymns and swept the pews. The ones who smiled and whispered prayers. They were naked now, drenched in blood, their skin smeared with red handprints and symbols Harry didn't understand. Some writhed against each other in ways that made his stomach twist.

Above them, strung on thick iron hooks, hung the people he had made deliveries to. The man from the corner flat. The woman from post office. Their faces were slack and their arms limp as blood poured from their wounds into bronze bowls set below.

A-are they v-vampires? Harry wondered in horror.

And at the center of it all, slightly elevated on a raised slab, was Helena. Naked as the day she was born and slathered with shining blood all over.

She snarled like an animal and lunged at a chained man and sank her teeth deep into his neck and tore back with a wet snap. Blood sprayed across her chest. She let it pour into her mouth and down her chin.

She moaned in delight, head thrown back. Harry gasped in horror and that somehow grabbed her attention.

She looked straight at him.

Her gaze locked to the pillar he hid behind. Her pupils narrowed into slits, her irises glowing crimson. Harry found he couldn't move, blink, or even breathe properly. Terror ran through his veins like fire in dry woods.

She then smiled and began to crawl towards him on all fours like a spider closing in on a struggling fly.

Harry wanted to scream; but nothing came out.

Then he felt it. A sudden tug in his gut, like something yanking a cord deep inside his body. The world spun and in the blink of an eye, he was outside the church, lying flat on the pavement.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the night sky.

Then he scrambled to his feet and ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Harry didn't go back to Privet Drive. He couldn't because he knew better.

Helena had money, power, and influence. Hell, she maybe even control over things no one dared to speak about. If she wanted to find him, she would. That house was no longer safe. Maybe it never had been.

So he kept moving. Ducking behind closed shutters and boarded-up shopfronts. Avoiding streetlights. His stomach twisted from hunger, but fear kept him sharp.

And underneath the fear, something else stirred.

Anger. Not at her but at himself for being played like a damn fiddle.

Anger for believing the bitch's lies and giving her his trust, his labor, and time. For calling her Sister. For watching a girl die because he hadn't asked more questions.

His fists clenched as he kept walking. Every memory of Helena's voice came with a new sting. All her sermons on strength, on fear, on purity. All her talk about not fighting fair.

Fighting dirty, eh? Harry viciously thought. Let's see how you react to exposure

He marched up to the nearest payphone and dialed 999.

"Emergency services. What's your location? "

"I'm near the main street, " he said, forcing his voice to sound panicked and breathless. "The church. Something's wrong. I heard gunshots. People screaming. They're... they're in the basement. There's a dungeon down there. Something's happening. You have to go, " Harry said.

"Sir, can you repeat that? Your name and—"

He didn't wait. Harry slammed the phone back onto the receiver, yanked the cord free with both hands until it snapped, and left it dangling. He paced for a few angry moments, hoping to work out the excess anger before he got back to thinking. Try as he might, he couldn't do it.

Against every instinct screaming in his head, Harry started running back toward the church.

He kept to the edges of the street, walking fast, eyes scanning every corner. He didn't know what he expected to see. Maybe sirens? Maybe vans screeching to a stop and armed officers rushing out with their guns drawn? The doors being kicked in and the monsters being killed in a hail of machine gun fire.

Instead, there was nothing. Only terrifying silence.

The church stood defiantly. The building no longer looked like a sanctuary or a house of God. It looked like something torn from one of Dudley's games. A final boss level or a lair for whatever lived.

Harry stared at it, fists clenched. He should have known.

Of course, Helena had people in the department. Of course she had probably told them it was a prank call. A few words in the right ear. That would be enough to make a file, and the call vanish.

Rage boiled in his chest.

He started forward, stomping across the road toward the black shape of the church.

He would confront her. If no one else would stop her, then he—

A sharp pull snapped his head back. Strong arms locked around his throat in a chokehold. His breath caught in his throat as panic flooded his chest.

"Now, " a voice barked behind him. "Taze him."

His body convulsed as the shock hit him and then everything went black.

Harry came to with a gasp, lungs burning, throat raw. His head throbbed and his arms ached. The air was cold, dry, and still.

He was tied to a chair.

Thick leather straps held his wrists and ankles in place. The room around him was bare concrete. No windows. One heavy steel door. A humming light above him flickered, just enough to sting his eyes.

He twisted against the restraints and shouted but his words were muffled by the gag.

A speaker mounted high in the wall crackled, followed by a sharp voice.

"Silence, hellspawn."

Then the overhead light changed.

A fresh hum. A sharp click. And suddenly a bank of ultraviolet panels flickered to life, flooding the room in harsh white-violet glare.

Harry winced and squinted but nothing more. He was now utterly confused. Was this Helena's idea of a brutal prank?

A slim woman in a lab coat stepped inside, clipboard in one hand, small stethoscope in the other. She didn't look at him with fear or hatred, just tired curiosity.

She knelt beside him and checked his pulse and glanced at her watch.

That's when Harry noticed it.

A bracelet on her wrist, thin and silver, mostly hidden beneath her sleeve. The design was intricate but unmistakable. A serpent devouring it's own tail. She noticed Harry looking at it and winked. Harry heart beat quickened, and fear engulfed him, but he couldn't place it, why?

Then woman ignored his reaction and turned to the glass wall behind her. "He's human, " she said flatly. "Just a kid. Not a vampire or zombie….. You utter idiots. "

The restraints were gone by the time the woman left, and two men with rifles escorted Harry through a series of plain steel corridors until they reached another room. This one was warmer, better lit, and less like a prison cell.

A man waited for him behind the desk. His build was thick and solid, his hair trimmed close, his hands folded with perfect stillness. His eyes, however, had the calm of someone who had seen far too much and stopped being impressed by any of it a long time ago.

"You're Harry, right? " the man said. "Name's Grünfeld Bach."

Harry didn't respond at first. He just stood there, wary and raw, like the panic hadn't fully left his system. Then he nodded. "Yeah. Harry Potter."

Grünfeld nodded once, like that confirmed something he already suspected. He stood up and walked around the desk, motioning for Harry to sit in the metal chair across from him. Harry did.

"I was the one who intercepted your little phone call," Grünfeld said. "Clever. Short. Panicked enough to be real. Still had to trace it."

Harry tensed. "Are you working for Helena?"

Grünfeld laughed. It was sharp and humorless. "With her? No. No, I don't play dress-up with devils and call it church. Little blasphemies like that are how plagues get started. "

"It might surprise you, but we've had eyes on that place for over two months now. Got your face in our files. Knew you were in and out of that building like it was your second home. We know about your relationship with Helena. The gifts and the errands you ran for her, " Grunfeld said.

Harry looked down at his lap, shame curling tight in his gut.

Grünfeld's tone stayed level. "You know who she is. Or better yet, what she is? "

Harry nodded slowly. "Vampire, " he whispered.

Grünfeld nodded back. "Aye, A hell spawn through and through. "

"W-who a-are y-you, p-people? " Harry stuttered.

"We are the Society of Leopold. We are hunters sanctioned by the Holy See. We follow the Pope's will to the letter when it comes to malleus maleficarum. Vampires only get a one-way ticket to a permanent retirement home, hell, " he said.

He stepped closer and knelt slightly so he could look Harry straight in the eyes, "You're safe now. But we need to know everything. From the beginning. Tell me about Helena and especially any new building addition to the church. "

So, Harry told him. The church and what he had just seen Helena doing in the catacombs. He was sure to tell Gunther about the secret passage in Helena's office and how to access it. This annoyed the man since he was sure his blueprints had been accurate.

"We had blueprints. Apparently out of date, thanks to that bitch. Not the first time we've been fed faulty intel. Won't be the last, " One of the men bitterly spat.

"Careful not to swear in front a child, Raymond, " Grunfeld warned before turning back to Harry. "I had wondered where those creatures had disappeared to for days on end. Thank you, Harry. The adults will take it from here. "

Justice

Harry stood just outside the tree line, far enough to avoid the light, close enough to see everything.

The church was on fire.

Smoke curled up into the night bloating out the stars. Flames had eaten through the roof, turning stained glass into molten streaks. From inside, he could hear the sounds no one should ever hear—wailing that didn't belong to people, not really.

There had been gunfire earlier. Then nothing for a while. Then the fire.

A few moments Grunther steppd out from the main door and Harry took this as his cue to run away. He had already been told to go home and let the hunters finish it, but he hadn't listened because he needed to see it with his own eyes to believe that it was truly ending.

Privet Drive

By morning, the news had already broken. A historic church destroyed in what officials were calling a gas explosion. No survivors. No suspects. The headline flashed across the screen while Vernon sipped his tea.

Harry watched from the couch, toast in hand, and smiled without guilt.

"You're a bloody demon, " Vernon had railed at him for laughing at the church's burning.

Harry rolled his eyes and took another bite. It was going to be a good day.

The doorbell rang and Petunia ordered him to check it.

"Delivery for Harry Potter, " the man said without looking up. Harry blinked at that. That was most unsual.

"I'm Harry, " he said slowly, taking the clipboard and signing without really thinking, then accepting the package which was a plain brown box with no return address, no stamps, just his name in perfect black lettering across the top

The mailman turned and left without another word.

Harry shut the door and brought the box into his cupboard, carefully hiding from the Dursleys. He gave it a shake before carefully peeling the tape back.

He opened the lid and froze

Inside the box was a severed head

Grünfeld Bach's head and Harry staggered back in horror

But before he could do anything more, the head began to covered in scarabs that quickly devoured it, leaving behind nothing before fleeing.

Then he heard it. Helena's confident laugh echoing through his skull.

End of Flashback

The church stood ahead, whole and gleaming, every stone polished, every stained-glass window intact, lit from within by soft golden light like nothing had ever happened, like it had never burned, like it had never screamed

The same building that had been reduced to ash a year ago now looked untouched, even improved, the lines cleaner, the fixtures newer, the cross at the top even taller than before, and as Harry stared he felt something claw at the back of his skull

It came softly at first, then rose with cruel certainty

Her laughter

The same laugh that had echoed through his mind when Grunfeld's head dissolved into dust and scarabs inside his cupboard, the same breathless sound of total victory.

For whatever its worth she had done nothing for an entire year, no messages, no dreams, no shadows at the foot of his bed, just silence. He had gone to school and back and nothing more. Yet Helena hadn’t stalked at his heels.

Harry had tried living to the best of circumstances. It was as his English teachers said, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

But here he was now, soaked and dragging his cousin behind him, and the gift was beginning to stink of something rotten

They reached the front steps and the water sloshed around their shoes, and there she stood.

Smiling at him from the top of the staircase like nothing had changed, like he had never left, like she had been waiting not with anger or judgment but with the calm certainty of someone who had known all along he would come back

She looked just as she always had, not younger, not older, not altered by time in the slightest

“Welcome back, kitten.”

Chapter Text

Sister Constance:

Harry Potter:

Chapter Text

Present Day

Helena walked toward him, arms outstretched in welcome, her voice rising with theatrical joy as she said, “At last, the prodigal son returns home. Praise be unto the Master of Duat!”

Harry didn’t smile. He didn’t move. He felt less like a returning son and more like a cornered doe, a fragile thing frozen before the slow and confident advance of a tigress. Still, there was no way out now. He had come here with one goal, and if it cost him to save Dudley’s lift, then so be it. He only hoped he could salvage something of himself in the bargain.

“Sister Helena Constance,” Harry said in a flat voice, not sure what else he could say at the moment.

“Come now kitten. No need to be so formal. You are with your family now.” Helena laughed as she lifted Dudley by the scruff of his neck and walked to the resurrected church. Harry gaped at the casual display of strength. Even uncle vernon, with his considerable bulk and boxing background, struggled to lift Dudley.

Helena grinned as she glanced back at him, fully aware of what was going in his mind.

“Do try and keep up kitten. Not every stray is lucky enough to end up back home.”

He was young but even he could spot the implicit threat behind her words. Harry scampered after her to keep up. Helena whistled as she walked, a low, lilting tune that echoed softly through the high halls. Harry thought he recognized the melody, but it slipped away as soon as he tried to name it.

He cleared his throat, falling in step beside her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” he said quietly, gesturing toward Dudley. “It’s not normal. I think it’s... supernatural. There’s something inside him.”

Helena didn’t respond at first. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, and the tune rose an octave.

Then, without ceremony, she reached a side corridor and tossed Dudley into the waiting arms of two suited men in dark coats. They caught him without surprise or question.

“See that he is bathed and restrained. No tranquilizers,” Helena said.

The men nodded and vanished down a separate hallway.

Helena turned to Harry and offered a calm smile. “We’ll speak in my office. There are some things better said in private.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him deeper into the church,

They entered the office in silence, and to Harry’s surprise, it looked exactly the same as before. As if nothing had ever burned and his betrayl had been no more than a passing dream.

Helena took her seat behind the desk, her grin wide and gleaming. Her fangs caught the light.

“Something the matter, kitten?” she asked, tone light.

Harry shuddered but shook his head.

“Then sit,” she said.

His body obeyed before his mind could protest. The chair pulled him down as though it had always been waiting.

Nothing happened for a while. They simply stared at each other. The room was too quiet.

A knock broke the stillness, and a man entered carrying a tray piled high with steaming fast food. He moved without a word, setting the tray in front of Harry with precise, practiced ease. Then he left, the door closing behind him with a click.

“Eat,” Helena said.

“I’m not hungry,” Harry muttered.

“Eat,” she said again, her voice soft but laced with something heavier. Her eyes shimmered faintly, red flickering at their edges.

Harry’s stomach growled, sharp and sudden. His hands moved on their own. He picked up the food and devoured it, barely tasting what he was eating. Something inside him demanded to be fed and satiated.

When the tray was empty, he slumped back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His foot tapped against the floor, nervous.

“I trust you have questions,” she said. Her voice curled around the last word like silk. “Kitten.”

“I need help. Will you help me?” Harry asked.

Helena blinked, then let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Oh my… straight to business. Nothing like ‘Hi, Sister Constance, I hope you are doing well,’ or perhaps, ‘I do hope those terrorists didn’t hurt you too badly.’”

She pitched her voice into a mocking falsetto, sing-song and cruel.

“No inquiry into how I have suffered since being so viciously betrayed by the very kitten I raised. Not a single word for the woman who fed you, clothed you, lifted you from the filth.”

Her fingers tapped the edge of the desk, each beat like a ticking clock.

“I taught you better than that. I raised you to be a proper English gentleman. Not some self-absorbed, rude little Frenchman.”

Something cracked inside him. The anger that had smoldered ever since he arrived now surged forward like a tide.

“You. Did. Nothing. For. Me,” Harry said, each word seething.

The room chilled.

Helena’s smile vanished. Her lips peeled back, revealing a glimpse of fang. There was no warmth in it now, no veneer of affection. Just warning.

Her eyes sharpened.

“Careful.”

The word landed like a blade between them.

She rose slowly from her chair, placing her hands flat against the desk as she leaned forward.

“You are my favorite, Harry. You always have been. But do not mistake affection for exemption. You are not beyond being disciplined.”

The threat didn’t silence him. It only stoked the fire further.

“Sod that,” Harry snapped.

Even she blinked at the defiance.

“You used me,” he said, his voice shaking. “You used me to do... bad things. To good people. People who needed help.”

He swallowed hard, words tumbling out faster now.

“You made me sell things I didn’t understand. Told me we were helping them. Helping them not be poor, helping them have better lives... better families.”

He looked up at her, voice raw.

“But you just wanted money. That’s all you wanted.”

Helena said nothing for a moment. Then, softly, she tilted her head.

“Good,” she murmured. “There it is. Finally. I know there’s more, kitten. You’ve been holding back. Speak.”

Harry looked down at his hands. They were shaking. His palms were slick with sweat, his throat dry. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“I... I know what you are,” he whispered.

Her eyes gleamed.

“Say it.”

Harry flinched. “I... I mean, I figured it out. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now and—”

Helena slammed her hand down on the desk.

“Have some balls kid! Spit it out!”

He looked up, heart thundering in his chest. “You’re a vampire.”

Silence stretched between them.

Helena didn’t blink. She just stared at him, holding his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair and smiled.

It was neither cruel nor mocking. To his astonishment, she looked proud.

“My clever little kitten,” she said, voice laced with maternal pride. “The cleverest of them all.”

Harry was breathing hard now, like he’d just finished sprinting a mile.

Helena lifted a hand and made the sign of the cross in the air. “Congratulations on your confession.”

She gestured toward him with an open palm. “I could see the weight of it on you, Harry. Pressing down on your shoulders these past few months. That heavy, awful suspicion. Poor thing. No wonder you’ve been so tense.”

She folded her hands neatly atop the desk and smiled again, calm and maternal.

“It must feel good to finally say it out loud.”

To his surprise, Harry could feel himself nodded. It was a terrible thing to have carried such a burden all by his lonesome. It wasn’t like he could go to the police and report on a vampire coven. At best he would’ve been laughed out and admitted to a psychiatric facility. At worst, Helena would’ve decided to get even and mounted his head on her front lawn.

Her chair squeaked as she got comfortable and brought her feet up on the desk.

“Yes,” she started. “I did bad things.”

The candlelight casting long shadows across her face and Harry struggled to not shudder at her vampiric nature.

“That is the price of living in a world forged by the Demiurge. We are all trapped in matter, Harry. Flesh. Hunger. Lies. And sometimes, to break the bars of your cage, you must bloody your knuckles against them.”

She tapped her temple with one painted nail.

“Yes, I sold drugs. I dealt in poisons. And I told you they were medicine. That much is true. But what you never asked was why. Why I needed the coin. Why I bled our enemies slowly before striking.”

Her eyes gleamed, sharp and golden. “It was for war, Harry. To fund the army I am building. To strike true, decisive blows against the Great Enemy. The ones who wear silk robes and teach children to love their chains.”

She rose from her chair and walked slowly around the desk, her hands clasped behind her back.

“You think I took joy in it? That I laughed while they suffered? No. I wept more than you know. But I did what I must. I have wept tears since before your grandfather’s grandfather was even born.” Helena said.

She paused beside him, looking down with something almost like pity.

“And even this... this curse. This body. This thirst.”

She wrinkled her nose slightly, as if the word itself offended her.

“Vampirism. Such a small word for such a thing. It is not my identity. It is a tool. A means to an end. A ladder to climb out of the deception that surrounds us all.”

“People died……….” Harry trailed off.

“They were weak,” Helena spat back without hesitation. “I never promised that my revelations would be easy to bear. I never said that all who received the truth would survive it.”

Harry’s breath caught in shock and Helena shrugged at his response.

“Those who broke... those who drowned in despair or spiraled into oblivion... they were never strong enough to begin with. They could not bear the weight of what we are. What this world is. They had no spine for the primordial truth.”

Harry stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor behind him.

“Stop,” he said, voice shaking. “Just stop.”

Helena tilted her head.

“Stop trying to make it better!,” he cried. “Stop using... using those big words to explain it all away.”

His voice broke. “You hurt people.”

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he wrapped his arms around himself, trembling.

“Just say you did wrong and you’re sorry!.”

Helena paused. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

He stood there, rigid and shaking, heart pounding with rage and sorrow.

But her touch was warm. Her arms enclosed him with familiar strength. When she began rubbing slow, steady circles into his back, something in him cracked.

He hated how good it felt. Hated the way his body relaxed into hers. Hated that it still brought him comfort.

He hated himself for it.

And yet, when his arms moved, they wrapped around her waist, and he clung to her.

Harder than before.

To his astonishment, Helena shifted her stance, and with a slow exhale, she bent down and lifted him into her arms.

Harry froze. He was nearly ten. No one carried ten-year-olds. Not unless they were hurt or unconscious or humiliated. And yet, somehow, in her arms, it didn’t feel ridiculous. She didn’t struggle with his weight. She didn’t even blink. Her strength was absolute, effortless.

He clung to her as if something deep inside him had been waiting for this moment for years. When she settled into the chair near the tall window, she shifted him gently into her lap, letting his head rest on her shoulder. Her skin was cold, but her breath was warm, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

Harry nuzzled into the curve of her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of her skin …. something like incense, rain, and iron. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to speak. He just wanted to stop remembering.

They sat like that for what felt like forever, watching the night sky through the tall, stained glass window. The stars shimmered faintly through the panes, and the wind rattled softly against the old stone.

Then Helena spoke.

“Harry,” she whispered, “I owe you an apology.”

He didn’t move, but his fingers twitched against her sleeve.

“It was not you who betrayed me. It was I who betrayed you. I should have told you everything from the start.”

Her fingers traced slow circles across his back.

“You were a child. My child. And I still burdened you with half-truths and careful omissions. I made you work without ever explaining why. I gave you glimpses of the divine but not the full light.”

She paused, letting her hand rest just above his heart.

“I did it because I loved you too much to scare you. I wanted to protect your innocence for as long as I could. Even if it meant you would misunderstand me. Even if it meant you would hate me.”

“Will you tell me everything now?” Harry mumbled.

“Absolutely. Ask and I shall speak nothing but truths. But be warned…. Be careful what you wish for. I have lived for long. Long before the new world was discovered. I know things… terrible things that are better left burried in the sands of time.”

Harry nodded meekly before asking.

“What are you?”

Helena smiled faintly. “The common word is vampire,” she said. “Though I prefer the term Sanguinaire. It has more refinement, more dignity. Less of the... theatrical nonsense. And yes, vampires exist among many other creatures of the night including witches, wizards, demons, faeries, elves, and mummies. If you live long enough like me, you might even discover creatures not known or forgottten to mankind or kindred.”

She paused, watching his reaction before continuing.

“But for your sake, I’ll use the word you know. Vampires. Among ourselves, we use a different name entirely. We call each other Kindred.”

Harry didn’t interrupt and listened with rapt attention.

“Like humans, the Kindred are fractured. Divided by blood, philosophy, and the burdens of origin. We call these divisions clans. Most of them are misguided, petty tyrants. They indulge in flesh, lust, and greed. They feed only to feed. Kill only to feel powerful. Rule to inflate their ego by lording over powerless, trembling peasants. They have no vision or discipline. No desire to reach out and search for esoteric truths.”

Her voice grew colder at the mention of her kin.

“They believe the Embrace grants them superiority. But they are still bound by illusion. They still worship the cage.”

“What clan are you from?” Harry asked.

“I am from the line of Set,” she said, her voice almost reverent. “Also known as Sutekh in the old tongues. He is also the one whom I invoke as the Master of Duat.”

She leaned down, her lips brushing his forehead.

“He is the one who gave us the gift of shadow. The true creator.” She said. Harry opened his mouth to question but she placed a finger on his lips.

“When Ra created the world, he did not birth it from love or wisdom. He shaped it with his own semen, forcing order upon the Primeval Waters. He made gods and souls alike, all carved from the same clay. Souls differ in size, not in kind.”

She looked down at him.

“But Ra lied. He told the gods that he alone was the mightiest. That he had created the universe. That nothing greater than him could ever exist. He said that mortals must live and die by his will. That no one should ever dream beyond their chains.”

Her eyes burned.

“But Set saw through the deception. He knew the truth. That all souls could grow as mighty as Ra. That divinity was not Ra’s birthright. It was stolen. Set did not rebel for power. He did not rise for revenge. He rose to liberate.”

Her grip on Harry tightened ever so slightly.

“He swore to break the lie. To free humanity from the bondage of that tyrant sun. To lift every soul from the dust and show it that it, too, could burn with divine fire.”

She paused, then her tone darkened.

“But Osiris was ever the coward. He feared Ra’s wrath and envied Set’s inheritance. He wanted power without risk. Dominion without sacrifice. He smiled in Set’s face and plotted behind his back.”

Helena’s jaw clenched.

“Set was once Ra’s champion. His protector. He stood on the solar barque each night, facing Apep, the chaos-serpent that rises from the depths to devour the sun. Set never failed. But he was proud. He mocked the other gods for hiding while he fought alone.”

She shook her head.

“For that, Osiris plotted to humiliate him. He gave Set a potion to dull his mind, and when Apep rose again, Set moved too slow. Osiris leapt to strike the beast himself, but was swatted away like an insect. And Set, drugged and half-blind, had to face the serpent alone.”

Her voice dropped.

“He held Apep down. With fangs the length of a man’s hand sunk into his chest, he clutched the serpent’s head with all his strength and refused to die. But the venom entered his heart. Chaos rooted itself inside him. Set won, but it cost him everything.”

She looked into Harry’s eyes.

“He could no longer walk in the sunlight. His flesh withered under its touch. He could no longer live among the gods. And worst of all, Ra turned away from him. Declared him cursed. Declared him damned.”

Her hand pressed gently against his back.

“Set became what you call a vampire. Not by choice, but by betrayal. And yet he did not beg. He did not weep. He mastered the curse. He forged it into power. And from that power, he gave us the gift of eternal rebellion.”

She leaned in.

“Every god who is not Set is an Aeon. Every so-called deity who tells you to kneel, to serve, to obey, is part of the lie. They rule through light, through shame, through guilt. But we, the Children of Set, serve truth. We awaken. We do not kneel.”

Her voice quieted, but her conviction never wavered.

“And now, Harry, you know the truth. Not myth. Not parable. History.”

Harry sat there in silence for a moment, trying to digest the sheer information dump she had just unloaded on him.

He swallowed. “Where do the other vampires come from, then? The ones not from your... clan..”

Helena smiled, unsurprised. “A sharp question, my clever kitten.”

She shifted slightly in her seat, repositioning Harry without effort.

“All vampirism stems from Set,” she said plainly. “Whether they believe it or not. Some claim he was merely a brother to their founder. One of many. Others say he was a disciple. A child of the so-called First Vampire.”

Her tone soured.

“Caine,” she said. “They call him the Dark Father. The murderer of Abel. The one cursed by God to walk forever and spill his blood into the mouths of thirteen men and women. They say those thirteen became the founders of the clans. The Antediluvians.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“It is a lie. A fabrication. A myth twisted to suit cowards who want to believe they were cursed by heaven and not shaped by truth. A child’s fable used to justify indulgence and submission.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “But you said history is a lie. You told me that. What if they’re the ones telling the truth, and you’re not?”

Helena blinked, then laughed softly. Not mocking. Almost proud.

“You always were too clever to raise properly,” she said, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “You question everything. Even me. That is why you are special.”

Harry gigled as he tickled him.

“Others who ask that question in front of the wrong Kindred lose their tongues. I am glad you asked it here, with me, where I can protect your curiosity.”

Aftermath

“About Dudley,” he murmured.

Helena didn’t respond at first. Her fingers continued tracing slow, hypnotic circles across his back.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Harry continued. “It’s like... something is making him do stuff…..”

At that, Helena’s hand paused. Just briefly. Then resumed.

“I know,” she said.

Harry lifted his head slightly to look at her.

“Can you help him?”

Helena’s eyes moved toward the window.

“I can try,” she said. “For you, I would do a great many things.”

He didn’t miss the weight in her voice.

“But,” she added gently, “you do understand... you placed yourself in a very difficult position.”

Harry frowned. “Because I ran?”

Helena gave him a look that managed to be both patient and slightly amused.

“Because you didn’t just run. You betrayed your family, Harry. You handed information to our enemies. You brought the fire to our temple. The Society of Leopold would never have discovered us without you.”

Her words were quiet, matter-of-fact.

“I forgave that. Gladly. Because I love you. And because I know your heart was clouded. But not everyone sees as I do.”

Harry lowered his eyes, guilt prickling under his skin.

Helena’s voice softened again.

“The prodigal son may return, but the house does not clean itself. You broke a sacred bond. And while I will do everything in my power to protect your name, there will be those who demand... labor.”

He looked up sharply. “Punishment?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not punishment. Duty. Redemption. Every Setite must serve the cause. And now, you must serve more than most.”

She stroked his hair.

“I will buy you time. I will shield you from the worst of it. But there is only so much I can do, Harry. The temple remembers. And so do its guardians.”

Harry’s chest tightened.

“And Dudley?”

Helena smiled. “He will be looked after. But even gifts must be paid for, kitten. That is the way of the world.”

She leaned in and kissed his forehead once more.

“We give. And we take. That is balance. That is order.”

“What will they want from me?” Harry asked.

“A blood price. You must pay for a series of blood prices. Thankfully, I was able to ease several clauses in your favor,” She said.

“What is a blood price?” Harry frowned.

“You must kill someone who has done harm to the Church of our Lord.” She said without missing a beat.

Harry gaped at that. “Murder someone?!”

“Aye, but only if you will it so. We will allow you to observe the target and make your own conclusion about them. If you think they deserve death – they shall be killed.”

“That’s still murder,” he whispered.

She tilted her head, and for the first time in minutes, her eyes truly flared. That same crimson shimmer flashed like a brand in the dark.

Harry felt warmth spill into his chest. His breath slowed and his muscles softened. It was like being pulled back into the womb, into safety and stillness.

“You are still free,” Helena said gently, brushing a hand across his cheek. “But freedom without action is illusion.”

He swallowed. “Who’s the target?”

Helena smiled.

“Arabella Figg.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Figg? But... she’s harmless. Just an old woman with too many cats.”

“Looks deceive,” Helena replied. “She has done more harm to you than you can possibly imagine.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but her finger pressed gently against his lips.

“I will not command you to do this. I will only ask that you look. Observe her. See her with the eyes I have given you.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper.

“Truth is not learned through sermons. It is earned. And only through truth can one ascend.”

She kissed his forehead, slow and deliberate.

“Find the truth, Harry. The rest will come.”

Fin

Chapter Text

After their meeting, Helena didn’t escort him out.

Instead, one of her aides, a burly man in a black suit with a clean shave and dead eyes, appeared at the door and nodded once. No words were exchanged. Helena simply kissed Harry’s forehead and said, “You and Dudley won’t be going home tonight. Don’t worry about the Dursleys. Everything is being handled.”

Harry didn’t ask for details.

The man led him down a side corridor, then out into the cold night. A black car waited with its engine already running. Harry climbed in without being told. The windows were tinted too dark to see out.

They left the city quickly.

Eventually, they turned onto a narrow gravel road that led into a wooded clearing. There was a burned-out farmhouse in the distance and several wooden cutouts arranged like scarecrows near a row of hay bales.

The car stopped.

Without speaking, the man stepped out, opened the rear passenger door, and handed Harry a hard plastic case.

“W-what’s this?” Harry stammered.

“A tool.” The man simply said. Harry opened to find a handgun in the container. The label said Glock 42.

“Get out,” he said.

Harry obeyed.

The man knelt beside him, opened the case on the hood of the car, and began assembling the pistol. He inserted the magazine with a smooth motion, chambered a round, then handed the weapon to Harry grip-first.

“.380 caliber,” the man said. “Six-round magazine. Polymer frame. Lightweight. Low recoil.”

Harry held it awkwardly. It felt heavier than he expected.

“Your target is there.” The man pointed to the farthest dummy, a worn torso-shaped silhouette with faded circles drawn over its chest and head.

“Shoot center mass. Heart and lungs. If that’s blocked, shoot the pelvic triangle. If that’s blocked, aim for the face. Do not fire blindly. Do not shoot to scare. You shoot to stop.”

He stepped back, folding his arms.

Harry looked at him, then back at the gun.

“How do I know if it’s loaded?”

The man took a step forward, pointed at the chamber, then pulled the slide back slightly to show the brass of the chambered round.

“You check. Always check. Never trust the gun to tell you what it is. And when you shoot, collect the brass. Every shell casing has your signature. You leave none behind.”

Harry’s fingers trembled slightly.

“Go on,” the man said.

Harry raised the pistol, leveled it as best he could, and stared down the sights at the dummy. His hands were sweaty, his arms unsteady, but the weapon felt alive in his grip.

He pulled the trigger.

That wasn’t the only training he had undergone at the farm. He had been taught how to picklocks, perform recon, and lie.

Blood Price

Harry moved up the walkway, keeping close to the wall. He paused at the front door, pulled out a small pouch from his coat, and took out the lockpicks he had been trained to use. He worked quickly. The lock was old, and it gave way without much effort.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

The air smelled like it always had. Dull, like carpet cleaner and dry wood. Nothing in the house had changed. The hallway was clean. The same beige wallpaper. The same row of framed cat pictures on the wall.

Harry moved through the house without turning on any lights. He didn’t need to. He remembered every step, every turn. He had spent too many afternoons here sweeping floors and wiping counters. Every corner of the place was familiar.

He passed the kitchen, the living room, the back door. He moved up the stairs quietly, one step at a time.

At the end of the hall, the pale green door stood shut.

She had always warned him not to go near it. Said it was off limits. Never gave a reason.

He had never disobeyed. Not back then.

Harry knelt in front of the door and took out his tools again. This lock was tougher than the front one. It took a few extra seconds. Then it clicked open.

He turned the knob and pushed the door. It opened without a sound.

He stepped inside.

Revelations

My dear Arabella,

First, allow me to express appreciation for your continued diligence. I am well aware that long-term assignments within the Muggle world can feel thankless, especially for someone more accustomed to our own... elevated circles. Your patience and perseverance are noted.

Now, regarding the matter of young Harry Potter.

Your recent concerns about the boy’s emotional state and treatment under the Dursleys have been reviewed. While I do not question your sincerity, I must say your observations seem to carry a tone of undue alarm. The Dursleys, for all their imperfections, remain his legal guardians. They offer him structure and consistency. The distinction between discomfort and danger is not a small one, and I would urge caution in conflating the two.

Discipline, even when unpleasant, is not in itself abusive. I speak from personal experience when I say that young boys often require a firm hand. I was not an easy child myself.

My own agents have quietly looked into the claims you raised. Nothing substantiates the idea of abuse. What you interpret as trauma may well be the natural response of a boy who feels misunderstood or restricted. Dramatic behavior in children is not rare. Nor is it necessarily a sign of harm.

Accordingly, I must reject your request to bring him into our world ahead of schedule.

Harry will be introduced to the magical world when he turns eleven. Not before. It is essential he arrives at Hogwarts with a clear mind, free from the influence of legacy, expectation, or myth.

Until then, your role remains strictly observational. Continue to monitor and record incidents of accidental magic. Maintain your cover. Do not initiate further contact beyond what is required to preserve appearances.

He must come to us unshaped. That is the only way this will work.

Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore

Harry’s hand shook as he read the letter.

Papers were scattered all over the floor. Letters, reports, newspaper clippings. Some looked old. Others looked like they had just been sent. They were all real. Not tricks. Not lies.

The magical world was real.

His outbursts, the ones he thought were freak accidents, were not strange after all. They were normal for a wizard boy. Arabella had written about them in detail. Each letter was carefully logged, describing what he did, what he said, what had gone wrong around him.

She had known. The entire time.

And so had Dumbledore.

He read through several messages between them. Each one worse than the last. She had told him about the Dursleys. About the punishments. About the silence. About how quiet Harry had become.

He found one letter near the bottom of the stack. He read it slowly, word by word. When he reached the end, something snapped.

The letter caught fire in his hand.

He dropped it, but the flames kept going. The shelves around him rattled. The books shifted. The air in the room grew tighter.

They had known. They had watched. And they had done nothing.

He stood there, fists clenched. The papers on the ground blew in all directions. His magic was pouring out of him. He couldn’t stop it.

A voice shouted from downstairs.

“Who's there?”

Heavy steps rushed up the stairs.

Arabella Figg burst into the room. She froze when she saw him. The gun was in his hand. The letters were all around him. Her face went pale.

“Harry,” she said, eyes wide. “You need to calm down. Just listen to me. Please.”

She stepped closer, slowly.

“I’ll tell you everything. Anything you want. Just don’t do anything you’ll regret. Put the gun down.”

He didn’t move.

“I can explain,” she said. “You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t you. I’ll help you. I swear it.”

Harry raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

The first shot hit her in the chest.

She gasped. Fell back. He kept shooting.

More bullets. More blood. He didn’t stop until the gun clicked empty.

She wasn’t moving.

The only sound left was his breathing. The papers on the ground fluttered from the leftover energy in the room.

He stood there alone.

The Meeting

“You killed her,” she said. “I want to hear your reasoning.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his hands, then back up at her.

“She knew,” he said. “She knew everything. What they did to me. What I went through. She wrote it all down. Sent reports. Told Dumbledore. And still, she left me there.”

Helena nodded once. “Did she ever hurt you directly?”

“No,” Harry said. “But she didn’t stop them either.”

“Neglect is not the same as violence,” Helena said. “But it can be just as damaging. You believe she deserved to die?”

Harry hesitated. “I don’t know. I just... I saw her, and I remembered everything. All the times she smiled at me, knowing what was happening. I couldn’t stand it.”

Helena’s voice was calm. “So you made a decision.”

Harry nodded. “I did.”

“You emptied the whole magazine.”

He looked away. “I didn’t plan to.”

“But you did it anyway.”

He nodded again.

Helena leaned back slightly. “You were given a choice. You were told to observe. You were told to decide. And you chose death.”

Harry didn’t speak.

She tilted her head. “Do you regret it?”

“No, not at all. The bitch deserved it..”

Chapter Text

A Decade Ago

Xenophilius and Pandora Lovegood

Xenophilius stumbled forward, his body limp against his wife’s shoulder. His skin darkened with fever, blotches spreading like ink, and blood streamed from his eyes.

Pandora gasped for breath with each step, her arm hooked under his to keep him upright.

“It is alright. Just a few more steps. We will make it. I promise,” She murmued to reassure him. It was all her fault. She was the one who goaded him into this misadventure to explore temple ruis. Now something had bit him and she had spent two days of desperate cures and maladies to fix him, but nothing worked. Even the healers had left him for dead.

Desparate times call for desparate measures, she thought to herself.

The desert stretched in all directions, nothing but endless sand dunes rolling beneath the cruel orange sky. The heat of the day still clung to the earth, burning their bare feet.

The sun sagged lower, bleeding into twilight. Pandora’s strength gave out and she gently lowered Xenophilius onto the sand. He whimpered once and fell still, his chest rising shallowly.

Pandora drew out her wand with a shaking hand and whispered, “Diffindo.”

Raising her bleeding palm high, she chanted, hesitating over each syllable, in the ancient tongue of the priestesses of the Goddess Isis. She hoped against hope that her rudimentary understanding of the language was sufficient for the summoning.

For long minutes, nothing answered. The desert was silent save for the sigh of the wind. Her voice faltered and she fell to her knees, clutching the wound.

She had failed. The summoning was a dud.

She had failed and killed her husband. Her daughter was now fatherless. Tears gripped her and she didn’t notice the sun falling deeper and deeper.

Then the sun kissed the horizon.

The ground rumbled beneath her. Sand cascaded down the slopes of the nearest dune as if pulled away by an unseen hand. The earth split. With a thunderous roar, stone blocks pushed through the shifting sands, columns rising in defiance of time. An ancient temple, carved with sigils of forgotten, dead gods, erupted from the desert floor.

Pandora stared, wide-eyed and trembling, as the ruin of Egypt returned to meet the twilight for the first time in centuries.

Temple of Isis

The temple was dark, illuminated only by the glow of star and moonlight outside.

The air inside felt heavy and every step echoed far too loud in the cavernous dark, like the place itself was listening.

Her chest tightened. It felt as though she were no longer alone. The hair on her arms rose, and a coldness settled over her spine. It was the same sensation as a deer under the eyes of a hunting lioness.

She set Xenophilius gently against a cracked pillar and drew her wand, whispering detection charms as quickly as she could. Blue sparks fizzled and died. The runes of divination she traced in the air collapsed before they could take shape. It was as though even her magic had been choked out, strangled by the silence of this dead civilization.

Her eyes darted across the walls.

Statues of gods had been defaced, their features hacked away or blasted into formless scars. The hieroglyphics that wound across the columns bore long scorch marks, blackened streaks that stank faintly of sulphur.

Fear gripped her heart, cold and merciless.

Behind her, Xenophilius groaned in agony, blood leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Pandora fell to her knees beside him, her wand clattering against the stone. “Please,” she whispered into the stillness, her voice raw. “Whoever tends this place, whoever remains… I beg you. Aid my husband. He was bitten by a creature, and I cannot heal him. Please… help us.”

For a moment, silence pressed down like a tomb.

Then, from the shadow at the far edge of the hall, movement stirred. A figure stepped into view.

A short woman with bronze skin and blazing orange eyes that lit the dark like coals of hellfire.

Pandora’s breath caught. Terror surged through her so violently she nearly collapsed. The aura that clung to the woman was death itself, crushing, suffocating. Against her will, Pandora’s mind conjured images of drawing her own blade across her throat, anything to be far, far away from the thing that stood before her.

The woman smiled, a cruel grin that bared teeth too sharp to be human. “Little mage,” she said in broken English. “So very far from your little chantries…... You could not have chosen a worse place to bleed.”

Pandora forced herself to remain upright, though her knees quaked. “I seek aid for my husband,” she stammered. “I am willing to do… anything.”

Sister Helena Constance

The door creaked open, and a man entered Helena’s office. He stood stiffly, heels together, and snapped his feet in salute.

“Mistress,” he said.

Helena did not look up. Her pen scratched across the parchment as if she could care less than the man waiting on her. The silence lingered until she placed the pen aside and carefully folded the letter. Only then did her eyes lift to the man before her.

“What?” she demanded.

“Our ghouls have picked up chatter. It’s the Camarilla.”

Helena leaned back in her chair. A sigh escaped her lips, though no breath stirred the air of the chamber or dead lungs. “And what have they heard?”

They have noticed the missing hunters and the sudden flood of drugs and weapons. They suspect an incursion and will use it as an excuse to establish a foothold in the isles.”

Helena’s brow furrowed. “How long until they send the justiciars?”

He shifted uneasily. “We cannot say, Mistress. Only that it will be soon.”

Helena tapped a finger against the folded letter, thoughtful. At last she gave a single nod. “Then we must accelerate our plans for the prince.”

The man bowed his head. “As you command.”

Training Yard

The night was damp and cold. As befitting London’s reputation. Still, cold was no excuse to fail in the obstacle course. Or so he was told.

Floodlights cast pale cones across the training yard. Tires lay in rows, sandbags were piled high, and wooden barricades jutted from the ground like broken teeth.

Harry scrambled over the first wall, boots scraping against splintered planks. His arms ached from the climb, and his lungs burned, but he forced himself over. He hit the ground hard and nearly concussed himself.

“Faster, Potter!” the voice barked from below. “Again. You trip once in the field, you die.”

Harry gritted his teeth and pushed forward, legs pumping as he hit the tires. His foot caught in the third row, and he pitched forward.

“Up! Now!”

He rolled, scrambled to his feet, and charged on.

“Do not stop. You freeze, you die. Move!”

Harry bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, then kept climbing. At the top, the world swayed beneath him and he felt slightly nauseous. He hauled himself over and dropped to the mud below. He winced as his knees bent and teeth rattled on impact.

“Again.”

Harry looked up. His instructor stood near the base of the floodlight, a black silhouette against the glare. Arms folded, eyes burning like coals.

Harry’s body screamed for rest, but the man was unyielding.

“Do it until you stop failing. Do it until you stop thinking like a child. Do it until your bones move without your mind telling them to.”

But before they could go on any further, a fleet of fast driving SUV drove inside the compound - headlights blazing, mud flying as they braked in unison.

The rear door of the lead vehicle opened. A tall man in a black coat stepped out and opened the rear passenger door with a bow of his head.

Helena emerged.

She moved with slow grace, her heels sinking into the dirt without hurry. The night seemed to still around her. All the chirping insects fell silent at once, the sound cut away as if the earth itself were holding its breath. An apex predator had entered the field. Her eyes swept taking in the environment before they locked on him.

Helena’s lips curved into a smile that showed just the barest gleam of teeth.

“Hello, kitten.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. “Sister Helena?!”

Her smile widened and she held out her arms. “In the flesh.”

“Look at you, kitten. Training so hard you forgot to wash. You will frighten away polite company,” she said and turned her head towards the trainer. “How has he been doing?”

The guard’s posture stiffened. “Adequate, ma’am.”

Harry frowned at that, “I’ve been trying really hard!”

She stepped close and pinched his cheek. “Of course you have. My brave little knight.”

Heat rushed to his face, and he dropped his gaze, ears burning.

“I will be borrowing him. Indefinitely. I am sure that will not be a problem,” Helena declared.

The trainer swallowed hard. “N-no, of course not, Sister.”

“Good.”

Her hand rested against Harry’s shoulder as she turned him toward the convoy. Without another word she guided him back into the waiting car.

The car doors closed with a heavy thud, and for a moment there was only silence.

Then Helena broke it. “You need to be moved, kitten.”

Harry blinked. “Moved? Why?”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the dark road ahead. “Our operations may be threatened. The minions of the archons have made another bid for our lives. They would not hesitate to take your life if it meant wounding me. That is why you must be taken somewhere safer.”

Harry sat stiffly, staring down at his hands. His chest tightened. “Privet Drive is all I’ve ever known,” he said softly..

Helena snorted at that. “Surely you are not sentimental about wanting to live with the…. Dursleys.”

Harry scowled at that before remembering the other boy, “What about Dudley? Will he be okay?”

At the mention of his cousin, a scowl crossed her face and Harry became aware. He never knew when the mercurial woman might take offense at this words.

“Focus on yourself, Harry. Only then can you think of others. That is the only way you will remain safe.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry mumbled.

Her smile returned, pleased.

She hummed low in her throat, and tapped her long nail against the window. “Driver. Pull over.”

The SUV slowed and rolled to a stop beside a run-down strip. Neon lights buzzed against the dark sky. Helena gestured out the window with one elegant finger. “Can you make out the sign, kitten?”

Harry squinted into the glare. The letters flickered in weak blue. “Leaky Cauldron,” he read aloud.

“Good. What do you think it is?” She asked.

He shrugged, still peering at the crooked sign. “Probably just a place for old people to be lazy and drunk.”

Helea snorted at that. “You have awful timing Harry, do you know that?”

“Come on! Its what all bars are!” Harry exclaimed.

She reached over and ruffled his hair until it stuck up in messy tufts. “Oh, Harry. Always sharper than you pretend to be.”

Harry petulantly pouted at that.

“ ‘Tis is no ordinary bar. To most people, it looks like nothing more than a run-down building. If they stray too near, something in their minds will whisper of urgent errands and duties. They will walk away and never think to return,” Helena said.

Her eyes flicked to him, expectant. “Do you understand?”

Harry’s brows pinched together, his face scrunching as he tried to untangle her meaning. Then, suddenly, it struck him. His eyes lit up. “Magic!” he exclaimed.

Helena clapped her hands together once, delighted. “Very good, kitten. You see through the veil faster than most.”

Harry grinned, excitement bubbling in his chest. “So this is it? Wizards and witches? Real magic?”

“Indeed,” Helena purred. “And tonight, you will finally meet your kin. Unlike the arch-mage hiding in his castle, I see no reason to deprive you of your inheritance any longer.”

“Magic…..” Harry trailed, shell shocked over the revelation.

So, this was it. He was finally returning to his people.

Helena’s hand lingered on his cheek, unnaturally cold against his flushed skin. “Yes, magic,” she said softly, savoring the word. “But remember, kitten, it is not the miracle they tell their children it is. What you will see inside is power in chains.”

Harry blinked, the grin faltering. “Chains?”

“Mm.” She gestured toward the crooked sign. “Wizards and witches do not truly live free. They clutch at spells the way peasants clutch bread. They bind their power with rules, traditions, oaths to faceless tyrants who whisper of safety while feasting on obedience. At best, they have peeled but one veil away from reality and pretend they see all and know all.”

She tilted his chin up so he could not look away. “Every charm, every potion, every wand stroke is bent to the service of the jailors. They call it the Ministry of Magic and the right way to do magic. We call it what it is, an empire of the archons. An eternal jail.”

Harry’s lips parted. “But… they’re still wizards…. They have magic… They can do stuff so nobody can lie to them.”

Her smile deepened. “Exactly. Which means they are proof of what can be. They are cracks in the wall of the prison. A taste of what you, my brave knight, will master one day.” She ruffled his hair again, the gesture fond but firm. “They kneel. But you, Harry, you will rise. Like Mithras of old you will herald the arrival of the glorious sun, but unlike them, you will be the true harbinger.”

“Ok….” Harry trailed off.

“Now, back to work. A contact of mine is waiting for you inside. You must not reveal that you are Harry Potter to anyone but him.”

Harry’s lips pushed into a pout. “But—”

Her fingers slipped into the back of his hair and tightened in a sharp pull.

His breath caught.

Her eyes flared crimson in the dim light. “Is that an inconvenience, kitten? Perhaps you have forgotten that the servants of the Archmage and the Dark Lord are still loose. Perhaps you need reminding that if they discover you are alive, you will become the finest prize of all.”

She pulled him closer and Harry screamed. “Please! Your’re hurting me, sister!”

“Or perhaps you wish for them to find you and take you away from me?” She said shaking his head to drive the point home. “Is that it, Harry? Another attempt by you to burn my church and leech off the fruit of my labors?”

“No!” Harry said. “I swear it! It wasn’t like that! I will do what you tell me to!”

“Will you now, really?”

Harry’s heart pounded. He forced the words out, shaking. “Yes! Please forgive me!”

Her grip held for a long second before it tightened once more and then released. He winced, rubbing the sore spot, but she cupped his face immediately after. Her voice was velvet again. “I did not wish to do this. Yet some lessons must be driven home, whether through pain or through pleasure.”

“I am sorry,” Harry whimpered, tears spilling from his eyes.

Helena’s expression softened. She leaned close and kissed the tears as they fell, her lips felt odd against his skin. Gooseflesh rose along his neck in response to her proximity to him. His heart raced.

She felt it at once. The change in his heartbeat thrummed against her senses. His scent flooded her — sweat, fear, and the faint copper tang of drying tears. Her eyelids fluttered shut, her brow furrowed as if in pain, and a low hiss slipped between her lips. Her arms tightened around him with crushing strength.

She was hungry. Oh so very hungry.

Harry stiffened. “Sister…?”

Her mouth parted and white daggers pushed through her gums. When her eyes opened they burned crimson, the softness gone, replaced by hunger older than kingdoms, older than memory or the written word itself.

Her hand shook where it cupped his cheek. “Do you truly wish to make amends, kitten?” Her voice was taut, strangled, as if she were battling herself with every word.

Harry pressed into her palm, eyes wet. “I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” Her voice dripped like venom.

“Yes… please, just… anything.”

Her restraint broke. With a sudden lunge she drove her fangs into his neck.

Harry gasped, the sound caught between a sob and a cry. Her cold arms crushed him against her chest as the bite tore through his flesh. Hot blood welled, and Helena drank in greedy shudders, every pull rippling through her body.

The world spun as Harry’s legs weakened, his vision blurring. The sound of her feeding filled his ears, wet and monstrous, drowning every other noise.

But there was no pain. Warmth blossomed instead, flowing from his throat into his chest and down to his fingertips, until his entire body felt swaddled in firelight. His breath slowed. The trembling in his limbs eased.

It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, yet the wrongness drowned beneath a tide of safety and warmth. Pressed against her unyielding body, it felt as though every hollow inside him had finally been filled.

He sagged into her, mouth slack, copper filling his tongue. A line of drool slid down his chin as a shiver of ecstatic relief coursed through him.

Helena’s eyes rolled back, her throat working with each swallow. Power coursed through her deadened veins in ways centuries had denied her. She arched her back, stretched her neck, every muscle straining as she forced herself not to roar like a triumphant dragon.

When at last she pulled back, her lips glistened red. She cupped his slack face with both hands, and her voice fell soft again.

“You are forgiven, my sweet boy. You are such a good boy,” She placed a kiss on top of his head. “The greatest gift.”

Leaky Cauldron

Helena had quickly made her excuses once she had come to her senses and pushed him out. He still felt like he was enveloped in a warm blanket on a cold, rainy morning.

A car wheered dangerously close to him and honked with an intensity that tore through the miasma gripping him.

“Watch where you’re going, damn kid!” The driver screamed as he passed him by. Harry paused and blinked owlishly, he had just been a few cm away from being road kill. Adrenaline coursed through him and he suddenly felt a lot more alert than before.

As soon as Harry entered the bar, it felt like he had walked back in time. People wore robes and pointy hats. POINTY HATS! As if they were the stereotypical witches and wizards from old BBC shows on telly.

The air was warmer than the mercilessly cold street outside, thick with the scent of fresh bread and spilled beer. Trays floated overhead, balancing steaming mugs and plates of stew as if held by invisible hands. Chairs scraped across the floor on their own, sliding back to make space for new arrivals. Orbs of golden light hovered in the rafters.

Harry stood frozen just past the threshold, his mouth slightly open as he tried to drink it all in.

“You there, lad,” the barkeep called. Harry head snapped to the mini bar and the bar keep made a come hither motion with his finger. “Come on over.”

The barkeep set the glass aside and wiped his hands on his apron before leaning across the counter. “Name’s Tom. And what might yours be, lad? Where are your parents?”

Harry straightened, remembering what Helena had drilled into him. “John Walker,” he said quickly. “I was told to meet Mr. Lovegood here.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Lovegood, is it? Does the man have a first name?”

Harry’s tongue stumbled over the strange syllables. “Xeno… Xeno-feel-us?”

A thin, reedy man appeared beside him before Tom could ask more. His robes were patched in half a dozen places, his pale eyes bright with a distracted energy. He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and spoke with an easy calm. “That will be quite enough, Tom. I will handle it from here.”

He bent slightly to meet Harry’s gaze. “Xenophilius Lovegood. You must be young Mr. Walker. Would you like something to eat or drink before we begin?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, thank you.”

“Very well.” Xenophilius straightened and motioned toward a table tucked into a quiet corner. “Come, then. We have much to talk about.”

Harry followed him across the room and reached his table. He sat down opposite the strange man.

Xenophilius sat across, folding his long fingers together and watching Harry with an intensity that felt almost birdlike.

Instead of asking anything ordinary, the man tilted his head and said, “Tell me, Mr. Walker, do you believe in Nargles?”

Harry blinked. “Nargles?”

Xenophilius nodded solemnly. “Yes. Mischievous creatures. Invisible, of course, but that only makes them harder to catch. They live in mistletoe and sometimes inside people’s hoes, though never both at once. I ask because you smell faintly of them.”

Harry stared, unsure whether to laugh or apologize. “I… don’t know.”

“Good answer,” Xenophilius said with sudden cheer. “Most people pretend to know. Pretending is worse than ignorance.”

Harry tilted his head. “Mr. Lovegood—”

The man cut him off at once, raising a thin hand. “Call me Xeno. It is much easier.”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “Alright… Xeno. I think you are confusing me with someone else…. I was sent here by Sister Helena Constance.”

At the name, the blood drained from Xenophilius’s face. His pallor, already ghostly pale, turned ashen. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

He stammered, his words tripping over one another. “Forgive me— forgive me, I sometimes forget… forget who sends whom. I forget… I forget whose property you are.”

His hands trembled as he pressed them flat against the table, bowing his head slightly as though trying to erase the offense by posture alone.

“I’m nobody’s property,” Harry snapped at him.

Xeno said nothing and stared at him without blinking.

The silence stretched until, quite suddenly, he burst out laughing. It was a wild, rambling sound that made heads turn before being hastily ignored.

“Splendid,” Xeno wheezed, clutching his thin chest. “Absolutely splendid. The boy has a sense of humor! You must forgive me, you must. It is rare to hear such comedy so early in the evening.” His words tumbled out in a rush. “But it does not matter what we think, not truly. At the end of the day, all we are is kine for the Kindred. Cattle, if you must put it bluntly.”

The word struck like a lash. Harry’s shoulders jerked. He shivered before he could stop himself.

Xeno’s laughter cut off. His eyes narrowed. “She fed from you, did she not?”

Harry’s throat worked. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“You are shivering.” His voice was sharp now, a stark contrast to his usual squaky high eccentricity. “She fed from you.”

Harry looked away, fumbling with the crust of bread, desperate to change the subject.

But Xeno was already snapping his fingers, voice rising. “Tom! Orange juice. A plate of meat pies. Now.”

The barkeep blinked but obeyed without question. This was a very different Lovegood than he was used to.

“Thrice damned leeches. Hellspawn. Blood-drunk tyrants.” His hands trembled as he shoved the goblet of juice toward Harry. “Drink. Eat. You will need strength if you are to work.”

Fin

Chapter Text

Harry Potter

His eyes were red-rimmed, his nose raw from constant sniffles. The room’s heavy air and humidity made his head throb. Harry sat scrunched up in the corner chair, the Book of Nod open across his lap and a battered dictionary perched beside him.

As fascinating as the vampire lore was, he was beginning to think whoever wrote it had taken perverse delight in making it as impenetrable as possible. Every passage was twisted into riddles, every sentence wound through layers of metaphor that left him feeling like he was drowning in someone else’s fever dream. Worse, Xeno had a savage grin as he explained that the book was full of misdirections by elder vampires to distort history that Harry would have to learn to identify.

Harry rubbed at his temple and squinted at another line of archaic text, determined to make sense of it, when the door creaked open.

Harry looked up and froze.

Luna Lovegood stood in the doorway in a flowing sunflower-yellow dress that seemed to catch every bit of light in the room. Her hair spilled down in pale waves, and she smiled softly as though she had been expecting him. He had seen pretty girls before, but Luna was truly something else.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” she said in that airy, musical voice.

He fumbled to close the book, nearly knocking over the dictionary. “H-hi, Luna.”

She tilted her head and regarded him with wide, silvery eyes. “You look dreadful,” she said with the casual frankness only she could manage. “Your head is stuffed up, your eyes are sore, and the Nargles will start nesting if you sit here much longer.”

Harry blinked. “Nargles?”

“They love gloomy rooms,” Luna replied serenely. “Come for a walk with me. The fresh air will chase them away and clear your mind.”

His throat went dry. She was inviting him for a walk. Outside. Was this a date?

Harry blushed furiously as he tried to conjure a response.

“I… sure,” he stammered, fumbling the Book of Nod shut and getting to his feet. “Yeah. I could use some air.”

Luna smiled, as though pleased she had cured some great ill, and held the door open for him.

Morning Walk

The morning was cool and bright, the grass still wet with dew as Harry followed Luna along the narrow garden path. The fresh air worked wonders on the pounding in his skull.

Luna walked ahead along the gravel path, her sunflower-yellow dress swaying lightly as if it had been made for days like this. Harry tried not to stare, but when she turned suddenly, her hair catching the light, she gave him a curious little smile that made his breath hitch.

“So,” she asked, “how far along are you with Noddist lore?”

Harry rubbed at his tired eyes but felt a flicker of pride. “Better than I expected. I have made good progress. I know the basic history of all thirteen clans.”

“Oh really?” Luna’s grin turned impish. “Then you are ready for a quiz.”

Harry blinked. “A quiz? Now?”

“Of course,” Luna said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Recalling what you learn is the best way to make it stay. Start with their origins.”

Harry rubbed at the back of his neck. “Caine was the first. He killed his brother Abel, and God cursed him. Three angels came, one after another, to offer him forgiveness, but he refused them all.”

Luna nodded. “And then?”

“Then he went to Lilith,” Harry said, warming to the subject. “She taught him power and how to survive. From him came the first city, Enoch. He Embraced his childer there, and they Embraced theirs, until there were thirteen. The clans.”

Luna smiled faintly. “Good. Then you should know them by name.”

Harry groaned softly. “You really are going to quiz me?”

“Of course,” Luna said, her tone perfectly calm. “Begin.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Tzimisce, the flesh shapers and sadists. They believe in changing the flesh to reach perfection, and they practice brutal tortures to achieve it.”

“Let us hope we never meet one,” Luna said lightly.

Harry nodded. “Ventrue, kings and princes. They embrace rulers, politicians, bankers, and anyone who holds power.”

“As Daddy says,” Luna replied serenely, “even in undeath you cannot escape the hand of capitalism.”

Harry laughed and went on. “Toreador, artists and dreamers, obsessed with beauty. Brujah, warriors and philosophers, leaders of rebellions.”

“Good. And the Malkavians?”

Harry frowned in thought. “They are… strange. Most call them mad, but they have insight, sometimes even prophecy. People say they hear truths no one else can.”

“Very good,” Luna said softly. “And the rest?”

Harry tried to recall what he had read. “Nosferatu, spies and keepers of secrets, cursed with monstrous looks. Salubri, ancient mystics and healers.” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s all I remember for now.”

Luna nodded, as if she had just listened to music she approved of. “You have learned more than most would in so little time.”

Harry flushed. “It still feels like that book was written to make me miserable.”

“It is meant to make you think,” Luna said. Then her tone brightened. “But thinking all the time is dreadfully boring. Tell me, Harry, do you like puffskeins?”

Harry blinked at her. “Puffskeins?”

“Yes. They are marvelous little things,” Luna said dreamily. “Soft, round, always humming as though they know secrets no one else can hear. They will follow you anywhere if you let them.”

Harry found himself smiling at the image. “I suppose they sound… nice.”

“They are more than nice,” Luna said seriously. “If you listen closely, you can almost believe they are singing to lead you where you need to go.”

Harry chuckled, the heaviness in his chest easing a little. “That’s… oddly comforting.”

“It should be,” Luna said, turning down the path ahead. “Puffskeins always find their way back home.”

Harry fell quiet at that, the words sitting somewhere deep as he followed her down the sunlit path.

“Home?”

Luna smiled faintly, as though she knew something he didn’t. “Yes. Home. Everyone has one, even if they have to lose themselves first before they can find it.”

Harry swallowed. “That’s… oddly comforting.”

“It should be,” Luna said, turning down the path. “The world is very big, but it is never too big for you to find your way.”

Juliet Parr

Have you ever felt different? Not in the shallow sense of complexion or cadence, but in the marrow of your bones, where truth resides.

Different as though some cosmic error had been made when the souls were assigned at the moment of birth. That my soul had been locked in a cage of perishable flesh, condemned to endure the slow indignity of decay. To walk among the living while knowing you were never meant to be merely one of them.

This is how I have felt since the first moment I opened my eyes in this accursed world.

I knew it from the first time I was allowed to run across my father’s estate in those scandalous boy’s clothes that the world was meant to be mine. Not the sewing room or the miserable hollow fate of being some lordling’s brood mare.

There was more. There had to be more.

How do I know this? Because the moon told me. It sang to me.

Even before the Embrace it was there, whispering. I felt it when I read by candlelight, when I dreamed of things no girl should dare to dream. I had violent seizures, nightmares of walking dead, and  of fates far worse than death.

I longed to escape this prison of foul, decaying flesh to achieve apotheosis.

I slit my veins, drowned myself in the deepest of lakes, swallowed enough pills to fell a regiment. Yet curse my lucky stars, I was always pulled back into my mortal coil just as I was about to touch the stars.

That is not to say I did not care for my father’s tears and pleading. I did. I truly did. If there was one man who ever understood me, it was him. I swore that if he still lived when I ascended, I would come for him.

Yet not all men, to my bitter regret.

Men spoke of reason and order, of bloodlines and property, but in their hearts was only tyranny. The tyrant’s hand lay heavy even in the gentlest of fathers, even in the most polished of suitors.

I saw it and it sickened me.

And then came the Gift. The night Gregory, my sire, found me. The Kiss was agony and salvation in one breath, and the veil fell away. I saw the Mythic Age all around us, the true machinery of the world, and I laughed.

I was Kindred now, no longer Kine.

I would not be still. I would not be obedient. I would not be anyone’s ornament, anyone’s consolation prize. The moon sang louder until my blood answered it. Malkav’s song burned away the last threads of their cage.

There is a world to conquer, and I will not stop until it kneels. Not because I crave their approval. Because I crave the truth of what could be. Because all things, every dream and every freedom, must be taken by those who dare. And I dare.

And dare I did.

I fought. I scraped. I bled. I tore out throats in back alleys and dodged predators older and crueler than I. The streets of London were a gauntlet, and each night was another gamble that I might greet the dawn only as ash on the wind.

And still, there was always His shadow, the so-called Sun God who fancied himself Lord of the British Isles long before the first smith fashioned stirrups, back when much of this kingdom was still swamp and bracken.

His gaze was everywhere, his judgment heavy as lead.

But I endured. I learned. I honed fang and wit alike until the city became my hunting ground rather than my tomb.

It was then that I caught her eye. Anne. Sweet Anne. Anne Bowesley. The first soul in an age who truly saw me, who understood the fury and virility of the chained spirit beneath my undead flesh. Under her gaze I was not a monster or a madwoman but a weapon, and she taught me where to strike.

Under her guidance I carried fire into drawing rooms and parliaments, turned whispers into war cries. I led the suffrage movement to its inevitable conclusion, pried open the doors they swore would never yield, and wrenched the vote from their clutching fingers.

For my labors they named me Sheriff of North London.

Yet there was more glory to be achieved still.

Anne’s fortune and mine changed the night the skies of London burned. When Mithras vanished during the Blitz, the throne of absolute power stood empty for the first time in thousands of years. The very air seemed to hold its breath. The deep breathe before the cold plunge. All the beasts, demons, mortals, and fae that Mithras had held in check for thousands of years felt the leash snap and saw their chance to break free.

Chaos reigned. It was free for all. Winner takes all.

I swore fealty to Anne, and she ascended. She became Queen Anne, and with my fangs and the blades of her loyalists we crushed dissent in the undead parliament. The Camarilla was pleased. For the first time in an age, they had a ruler in Britain who reflected their ideology, who spoke of structure, unity, and permanence rather than Mithras’s vainglorious cult of personality.

Yet it was not to last. Without Mithras, the mortals became bold. They smelled weakness as keenly as any predator. They turned the chaos of the IRA insurgency into a weapon against us.

Woe to Anne and to us all, for we had grown fat and lazy in our hubris. Mortal intelligence agencies had driven their hooks deeper into our world than even Anne had feared. Their retaliation was swift and merciless, a blade hidden inside a national crisis.

They called it Operation Antigen.

Anne fell in that storm. Her court fell with her, and I was forced to flee Britain with the remainder of the Camarilla soldiers, our dynasty broken, our claim on the city reduced to ashes.

Yet I vowed to return one day.

Come no matter what, that Camarilla flag will over Britain again with me as its prince.

Camarilla Meeting

The city glowed beneath her feet, glass and concrete glittering under the moon. Juliet watched the limo glide to a stop below, its passengers greeted by a bowing servant.

Minutes later she stood at the head of the boardroom table. The others were already seated, silk ties and diamond pins glinting in the light.

She bowed, deeper than she had ever bowed before. “Elders. Thank you for your presence tonight.”

She gave a subtle pulse of will and the double doors opened.

The servants entered silently, each carrying a polished silver goblet. They placed them before the panel, then without hesitation drew knives across their wrists. Dark blood flowed in perfect arcs until each goblet was filled.

When the last drop was poured, the wounds sealed as though they had never been.

The servants bowed, collected the knives, and withdrew.

The woman straightened. “I shall begin, by your will.”

The man at the head of the table gave a single nod.

“Through both arcane and mundane means, we have scoured Britain from coast to coast. There are no havens, no sleepers, and no whispers in the blood or divination. By every conceivalbe metric -  It has a safe assumption that Mithras has met his final death,” Juliet said.

A ripple of murmurs passed through the room.

“Britain is leaderless,” she continued. “If we act now, we can claim an entire country in one stroke. The werewolves have been reduced to relics, the Inquisition has burned through its strength, and the mortal authorities are licking their wounds. The Isles lie open. This is our moment.”

“And are you honestly delusional enough to think you have what it takes to rule London, much less Britain, Juliet Parr?” one of the elders murmured. He shook goblet and smelt the blood within as if it was wine. A powerplay to make others wait in anticipation for his next words.

Truly a sommelier. Juliet imagined what his screams would sound like if she pulled his eys out with hot tongs.

“You speak of seizing Britain as if it were a bauble on a merchant’s stall. Have you forgotten the last time we held it? You and Anne – oh pardon me – Queen Anne” The other giggled at that before he continued. “Ruled London and lost it after the opportunity of a lifetime. Not to the Sabbat, not to the Anarchs, but to mortals….. And now you come here asking us to pour blood and treasure into the Isles again?”

Another elder tapped a long finger against her goblet. “Perhaps you are not the one to lead such an undertaking. Perhaps the Camarilla needs someone with a better record of keeping Praxis from collapsing.”

She turned to others. “If it is true that the sun god no longer brings about the sun – it should be a Ventrue not a moon child of Malkav that leads this operation. After all, it should not be forgotten it was Mithras himself was a childe of Ventrue blood. It takes a Ventrue to rule an environment as dynamic as Britain.”  

“And Mithras still lost, non?” Another spoke up. “If there is truly a throne to claim, perhaps it should be one who understands culture, who can charm the mortal elite back into compliance. London is not a fortress to be besieged. It is a stage, and a Toreador should direct the play.”

That was enough to draw a snort from the Brujah primogen. “Culture? You want to hold salons while the Sabbat dig trenches? What Britain needs is someone who can fight, someone who can smash skulls when the dogs of war come running. You will need warriors, not courtiers.”

The table erupted into argument. Voices rose, overlapping, the Brujah slamming a fist on the polished wood as the Toreador shot back with scathing remarks about brute force and wasted potential. For a moment the room threatened to dissolve into chaos, the elders snarling over who would crown their own candidate first.

Juliet let the cacophony build just long enough before she pressed the button on the remote.

The screen behind her flared to life.

“Enough,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise.

The images began to roll: Helena and her Setite acolytes whispering in shadowed corridors, smuggling arms through the docks, clasping hands with Sabbat emissaries.

“A Setite cult has already begun nesting in the Isles,” Juliet said evenly. “They are spreading their influence quickly and they have what we do not. First mover advantage.”

Juliet did not allow herself a smile, but inside she felt the satisfaction of the room snapping to attention.

“This is what waits for us if we waste time quarreling. The Followers of Set will root themselves so deeply that we will bleed ourselves dry to dislodge them later. That is of course if they don’t turn over their territory on a market rate to the Sabbat and the Anarchs just to keep us out. This is our opportunity to strike while the Isles are open. I am not asking for permission to play politics. I am asking for the means to reclaim a kingdom before it is lost for another thousand years under another Mithras who thinks himself above the rules.”

The elders’ expressions darkened. Mutters of “serpents” and “corruption” filled the room, and more than one goblet was gripped until the silver groaned. Juliet allowed herself the smallest flicker of satisfaction before continuing.

“This is not about my pride or Anne’s memory. This is about preventing Britain from falling to rivals who will undo everything the Camarilla stands for. I am asking you for the means to strike now, while the Isles are open and undefended. Give me your support, and I will deliver you a kingdom.”

She let the silence stretch once more, daring them to refuse her with the images of Setite heresy still glowing behind her.