The thorn in the house
The hallway Hermione and Draco were trapped in began to stretch. The lights flickered, and a deep groan echoed through the walls like the house itself was breathing.
“We’re not alone,” Hermione whispered, wand raised. Her breath was visible in the suddenly frigid air.
“No kidding,” Draco muttered, stepping cautiously around a blackened scorch mark on the wooden floor. “Do you always wander into cursed manors with such confidence, or is this just a Gryffindor thing?”
Hermione ignored him. She was focused on a mirror at the end of the hallway. It pulsed with a strange violet glow. As they approached, their reflections twisted—Hermione’s eyes turned black in the glass, and Draco’s face began to age rapidly. Both of them stepped back in alarm.
“It's a trap,” she said. “Some kind of cursed object. Alaric Thorn must’ve used this manor for magical experiments—twisting space, reality, maybe even souls.”
Draco glanced around, his bravado thinning. “Why do you know so much about him?”
“I read,” Hermione said simply. “Unlike some people.”
Back on the main floor, Harry found a door he hadn’t seen before—ornate, locked with iron bands and carved with a rose wrapped in thorns. As he approached, his scar gave a faint twinge—not pain, but recognition. He raised his wand.
“Alohomora.”
The door didn’t budge. Instead, a voice seeped from the wood, low and slick like oil:
“The heir enters. The blood awakens.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“You carry his legacy. Whether you like it or not.”
With a bang, the door swung open.
Inside was a circular chamber lined with stained glass, each panel depicting horrifying scenes—sacrifices, rituals, children vanishing into shadow. In the center stood a raised stone platform with a rune-covered book chained to it.
Harry stepped forward, heart pounding.
Meanwhile, deep in the manor, Hermione and Draco found a staircase descending into darkness. Faint cries echoed up from below.
Draco hesitated. “We don’t have to go down there.”
“We do,” Hermione said, already moving. “Harry might be trapped, or worse. And something down there is calling.”
As they descended, the house watched. Alaric Thorn’s spirit, bound to the walls and floorboards, stirred fully awake for the first time in decades.
And he was hungry.