The heart in the hallow
The staircase spiraled down farther than it should’ve. Hermione lit her wand, casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls. Behind her, Draco stayed close—too close for comfort.
“I swear,” he whispered, glancing behind them, “the steps we came down are gone.”
Hermione turned. He was right. Behind them, just more darkness. The house had sealed the path. No going back.
At the bottom, they emerged into what looked like a dungeon—but older. Older than Hogwarts, maybe older than magic itself. The walls pulsed with faint red light, like veins under skin. There were sigils etched into the stones, some still glowing, some cracked and bleeding black mist.
Draco stopped. “Hermione. That symbol—”
“I know.” Her voice was tense. “That’s necromantic. Deep necromancy.”
In the center of the chamber stood a massive obsidian mirror, cracked at the corners but very much alive. It didn’t reflect them. Instead, it showed a boy—young, scared, and very familiar.
“Harry?” Hermione whispered, stepping closer. But the boy in the mirror wasn’t Harry. Not exactly.
He turned, revealing eyes that glowed red for a second. Voldemort’s eyes.
“No,” Draco muttered. “That’s not Potter. That’s—him.”
Suddenly, the mirror flared. A tendril of shadow lashed out, wrapping around Hermione’s wrist and pulling her forward. Draco grabbed her just in time, yanking her back with a grunt. The mirror hissed in frustration, then… spoke.
“You should not be here.”
Back in the stained-glass chamber above, Harry was facing his own horror.
The book on the pedestal had opened. Against his will, he read:
“By blood undone, by shadow restored. The heir must choose—light or hollow.”
Visions hit him—Alaric Thorn summoning demons from beyond the veil, building the manor as a gateway, binding his soul to the stones. But the final image lingered: a baby left on a doorstep. Harry’s face.
He staggered back.
He wasn’t just a resident of Blackthorn Hollow. He was connected to it.
Descended from Thorn.
A scream echoed through the manor—Hermione’s. Harry bolted toward the sound, the manor shifting, fighting to keep him away.
Below, the obsidian mirror cracked fully, and a figure emerged—tall, robed in black, eyes sunken, mouth stitched shut with silver wire. Alaric Thorn.
He hovered inches from the floor, his presence warping the air.
“Leave,” he whispered, voice like tearing parchment. “Or be devoured.”
Hermione raised her wand. “Try me.”