Echos in the dust
The night was calm. A mist drifted over the ruins of Blackthorn Hollow, now nothing but scattered stone and charred wood, swallowed by moss and silence.
But magic has a way of lingering—especially dark magic.
A hooded figure stepped into the clearing, boots crunching over blackened rubble. They knelt beside the deepest part of the collapse and pulled out a silver vial, etched with the Thorn crest: a rose tangled in barbed wire.
With a whispered incantation, they opened it. The air shimmered.
Out poured a thin strand of something—not smoke, not mist… a whisper made solid. It swirled into the bottle like a living thing, screaming just beneath hearing.
The figure sealed the vial, held it up to the moonlight, and spoke, almost reverently:
“Phase one complete. The heir’s blood awakened the gate. We just need the rest of the key.”
They turned and disappeared into the woods, cloak trailing behind them like shadow.
Elsewhere, at the Ministry of Magic…
Hermione sat in her office late, reviewing files on ancient magical structures. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a photograph from the ruins of Blackthorn Hollow—one the Aurors had taken and dismissed.
But Hermione had noticed something no one else had.
In the background, among the rubble, just behind Harry… stood a mirror.
Unbroken.
And in it, not Harry's reflection—but Alaric’s. Smiling.
She stared at it, heart pounding.
He was still there.
Watching.
Waiting.