A Promise Given - Redux

A Promise Given

This is the last of the horror themed chapters you will likely be relieved to know.

……

Chapter Thirty-Four

T hey crested the final rise, boots crunching over frost-hardened earth, and the valley unfolded beneath them like a wound in the landscape.

The village lay cradled in its hollow—still, grey, lifeless. Stone cottages slouched under the weight of moss and time, their windows like watching eyes. The narrow lanes twisted through the mist in unnatural silence. Even the trees stood rigid and barren, not swaying but waiting.

It was a dead place. Not ruined by fire or war—those left traces of life once lived. This was different. This place had been emptied.

Remus exhaled slowly. “Albus this looks just as foreboding as the manor, was there no record of this in the ministry files? A family seemingly vanished along with a whole village?.”

“No, what concerns me is there was no village referenced in the files” he replied gravely. 

“They would only- If the ministry buried this Albus we cannot go down there alone” Remus said, coming to stand in front of the headmaster. “If this relic could save Harry’s life then we cannot be lost in the process of trying to retrieve it, and for the ministry to bury the existence of this place tells me more than I need to hear”

“I share your concern Remus but the only other Order member I could spare is Sirius, everyone else is on mission, and if something were to befall us, Harry can't risk losing both of you” Albus replied. 

Remus paused, understanding the logic, he wouldn’t deny that losing Sirius over himself would be a larger blow to the Order. He nodded, not liking the situation but he would walk through hell itself if it meant Harry might live.

For Dumbledore, if it weren’t for the relic they sought—if it weren’t for the faint hope it might save Harry—he would have turned back. He would have left this cursed valley to rot in its silence after weaving the strongest repealing charms he could. He had seen much in his years, faced dark magic both ancient and new... but this? This place reeked of something fouler than death. Something that still lingered.

And then he saw it.

Scrawled in dried black on the crumbling stones of a rotten signpost:

“I warned them, but they did not listen.”

“I still hear their screams from the valley. I warned them.”

“Merlin what have I done”

The script was uneven, frantic—etched with fingers or claws, not a wand. Dumbledore stared, a cold knot tightening in his chest.

The halls. Wentworth Manor.

Remus followed his gaze. “You think it’s... about that thing?”

“I think,” Dumbledore said slowly, “whatever that specter was, Marcus was the one to cause its summoning, though looking at this I am not sure it was his intention. The manor was its grave... but this valley may be the birthplace.”

A shiver passed through Remus that had nothing to do with the cold.

Dumbledore turned toward the village, jaw set. “Come. The church lies at its center.”

And with that, they descended into the forgotten valley. The path into the village narrowed to little more than a trail, hemmed in by low stone walls and the twisted remnants of dead hedgerows. With each step, the air grew colder—not the kind born of weather, but of memory, of something left behind and festering.

The first house slouched against its own weight, roof partially collapsed, as though it had been crushed by the sky itself. The door lay splintered on the ground, not aged or rotted but ripped —torn from its hinges by something impatient. Windows gaped, shattered and blackened, staring outward like blind eyes. Deep gouges scarred the stone beside the frame—marks not from time, but violence.

Remus murmured, brushing his fingers near one of the gouges. Dumbledore said nothing of them, they both had an idea of what made them. His eyes were on the path ahead.

The deeper they went, the stranger it became. Cottages sat at strange angles, warped by age and something more unnatural. Stone walls were scored and slashed as though claws had raked through them, most disturbingly was the smaller marks … made by human fingernails across the stonework, as though they had clung for life. Doors leaned open, the rooms beyond swallowed in darkness, almost beckoning them in. Hearths, long dead, held no ash. No utensils, no pottery, no books or parchments. No linens. No keepsakes. No tools.

Not even dust.

It was as if the village had never been lived in—but worn , somehow, by those who were never meant to be remembered. As though time itself had recoiled from the place.

And then, Dumbledore saw it.

Just beyond the angle of a broken gate, at the edge of his sight—something stood still in the street.

A figure. Tall. Slightly hunched.

Swathed in darkness that clung to it like wet fabric or smoke. Its limbs were too long—elbows and knees bending in ways that hinted at something not quite human. No face—just a suggestion of one, a shifting blur that seemed to flicker like candlelight, twitching.

It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. It only watched .

A pressure bloomed in Dumbledore’s chest, ancient and primal. He turned, slowly—very slowly—to face it.

Nothing.

The lane was empty.

But the sense of being seen did not leave him. He felt it still. Felt it retreat , not vanish. As though it had only stepped behind the veil of perception, waiting for a better moment to return.

He didn’t mention it to Remus. Not yet. A trick of the mind perhaps.

Instead, he walked forward, each footfall quieter than the last, his wand now drawn but held low. Around them, the village closed in—narrow alleys, overgrown yards, broken stone. A windless silence choked the space between homes.

A shutter creaked. A door slammed. No breeze. No visible force.

And still, no sign of bodies. No bones. No graves. Nothing human.

Only absence.

It was Remus who stopped first, near the end of a crooked lane where the cottages were fewer and farther between. The house before them was smaller than the others, its frame bowed under the weight of time, its thatched roof caved slightly inward. Ivy clawed its way across the stone, but above the lintel, almost hidden beneath growth, one word remained etched in weather-worn iron: Oakhurst .

“Oakhurst … That was Mary’s family name?.” Remus spoke.

“Indeed my friend, perhaps it would be worth exploring, anything she might have left to help me with this curse would be helpful”

Dumbledore approached the door, which hung at an odd angle, as though once ripped open and never quite set right. Inside, dust floated in thick beams of light, swirling like ash. Time had collapsed inward. Furniture rotted where it stood. A kettle lay shattered beside the hearth, and a single boot sat by the door, unlaced and abandoned.

Dumbledore moved slowly, reverent almost, as though the cottage might sigh and collapse at any moment. Remus remained near the doorway, eyes scanning the shadows that clung like cobwebs to the corners of the room.

The silence in here felt different—denser, like it had been cultivated.

Near the bed, where the mattress had long since rotted, a faint shimmer of magic sparked beneath the floorboards. Barely perceptible, old magic. Protective. Forgotten.

Dumbledore knelt, pressing his fingers to the warped wood. With a soft word and a careful flick of his wand, the board loosened and lifted. Beneath, wrapped in an oilskin and preserved by enchantment, lay a thin leather-bound book, stained with age but miraculously intact.

“A journal,” he murmured, turning its pages. 

April 6th, 1768

The air smells of peat and spring. Yorkshire remains unchanged, even if I no longer belong to it. Whitworth Manor stands just as I remember—quiet, stoic, a little softened by age. Marcus had laid lavender sachets beneath the linens; the blue room was as light-filled and lovely as ever.

And then there was him.

He met me at the gate with that boyish tilt of his head, the same as when we were children playing wolves and queens in the orchard. He’s taller now, of course. Broader. There’s something guarded in his smile, like a shutter drawn against too much sun. But when I laughed, truly laughed, he laughed too—and just for a moment, we were children again.

We walked the grounds until twilight. He showed me the trellises, the new bench near the sycamore—still our tree. I told him it felt like time had barely touched this place. He only looked at me, a softness in his eyes that made me ache, though I do not know why.

April 21st, 1768

I found myself by the river with Marcus today. The familiar landscape, the sound of the water, the smell of the earth—it brought back memories of when we were young, wild, and carefree. The conversation was easy, as it always is with him. We spoke of my time in London—so many things he has never seen. I could tell he was trying to be happy for me, to enjoy the things I told him, but I saw the flicker of something else in his eyes. Something that pulled tight at his smile.

And then, there was the moment. When his hand brushed mine. It was nothing, really. But the air seemed to thicken for a heartbeat. His hand didn’t move away, and neither did mine. I wondered if he felt it too, whatever it was. Or if it was just the weight of old friendship clinging between us.

We sat there as the sun set, and I realized I didn’t want to move either. Our friendship was my rock and I wasn’t ready for that silence to return.

May 10th, 1768

I caught him staring at me tonight, during supper. His eyes, fixed on mine across the table. I’ve seen that look before, when we were young. But this was different. There was a kind of hesitation in his gaze, like he wanted to say something—something I couldn’t quite understand. And yet, when our eyes met, I saw the old familiar warmth, too. The kind that made me feel safe when I was scared on the moors as a girl.

But there’s something more in the distance. It’s as if he’s holding himself back, as though he’s afraid of something, afraid of me. I don’t know why.

Later, I saw him walk the orchards alone. There was a sadness in the air, a quiet ache that I couldn’t place as my friend changed before me.

June 6th, 1768

Today, I spoke of Edward. I cannot help it—he fills my thoughts, my days. There is something in him that draws me, something I cannot name but feel so deeply. He speaks of the world with such passion, and his eyes—his eyes, they are always searching for more. More than what’s here, more than this quiet life I’ve known.

I told Marcus about him, and I saw the change in his face, though he tried to hide it. There was a tension in his smile, something strained in the way he listened. I could tell it hurt him, though he asked all the right questions. He always does that. He doesn’t need to say much—he says everything with that quiet, intense stare, as if his silence speaks louder than his words.

But it’s not enough. I see it now, how he’s pulled away, how his eyes linger less on me and more on the distance. I told him about Edward without thinking, and it was as though something in Marcus shifted. The light between us dimmed, like the last of the day’s sun slipping behind the hills. He looked at me, his gaze heavy, not with anger but something deeper, something I fear I can’t fix.

I cannot lie, there’s a part of me that feels guilty—guilty for what I feel for Edward, for the warmth he brings me in a way Marcus doesn’t not. Edward is different. He does not look at me with the expectation that I will remain what I once was, what he once wanted. With Edward, I feel seen for who I am now, for who I’m becoming.

But Marcus, I see the change in him. The way he holds himself back, as if every part of him is holding on to something that is no longer here. His smile is tight, his words too careful. 

And it is as if he knows the truth, the one I’ve been too afraid to admit: I am not the same. And neither is he.

July 1st, 1768

Edward has arrived, and it feels as though the world is suddenly brighter. His smile, his laughter, even the way he carries himself—it fills the air around us with something light, something joyful. There’s no doubt now; I am in love with him. Truly, deeply in love.

I feel almost giddy when he speaks to me, his words like music in my ears. And today, when he kissed my hand, it was as if all the pieces of my life fell into place. The years of waiting, of longing, all came rushing toward me, and in this moment, it felt like I had finally found what I had been searching for.

I was so eager for him to meet Marcus. I wanted them to know each other, wanted Edward to understand the depth of the friendship I shared with Marcus from childhood. But there’s a strange distance in Marcus now, something I can’t ignore. He watches, always watching, though he never speaks. It’s as though he’s just out of reach, lurking in the shadows whenever I’m near Edward. He’ll appear just long enough to look at us, at the touches we share, before he retreats again, as though he cannot bear to be part of it. It hurts me to see him like this, but I cannot change it. He will not open up to me, not anymore.

When I visit Marcus’s parents’ house, the air between us feels thick with unspoken words. His mother is so kind, so warm in welcoming Edward, and his father... well, his father is quiet but supportive. They both seem happy for me, as they should be, but I can’t help but feel that something is missing in Marcus. If only he could be happy for me too, instead of holding his grief in silence.

It’s as if he’s not truly here with us anymore. It’s as if he’s already left—left me behind, left this place behind—and I don’t know how to reach him.

August 18th, 1768

Marcus is pale, his face gaunt and his eyes have lost their warmth.

His parents spoke to me in the village square today. They tried to send him to Bath in Somerset, to get away from the cold dales for a while, yet he refused.

I don’t seek Marcus out anymore. I’ve stopped going to him, stopped waiting for him to pull me into the quiet space we once shared. He no longer meets my gaze. He no longer speaks to me the way he once did. Instead, he stays hidden in his study, or he lurks at the edges of rooms whenever I visit his family home, his presence like a shadow I can’t quite grasp.

And now, with Edward... I find myself at the cottage more often. I laugh with him. I speak with him in a way I haven’t spoken to anyone in years. There is a lightness to Edward that I didn’t realize I was missing—his company, his touch, his words. It feels right. I could spend my life with this man, my heart is his.

There was a time when I thought Marcus and I would grow old together—sitting in the same garden, watching the same sunsets, laughing at the same jokes as old friends should. I thought we had forever. But now, I feel as though he’s already gone, and I am left to wander the village, the dales and halls of a house that once held all my memories as we grew together.

October 3rd, 1768

Edward proposed to me today.

We walked through the orchard, beneath the very tree where Marcus and I had once played as children, and he asked me to be his. He kneeled before me, his eyes full of hope, his smile soft with affection. My heart swelled. I had always dreamed of this moment, but I never imagined how right it would feel with Edward. He’s everything I need.

I said yes.

I felt his joy as he stood, and for a moment, everything around us seemed to blur out of existence, just us beneath the tree, the world a bright and warm place. But later, as we stood together, with his arms around me, I felt a strange heaviness in my chest.

Marcus was watching. I could feel it. I knew he stood at the window, his eyes fixed on us. I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. And when I turned, I saw him. His face was pale, his smile tight, forced. He didn’t speak to us; he just watched, his gaze cold and distant. 

I wanted to feel joy, and yet there was something in the air today, something cold in the back of my throat, like a whisper I couldn’t quite hear. My old friend ruined that moment for me.

November 14th, 1768

I thought I was past the pain of it, but I wasn’t.

When Marcus came to my cottage today, it was as though time had folded back on itself, like all the years that had passed, all the months since he had stood beside me as a friend, evaporated in the span of an instant.

He knocked at the door, and I didn’t know what to expect. I had been preparing myself for it, but when I opened the door, I saw him standing there—just him, Marcus, looking so very different than before, a man wrapped in sorrow I could not touch.

I invited him in, of course. What else could I do? I had known him all my life. But today, today felt different. He was a shadow of the man I once knew.

He brought me flowers. Simple, beautiful flowers, hand-picked, and though I smiled and thanked him, it felt like I was a stranger receiving a gift from another time. It wasn’t the flowers, but the way his hands trembled slightly as he offered them to me, the way his gaze lingered a little too long as if he were trying to hold on to something that had already slipped through his fingers.

And then, he said it.

He said he loved me.

Not casually, not as if it were a passing sentiment. He poured his heart out to me in the way only Marcus could. He told me that he had always loved me. That no man could love me better, truer, more deeply. That he would give me the world, or burn it all down for me, if I asked. He begged me. I could see it in his eyes—his desperation, his need.

My heart twisted painfully. How could I explain? How could I tell him that I had loved him too but as a brother, as a friend, I could not give him what he wanted?

So I said no. Softly, gently, because I knew it would break him, but I had to say it. I had no choice. I couldn’t give him what he longed for, not when I had already given it to Edward.

He didn’t take my rejection well. I could see his agony, the hurt in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide behind that false smile.

I tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go of my hands. He held me, begging me to reconsider, to not marry Edward, to not leave him. I wanted to scream at him—I cannot be yours, Marcus! I cannot! But the words stuck in my throat.

When I pulled away again, he reached for me. His touch felt like fire against my skin, and I flinched before I could stop myself.

“Please,” he begged again, “Why? What did I do wrong?”

But the truth was, it wasn’t about what he had done wrong—it was about what I had done right. I had made my choice. I loved Edward, not Marcus.

In the end, I screamed at him to leave.

I had to. He scared me, he was no longer the boy I remembered.

I heard his footsteps fade away, his silhouette disappearing from the doorway. I shut the door behind him, and the sound of it closing echoed through the cottage like a final goodbye.

November 30th, 1768

I find myself forgetting. Forgetting what it was like before. Forgetting the weight of the past, the long silences that once filled the house. My thoughts are clearer now, less heavy. Edward has helped me find a part of myself I thought I had lost forever.

The evenings spent by the fire, his arm around me as we talk of everything and nothing, are my favorite moments. The way the flames dance in the hearth, casting a golden light across the room, makes everything feel safe, like nothing could ever go wrong. The nights we make love and joy in the warmth of our bed, I feel whole.

I’ve started to dream again—dreams of the future. Dreams of laughter, of little feet running through the halls of the cottage, of my heart full in a way it never was before. I cannot wait for the new year, for everything it promises. A new beginning. A life of warmth, and love, and joy.

For now, I will let myself rest in this peace. I will let myself be happy. Let myself enjoy these moments with Edward.

January 15th, 1769

I cannot seem to shake this gnawing feeling in my chest. It has been two weeks since Edward left for London, and each day that passes without a letter from him feels like a century.

I wrote to him the day after he departed, pouring all my thoughts into the letter, my longing for his return, my excitement for the wedding. But now, as the days slip by, I grow more and more uneasy. The owls I sent have not returned. Not a single one.

I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s nothing—perhaps he is simply caught up in his affairs, distracted by the business he must attend to. But that rationality does little to quell the tightness in my chest. I thought of Flooing to him, but my connection here is it oddly severed, and I dare not try anything more desperate.

I worry that something has gone wrong. Perhaps there was a delay, some unforeseen issue that has kept him from writing. Or worse—perhaps he has grown disinterested, as so many men do. I cannot bear the thought of him growing cold toward me, of him forgetting me.

I spent this afternoon in the garden, waiting for a sign, anything—a letter, an owl, a message carried by the wind. But none came. Only the rustling of the leaves, the occasional chirp of birds, and the echo of my own thoughts.

Dumbledore noticed some pages had been torn from the journal, the next entry many months later.

May 2nd, 1769

She’s here. My little girl, born too soon, but still with us. I can’t help but feel the tiniest flicker of hope when I look at her—this small, delicate being who fought so hard to live. Edward says she’s strong, and he’s right. She is. Her tiny fingers grasp my hand with more strength than I ever expected from someone so fragile.

I love her. I love her more than anything, more than I ever thought I could love anyone. The way she curls into my chest when I hold her, the soft breath she takes when she sleeps—it feels right. It feels pure.

But when Edward speaks, it feels wrong.

His voice, once a comfort, now strikes my ears like an annoying hum, like the buzz of a fly I can’t swat away. His touch, once warm and soothing, feels cold now, like something that belongs to a stranger. When he brushes his hand over my hair or presses his lips to my forehead, all I feel is a suffocating weight, like I can’t breathe, like I’m drowning.

I don’t understand it. I should want him near me. I should be leaning into him, sharing this moment of our daughter’s birth, the first steps of our new family. But instead, every time he comes close, it feels like something in me recoils, pulling back from him as if he’s made of something I can no longer bear.

How can I feel this way? How can I look at him, the man I loved, and feel nothing but emptiness? How can the touch of the man who promised me the world now feel like a burning brand against my skin?

I don’t know when it changed. I don’t know when my love for him turned so cold, but I can’t deny it anymore. It’s as if my heart simply stopped, frozen in place. When he talks about the future, about our life together with our daughter, I nod, but I don’t hear the words. I don’t hear us anymore.

And yet... when I look at her, I see everything I could ever want. I see the future I dreamed of, the life I hoped for, and it’s all wrapped up in her small, fragile form. She is mine. She is the only thing that feels real. And I will fight for her, with everything I have. But Edward... Edward has become nothing but a shadow in the corner of my mind.

May 4th, 1769

I sent him away.

Edward stood in front of me, eyes full of worry and pain, his hands trembling when he reached for mine. I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t bring myself to, not when I saw the pain in his eyes. But I didn’t hold him either.

I told him I needed space. That the weight of the world was too much for me, that I couldn’t bear it alone. He begged me to let him stay, to let him help, but his words were like nothing now. They meant nothing. His touch felt like fire, like it would burn through my skin and leave nothing but ash behind.

I don’t know when I stopped loving him. I don’t know when it turned. But I see it now, what he is. What I had been blind to for so long.

He’s a stranger. A shadow in the shape of a man. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me—it suffocates me. There is no warmth in him anymore, no comfort. He is like an echo of something I once cared about, but I cannot find it within myself to care for him now.

He left for the church. He says he plans to leave soon, but it doesn’t matter to me. He could stay, he could go—but I feel nothing. I have no anger for him. No sorrow. Just... nothing.

I should care. I should feel something. But I don’t.

I don’t know if it’s the magic that’s done this to me, or if it’s something deeper. I don’t know what is wrong with me.

But I have no regrets. I don’t miss him. I don’t long for him. And in that silence, where his presence once filled the room, I find peace. A peace that should frighten me, but doesn’t.

It is done.

And I will carry this silence with me, just as he will carry the broken remnants of the love we once had. His pain, his heartache—they are no longer mine to bear.

My daughter is all I need.

“These entries end in May 1769 as well,” Dumbledore muttered, the weight of the words lingering in the stale air around him. He could hear Remus moving about, the soft shuffle of his footsteps as he drifted towards the entryway of the cottage.

“So whatever happened here, it stands to reason that’s when it all began,” Remus replied, voice thoughtful.

Dumbledore nodded absently, but his mind remained on the tragic words he had just read. There was so much pain in them—so much loss. Mary’s life, so full of potential, had been twisted beyond recognition.

He closed the book with a soft thud, the faded leather creaking as it settled in his hands. With a deep sigh, he placed it on the rotten bedside table, its memories should never leave this place, his eyes lingering on the weathered wood. The silence in the cottage felt oppressive now, heavier than before. A sort of stillness had settled in, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

As he raised his gaze, a sudden chill skittered down his spine, and his heart stopped.

There, just behind Remus, standing motionless in the dim light, was a figure—a shape so wrong, so grotesque that it could scarcely be believed. The figure from the street earlier loomed

Its face—if you could call it that—was an impression, a shifting blur that seemed to be made of darkness and shifting firelight, constantly warping, flickering, as though it couldn’t decide what it was or what it wanted to be. It was barely human, if at all.

For a moment, Dumbledore’s mind refused to process the sight. He had just looked up—there had been nothing there. But now, it was as if the very air had warped, and the creature was standing right behind Remus, its presence sending a deep, primal shiver through him.

Remus, unaware, turned slightly, oblivious to the nightmare so close behind him.

Dumbledore’s body froze in terror, his breath caught in his chest. His eyes locked onto the creature, and he felt a surge of panic rising within him.

The thing's form flickered violently as though it were straining against its own existence. Its limbs twitched, too many of them, twisting and writhing like an insect caught in the wrong skin. Its mouth opened—a jagged maw stretching impossibly wide, revealing teeth that were not teeth, but sharp slivers of darkness.

Before he could even think, Dumbledore’s wand was in his hand, raised, and his voice cracked out, hoarse with urgency.

"Pernox!"

A flash of golden light surged from the tip of his wand, a wave of pure magical force that slammed into the creature. The shadow recoiled—jerked back violently as if hit by an unseen force. The air seemed to vibrate with a high-pitched hum, and the creature shrank, folding in on itself, disappearing into the corners of the room like it had never been there at all.

For a moment, everything was still.

Dumbledore’s heart hammered in his chest, his wand still raised, eyes scanning the empty room, watching the shadows flicker and bend with every shift of light. But nothing moved. Nothing was there. His grip on his wand tightened, knuckles whitening.

“Albus, we have lingered too long here,” Remus urged, his voice tense, his back turned toward the dark corner of the room where the shadow had vanished. “The church. We need to go now.”

Dumbledore nodded, his senses still reeling from the confrontation with whatever dark force had been lurking in that space. “Yes, Remus. You’re right. We must go.”

They made their way out of the cottage quickly, the door creaking loudly behind them. The silence of the night felt even heavier now. 

There was something very wrong with the village. Something that went beyond the decay, beyond the sense of abandonment. The air was thick with an unseen weight, a heavy, oppressive presence that lingered, creeping under Dumbledore’s skin. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw shadows linger, leering, approaching..

As they ran, Dumbledore glanced around, sensing the change, feeling the magic in the air stirring uneasily. The faint hum he had felt when he encountered the shadow seemed to ripple across the land, now dull but not gone. It thrummed beneath his feet, a warning he couldn’t ignore. There was more here than a haunting curse. Much more.

They reached the church, its silhouette barely visible under the pale moonlight. The stone structure loomed over them, casting long shadows across the path. The air grew colder, the wind picking up as though reacting to their presence. The graveyard surrounding it was eerily still—no rustling of leaves, no whisper of the night creatures. Just a deep, unnatural silence.

“I don’t like this,” Remus murmured, fear etched into his features. . 

Dumbledore didn’t respond immediately. He was too focused on the church, too aware of the darkness surrounding them, creeping on them. The building, though old and weathered, seemed to pulse with a strange energy, its foundation unsettling.

“The chamber,” Dumbledore said, his voice sharp. “Now Remus, lest the darkness take us.”

His words felt like a stone dropped in a pond—ripples of dread spread outward in his mind. They had known it, of course, that the church was central to everything, but standing here now, feeling the weight of the place in his bones, Dumbledore knew there was more than just a hidden room beneath the floorboards.

They crossed the threshold of the church, the heavy door creaking ominously behind them. Inside, the air was even colder, the darkness more suffocating. The once-beautiful stained-glass windows were cracked and broken, their shards scattered across the floor like the remnants of a forgotten world. The pews, covered in dust and mildew, creaked in protest as they stepped forward.

Dumbledore's eyes scanned the altar, and his mind flicked through the journals—Marcus’s writings about the relic, the curse, and the church. The space seemed normal at first glance, but Dumbledore knew that the church had been altered, its purpose corrupted, its foundation bearing the weight of something far darker than the faith it had once represented.

He walked toward the far wall, his fingers brushing the cold stone as he searched for the telltale markings. Something in his chest tightened, an instinct telling him that they were very close now.

“I can feel it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s here.”

Suddenly, a soft scraping sound echoed through the otherwise silent church. It was faint, but unmistakable. Remus froze, his eyes darting around the room as he reached for his wand.

“What was that?” he whispered urgently.

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed, and his senses flared to life. The sound had come from the walls outside, he could feel the shadows creeping in. Without another word, he knelt, his fingers tracing over the cold stone of the floor. There. A faint seam running through the stone, barely perceptible in the dim light.

“The chamber,” Dumbledore breathed. “It’s hidden beneath the altar. We need to open it.”

He stepped forward, his hand moving instinctively to the stone at the base of the altar. But as his fingers brushed the cold surface, the air seemed to shift.

Then, it came—soft at first, like the distant hum of a thousand voices, low and indistinct, merging with the wind outside. The whispers rose, melding with the church’s silence, so faint that Dumbledore wondered if it were his imagination. But as the seconds passed, the whispers grew clearer, closer. Faint, fragmented sentences in an incomprehensible language—until the syllables began to break through the air around them.

Remus stiffened beside him, his face drawn tight with unease. “Albus… do you hear that?”

Dumbledore closed his eyes, his fingers brushing the seam in the stone, the feel of it cold and smooth beneath his fingertips. It wasn’t just the faint whispers now—it was something more. Something older. A chorus of voices, stretching back through time, voices that didn’t belong to this place, bleeding through into their reality. The air shimmered with the remnants of those voices—half-formed memories from lives long past. This was no ordinary magic.

“Quiet now, Remus,” Dumbledore whispered, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “We need to focus.”

With a soft click, the stone floor beneath them shifted, revealing a stone plinth, aged and worn by centuries of neglect. The plinth sat beneath the altar, bathed in dim light. A faint shadow clung to its edges, though the room should have been empty. The whispers surged louder as if urging them forward.

There, at the base of the plinth, lay the relic.

It was a reliquary, finely wrought with silver and gold inlaid along the sides, its pyramid shape adorned with dark stains soaking into the once-pristine material. Dried blood clung to the obsidian like surface like a silent testament to the horrors that had unfolded here. It was exactly as Marcus had described—a tool for binding the curse..

But the presence of the relic felt wrong, an oppressive weight in the room. As if it had been waiting, even now, for them to disturb it.

Next to the plinth, something else lay forgotten. Another book. Dumbledore’s eyes flicked over to it immediately. The leather cover was worn, stained with age, but there, in gold letters on the spine— Marcus . His initials were unmistakable. Another journal.

Dumbledore’s thoughts raced, and with barely a glance at the relic, he turned to Remus, his voice urgent, low, and commanding. “Take the relic. Quickly, Remus. We don’t have time to waste. I will take the book.”

Remus nodded sharply, his eyes dark with the same fear that now stirred in Dumbledore’s chest. The whispers had become louder, more urgent, as if the walls themselves were shaking with the voices of the forgotten villagers, their memories bleeding into the present.

Dumbledore reached for the book, his hands trembling slightly as he touched the leather cover. The instant his fingers made contact, the voices grew louder—so loud now that they felt like they were inside his head.

“Leave us.”

“Return it. Return it now.”

“You have disturbed what should not be touched.”

“We come, we walk, we take”

The voices clawed at him, filling his mind with their frantic cries, their demands. His vision blurred for a moment, a surge of madness threatening to overtake him, as though the very essence of this place was twisting his thoughts. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, his mind felt fractured —the whispers a tangible weight pressing down on him, bending his thoughts.

He shoved the book into his robes with shaking hands, his mind fighting to focus. He heard the doors to the church above creak open.

“Remus!” Dumbledore’s voice broke through the chaos, but even as he called out, his thoughts felt scattered, fragmented. “Take the relic!”

Remus was already holding the reliquary, his fingers wrapped around it tightly, as though the weight of the voices threatened to pull him under as well. His face was pale, his eyes wide, as though he, too, felt the strange tug of this place, the tug of something dark and terrible.

“Stay with us … stay”

The moment their eyes met, Dumbledore saw the fear in Remus’s gaze. 

Dumbledore’s pulse quickened as he felt the madness edge closer, as if a wave of darkness were crashing down on them. His thoughts spun out of control, and he felt a strange, suffocating pressure on his chest. He had to get out. They had to leave. The church had become alive with a twisted energy, suffocating them.

"Fwakes" Dumbledore shouted, using all his strength to call for help, but his voice cracked with urgency.

A spark of light flared in the air, and in an instant, a familiar burst of golden fire appeared in front of them, its majestic wings spreading wide. Fawkes, his vibrant tail feathers streaming behind him, swooped toward them in a single, graceful motion.

Dumbledore felt his stomach flip as he reached for Remus, grabbing his arm with force. “Hold on, Remus. Hold on tight. We’re leaving.”

Fawkes let out a beautiful, almost sorrowful cry as Dumbledore whispered a command, and before the darkness could tighten its grip on them, before the whispers could overwhelm them completely, they were lifted into the air.

For a split second, Dumbledore felt his world twist—an unbearable pressure against his chest, the world shifting in unnatural ways—and then, as if the air itself had been torn open, they crashed into the Headmaster’s office.

A heartbeat of disorientation lingered, but soon the world began to settle. The oppressive weight, the whispers, the creeping shadows—they all faded, vanishing into nothingness as if they'd never been. The air felt clean again, almost ordinary.

The whispers, the shadows, the pressure—it was all gone.

……

For me I always find the Greengrass curse is just … meh. I wanted to portray the malice and also the unintended consequences of dabbling in such darkness. I wanted to avoid giving to much information about what the darkness was and what happened to everyone in the village. My own view is a metaphor for how someones spiralling into madness and obsession affects those around them. In Marcus’ case the village is that. 

The next few chapters will be ALOT lighter compared to the last few building up to the curse breaking. I am proud of the way ive set the curse up, its different, its dark, its malevolent. There is the additional journal to be read which is more about telling Dumbledore about how the curse could be broken. 

I hope you liked Mary’s journals and you spot how the curse actually works verse what Marcus intended.

I love hearing your thoughts as much as those who seem to like reading this, keep them coming.