HP: The Embers of Dark Magic

Harry's boots struck a quick rhythm on the stone steps.

As he rounded the corner past the drowsing Fat Lady's portrait and crossed the empty corridor, his scar began to throb again—not with searing pain, but more like someone gently prodding it with the tip of a quill, as if trying to remind him of something.

Pale blue smoke curled from the chimney of the gamekeeper's hut, carrying the scent of peat and scorched malt.

When Harry raised his hand to knock, the door creaked open on its own. Hagrid's hulking figure filled the doorway, the lantern's golden glow gleaming on the droplets clinging to his beard.

"Harry! 'Bout time yeh showed up," he said, bending down so that the buttons of his flannel shirt strained audibly. "Get in here, tea's already brewin'."

Inside the hut, the heat was stifling.

Harry had barely stepped in when his knee banged into a giant antique bone leaning by the door—some creature's leg bone, still crusted with dark brown scales.

Hagrid kicked it into a corner with his thick boots and reached up to grab three chipped mugs from the shelf.

"Was just feedin' the Thestrals their oats when Parvati came runnin' sayin' you lot were back." As he poured the tea—spilling quite a bit of it in the process—the dark liquid spread across the wooden table like a brown map. "You saw it, didn't you? That figure in black in the Forest?"

Harry's fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of his mug.

He could feel Hermione and Ron close behind him, Ron's elbow pressing into his back—clearly, they hadn't intended to stay in the common room.

"We saw the ritual," he said. "Hermione looked it up. It's called Vine Rot Rebirth. It uses unicorn horn powder and the blood of a living creature."

Hagrid's massive fist slammed down on the table with a thud, making the teacups jump.

"No wonder! I went to give the unicorns their salt licks last week. Usually, they come straight up to me, but that day, they were all hidden' in the northern hollow. One little mare had somethin' black and sticky on her hoof—looked like… like it'd been burned by dark magic."

He swallowed hard and poured himself another half-cup of tea.

"And the Thestrals, too. They're supposed to be feedin' near the marsh this time o' year, but lately they've all been flyin' near the Whomping Willow. Thestrals hate places where things are strugglin' to stay alive."

Hermione suddenly tugged Harry's sleeve.

Her fingertips were cold, but her eyes were unnaturally bright.

"Hagrid, have any rare magical creatures gone missing lately? Like Moongleam Beetles or Silvermanes?"

"Moongleam Beetles?" Hagrid scratched the back of his head. "Come to think of it, Professor Sprout did mention losin' half a crate of beetles when I brought her some Mandrakes. Said their shells, ground up, could boost Disillusionment Charms. Silvermanes…"

He trailed off, leaning forward slightly.

"Three days ago, I was down Knockturn Alley buyin' pumpkin seeds, and saw Dirk Creevey countin' gold behind a stall. There was a white somethin' movin' in the cage by his feet—he said it was a 'magical pet,' but the sound it made… it was like a foal, only shriller."

A chill prickled down Harry's neck.

Dirk Creevey was a well-known black market dealer in Knockturn Alley, specializing in banned potion ingredients.

He remembered the pool of dark red blood in the cave.

He remembered Hermione saying "the blood of the living."

His throat tightened.

"So they need these animals…"

"For sacrifices. Or components," Hermione finished in a whisper-soft voice.

Her fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the edge of the table—a habit she had when deep in thought.

"If Vine Rot Rebirth requires constant nourishment, they'll need to keep replenishing their blood supply. The purer the blood, the longer the spell's power can hold. Rare magical creatures have the purest essence."

Ron suddenly let out a loud sneeze.

"Sorry," he mumbled, fishing a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket. "This place reeks—what is that, Blast-Ended Skrewt shells?"

Hagrid chuckled, and the tension in the room eased a bit.

He bent down and dragged an iron chest out from under the bed, raising a cloud of dust as he opened it.

"Take these," he said, pulling out a pair of leather gloves with silver clasps. "Dragonhide. Got 'em when I helped the Ministry catch a Graphorn. Wear 'em in the Forest, just in case."

He tossed Hermione a small pouch of seeds.

"These are Foxwhistle Flower seeds. Scatter 'em on the ground to confuse tracking dogs—good for throwin' off anyone tailin' you."

By the time they left the hut, dusk had soaked the sky in ink.

Hermione clutched the gloves and seeds to her chest, gazing up at the darkening clouds.

"We need more leads. Exact times and places the animals went missing." She turned, the ends of her hair brushing Harry's shoulder. "Let's try the library. Marietta Edgecombe from Ravenclaw's been researching magical creature trafficking. She might know something."

The ceiling of the library was lit with enchanted lamps that sparkled like stars overhead.

As the trio passed two towering rows of bookshelves, Ron's robe caught the spine of A Comprehensive Guide to Medieval Magical Mishaps, sending Case Studies in Creature Conservation Law tumbling to the floor.

"Need a hand?"

The voice was light and sweet, drifting down from the upper shelves.

Marietta Edgecombe peered over the railing, her golden braid resting against her chest, three thick books tucked under one arm.

She hopped down the ladder, her heels clicking crisply on the floor.

"I'm guessing you're here about the disappearances?"

Without waiting for a reply, she opened the leather-bound notebook she carried.

"The Moongleam Beetles started going missing last Wednesday. Professor Sprout said the monitoring charm detected a shadow entering the greenhouse around midnight. As for the Silvermanes—it's been longer. The stablemaster in Hogsmeade said two foals vanished last month. They never stray more than half a mile from the pasture."

Her finger ran down the page, the tip stained with faint ink.

"The strangest case is the Flutterfang Moths." She lowered her voice.

"There used to be a colony nesting in the old mill at the edge of the Forest. But when I went to observe them two days ago—not a cocoon left. Flutterfangs don't migrate unless there's a predator nearby."

Hermione's eyes sparkled. "A predator?"

"Or something worse. Powerful Dark Magic," Marietta replied, shutting her notebook with white-knuckled fingers.

"My father works at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He said they've intercepted three smuggling shipments recently. All of them contained Flutterfang venom sacs—used to make high-potency hallucinogens."

She suddenly looked up, eyes lingering on Harry's scar.

"You're investigating the Forest, aren't you? If you need it, you can borrow my notes. Just… don't say it came from me."

As they left the library, Ron clutched the pile of notes in his arms, though his mouth was turned down.

"So now we know they're stealing creatures. But how do we find where they're being kept? We can't just wander around the Forest blind."

"Professor Sprout." Hermione stopped in her tracks.

"She's a Herbology expert—she might know of a plant that can track magical creatures. I heard her talking to Professor Flitwick last week about using Glimmermoss to mark animal tracks. It glows in the dark and can only be seen by someone who's cast a recognition charm."

The greenhouse smelled rich and damp, like freshly turned soil.

When they found her, Professor Sprout was crouched beside a tray of Mandrake seedlings, her gloved hands gently adjusting their leaves.

"Glimmermoss?" she repeated, straightening up and pushing her spectacles up her nose.

"Yes, blend the moss powder with nettle sap and apply it to your boots. It reacts to disturbed flora—if a creature brushes against the stems or leaves, it'll leave a trail."

She turned and pulled a clay jar from the shelf.

"This is Nifflergrass extract. Dab it on your wand tip—it draws in small magical creatures. They can't resist the scent."

Her fingers froze suddenly.

She peeled off her gloves, her knuckles stained dark from years of tending earth.

"Children," she said softly. "I know you want to help. But there's a stench in the deeper parts of the Forest now—fouler than any Basilisk I've ever known."

Her gaze lingered on Harry's scar, then shifted to the notebook clutched tightly in Hermione's hands.

"If you find yourselves in danger, use the Thorned Barrier I taught you. Promise me—safety first, truth second."

The Forbidden Forest at dusk felt steeped in ink.

The tip of Harry's wand glowed a faint blue-white, illuminating the dots of green on the ground—Hermione's boot prints, left behind by the moss mixture.

Ron walked in the middle, gripping his wand in dragonhide gloves so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Each time a twig snapped underfoot, he flinched.

"I'll bet five silver Sickles this forest's haunted tonight."

"Shut it," Hermione snapped, her voice half a pitch higher than usual. "Don't you smell that?"

Harry sniffed the air.

There was a cloying, rotting sweetness to it—like overripe pumpkin laced with rust.

His scar began to burn—not sharply, but with a heavy, suffocating heat, as if something were clawing behind his eyes.

"That way," he said, raising his hand. "I heard… whimpering."

All three slowed their steps.

As they slipped through a tangled patch of brambles, Ron hissed as his glove caught on a thorn.

The whimpering grew clearer—a muffled struggle, like a young creature trying not to cry, followed by the harsh clink of metal chains.

"It's just ahead," Hermione whispered, wandlight flickering.

She crouched down and touched the ground with her fingers.

The grass was flattened, the edge stained with dark brown liquid.

"Blood," she murmured, leaning in to smell. "Not unicorn. Thicker. Metallic… it could be a Silvermane foal."

Harry's heart hammered so hard it hurt.

He motioned for them to follow, creeping low around the final row of fir trees—then froze.

A cage made of heavy iron chains stood before them.

Inside, a bundle of grey-white fur trembled.

One of the foal's front hooves was trapped in a clamp, blood dripping steadily onto the rotting leaves below.

But what made Harry's spine go cold was the stump next to the cage—on it sat a bronze basin filled with half-coagulated black blood, surrounded by carved, twisted runes.

"Harry—" Ron's voice broke off.

A rustle came from the right.

Harry turned just in time to see two glints of green—compound eyes, not human.

A massive spider emerged from behind the trees.

Hermione gasped. It was the size of a calf, its legs slick with mucus, yellow blotches on its abdomen like splashes of congealed blood.

"Lumos Maxima!" Hermione cried.

Her wandlight flared, revealing a black rune scorched into the spider's armored belly—a twisted cross.

Ron's wand clattered to the ground.

"That's—Aragog's descendant? But they never attacked—"

The spider's mandibles screeched against each other.

Its compound eyes locked onto Ron. It lunged.

Harry was faster.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted.

A burst of blue light slammed into the spider, knocking it back.

But it only hissed louder, venom dripping from its fangs and sizzling into the ground.

"It's trained!" Hermione shouted. "The smugglers are using them to guard the cages!"

Ron finally snatched up his wand.

"Expe—no, Reducto!" His curse went wide, blowing apart a nearby branch.

The spider lunged again, nearly reaching Ron's boots—

"Protego Maxima!" Harry cast.

The creature slammed into the barrier with a dull thud.

The shield flickered, then cracked. One leg pierced through, venom splashing onto Hermione's robes, burning a black hole into the fabric.

"Run!" Hermione grabbed Ron's sleeve.

Harry staggered backward, casting spells while sweat ran down his neck.

The spider's stench was everywhere now—like the blood in the bronze basin, like the cave.

Then, from deep in the Forest, came a low whistle.

The spider froze. Its green eyes dimmed.

Then it turned and scuttled away, vanishing into the trees.

Harry bent over, gasping, his scar searing like fire.

He heard Hermione checking Ron's robes.

He heard his own thundering pulse.

Then—

Footsteps. Shouts.

"There's something over there! Move!"

White flashlight beams slashed through the dark, writhing like snakes.