Paleblood

I was bored, in a way I hadn't been in years. I don't know why but something felt amiss, like something more had been forbidden, deleted from reality itself.

I was bored and it annoyed me. Bored of being bored. I guess it was better though than life-sucking emptiness. It was as if something was gnawing from under my skin and nothing, nothing that I tried changed anything to this annoying fact.

My gaze fell on the empty classroom. Soon, students would be pouring through the door, unaware or maybe aware if their upperclassmen had told them what to expect of what would happen.

I had thought for a long time about what would be the lesson of today. I was still winging it. I really need to take my time to think about how I truly want to approach this teaching job.

Honestly, a part of me couldn't wait for my second class of the morning. Hogwarts was organized in a way that would allow students to have the possibility of learning four different subjects in a day.

Sure, there were free periods, periods that could be used in any way students saw fit even if they were in my opinion most likely Intended as self-study periods but it was the norm for students to have two classes before and after lunch.

It is Yesterday afternoon I have began teaching. I would most likely have to plan for four different classes today.

The first class I was supposed to teach this morning was the one composed of the third years of Gryffindor and Slytherin. The second class would be the one of Luna, one with the students of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff but at a higher grade.

Third years, third years, how could I traumatize teach them in a way that wouldn't be as harsh and terrifying as it had been with the seventh and fifth years students?

I wouldn't throw at them Mahoraga. It would be too overkill. Toji? Would be worse. I needed something, someone who would most likely be able to overpower them but against whom they could win if they fought with everything.

Defence against the dark arts? Dark Monsters and creatures, they counted right? More than that, most of them were British. Maybe I was truly evil I thought as I watched them enter my classroom. What was defence against the dark arts if not an introduction to the hunt of beasts? It was time to turn them into good hunters.

*scene*

Something was wrong, horribly wrong. How did Astoria Greengrass know this? Just looking at her sisters and their classmates was enough.

Usually, the fifth-year Slytherins looked dignified, as expected from noble scions of noble houses.

They usually looked like inspiring and magnificent people, the kind the charisma would want you to follow them in hell.

When Astoria Greengrass looked at them at the table this morning, she didn't see any charisma, she didn't see any nobleness. She didn't see any beauty not even from her sister she adored and respected.

No, Astoria Greengrass saw fear, raw and unhidden, the raw and ugly kind that couldn't be hidden, the one you would expect to see in a beaten dog, in someone who thought their torment had ended only for it to begin again.

It would have usually been taken as a form of weakness, one other Slytherins would have pounced on if it wasn't so uncharacteristic, shocking from them.

Draco Malfoy, the unofficial king of the Slytherins wasn't smiling like he usually did. He wasn't scheming, sending shots or denigrating Potter and the mudbloods of the other houses.

Pansy Parkinson and her circle were weirdly silent, seemingly more interested in their plates than the world around them. If things had been normal, they would have been picking on a younger Slytherin or a Slytherin with less soft power than her.

The worst was that It didn't stop at them! She could looking at the Gryffindor table see the same empty, the same broken gazes.

Something had happened, something wrong that Astoria Greengrass didn't know about, something that had turned the solar radiance of her older sister into the flickering flame of a candle.

Something was wrong and it was primordial that she discover what it was so that she could correct it.

She looked in the direction of her sister. She needed to ask Daphne without making it obvious.

Fortunately, like most scions of respectable noble families, she was taught the primordial magical skills known as occupancy and Legilimency.

She wasn't a prodigy or even good when it came to them, being barely deemed as passable by her father but passable was enough for her to send a mental attack she knew would be too weak to be consequential but good enough to be noticed by someone with mental shields like her sister.

As she sent the mental probe, she discarded her plate, beginning to stand up. Her sister tuned into her direction, her eyes asking a silent question Astoria was probably the only one to hear.

She left the great hall, stepping into a corridor she knew wasn't usually visited often by Hogwarts students.

She didn't have to wait long for her sister to arrive. "What's wrong and don't you dare to try to tell me that nothing is wrong?" she said not giving the time to Daphne to say anything else.

She tried to gaze into the eyes of her sister but the gaze of the older Greengrass was fleeing as if she didn't want Astoria to see something she had tried to hide.

This wasn't her sister. This wasn't the woman who had been more a mother than a sister to her.

This wasn't the girl who slept at her bedside because she wasn't feeling well due to the curse Astoria had inherited.

This wasn't the bastion of strength, of grace that Astoria Greengrass adored, respected and loved. This was but an empty shell, an insult to the Daphne Greengrass she knew.

"Yesterday," her older sister began slowly, almost carefully as if thinking carefully before saying every word, as if she was a distant relative preparing to tell children their parents had died "We had a class with the new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher and it was…more than expected."

The new D.A.D.A teacher was something of a mystery. After her introduction that day, Astoria had directly searched for possible information on the woman, the woman capable of using wandless magic, powerful wandless magic in a way that made it look as easy as to breathe.

Something like that, someone capable of doing things only heard in myths, in stories of god-like wizards like Merlin and Morgana couldn't be unknown, coming straight from the ether.

Powerful wizards either came from noble lineages or were so powerful that whether they wished for it or not, history, the world itself made them known by most if not all. Power was one of the few things that couldn't be eternally hidden.

Astoria had noticed how the new teacher hadn't mentioned a family name, something even mudbloods had which meant she was hiding something and by finding it, she would probably find the lineage or the source of the power of the teacher.

It didn't change the fact though that almost all the teachers she had In Hogwarts except her first-year D.A.D.A teacher had been inadequate, lacking in some ways.

Remus Lupin, her teacher in first year had been a bloody werewolf. In second year, madeye moody was revealed to not even be the real one but Crouch Junior, a death eater who had escaped from Azkaban!

She also knew from upperclassmen that D.A.D.A Teachers never lasted longer than one year and that for the past five years, the ones who had been chosen by Dumbledore had only been catastrophic.

There was supposedly a curse on the position itself but Astoria reckoned that it was probably false because Albus Dumbledore no matter all of his faults was the most powerful living Wizard, only equalled by the dark lord.

Curses were vicious terrible things of magic. Astoria knew this more than most so she would be truly surprised if there was a curse that hadn't been dispelled by the headmaster. It was probably that the old man was really bad at choosing defence against the dark arts teachers.

Astoria held softly a hand of her sister with one of her own "Daphne, you know you can tell me everything. Please, you've always been there for me. Let me do the same because this is not you, sister," the younger Greengrass spoke softly "Did she do something to you?

She could feel the hand holding her sister moving. Her eyes widened as she realized that it was because her sister was shaking. Daphne Greengrass was shaking and for the first time since her birth, Astoria Greengrass knew true hatred, a terrible and visceral one, the one that spoiled and rotted everything on its path.

"Silencio," she whispered after casting a notice me not charm around her sister and her. No one could see Daphne Greengrass like that.

The younger Greengrass looked at her sister. She was still avoiding her gaze but it didn't hide the silent tears flowing down her eyes.

Astoria thought of a younger blonde girl, One unable to move due to the pain she felt because of the curse she inherited, a little girl feeling angry at the world, feeling helpless, a little girl whose only comforts had been the warmth of her older sister.

Astoria Greengrass did the only she could do, the only thing she had known, gave the only comfort she had known, she hugged her sister.

She felt her sister reciprocate it, tighten it and let her do so. Astoria was a Greengrass, a scion from one of the most noble families in all of Britain. She was someone from whom certain behaviours were expected. Right now, her sister and she weren't acting In a befitting way for people in their family and she didn't care.

She could feel the tears of her sister dripping down her shoulders, the silent sobs of a mountain that should have never been brought low.

"The new defence against the dark arts teacher, she's so much more than whatever you think she is Tori," her sister whispered. There was respect In her tone but it could be something missed due to the fear overshadowing it. The only reason why she hadn't was because they knew each other.

"The only thing I want to do is flee, away from this castle, away from her and the terrible things she can do."

It was a daydream. It was something they both knew was impossible. It was something their father wouldn't allow. Daphne would be disavowed at best. At worst, well, the man knew the greatest weakness of his eldest child was her youngest sister and without the wealth, the personal library of the Greengrass family, Astoria would have already been dead.

"Is she like the dark lord?" Astoria asked her softly. She needed to understand if she wanted to make things right.

A dark chuckle escaped from the lips of her sister as if Astoria had told her a funny but macabre joke "The dark lord, the headmaster, comparing them to her is akin to comparing the sun and a candle. Just know sister that all this time, the wealth, the might, the status we had, that we thought was enough not only to shield us but also to be strong are nothing but illusions before her."

"I only wish one thing and it is stopping you from ever going to her class. I only wish you to leave this accursed school with you and Tracy. If only we didn't depend on our father. If only," the older Greengrass said.

She felt her sister move, slowly but gently pushing Astoria away. She was now looking into Astoria's eyes.

It was said to be careful of what one wished for because sometimes demise could be found in objects of desire. Astoria Greengrass looked into the eyes of her sister and only saw defeat.

"Astoria, I won't be able to help you, to save you. It would be pointless no matter how much I ache to do so. Just listen to what I'm going to tell you, when the time will come, when horrors will unfurl before your eyes, don't hesitate to strike, never turn your back, do you hear me? Don't turn your back."

*scene*

The third years had finally entered my class, each one going to sit at different tables. Looking at their number, not numbering over fifteen, I could clearly see how impactful has been the war against Voldemort and his death eaters.

If I closed my eyes and focused, I knew I would be feeling mages not numbering over two thousand in all the castle and this was I was sure with most of them being muggle-born.

Honestly, I believed that if Harry hadn't miraculously gotten rid of Riddle, wizarding Britain would be veering toward population collapse if not extinction.

The man would have gotten rid at best and oppressed at worst of most muggle-borns. His followers would have continued to breed amongst each other to a point I wasn't sure their magic would even be able to save them, searching for a purity that never was theirs until extinction.

"Welcome to your first class of defence against the dark arts," I told them, their attention focused directly after hearing me speak. Even without magic, I was still a creature of the abyss, my ancestors made to tempt and lead into the dark pits of hell human souls.

"You may call me Professor, Professor Rias or Rias if any of you want to as long as you aren't disrespectful. I know that most of what you had been taught left to be desired. Fortunately, you are not the fifth or the seventh year students so we have time to fill the gaps in your education. Any question?" I asked them.

My gaze travelled on their nervous forms, most of them intimidated, still remembering the little show of magic I had done the first day. One of them though wasn't nervous or felt like the others because one of them, a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, almost a younger copy of Daphne Greengrass looked as if she wanted to do nothing else than tear my beating heart out of my chest with her teeth. It was something surprising, interesting. I think I may have found my favourite student in the third-year students.

My gaze fell on the raised hand of a girl dressed in Gryffindor colours. Had I not been a devil, I would have missed how a vein protruded from her arm, how I could see it forcing herself to not shake.

"Yes, miss…?" I already knew the name of the girl. Just one look into her eyes was enough but well, no one needed to know that.

"My name is Romilda Vance Professor Rias," the young Gryffindor spoke "and I wanted to know if possible how the gaps in our knowledge of the defence against the dark arts would be filled. I had been told that this year, there were no books to buy so I hadn't been able to check before by myself."

"Thank you for your question. The lack of curriculum was done on purpose." It wasn't. I was straight-up lying. Dumbledore probably hadn't bothered and I had arrived too late In this world.

"Most of your past teachers if I'm not wrong focused on the theory for the worst and the best. I see things on a more practical side." I rose from my chair, moving toward the whiteboard I had chosen to install before the beginning of the class.

"I would advise you to take notes and don't hesitate to ask things if there is something you don't understand," not that it would be mattering in the next few minutes. I ignored the sound of the students behind me focusing on the board.

Images and sentences began to appear on it. The board was a simple applied concept. I created one before modifying it with my demonic energy so that each time, I would release my demonic energy in a certain way, what is written on it would change.

The dangers of the dark arts not only to its users but also on the people they are used. 

Sure, I could have found better but it was something that would do. I turned to look at my students who were looking In awe at the Whiteboard. It wasn't because what I had done couldn't easily be replicated but because I had done it wandlessly.

It was honestly getting old. They were treating it like something godlike. New plan, make sure that at the end of the year, each one of my students was capable of doing so.

There was a concept I had always hated in Harry Potter, not even only in Harry Potter but in all kinds of media. I hated when protagonists or even well-written antagonists depended on tools because tools could be taken, stolen, broken.

You broke the wand of Filius, a renowned duellist in the wizarding world and most muggles would be able to beat the fuck out of him in case of a fight.

Tools were tools. They could be used but they shouldn't become things you relied on. Doing so was only courting doom.

"Tell me, class, you are always told how dangerous, how evil dark magic is, how wrong it is to use it, how fair it is to criminalize and/or restrict its use."

I sat on the table "I want you to tell me why, why dark magic is seen as dangerous."

I watch some of them adopt thoughtful looks. Some of them seemed surprised, shocked by the question itself as if they couldn't believe what I had asked them. Most of those shocked looks came from Gryffindor students which I guess shouldn't be surprising at all.

"Because dark magic only hurt?" one of my students spoke uncertainty filling his voice. Why was he hesitating so much? It's not as if he was dealing with the devil. Correction, it's as if knew he was dealing with the devil.

"Four points to Gryffindor," his face lit up as if isd given him the moon. Seriously, just for a measly four points for a cup I still didn't understand the value but good for him I guess.

"Your answer is an interesting one. Sure, denying that most dark spells, most curses couldn't be categorized as spells with the target to hurt would be an error but isn't it true that dark spells can be painless? Would it be wrong to say following this definition that every spell is a dark one?"

I watched them think, reflect on my words, about possible double entendres they hadn't been able to catch or simply if I wasn't fucking with them which I kinda was doing but it wasn't a crime, it was just being a quintessential British teacher in a private British school.

I nodded in the direction of a Slytherin boy who had raised his hand. Light brown hair, dull blue eyes, a face you would probably forget immediately after, a perfect background character. He was a half-blood, an Ethan Harrison.

"Miss, I think it would be wrong to say that every spell capable of hurting others falls under the dark arts because seemingly harmless charms can do the same. Charms and transfiguration, not curses can turn substances inside the human body into others."

"6 points to Slytherins" The boy tried to keep an impenetrable mask but the mirth and joy dancing in his eyes were enough for me to know how happy he was feeling.

"What?" one of the Gryffindors gasped, probably a muggle-born. One of the slurs pureblood wizards liked to use was mudblood. At first, it seemed that it was only because they were insulting the origins of muggleborns, coming directly from mud in that sense but it unfortunately went deeper than that.

It couldn't be more simple. One of the punishments the followers of Grindelevald and later the death eaters of Voldemort had liked to give to those they saw as lesser was to literally transfigure the blood of a captured muggle-born or simply a muggle into mud.

This was a very nasty way to go, one I'm sure my ancestors would be impressed by. Believers like to blame the devil for their wrongdoings but most of the time, the devil just had to leave them alone and of course, apply a modified version of whatever monstrosity humans had cooked.

At least, this had been what Rias had been taught when studying the Daemon Stolas who had liked to copy the torture methods they had seen on Earth in the Underworld.

"Yes," The Slytherin boy continued. That spell is not considered dark and is pretty easy to find. One look into the head of the boy showed that his mother had made sure that he would perfect be perfectly aware of what Purebloods could do to him simply because of the circumstances of his birth, why he should be careful with who he associated.

"Where do you think Mudblood came from?" There was an edge in his voice, a hint of fear, a hint of hatred. The boy was scared, had chosen the literal den of snakes when he had been sorted simply because he wanted to raise, to be so powerful that his birth wouldn't matter even though he knew the odds would most likely be against him. He was ambitious and I respected it.

"Please, no slurs in my class," I didn't personally care but I still needed to play the role of the good professor.

I also found it silly. Maybe this was because I was a devil, higher on the totem pole as to speak but it was like watching a rat insult another one when in the end, both of them were literal vermins.

"Anyways, to make things simpler, what makes something dark isn't that it can hurt others or its user. No, what makes something fall in the category of the dark arts is that it is addictive."

The worst was that I wasn't even lying. I had looked into the heads of Albus and Severus. This reality made things more clear-cut. There existed a true distinction between light and dark. When Voldemort said that only power mattered, he had been wrong, at least partially.

Call it the decree of a higher being, the way the laws of this reality had been set but the simple act of killing itself changed the soul and using dark magic to do so only made things worse.

Killing someone was already a no-no but the soul could heal it from it to a point where it would seem nothing had happened. Killing someone using dark magic? That healing would be slower at best and a damaged soul was the last thing you wanted.

Using dark magic to hurt others was not only akin to putting straight cocaine into your veins…well, thinking about it more, yeah, comparing it to cocaine was perfect.

It made you addicted, only making you wish for more and more while destroying it, changing your soul, warping and killing who you were bit by bit until you were just a caricature of what you originally were.

If Voldemort had preferred the use of charms and transfiguration instead of dark magic, he wouldn't be as messed up as he is today. This was the irony. He wasn't evil because of what he did. He was because of the way he did it.

"The dark arts warp you at every level even when you think it is not the case. Things you once found abhorrent became little by little more easy to stomach, more easy to excuse. It is a slippery slope, a short path to power but like with most things, what is easily obtained always has untold consequences."

The classroom began to shift around me, unravelling, sucked into the abyss, as I released my demonic energy the only things left behind, my students and I.

I felt a grin split my face. How delicious you look the devil said looking at the children, how exhilarating it is to watch you fear.

I gave shape to the shapeless the void around moving more easily than clay under the unheard command of my mind.

"I had told you I was going to focus more on the practical side." A part of me delighted at the fear, at the shock etched on their faces. This part wondered how much more could their faces warp.

Blood rose from the ether, accompanied by gravel, broken bones, broken skulls, broken corpses and with an unsung melody.

A world continued to take shape around me, a world of beasts and monsters, a world of blood and hunt, a world of insight and Paleblood.

I rose, gravity bending to my will, letting me ignore its grasp. Finally, I did only what good hosts did "Welcome to Yharnam," I said to my terrified students under a bloody moon. "Welcome to the hunt."

*scene*

'She is so much more,' Astoria's sister had told her. She had believed her sister but she hadn't thought the difference, the grandeur of the professor would be such.

Of course, how could the headmaster and the dark lord be compared to the being above? How could they be compared to a god?

The moonlight fell on her hair like a halo making her seem even more otherworldy, giving her already perfect features something more.

Her eyes danced with delight and made it hard for Astoria to breathe, warmth pooling inside her and making it harder to think.

It was a scene of beauty she would never, could never forget. It was an imagery of freedom, of power and Astoria wished that it could be hers, prayed it could be hers so that maybe she would be able to dream about a life beyond thirty.

She could almost taste, blood with how thick, how overpowering the smell of it was. She could smell rot, visceras, the smell of unwashed bodies and it was sickening.

Around her, most of the other students puked, unable to support the carnage, the new reality they were facing. Had she been lesser, not of Greengrass blood, maybe she too would have done the same.

"I could be talking to any of you about how dangerous the dark arts are for hours but it would be useless." The voice of the professor was clear. It felt like the tenderness of a mother, like a siren luring you into the depths.

"No, knowing isn't enough. You need to understand. Time passes differently in this realm. This is your only task."

The woman smiled. It was a terrible one, full of love and cruelty, one that could only appear on the face of a being so alien to the human condition "Survive until dawn."

The form of the professor began to turn faint, almost as if she was blending with the world itself leaving only them behind, alone and afraid.

"She can't be serious right?" Romilda Vance said in disbelief. "She wouldn't leave us alone here, right? Also, what did she mean by survive?"

Astoria grabbed her wand. She remembered the words of her sister. Don't hesitate, don't hesitate.

She could almost hear a melody.

A̴̡̢̧̡̭̭̯̙͍͍̦͚̫͓͎̳͎͇̳̩̯̟̗̫̭͙͍̗̯͕̯̯̻̳̬̣͚͔͇̩̲̫̻̜̎̾̈́̋͗̅̆̑͑͘̚͘͠ ̸̢̛̠̠͖̱̣̖̯̼͇͈͎͓̪̫̖̈̏̄̈́̏̉̓͗̋̍͐̈́̀̄͑̀̏̽̒͐͛́̊̓̓̿̽̎̐́͂̾͐͜͜͝͝͝͝f̷̜̗̝̜͖̯̻̥̔̑͌͗̍͒̅̂́̈́̂̇͑͆͋̑̿̈́͆̈̃͗̉̃̓̒͒̀̚͘͝͝͠͠͝ą̸̡̛͍̥͓̙̗̤̺̙̺̹̒͂̑̌̀̊̒̒̓͊͊͌̎̽̀̍̄̀̃̿̊̋̾͒̏̈́̕͜͜͝͠l̵̨̧̡̧̨̛̛̤̩̯̣͓̮̠͓̭̯̣̩̥̳̪̺͚̫̺̗̤̪͉̯̟̩̲͉͈͓̝̞̣̻͎̖͕̫̒͑͑̆̽̀̄̋̓̀̂̈́̈̒̆͛̿̊́̃͗͌̄̆̑͌ş̶̨̡̢̡̛̛̛̛̭͖̥͙͕̦̫͍͓̪̹̞̖̲̞͇̠͎͍͚̺̯͚͕̰̺̙̲̪̝̓͗͒̂͆̎͛̉͑̒̔̈́͋́̆́̈́̔̑͐̎́̄̊́̅̿̋͐̕̕͝͝e̶̡̡̢̧̛̠̬̹͓̩͕̰͔̦̹̮̦̻̼̺̭̪͕͕͎̘̪͓̩̽̑̓̄̌̓̿̇̇́̊̑̄̎̍͆̀̓̄͂̆̄̇̃̇̔͑͐͗̈̽̇̏̓͘͘̕͜ ̶̡̧̢̡̧̢̨̛̩͖̘͉̯̱̠̻͔͍̣̭̼̪̜̮̮͉̼̝̝̜̻̹̠̿͒̄̓͂͋́̋̀̈̊̈́̽̉̈́̀̓́̋̕̕̚͜ň̶̨̨̡̢̧̧̧̡̤̜̺̱̳̥͉̝̞̖̰̼̭̻̺͉̞͖̠͖̗̤̩̗͍̺̺̾̈̐̀̔͑̅̅̑̆̅͛̍͗̒̅͛̀͋̌̒̽̾͐̾͊̌̿̂̃͌̈͝į̷̡̱̥̐̽̒͌͂̓̕͠g̶̡̧͕̝͔̲̭͓̱̬̞̙̮̭̼̿̈̅̀̉͑̈́̽̓̑̐̽̐̃̃̏̏͌͒̃͠ḩ̶̡̨̡̛̣͕͓͉͕̪̮̮̫̗͓̞͖̂͊̿̀̐͐̈́̈́̀͒̐̀̐͆͆͐̑̒͒̊̇̾̾̈́̀̐͐̉̄̽̀͋͘̕̚̚͝ͅt̸̢̧̡̡̨̨̮̤̜̫̠͓̗͙̝͓̙̰̠̤͎̜̙̯̠̫̝̗̳̖̼̰̬̼̞̰̼͔̥͙͌́̒͊̈̉̕ͅḿ̴̧̡̡̛̤̲̹̘̻̬̠̫̗͎͖̲̺͈̤̞̣͈̜̝̜̼͓̱̃͛́͛̈́͂̏̍̔̾̐̏́̐̐́͘͜͠a̸̢̖̭͚̖͓͚̠̝̼̱͕̦̤̦͍͇̬̎̓̊͒̾͛̅̆̽̀̈́̍̽̍͑͂̑̓͆̀̈̍̊͆̄̓̆̇͗̽̅̓͂̈́̈́̃́̏͛̾͘̕̚̚̕͜͠͝͝ͅͅr̷̢̦̭̪̪̖̥̘͎͙̲͍̟̲̆̅͛̑̉̒͂̌̀͂̒̔̍̿͗͊̈͊͛͂̏̈͑̎́͌͋̊̈̏̕͘͜͝͝͝͝͝ę̸̧̨̡̧̢̛̣̗͉̪̪̼͙͓̱̣̩͚̱̲̦̤̣͍͈͔̭̫̰͎̬̗̰̭̤͔̞̤̺̜͈̮̺̖͙̭̤͒̃́͋̊̽̄͜ͅͅ ̸̧̧̨͉̜̦͙̠͕̯̱̣̩̮̲̟͙͙͇̘̣͈͕̻̫̙̩̮͚̻̻̝̤͍̱͓̹̮̠̘̇͊͌͜ḯ̴͈͕̲̝̫̥̔̈́̉̐̾̓̀̌̅̓̉̈͐͗͛̎́͊͝s̶̨̨̮̙̥̥͔̹͉͕͚̝͖̠͉͉̞̪͕̲̜̦̺̠͍̤̩͎̝̠̭͎̳̗̟̪̟̣̹͇̫̱̳͔̾̓́̀̑͆̈̍̉͆̚͠͝ ̵̧̮͔̼͉̻͈̘̥̠̗̯͔̳̺̠̭̝͓̼̾́͛̎̄̿̒̏̉̐̄̋͒̀̅͆̈́̾͛̎́̐́͐̈́͆͂̅̌̈́͊̑͒̎͋̌̍̉͘̕̕͘͝͝s̷̢̛̲̞̜͎̭̮̹̙̱͚͖̰̙͚̰̖̹̥͙͎̓̽͗̓́̄̐͛̎́̄́̽̾̄͑̊̎̆͋͊͛́͒̏̅̒́̏̾̾͌̄͂̈́̊̚̕͜͜͝͠ṱ̸̡̢̛̞̥̭̲̞̯̠͉̼̺͈̮̪̖͇͍̹̻̣̰̹͉̗̗̙͎͇͔̦̲͛̎̽̓̽̉̽͗́̅̃̾̎̋̓̈́͂́͆̓̉͆̇̀͒̈́͐͌̎͛̉̍̌̉̌͐͋̄̊̆̆̌̚͝͝ͅi̶̡̛͇̅͌̈̂͐͛̍́̌̈́̍̍̈́̿͐͒͛̀̏̔͛̽̃̋̂͒͋̅̄̚̕͝͝͠l̸̢̡͈̣̯̱͔̰͇̗̪̟̖̬̯͔͇̤̱̯̭̟̪̪̜̘̠̥̟̮̤͉̫̘̖̙͎̟̙͇̼̾́̽̉̐̆̓͑̈͛̊́͐̀̍̈́̓́̚͜͝l̵̢̢̨̛̬̹͈̤̯̗͙͕͓̬̠͔͇̠̠̠̜̜͍̮͖̖̲̼̤̯̼̺̟͇̫͎̫̼̥͈̖̹͐̽̍͊̾́̐͆̎̏͑̏̎̾́͊̀́͘͘͝ͅ ̴̛̻̩̰͈̳̉̽́̅͋̑̔͂̉̍͆̎̚̚̕͝a̶̯͙̯̬̗͚̖̤͛̑̏̉͛̑͑̀̀̾̿̄̎͆͘͜ ̷̡̡̧̣̘̣̲̗̙̤̪̯̯̤̖̣̖͎̭̥̥̙̘̏̎͊̈́͒͒̈́͆̉̅̔̇̈̾̎̇̐̏̓̾̄̊͐͋̌̾̃͌̋̆̚͘͘̚͜͝ͅn̵̡̨̢̧͚͖̜͖̪̥̟̼̝̪̘̹̰̦̭̱̤̫͓̠̖̰̮͎̹͖͙͇̖̉̂̀̉͐̉͂́̏͌̑̾͘̕͜͝ͅi̶̡̨̢̯͓̤̺͓͙͙̼̱͍̲̹͓̞̣̮͖̼̩͕̝̥͎̙̭͔͔͙͚̜͈͙̬̲̮͐̾͌̓̾͂͐̾̇̔̽̽̓͒̍̓͐̉̍̽͂̒͐̾̓̉̀͑̂̈̋̓̕̕̕͘͠͝͝g̴̢̡̢̡̢̭̺̺̱͇̱̣̱̱͓̮̹̦͚͈̗͇̹̮͍̟͙̮̬̣͉͎̲̙̹̥͕͖̞̘̤̯͉͉͛͌̂͗̽͛̊͘͠h̵̨̢͖̪̤̥̪̝͉͇̯̜̗̝͈͍̼̺̩̭̗͓͒̿͗̉͛̈́̌̄̽̈́̋̚͠ͅt̴̮͓̠̎̊̊̿̈́͂̂̀̈́̇͌̊̀̄͊̐̋̎͂͘̚̚͝͝͝ͅm̴̧̢̛̻̺̖͚͖̮̼̮̜̱̻̪͈͈͔̘̬̝̬̾̓̅̏̏̈̍̈́͊̽̊̒͂̅͗̒͗̇̐̒̐̔͗͂̀͗͑̔̈́͛͗̽͗͊̇͘̚̚͘͜͝͝͝ͅä̸̪̞̬̬̥́͛̓́͌̏͑͒̏͌̾͗̊̀̍̈́̔͌̾̔̍̚͘͝r̵̛̛̤̻̗̄̇̔͊͗̐̿̓̃̎͊͌̀̽̒͌̍͗̀̀̄̀̍̾̀̓̓͗̉͗̉̈́͋̔̕̚͝͝ė̴̦̼͕̻͈̬͔̰̱̖̭͙̞̲̈̾̐́̓̾̌̇͠ͅ.̷̢̨̢̙̖̪̥̦͎͇̼̰̹̜̲͇̭̾͗͂̀̀̂̃͂̄̈́͛͂͒̀́͊̒͋̊̚͜͝

It was an incomplete one, full of teeth and sorrows. She could have sworn that around them were, eyes, shadows.

"I see someone coming!" one of the Gryffindors yelled. "I'm going to talk to him. I'm sure he would allow us to understand the prank the professor is playing on us, where we are!."

'Were all Gryffindors braindead?' she wondered. It would explain a lot. Something was clearly wrong.

Ģ̴̡̢̢̨̭̯͕͇̟̹͇̺̻͈͈̩̱͍̠̝̟̺͍̦̓̈̂̅͗̓̈̋̉̚͝ͅr̷̨̡̛̛̠̱͇̹̳̹̫͈̞̗͎̲̙̘̰̩͎̜̳̖̥̜͚̦͓̫̳͔̜̝͕̀̒̋́̈̃̽̈̈́̅̒́̄̋̅̌͒̄͂̊͒̆̌́̅͑̅̂̓̎̈́̇̈́̾̈͘̕̕͜͝͝͝ã̴̤̭̗̼̹̤̻̹̻̭̙̼̳̫̳̦̗͔̼̣̰͕͓̝̟̙̻̞̱̻̙̺͇̝̻̠̦̪̟̲̰̘͕͚̰̹̳̙̂̓̄̔̈́̍́̿͛̂̓̂͐͐̇̚ͅͅṋ̴̨̯̼͍̭̮̳̘̭͖̗͓̹̗̈̽̔͌̀̔̎̉͂̋̿̍̂́̀̅̄͒̃͛͌̓̽́̒͒͐͒̾̍̅̒͛̕͘͝͝ͅͅt̴̛̠̲̣̀̌͗͑̊͛̆̐͋̒̔̌̃̔̑͂͗̃̄͐̎̈́̓̉̽̂̈́̚͝ ̵̡̜̥̫̮͚͈̹̫̠̱͉̻̯̜̹̱̦̟͔̺̦͔̖̌̐̅͒͗̋̎̔̓͗͆̑̒͜͜u̶̧̢͚͕̻̪̮̳̻̝̥̰̩͙̜̟̼̱̥̙͍̜̫̘͚͓̞̻̳̖̗̞̪̻͉̫̩̘̗̯̻̼̒̒́̔̐̏̋͛̅̽̾̄̅̾̓͋̑̽̿́̃̈́͒͐̈͐̀͜ͅș̶̨̧̡̛̩̪̲̟̪̭͈̖̺̺̹̬̯̤̦̳͎̘͉̹̠͒͑̍̍̈̌͂̈̑̂̑͐͂́̉͑̓͒̔̌̏̉̄̈́́͋̉̃̿̂̔̕͘͘͝͝͝͠ ̷̢̦͍̤̟̥͔͓̹̜̠̻̱̰͕̭͋̌̓͜ͅe̸̢̥̟̰̤̠̪͖̤̞̗͕͕̝͔̥͐͊̿͛͐͗̈́̇̅̃̈͐̑̋̿͆͋̓͗̑̊͌̕̚̕͜y̷̧̢̧̧̛̰̰̬͍̩̹̯͇̫͕͎̩̜͓̞̞̲̻̖̪͕͕̍̿̒̈́̏̅̅͌̂̍̽͗̈͌́̽̿̑̒̚̕͘͝͝͝ê̸̡̧̛̪̣̝̲̤̦̪̺̳̥̮̼͉̜̻̳̪̤̗͕͙̬̣̘̱̙͓̩̪̣̬̗͚͓͈̥̖̫̒̏̾͛̍̅͋̀̐̽̋̕͘͘̚͜ͅs̸̢̢̡̧̡̪̱̞͕̳̗͔͖̟̬͉͇̙͕̩̲͙͖̥̪̖̟̟̟͎̖̠͔̤̥͍̠̺̰̟̊̈̍̾̏̓̄̽̀̄̅̀͐̂̐͐̿̂̈́̕̚͜͠ͅͅ

She watched it from afar. This wasn't a prank, a trick and even if it was one, it would be one beyond them.

Survive until dawn the professor had told them. Don't hesitate her sister had told her. Her grasp on her wand tightened.

"Sir, could you help us please, we don-"

A wet squelch sound stopped the boy from talking. Astoria's eyes widened in horror at the pitchfork lodged in the throat of the Gryffindor boy.

Under the moonlight, Astoria could see everything perfectly and she knew she would never be able to forget Yharnam.

Limbs that were too long, that looked wrong, skin that seemed to be necrosing, blackened and missing teeth and the eyes, maddened eyes, eyes that couldn't be the ones of a human even a muggle, eyes that were clearly the ones of a monster.

They may have been frozen but the man, no the monster wasn't. He brutally yanked out the pitchfork from the throat of the Gryffindor boy leaving behind a gaping and bloody hole.

The Gryffindor boy instinctively put his hands on his neck trying to stop himself from bleeding to death but it was clear to everyone watching, to every one of the other students that they could do nothing. None of them, none of them knew spells capable of healing.

Why would they need to had they thought when there was Miss Pomfrey there? What would the point of learning had they thought and now because of this, one of them was dead, bleeding helplessly before their eyes like a pig.

As if to purposefully add salt to the injury, the monster in human shape didn't stop. He threw a bottle of something at the dying boy, a bottle that broke and made the boy begin to burn.

It was probably a mercy depending on who you ask that the wind piped of the boy had been pierced or they probably would have all heard him scream. The smell was horrendous. What made it worse for her was that it reminded her of a swine being slowly cooked.

The man advanced, beginning to move toward them, unintelligible words under his breath. Don't hesitate, don't hesitate.

Everyone else was frozen seemingly too shocked to move, to do anything. Astoria wouldn't die here. She wouldn't die now. She directed her wand at the monster "Incendio," she said releasing a bolt of fire that went and set ablaze the man.

At that moment, she felt it, like a flood, a will, one so much different from hers, one full of memories, of hatred, of anger, of madness. It hit like a lightning bolt giving her eyes before retreating at the back of her mind, its mark already done, sanity already frayed.

B̸̡̨̢̭̼͎̗̺̪͇̞̯̭̰̦̝͈͎͖͚̤̣̯̩̣̝̰͈̯̰͋͆́̓́̂̀̿̀̎̽͑́̈́͂̄͛͋̆̎̎͑̈̂̊̈̾̃͐̐̒̈̋̄̐̈́́̈́͘̚͜͜͝͝͠͝ͅl̵̡̡̛̙̥̙̥̼̞̙̯̗̠̭̰̘̥̯̤̺͈̖̯̺̖̹̦̤̪̙͔͈͖̝̺̼̯̻̔̎̈̎͛̀̐̒̽̔́̎̋̈́̅̿̓̓̔̑̈́̈́̎̊́͗̽͌̆̃̽͐̈́̂̃̈́́́͘͘̚̚̚͠͝ǫ̴̨̧̨̛̯̳̼̙̥̥͚͔̗̩̩̬͎͉̪͍̯̱̰̝̉̽̔̀͋̿̌́̈́̓͐̇͊̓͐͒͆̓̀̔͌̈̃̄̈̂͑̿͛̓̍̎̓͝͠͝͝ͅͅò̷̡̢̢̧̮̲̣͇̘̗̩̯̩͕͚͚̖͕͎͓̗͉̮͎͓͔͕̥̦̥̹̞̰̥̻̜͎̣̱̦̙̦͚͙͓̌̏͋̂͊͋̾͂̒͛̓̋͆͋̉͐͑̒́͗́̎͋̑̃̀̎͑̔̏̈͆̉̕̚͜͜͝͝͝͝d̵̡̢͚͉̯̙̮̋̋̀̊͛̂̉̾͌́̑̕̕͘,̶̧̡̢̢̧̡̧̡̨̢̢̡̛̻͕͕̰̪͙̼͎͙̙̱̟̥̳͉̙̙̺̼̳̜̝͚̻̠̰͖̱͉͎̘̲̘̄͋͋̋́̊̍̄̀̽̌͆̃̽̆̈̎́̓͆͌͆͐́̋̐̐͌͐̇̐̊̄̆̓̔́̕̚ͅ ̵̧̧̛̬͎̣̤͕͍̝̙͔̥͍̖̎̊̂͂͋̈́̃͑̿̉͗̒͋͂̐̉̓̄̈͆̒͜͠m̴̧̛̭̝͖̪͓̣̼͑̆̄̋̾̓̾̽̈́̿̈̀̓́̍́̇̑̿̈́̅̓̿͂̓̽͗̇́̍͒͆̌͆͛̄̄̂̅̚̚̚̚͠͝͝͠o̴̧̧̳̝̝͎̙̫̟̺̲̤̬̥̼͙̭̰̿͂̾͗̿̽̑̍̅̀͌́͌͂̅̈̑̐̆̾̈́̐̓̈̂͆̌̀̊́̽̈́̿͘̚̕̕̕͝͝͝͠͠ͅŗ̸̢̛̼͖̰̪͖̹̘̯̺̈́̀̐̃̐͐̓͐̀̆̑̓̀̓̈̑̏̾̉̏̒̂́͌͛̏̿̂͛̀̇̇̂͑̽̍̈́̓̚̚̚̕͜͜͠͝e̴̡̛̤̭̲̖̖̺̹͉̋̂̀͊͑̾̋͊͛͛̃́̽̒̕̕͜ ̵̢̨͕̙̲̰̟̬̮͔̩͖͙̗̮̤͉̤̬̭͍̜̱̯̃̑͋̄̀̃̏̍͌̈̀̄̅͋̓̋̂̓̓͆̓́̓̚͝͠͝͝b̷̢̧̻̦̝̤̫̘̥͖̗̗̳̲̯̳͖̣̤̞͎͕͕̗͇͉̮̫̯̹͔̝̩̤̹͎̪͓̗͔̪͎̏̽̆̿̈́̎́́̈́̉̀̓̀̔́̍̓͌̊̐̅̏͆̃̿̐̐̋̋͊̓͆̈̌̄̕͘͘̕͜͝͝͝ļ̷̧̢̛̜̳͚͖̙̺̖̟̹͈̘͇̣͉̪̯̗̠̠͇̱̤͇͍̳̱̅̃̿̈͆̓̈́͐̽͗͋̊͋̈́͒͑̆̚͘͠ͅͅõ̸̠̙͇̟̠͔̒̋͗̑̿̌̅̃͆͝ȏ̶̢̢̢̦̩͉͖̺͎̙̹̻̫̣̥̥̪͖̼͕̯̲̫̥̝͈̣̝̘̙̻̟͈̘͕̥̲̖͈̹̼̱̬̼̘͙̈́́̍͛̈́͊͆̆̂̌́̑̉͛̈́̎͐̇͝͝ͅd̸̢̧̛̬̳͖̹͇̥͔̤͈̣͕̻̟̞͖̳͉͌̅̅͗͒̐͒́̐̈́͜͝͝ͅ!̷̧̨̡̢̢̛̼̝̠̹̹̖̺̩͔̟̭̮̘̝̗̘̲̲̻̖̫̩̅̄͋̾̒̌͋̅̈͋̆̍̄̄̋̈́̾̊̓̎̐͗͑̇̈́̿̈́̃̎̾̎̇̋̐͛̇̔̅̆͆̇̕͜͝͝͝͝͠͝.̸̡̡̧̢̡̧͖̣͕͇̞̹͍̪̗̬̣̗̗̱̮̹̪̰́̆̉̇̽̋̑̿̓͆́̑̀̋̋̒̑̓̿͗͛̃̈́̿̀̆͂̋̋͛̍̀͒̉̂̈̔̑͘̕͘͝͝

It felt like a nightmare, one she knew she couldn't escape and she knew would forever haunt her. It both took her mind from her and gave it back.

"What are you doing?!" one of the Gryffindor girls moved menacingly toward her. Astoria redirected her wand at her.

There was no hesitation in pointing it to another, in threatening. It was even easier now as if she had done it before a thousand times. Beasts should be burned something whispered in the back of her mind.

"Surviving," she coldly answered forcing herself to not shake not because of fear, not because of regret but due to Euphoria. "I will survive until dawn. If you want to die, die alone, don't try to drag me with you."

"Now isn't the time!" a voice snapped. Ethan, the half blood had chosen to put himself between her wand and the Gryffindor girl.

"Look," the boy said pointing one of his fingers at where the monster had been coming from. She could see their silhouettes, dozens of them armed with barbaric muggle weapons, barbaric muggle weapons like the one that had killed the Gryffindor boy, barbaric muggle weapons that could be the end of her.

"We have to leave, find a safe place! Now isn't the time to fight between us." There was an edge In the voice of the boy as if he was on the threshold of a breakdown.

She looked at the boy before lowering her wand. This was all she would allow. This would be the only mercy given.

She could see how some of the other students had left, choosing to flee, to protect, put their lives before the ones of others. She couldn't blame them. Others looked almost defiant, peering with anger and hatred at the crowd coming toward them. She knew without any doubt that there would be no point in trying to talk to them.

"Let's leave," she said to the other Slytherin. Hopefully, he would serve as a meat shield in the worst case.

"Can I come with you?" she heard one Muggle-born Gryffindor girl asked.

"Do whatever pleases you as long as you don't obstruct." Astoria could hear a song, an unsung one full of teeth and eyes, an unsung one calling a hunt.

Welcome to Yharnam the ghostly voice of her teacher echoed, a reminder never to be forgotten. Welcome to the h̷̢̢̢̨̛̜̘̰͎͚̦̖͖̙̮͍̣̦͕̗̺̟̖̻͔̝̫̖̲̮̝̘̪͉͉͊̈̍̈̀͛́͑̆̽̄͊͗͐̄͐͑̚͠ͅữ̶̧̡̛̛̼̤̣̱͔̟̼͎̰̣̤̪̥͖̼̰̯͎̪̬̜̉̊́͊̉́̅̏̒̓͆̒͑̈́̈́́̐̎͛̇̍̆́̌̇́͐̚̕̕͘͘͝͝͝͝ͅṇ̴̡̧̡̛͕̯̗̟̠̤̰̲̭̳̤̲̗͔̘̻̫̣̟̲̱̲̗͙̙̘̩̘̙̔͆̈́͋̉̀͋͆̇̊̀̊͋͌̎̃̆̿̔̒̉̌̐͐͑̊̇̊͑̈́͑̇̚̕̕͜͠͝t̷̢̢̧̛̙̝͉̺͖̱̝̬̠͉̘̜͎͇̳̘̙͔̟̠̱̞̘̟̺͛͗͆͊͑̿͋͑͂̊̔̆͛͗̀̂̎̑͗́͑͂̿̓̒͆̐̉̎͂͒̕͘͘̚͜͠͝.