Chapter 484: The Estate, Bats, and the Black Dog
Two ragged men stumbled out of the Forest, half-crawling, half-falling down the winding path that snaked down the hillside. At the top of the slope stood a grand old House—once proud, now crumbling. Its roof was missing shingles, its windows boarded up, and thick vines writhed like serpents across the walls, giving it the appearance of a haunted ruin.
The two men paused behind a tree, their eyes fixed on the eerie structure. They swallowed hard.
“This place looks like no one’s lived here for years,” one muttered. “Maybe we could rest here for a few days. Quietly.”
“The old tales say places like this are cursed,” the other replied. “Haunted by ghosts and things best left forgotten.”
They exchanged glances.
From Lockhart’s eyes, Garr saw hunger—burning, desperate. The wizard had suffered too much lately, and the thought of shelter, even if it was haunted, was almost unbearable.
From Garr’s gaze, Lockhart saw caution—fear, yes, but also the wary instinct of a creature long hunted. The Bats was no fool. He was the cousin of rats, after all, and just as skittish.
Their eyes locked, neither willing to back down.
“Ghosts?” Lockhart scoffed. “I’ve seen more ghosts at Hogwarts than I have students.”
“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” Garr said. “But I’m afraid of what’s inside if it’s not a ghost. A grand house like this, abandoned, isolated—doesn’t that sound familiar to you, Wizard? You’re always drawn to places like this.”
The mention of the word Wizard made Lockhart flinch. His hand instinctively tightened around his wand—his own had been broken by those damned Vampires, but Garr had managed to steal another during their escape. It wasn’t a perfect match, but it worked.
With the wand in hand, Lockhart’s courage returned slightly.
“There’s no magic here,” he said, scanning the air. “At least not a Muggle-repelling charm. Whoever’s inside, if anyone is, probably isn’t a wizard. If they are, they’re stuck in some century-old mindset.”
He leaned in. “I’ve dealt with men like that before. Simple. One Forgetting Charm, catch them off guard, and it’s over.”
Garr hesitated—but he was tempted.
“Why not turn into a Bat first?” Lockhart pressed. “You can scout the place. If someone’s inside, they’re your next meal. If not, we’ve got a safe hideout. The sky’s getting dark, Garr. It’s been overcast all day.”
Garr shivered. Not because of the cold—but because of what the weather reminded him of. Overcast skies in Britain were normal. But for them, they meant only one thing: Dementors.
They’d fled Hogsmeade with Aurors on their heels. Garr had spotted an ambush near the outskirts. He’d even seen a wizard glimpse them—but the Vampires had been the greater threat, and the Aurors hadn’t caught up.
To avoid being recaptured and sent back to Azkaban, Lockhart had cast multiple shielding spells. It worked—no Aurors could track them. But it also severed their connection to the magical world. Since then, they’d been hiding, living like fugitives, surviving in tree hollows, caves, storm drains, even once squeezing into the trunk of a car.
They’d come close to crawling through a rat hole.
They didn’t know—the Ministry had already recalled all Dementors to Azkaban to avoid interfering with the World Cup.
Lockhart wanted peace. Garr was ready to break.
After a few more words, Garr gave in—but not without conditions.
“You owe me a drink,” he said, licking his dry lips. “I haven’t eaten in two days. I’m weak. If danger comes, I won’t be able to fly fast enough.”
Lockhart frowned. “There’s a village down the hill. Steal a chicken or a pig. That’ll feed us both.”
“No,” Garr said flatly. “Muggles will notice. They’ll scream. Call the police. And then the Ministry will come.”
He wouldn’t risk it. Blood-drained bodies were easy to detect—human or animal.
“The Ministry isn’t that sharp,” Lockhart argued.
But when Garr stood firm, Lockhart relented after a few seconds.
“You got a cup?”
Garr had nothing. He tore a wide leaf from a tree, rolled it into a makeshift cup, and held it out, eyes wide.
Lockhart sighed, raised his wand, and pointed it at his wrist. A thin cut appeared. Crimson blood welled up.
Garr’s eyes turned blood-red.
A few mouthfuls flowed into the leaf. When Lockhart sealed the wound, Garr stared at him—his expression a mix of hunger and greed.
They were companions in exile, bound by survival. But every time Garr asked for blood, Lockhart felt like nothing more than a walking ration pack.
It frightened him. But he knew he couldn’t survive without Garr either.
“Let’s check the house,” Lockhart said, forcing calm. “If we’re lucky, this could be our new home.”
Garr drank the last drops, licked the leaf clean, then shifted into a bat. He flew toward the estate.
He didn’t think there was danger—just a chance to feed. As a creature who both wielded magic and possessed Vampire abilities, he could sense a wizard’s presence from a distance. A true wizard’s home would be protected by repelling charms—against Muggles, and against Dark creatures like him.
But this place? Nothing.
No magic. No signs of life.
The old house was truly abandoned.
Yet… not entirely empty.
In the courtyard stood a tattered, broken hut. From within came the clinking of metal—dishes, perhaps.
The bat glided down from the wall, landing silently on the rooftop. He pressed his small, dark eyes against a crack in the wooden window.
Inside, an elderly Muggle—maybe seventy or eighty—limped across the room, struggling to boil water and roast meat. The sizzle of the steak on the pan filled the air. He flipped it with a spatula, then sprinkled on some dark, dusty seasoning.
Perfect.
Garr’s gaze locked on the old man’s neck and hands—veins bulging beneath thin skin.
Now we’ve got dinner. And a wizard’s meal too.
He knew this kind of man—like a city’s forgotten homeless. If he vanished quietly, no one would care.
The bat opened his mouth, revealing rows of sharp, needle-like teeth. His claws gripped the window frame.
He was ready to slip inside, transform back into human form, and feast.
But then—something twitched in his mind.
A sudden, icy jolt ran through him.
He saw the old man reach for the hot pan, accidentally brushing the edge. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even react to the heat.
The bat froze.
Not human… he thought. A ghoul?
He stared harder—then, suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind:
“Soul Extraction!”
The world spun. His soul felt light, untethered. No fear. No thought. Only a strange, blissful emptiness.
Unaware, Garr dropped from the window, landing on the floor in human form. A dazed, dreamy smile spread across his face.
“What… happened?” he murmured.
A cold, sharp voice cut through the silence.
“Excellent work, Wormtail,” it said. “You’ve brought a Vampire inside.”
“I… I did, Master,” a trembling voice replied. “He’s here. I led him in.”
“Check his mind. See who sent him.”
“Legilimency!”
Images flashed through Garr’s mind—like a movie playing in reverse. But he didn’t care. He was lost in the euphoria.
“Aha,” the voice said, surprised. “An escaped prisoner from Azkaban. How interesting… He’s not alone. There’s another with him.”
…
A line of ants marched in perfect formation, antennae twitching, climbing up the bark of a tree.
Behind the trunk, Lockhart plucked a bur from his sleeve, peering out cautiously.
Ten minutes passed.
Then, Garr emerged from the side gate, waving at him with a wide, open gesture.
No one inside. Just an abandoned estate.
Relieved, Lockhart stepped forward, crossing the threshold.
As soon as both men were through the main gate, the bushes rustled.
From within the foliage, a massive black dog pushed through, covered in burrs, silent as shadow.
He was about to move toward the house—when a voice cut through the air.
“You did well, Wormtail.”
The voice was cold, mocking.
“Surrendering your two companions to the Master proves your loyalty.”
The name Wormtail made Sirius Black’s claws dig into the soil. His teeth bared. His body tensed, muscles coiling beneath his fur.
He wanted to leap out—rip the traitor’s throat open.
But the words that followed made him freeze.
“Master… can you forgive me?” the voice trembled. “I only wanted to serve you. Barty… I didn’t know the Potters had such powerful magic…”
The black dog crouched low, his body trembling. His eyes burned like embers. He fought to suppress a roar.
Barty’s voice dripped with disdain.
“Not enough, Wormtail. You know a mere sacrifice of two useless prisoners isn’t enough. But if you help the Dark Lord return… he’ll not only forgive you… he’ll grant you glory beyond imagination.”
“Return?” Wormtail gasped. “What do I need to do?”
“Materials,” Barty said. “The Dark Lord needs his father’s bone, a servant’s flesh, and the blood of an enemy.”
“…A servant’s flesh?” Wormtail whispered, voice cracking. “I… I’ll give it. Which part?”
“You?” Barty sneered. “You? You’re not worthy to be used by the Master. A filthy, worthless thing like you?”
Wormtail whimpered—whether from shame or relief, he couldn’t tell.
“Blood, Wormtail. The blood of an enemy. The blood of Harry Potter.”
The words struck like ice.
“If you fail,” Barty added, “you know what awaits you.”
“Harry Potter?” Wormtail stammered. “But Dumbledore protects him—tight as a vault!”
“There’s a chance,” Barty whispered, lowering his voice—using a spell to mask it.
Sirius Black pressed flat to the ground, ears perked, straining to hear.
But nothing came.
He waited. And waited.
Finally, unable to resist, he slipped silently around the bush, circling the tree, racing toward the sound.
There was nothing.
No Barty. No Wormtail. No trace.
He circled back, head low. Then, from crushed grass and bent stems, he found proof—someone had stood here.
The voices hadn’t been his imagination.
He turned. Gray eyes fixed on the estate.
The Vampire and Lockhart had gone in. No movement. No sound.
The ordinary Muggle estate now seemed… alive. Hungry.
Sirius Black wanted to tear the ground apart, dig out the traitor.
He’d tracked him for years. This was the closest he’d ever been.
But then—the intelligence.
He couldn’t act rashly.
After a long pause, he turned and vanished into the forest, running until he was far enough to Apparate.
He had to get to Dumbledore.
…
High in the tree, the Rock—silent, still—felt a faint sense of relief.
It didn’t need to breathe.
It had no heartbeat. No scent.
Hidden in plain sight, it had fooled even Sirius Black.
There was no Wormtail. No Barty.
Only the Rock, playing both parts—feeding them false intelligence.
Voldemort now occupied Riddle Manor.
The plan to dig up bones—abandoned.
Or… not quite?
Perched like an owl, the Magic Puppet stared at the estate, replaying the visions from its Master.
It’s time to go back, it thought. I need the help of the Rubik’s Magic Puppet.
(End of Chapter)
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