Bang!
She stared at the fallen body, empty-eyed.
She stared at the mother and child huddled in the corner, trembling.
She stared at the firearm in her hands, the grip fitting too well, it's barrel smoking from its use.
Her brother's voice broke the silence.
"So? Anything? Your first kill, did you feel something?"
"…Should I?"
"…Usually. People change after their first kill, sometimes better, sometimes worse." He paused, studying her. "So why wait? Why didn't you pull the trigger the moment you saw him?"
Her brow furrowed, as if the question itself was strange.
She blinked, not understanding.
"You could've shot him the moment you saw him knowing that he was a stray. Instead, you held back until he lunged for that mother and child. Why wait?"
Her gaze slid to the two she had "saved." If she had been ordered, 'Kill him', she would have done so instantly. Without thought. Without doubt.
But the words had been different: 'Kill him, if you want.'
That left something open. A choice. And she didn't know what to do with it.
Her voice came quiet, uncertain.
"…Because… they wanted to live. And he… was going to take that from them."
She couldn't tell if that was truly the reason, and neither could the boy beside her. It was simply the only answer she had, and for now, that was enough.
…
A brown-haired woman in a sister's habit was tidying up the attic of an orphanage. She was its caretaker, known to everyone as Sister An.
"Probably should've cleaned this place sooner," she muttered, brushing dust from a stack of boxes. Her hand stilled as she pulled out a faded photograph.
"Oh… this picture."
It was greyed with age, yet unlike ordinary photos, the figures inside waved back at her. Six people stood before a towering castle.
On the left grinned a boy with messy black hair, his expression cheeky and bright. Beside him stood a sickly-looking boy with light brown hair and pale skin. In front of them, a pudgy man attempted a weak smile, his eyes shifty and evasive.
At the centre was a couple holding hands. The man, bespectacled and wild-haired, smiled in a way that mirrored the boy on the left. His lover's auburn hair whipped in the wind as she pressed close to him, her emerald-green eyes as radiant as her gentle smile as she squeezed the man's hand.
Standing just beside her, an arm wrapped around her shoulder, was a younger Sister An. She was smiling brightly, her hair tied back in a ponytail beneath a beanie.
"…How I wish I could go back to those times," Sister An whispered.
A crack of thunder rolled overhead, followed by the patter of rain on the roof. She sighed, carefully returning the box to the corner. With a snap of her fingers, the attic's dust gathered into a single ball, which she scooped neatly into a bag. Another rumble of thunder sounded.
"I hope Vince is alright," she murmured as she descended the stairs.
...
Two men tore down the street, rain hammering their backs under the jaundiced glow of streetlights. Their breaths came ragged, panic making their steps uneven.
"How is he so strong?!" one spat, fear cracking his voice.
"He's fast too, he took out Ben and David like nothing! What did we do to make The Trespasser come after us?!"
A shadow dropped from above. Cloak snapping in the storm, the figure landed between them and kicked both men sprawling into the gutter. They scrambled up, guns flashing in their hands, only to have them smacked away in a shower of sparks as two rods clanged against the metal.
"What do you want from us?!" one shouted, just before a boot slammed into his jaw, sending him sprawling in the water.
"Oliver Baker," the figure said, voice low and heavy. "Do you recognize that name?"
The second man froze. "…Oliver?"
"Your son."
The denial never finished—another strike staggered him into his fallen partner. A stomp drove the air from his chest.
"Then explain these."
The Trespasser pulled a plastic bag from beneath his cloak. Rain glistened on its surface as the man squinted, trembling. Inside were photographs, a boy cornered, beaten, humiliated, each one worse than the last.
"Wh-where did you get this?" his voice broke as he reached out.
"Where I got them isn't your concern. What matters is Oliver. Imagine my surprise when I found him on a rooftop, ready to throw his life away."
The man collapsed to his knees, shoulders shaking.
"As a father," the Trespasser's tone cut cold, "you were meant to guide him, not scar him. To protect, not destroy. Instead brought harm to your own blood, condemning him to burden so heavy he tried to end his life."
The man's face twisted, hysteria overtaking him. "So what?! I never wanted a kid! Mary went and died on me, left me chained to her brat! I never asked for him!"
His words echoed beneath the storm. The other thug stirred—only to be dropped with a single punch, face-first into the water.
"Ahhh!" The father broke, scrambling into a run. Something whipped through the rain—his legs buckled. He fell hard, looking up just as the figure caught a spinning rod, sliding it back into its sheath.
"You feel no regret?" the Trespasser asked.
"I'll kill that worthless son of mine if I—"
The blow came swift and merciful. The man crumpled unconscious beside his partner.
After dragging the downed men to a pole and duct-taping them up, the Trespasser tucked a plastic-sealed note into the father's shirt pocket:
George Baker. Ash Tailor. Ben and David Clark. All guilty of child abuse and violent assault against Oliver Baker. Protect the boy.
—The Trespasser
Sirens wailed closer. With effortless grace, the cloaked figure vaulted up a wall slick with rain, climbing to a roof with inhuman strength. From the shadows, he watched as police swarmed the scene.
"He escaped again," one officer muttered bitterly.
Another held up the note in its plastic, face darkening as he read. "Forget searching the alley. We've got somewhere else to be."
"Where?"
"To the boy. Oliver Baker. He'll need protection."
Minutes later, silence returned. The figure crouched above, watching the patrol cars fade before letting out a small breath.
"Guess that's my cue."
The voice was lighter now, the gruff edge gone. Youth slipped through. He leapt across to another roof—this time his landing skidded out from under him. He crashed to the ground with a splash.
"…ow. Now I slip?" he muttered, dragging himself up with a wince.
Grumbling, he crossed rooftops until he reached an abandoned shack. Inside, he peeled off the wet cloak. The boy revealed beneath was no older than thirteen, tall for his age, pale from the rain, his golden eyes burning bright in the dark.
"Stupid voice-changer candy," Vincent coughed, massaging his throat. "Hurts every time."
He swapped into dry clothes, tossed his rods onto a table, and called out:
"Nyx, Blimp—you home?"
A pink, winged snake and a tiny blue pixie flitted into view, hissing and chittering.
"Thanks for the photos," Vincent yawned. "I'll shower, then crash. Wake me in a couple hours."
The creatures darted off. Vincent lingered, staring down at a profile sheet marked Oliver Baker.
"Stay safe, kid," he whispered.
And somewhere beyond the rain, unseen eyes—red as blood—watched the shack before fading into the night.
...
Wake up. Check.
Brush teeth. Check.
Quick shower. Check.
Healthy breakfast. Check.
Vincent chewed quietly, scratching his head as he stared into his plate.
"…Is my hair getting too long?" he muttered, brushing the strands falling past his eyes. "What do you two think?"
Nyx only shrugged. Blimp, unconcerned, stuffed grapes into his mouth.
"If you weren't cute, I'd have sold you by now," Vincent sighed, flicking a finger fondly at the snake. "Anyway—we're heading to Diagon Alley today. Running low on wyvern wings."
The critters perked up, hopping straight into his pockets. Vincent set down his spoon and held up a vial of pale yellow liquid, exhaling through his nose.
The Lightning Tempering Potion—one of his earliest creations. It granted tremendous strength. It also carried a death rate so high that even the lone beetle who'd survived testing had fried its own brain beyond use. Years of tinkering had dulled the edge; he could dilute the brew enough to swallow it himself. But that reduced it to the faintest whisper of power. Barely worth the effort.
"I grew a little stronger, sure," Vincent thought glumly. "But it's too expensive—and worse than comfort water. At least that one rewards effort. This just… hands you scraps."
He set the vial aside and dressed: white shirt, dark brown trousers, a small pouch clipped to his belt. The rods rested inside the enchanted pocket, safely hidden. Walking around with them on display would be like shouting that the Trespasser had arrived.
"It's still strange," Vincent muttered, fastening the pouch shut, "how these rods can disrupt magic, yet slip in and out of this space like nothing. Some kind of selective filter?" He shook his head. "Whatever. Not my problem."
The rain hadn't let up when he stepped outside. He popped open an umbrella and trudged toward the Leaky Cauldron.
At the last block, he stopped.
Across the street sat a girl in a red wheelchair, black hair plastered against her pale face, eyes a shade of impossible crimson. She gazed upward at the rain, then turned—locking eyes with him.
Vincent glanced around. Empty street. No one nearby.
"…Guess I'm running."
He walked up, crouched, and held out his umbrella. "Here. Take this."
She stared at him blankly, then at the handle extended toward her. Vincent only smiled wryly.
"Don't worry about it. Just take it—you'll catch a cold."
Before she could reply, he pressed the umbrella into her hands and jogged off through the downpour, disappearing into the pub's doorway.
…
Arnya Tepes sat still, umbrella resting lightly in her grip. She looked down at the black handle, then back at the boy's retreating figure.
"Odd boy," she murmured.
The rain drummed softly above her, steady and soothing. She tilted her head back, watching droplets slide from the umbrella's edge.
"…Why is this so calming?"
...
"Ay, Vincent, how have you been doing?" Vincent was greeted by the Leaky Cauldron owner Tom.
"Hey, Tom," Tom never liked being called by his last name so everyone called him by his first. Vincent felt a bit odd since the Dark Lord Voldemort was originally called Tom Riddle, "how's business?"
"Doing all right, doing all right," Tom chuckled as he passed Vincent a towel to dry his hair, "a bit odd to walk around without an umbrella in this weather."
"Lost it," Vincent made an excuse. Tom could tell that Vincent was not being entirely truthful but didn't push him for answers.
"So," Tom grinned cheekily, "Vincent, the kitchen hasn't been the same without you. I can offer you a job here if you want?"
"Thanks for the offer," Vincent smiled apologetically, "but for the time being, I still have things I want to do. Maybe in the distant future perhaps?"
Not too long ago, Tom was understaffed and had needed help in the kitchen. Vincent, overhearing this had volunteered to help that day. Never in Tom's life had he seen so many people come into his pub just for food. Ever since then, he wanted Vincent to work for or perhaps with him. The boy was a money maker indeed.
"You're still young," Tom chuckled as someone came through the door, "I've got to go back to work, just remember though, you're welcome here anytime."
"Thanks, Tom," Vincent waved as he walked out to Diagon Alley.
Vincent tapped on the brick wall behind the pub and waited as the bricks retracted to reveal a whole street filled with people holding umbrellas. He grinned as the wall behind him closed up again.
"You've got to love magic," he thought before walking off to get some supplies.
"Welcome," the shopkeeper said before smiling, "back again boy?"
"Yeah, I'm looking for Wyvern wings?" Vincent asked as Nyx and Blimp flew out and explored the shop.
"Oi, keep those critters under control," the shopkeeper said, "well, Wyvern wings eh? Hm, I don't think we have any in stock, the next one won't come through until the end of the year. Wyvern wings are difficult ingredients to acquire after all."
"I understand," Vincent nodded before a chomping sound came from the back. The shopkeeper cursed and rushed behind.
After around five minutes he came back huffing, although he had obvious bite marks on his hands.
"Is everything alright?" Vincent asked.
"Just some student textbooks that try to bite off your hand," he said obviously annoyed, "the owner asked me to look after them while he, quote, 'Gone to see his sick mother.' Probably wanted to take a break from these things, I don't blame him, these things are a nightmare. I'm telling you, what kind of teacher would want such a book?!"
"Which students has to have them this year?" Vincent asked feeling curious.
"Third years," Vincent blinked.
"Can I have a copy then?" Vincent asked, "I'm attending my third year, so I might as well."
"Oh for the love of—! I'm going to need medical attention after this," The shopkeeper grumbled.
"I'll throw in a few potions, how about five vials of Sleep potion," Vincent offered, feeling a bit bad for making the man do this endeavour.
"…I'll get right to it then," the shopkeeper said, narrowing his eyes.
He walked to the back of the store where, within seconds, there were grunts of pain and chomping sounds. A moment later, he came back with a heavily wrapped-up book.
"Thanks," Vincent said taking the book which was struggling against the bindings, "here you go."
"Pleasure doing business with you," the shopkeeper muttered while looking at the seven white vials Vincent took out of his pouch.
"Now, where should I go?" Vincent thought as he walked around Diagon Alley, "Knockturn Alley, I don't have anything I need from there. Let's check in on Ollivander's."
…
"Ah, Vincent," Ollivander greeted as Vincent walked in the shop, "how can I help you?"
"Evening Mr. Ollivander," Vincent said, "I just wanted to drop by and see how the glove is going."
"Ah, yes," Ollivander pulled out a black box and opened it, revealing a single black glove with a yellow gem attached to a rune of sorts on the back. It had silver lines running down to the fingertips and the knuckles were covered in small metal plates.
"This particular one is slightly different to the last," Ollivander explained, "Instead of shooting the spell from the palm of the hand, it can now shoot it from the back, put it on and clench your fist."
Vincent did as instructed, the moment he clenched his fist, a round blue shield came up. Vincent smiled as he played around with it before taking the glove off.
"It's great," Vincent praised, "the shield is a bit smaller, but it's definitely much easier to hold something with it."
"That is good to hear my boy," Ollivander said before bringing out several runes, "I also thought to test out other spells. This one here is the stunning spell, although it doesn't fire out. You have to be in physical contact for it to work. A lightning spell rune, this also has to be a close range to work. Here's my personal favourite though, the summoning spell."
Ollivander switched out the runes before putting on the glove, he then held out his hand towards a box in the far corner. The box flew into his outstretched hand which Olivander easily caught.
"This one particular spell is connected with the user," Ollivander explained, "for instance, it simply summons what I want to have summoned. If I aimed it at that box but didn't want it to come to me, then it wouldn't have come to me. But as you can see, as soon as I wished it, only then did the item come to me."
Ollivander enjoyed Vincent's look of amazement and smiled, "I haven't made the other one yet, so you'll have to settle with just this one for now."
"Thank you, sir!" Ollivander chuckled.
"No need to thank me, creating such an item has gotten me all excited as well."
Vincent then noticed the newspaper sitting on the desk. He raised an eyebrow before taking a look at it. At the front, he saw a messy black-haired man with an almost feral look on his face yelling at whoever took the picture.
"Sir, who's this?" Vincent asked.
"Sirius Black," Ollivander's smile faded, "yew wood, ten inches and unicorn hair as it's core. I remember that boy, at the time he seemed like a mere troublemaker. A kind boy, who would have guessed that he'd wind up being a follower of You-Know-Who?"
"What was he arrested for?" Vincent asked.
"The death of twelve muggles and the murder of a fellow wizard," Olivander sighed.
"And he's escaped Azkaban?" Vincent asked as he saw the headline.
"That's why everyone is afraid," Ollivander muttered, "no one has ever escaped from Azkaban before."
MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, "We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank." The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend. "
I think Ron mentioned his other brothers once or twice," Vincent mused, studying the waving family. His eyes flicked to a small rat perched in the corner. "Scabbers too, huh. Somehow even more useless than you, Blimp. No offense."
Blimp hissed irritably, which only made Vincent chuckle.
"The rain's letting up. I'll head out, Mr. Ollivander," Vincent said, waving as he stepped toward the door. "Have a good day."
"And you as well," Ollivander replied with a faint smile, watching the boy leave.
His gaze drifted to the other headline, the screaming face of Sirius Black glaring from the page. Ollivander's smile faded. He had met so many gifted witches and wizards over the years, only to see far too many squander their gifts in darkness. A quiet sadness settled in his chest. With a sigh, he pushed the thought aside and returned to sorting the shelves.
...
"...She's following us, isn't she?" Vincent muttered.
Nyx peeked out of his pocket and nodded.
Vincent glanced back. The girl from earlier—the one he'd given his umbrella to—was sticking her head out from an alleyway. She locked eyes with him, then immediately ducked back. A moment later, she wheeled herself out and parked behind a lamp post that didn't even cover half of her chair. She leaned her head to the side, staring at him again.
Vincent sighed. "She does realize we can see her, right?" He turned back around. Nyx just shrugged.
The odd game of cat and mouse continued all the way to Vincent's front door. By then, his patience had worn paper-thin. He unlocked the door, then turned—and nearly jumped. She was right behind him, umbrella in hand, looking up at him with the same blank stare.
"Why are you following me?" Vincent asked evenly, masking the irritation edging into his voice.
"You noticed me?" she said, tone flat. "I thought I did pretty well."
Vincent blinked. "...Are you serious?"
"Yes. I am what you would call… 'joking.'"
He stared at her in silence.
"Now, can I come into your house?" she asked. "No? What if I say please?"
"That's not—"
"With a cherry on top?"
Vincent rubbed at his eyes.
"I have candy," she added, pulling out a handful of wrapped lollies. "I hear this is a good way to earn trust."
—
A few minutes later, Vincent sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, eyes kept trained on the girl taking a look around his room. With the weather as is, he couldn't in good faith knowingly keep her out and subjected to the rain. That, and he was curious as to what she wanted.
The girl placed the lollies neatly on his desk, as though she belonged there.
Finally, Vincent straightened, exasperation leaking through. "Alright. What do you want from me?"
She folded her hands in her lap. "Father asked me to observe you. As a candidate. An especially good one."
Vincent's expression shifted. "...Vampires?"
His suspicion was well founded as she nodded in response. "Correct. Let me introduce myself. I am Arnya Tepes, daughter of Dracula. I apologise for the intrusion."
Vincent blinked slowly. "Daughter of Dracula?"
Arnya didn't answer, fiddling absently with her fingers. She looked strangely innocent, though Vincent couldn't shake the unease prickling in his chest.
"Vincent Wong," he said at last. "But I suppose you already knew that. Out of curiosity… have you ever actually held a conversation before?"
"Only with my father and brother. To others, I usually say a word or two before leaving. Then again, I don't say much to them either." She tilted her head. "You're the first I've spoken with this long."
"Brother?"
"Axel."
Vincent covered his face again. "So, he's also Dracula's son… of course."
Arnya wheeled closer until they were face-to-face. "My father places a great deal of hope on you. In fact, a lot of vampires at this moment do."
"…And what exactly have I done to deserve the entire race of vampires breathing down my neck, let alone Dracula's attention of all things?"
Arnya studied him for a moment, then recited in a voice that sounded suspiciously like she was reading off a cue card.
"Vincent Wong. Designated King's Candidate. Considered highly viable as the next Dracula. Notable achievements include: vigilantism, first Muggle to attend Hogwarts, and direct involvement in slaying the Basilisk beneath the school."
Vincent stared at her, stunned into silence. She stared right back, utterly unblinking.
Finally, she dipped her head slightly. "I've also been tasked with observing you for an indefinite time. I'll be in your care from now on."
"Wonderful," Vincent muttered. Then, with a sigh: "What exactly are you supposed to be… observing?"
"Combat. Intellect. Wits. Attitude. How you adapt to sudden situations."
Before he could respond, her wrist flicked. Steel flashed. Vincent's reflexes snapped into place, and he caught the cold barrel of a pistol less than an inch from his forehead. His eyes narrowed.
Arnya blinked, mildly impressed. "You reacted before I even pulled the trigger." She slid the weapon back into a hidden slot in her chair. "Not bad."
"She's dangerous," Vincent thought grimly, glancing at his trembling hands. "And that wasn't even serious."
"I'll be observing you closely," Arnya added.
Vincent exhaled through his nose. "That's just a polite way of saying stalking."
For the first time, faint color crept into her cheeks. She cleared her throat and looked away. "Observing sounds less creepy."
Vincent gave her a flat, unreadable look.
"Oh, and I'll be staying here," she said casually.
He blinked. "…Come again?"
"I'll be staying here. Easier to keep watch."
His stare went blank. "No."
"I have no money. No food. No spare clothes. Haven't slept in five days. If you turn me out, I'll be forced to sleep in the rain. Are you really the type to throw a crippled girl onto the street? Monster. Scum. Bast—"
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. "…Do you seriously have nowhere else?"
"No."
"…Fine. Mattress. Nothing more."
"Axel was right," Arnya murmured. "Your kind heart is far too easy to exploit."
"…What the hell are you teaching your sister, Axel?" Vincent muttered, picturing the spear-wielding vampire's smug grin.
Arnya produced a handful of sweets and offered them to Nyx and Blimp. The two traitors accepted without hesitation—Nyx even gave Vincent a cheerful thumbs-up.
"Traitors," Vincent thought bitterly.
From her seat, Arnya dipped her head in a small, formal bow. "I, Arnya Tepes, look forward to our time together."
"..."
Vincent said nothing, only staring at the rain outside—the endless fall echoing the weight settling in his chest.