The Doll's porcelain hand hovered just above Harry's chest, pale flowers bending beneath her as though the garden itself leaned toward her presence.
"Good hunter," she said softly, "you carry echoes. Blood echoes, drawn from your foe. May I channel them into you?"
Harry swallowed. "Channel… into me?"
She inclined her head, glassy eyes unblinking. "To make you strong. To give shape to the strength you take from the Hunt."
Gehrman's chuckle rolled across the garden. "Let her do it, boy. Else you'll be minced before dawn."
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."
The Doll's touch was light, yet warmth surged from her fingertips, spreading through him like fire and sunlight together. His muscles tightened, his breath steadied, and for the first time since he'd entered this nightmare, the trembling of his hands ceased.
It wasn't magic. No incantation, no wandwork. It was blood turned into strength.
When the Doll withdrew, Harry flexed his hands. His grip on the saw-cleaver felt surer, steadier. His lungs filled easier.
"What… what am I becoming?" he asked.
The Doll bowed slightly. "A hunter. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Gehrman wheeled closer, his voice dropping low. "Don't think on it. Just kill your beasts, bring back echoes, and grow stronger. Questioning it'll only break you."
Harry clenched his jaw. "And if I don't want this?"
Gehrman barked a laugh. "Then you'll die. Simple as that."
The words struck harder than any hex. He turned away, staring up at the endless sky and the swollen moon. Hogwarts felt impossibly far. Quidditch, classes, Ron and Hermion it all seemed like fragments of another life.
"Good hunter," the Doll said gently, "you may rest in the Dream, but the Hunt waits in the waking world. You will return, again and again."
Harry shook his head. "Why me? I didn't ask for this."
The Doll's gaze lingered. For a moment, her glass eyes seemed almost human. "Perhaps the blood chose you."
Harry opened his mouth to demand more but the garden dissolved.
He gasped awake in his bed in Gryffindor Tower.
The fire in the common room had burned low, the castle silent around him. For a heartbeat, he thought it had been a dream.
Then he saw the saw-cleaver leaning against his trunk, its teeth still stained dark with blood. His stomach lurched.
Harry pressed a hand to his side. The place where the beast had torn him open was whole, smooth skin where claws had ripped deep.
No dream. No mistake.
A Hunter.
He sank back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep tugged at his eyes, but he was afraid to close them. Afraid of where he'd wake up next.
And yet, when sleep came, it was not Hogwarts he saw.
It was the pale moon, staring down at him like an eye that never blinked.