The Burrow was quiet now, though the distant croak of frogs and the whisper of wind through the reeds by the river kept the silence from settling entirely. A lone candle burned low on the sitting room table, casting soft, unsteady shadows against the walls. Its faint glow painted Harry's sleeping face in shades of gold and shadow as he lay curled on the worn couch, his breathing shallow but steady.
Molly Weasley fussed over him for longer than was strictly necessary, her fingers smoothing his messy fringe away from his forehead with a tenderness that belied the sharpness of her worry. A damp cloth in her other hand gently wiped away the streaks of dirt and blood at the edges of his jaw. She did not speak, not even when her breath hitched faintly as she dabbed a scrape along his temple.
Only when she was satisfied — or perhaps simply out of excuses to hover — did she finally rise. Without a word, she collected the crate of potions, tucking a bottle of dittany into her apron pocket, and padded softly out toward the shed where Hagrid waited.
The door closed behind her with a muted click, leaving Arthur Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt alone in the sitting room. Neither spoke.
Arthur's gaze remained fixed on the boy, his brow furrowed, lips pressed thin. Kingsley, arms folded across his chest, sat in the rocking chair angled toward the couch, his expression inscrutable in the shifting candlelight.
Finally, when the door creaked faintly as Molly reached the yard, Kingsley leaned forward, his large hands resting on his knees. He bent over Harry with surprising gentleness for a man his size.
His inspection was methodical, his movements practiced: eyes checked for dilation, ears for discoloration, mouth for blood or bruising. He gently lifted each hand, spreading Harry's fingers apart, running a thumb over knuckles and joints, searching for punctures, swelling, anything amiss. Finally, he pressed his palm against Harry's neck, checking the steady pulse beneath warm skin.
He let out a long, slow breath and sat back in the chair, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
"How… how is he?" Arthur asked softly, almost hesitant, as though he feared the answer.
Kingsley shook his head, the faintest trace of relief in his eyes. "It's fine. No sign of bites or major trauma — physically, at least." He gestured faintly toward Harry's pale arm. "Skin colour would've started to change by now if he'd been bitten. But…" He paused, leaning back. "I'd still take him to St. Mungo's. Just to be certain."
Arthur nodded, staring down at his hands. His mind was running faster than his thoughts could catch up.
Harry Potter.
Harry Potter, who'd been living quietly in Surrey — as quietly as the Boy Who Lived could — had suddenly turned up on his doorstep in the dead of night. Arriving on the back of a flying motorbike with Hagrid of all people, bruised and scraped, ghouls and a vampire on their tail.
And their destination had been Hogwarts.
Not here.
This was an unexpected detour, one Arthur could only assume had been made out of sheer necessity… but necessity born of what?
The door opened softly, and Molly returned carrying a tray laden with three steaming cups. The familiar aroma of strong black tea filled the room, grounding the moment with a touch of domestic normalcy. She set the tray down without a word, sliding a cup toward Arthur and another toward Kingsley before taking one for herself.
Arthur wrapped his hands around the warm porcelain but didn't drink. Instead, he stood and crossed to the window. His wand was already in his hand by the time he reached it.
"Expecto Patronum."
The incantation was little more than a whisper, yet the effect was immediate. Silver light burst from the tip of his wand, coalescing into the shimmering, ethereal form of a weasel. Its tiny, delicate feet seemed to skim the air, bright eyes glimmering as it turned to regard Arthur.
Arthur leaned in, murmuring low, urgent words only the Patronus could hear. When he finished, the weasel gave a soft, soundless twitch of its whiskers and vanished through the glass, streaking off into the night toward its unseen target.
"Go to Albus Dumbledore," Arthur said aloud, almost as if to reassure himself.
When he turned back, Molly was quietly sipping her tea. Kingsley sat motionless, his expression carved from stone, though his eyes followed the last fading wisps of silver that lingered in the air.
The silence stretched until Kingsley finally broke it, his voice as smooth and steady as ever but edged faintly with disbelief.
"You think it's wise," he said slowly, "to take a small, defenseless child on an enchanted artifact in the middle of the night — and the boy being Harry Potter, no less?"
Arthur blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness beneath the calm tone.
"Your tone suggests," he said carefully, "that I know anything about what's happening. But I don't, Kingsley. I am as confused as you are."
Kingsley's frown deepened. He leaned back in the rocking chair, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. "So Dumbledore hasn't told you anything? Nothing about… this?" He gestured vaguely toward the window, where beyond the dark glass still lay the scattered bodies in the fields.
Arthur shook his head. "I wasn't even privy to the full address of where Harry's been living. If Dumbledore had plans, he didn't share them with me."
Kingsley studied him for a long moment before sighing through his nose, as though frustrated but unsurprised.
"Dumbledore may come," Arthur continued, settling back into his chair and finally lifting his cup of tea. "You can ask him what you want then. I, too, need to know why there were vampires on my doorstep tonight."
Kingsley paused mid-sip. "Ghouls," he corrected softly.
Arthur and Molly's eyes widened in unison.
"Ghouls," Kingsley had said. The word lingered in the air like a bitter draught, heavy with implication.
Ghouls were… wrong. Failed.
Lesser forms of vampires — creatures caught halfway between human and beast. It happened when the Turning failed, when magic or circumstance interrupted the process. Sometimes the victim fought too hard, their innate magic resisting the transformation. Sometimes the infecting vampire botched it — wrong ritual, insufficient "cure."
But there was another reason, one Arthur had only ever read about in obscure Ministry reports.
Muggles.
Muggles, Kingsley explained grimly, simply lacked the magical power required to undergo a full transformation. Even if they had distant wizarding ancestors, their diluted magic wasn't enough. The Turning left them neither fully alive nor fully undead. Creatures of pallid flesh and brittle bones, slavishly obedient to the will of the nearest true vampire — ghouls.
The thought turned Molly pale.
"Do you think…" she began, but the words tangled in her throat. She swallowed, fingers worrying at the hem of her apron. "Merlin's beard, Kingsley. To… to reduce anyone to such a state. Muggle or wizard. It's… it's barbaric."
Kingsley nodded slowly. "I'm not sure yet," he admitted, rubbing a hand down his face. "If I could have subdued them without burning them, we might've identified some of them. Wizards gone missing get reported to the Ministry; I'll cross-check with Magical Law Enforcement tomorrow."
Arthur sank into the old armchair by the fire, his teacup untouched on the low table beside him. As a man who loved Muggles — their inventiveness, their strange but brilliant contraptions — the thought gnawed at him. He'd always seen them as endlessly fascinating, yes, but more than that… they were people.
"I… thank you, Kingsley," Arthur managed, though the words felt thin and inadequate.
Kingsley waved off the gratitude, leaning back in his chair, his gaze far away. He'd seen this before. Too many times, now.
"It started in Italy," he said quietly, his voice low but steady. "Back in May."
Arthur and Molly both turned to him, listening.
"The Italian Ministry — the Ministero della Magia — was called in to help the Albanian Council of Magic contain an outbreak in the deep forests along their shared borders. A magical disease. They thought it was limited to the isolated hamlets and villages — both Muggle and magical."
Arthur frowned. "What kind of disease?"
Kingsley hesitated. "That's… complicated." He sipped his tea and set the cup down, clasping his hands in front of him as if bracing for the memory.
"You know the forests out there," he began. "Old magic runs wild. That land belongs to the vampires — always has, since before the Council even existed. But the Council acted as mediator, thinking they could keep the peace and save lives."
He shook his head slightly. "They sent squads of Italian healers and combat wizards. Brave people. But few came back alive. They'd gone in to help the sick and stop the spread… but instead, they found themselves slaughtered."
Molly's hand flew to her mouth.
Arthur grimaced. "The vampires?"
Kingsley's gaze darkened. "Turned hostile. Completely. No warning. It became a bloodbath."
The fire crackled quietly, filling the silence that followed.
"They locked down the Albanian borders," Kingsley continued after a pause. "No one in, no one out. For over a week, the Council sealed their forests off with barriers. Then… one morning, the wards fell. And when they did, what we found was chaos. The Council's forces were holed up, fighting tooth and nail alongside what remained of the Italian squads. Most of the hamlets were gone. Burned. Those who survived…" He exhaled slowly. "Not all of them survived intact."
Arthur shifted uneasily in his chair, Molly gripping the tray for balance.
"The vampires retreated back into their sanctuaries," Kingsley said. "Into the deep places where even goblins fear to tread. But that was just the start."
Arthur's voice was quiet when he spoke. "The disease."
Kingsley nodded gravely.
"The Council had old tomes, old cures. They thought they'd solved it. Brewed their antidotes, cast their spells. But when the Italians returned home, vowing vengeance for their fallen, something worse began to surface."
Molly whispered, "What do you mean?"
Kingsley's jaw tightened. "People began Turning. Not just the bitten. Not just the exposed. People who'd had no contact whatsoever. Entire families. Entire blocks."
Molly paled further, clutching at the edge of Harry's blanket as though grounding herself.
Panic spread like fire through Florence, through Rome, through every coastal town with someone returning from Albania.
France shut its borders, refusing to commit aid without assurances — and when the disease crossed anyway, their hesitation turned to chaos. It reached Paris. Wizarding enclaves fell silent overnight. The Muggle authorities noticed too. Entire wards, entire arrondissements quarantined in secrecy.
And now, Britain waited, tense and wary.
The Ministry was split: half demanding intervention, insisting they help France quell it before it reached English shores; the other half pointing to the devastation in Italy and warning against the same mistake.
Blame fell squarely on the Albanian Council of Magic. They responded with anger, denial — and, more disturbingly, helplessness. The "old cure," they claimed, had failed. And worse, some whispered this wasn't even the same disease. This Turning was something new. Something older.
Arthur rubbed his temple, letting out a quiet groan. "Merlin help us."
Kingsley's lips pressed into a thin line. "Strays have made it to Britain. We've captured a few, locked them down in St. Mungo's under heavy wards. Healers and potioneers are studying them. Carefully."
Arthur nodded faintly, his gaze flickering to Harry on the couch, sleeping soundly for now.
"This," Kingsley said, voice dropping lower, "an attack on him? If word of this gets out…"
Arthur didn't need him to finish. The Daily Prophet would run wild. The Wizengamot would howl for blood. And the people — wizarding and Muggle-born alike — would panic.
"You think this is related?" Arthur asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Kingsley's shoulders sagged. "To what's happening in France?" He ran a hand down his face. "Oh, Merlin, I hope not."
Arthur leaned forward, elbows on knees, his voice careful. "I hope you'll speak to Dumbledore about this."
That got Kingsley's attention.
Arthur pressed on. "You know he has Fudge's ear. If anyone can make the Ministry act, it's him. Or, at the very least, he can make them listen."
Kingsley considered this, brow furrowed in thought.
Arthur lowered his voice, coaxing now. "You're close to the Head of your Office, Kingsley. A formal request from you would be logged, recorded. If this truly is linked, we can't afford a panic until we know more. Best to keep this under wraps, at least for now."
Kingsley drummed his fingers against his knee, weighing the strategy. It was… reasonable. He didn't like secrecy, but this wasn't about politics anymore. If Britain wasn't ready, people would die.
He nodded slowly. "All right," he said at last. "But first, I'll need answers."
He was interrupted by a sudden creak as the door swung open.
"And I," said a calm, lightly amused voice, "would be happy to provide them."
Albus Dumbledore stepped into the room, blue robes brushing the worn carpet, half-moon spectacles glinting faintly in the candlelight. His eyes twinkled, though the gravity beneath them was unmistakable.
Arthur, Molly, and Kingsley rose instinctively as the Headmaster closed the door softly behind him.
"Now," Dumbledore said warmly, his gaze falling briefly to Harry before settling on Kingsley. "Shall we discuss why there are ghouls and a vampire on British soil… and why they were hunting our dear Mr. Harry Potter?"
The fire crackled. Outside, the frogs had fallen silent.
The night held its breath.