The world snapped back into existence with a violent lurch. Sean's feet hit the floor hard, his wand already in his hand before his eyes had fully adjusted to the gloom. They were in a dark, dilapidated house, the air thick with the smell of dust and rot. Cobwebs hung from the rafters like funeral shrouds. Beside him, Fleur was scrambling to her feet, her face a mask of bewilderment.
A flash of green light cut through the darkness.
Without thinking, Sean flicked his wand. A heavy, rotted cabinet flew across the room, intercepting the Killing Curse an instant before it reached him.
BOOM!
The cabinet exploded into a shower of splintered, moldy wood. Sean grabbed Fleur's arm, yanking her down behind another piece of decaying furniture.
"It was a Portkey," he hissed, his voice low and urgent. "Someone wants me dead. If you have your wand, get it out. Now."
His words were punctuated by another explosion as the cabinet they were hiding behind disintegrated. Sean didn't have time to explain further. He fired a Petrification Curse back in the direction of the attack, a blind shot to buy them a precious second. His eyes darted around the room and found what he was looking for: a grimy, boarded-up window.
"Cover me!" he yelled at Fleur. "Blow open that window! We need to get out!"
The command finally broke through Fleur's shock. She raised her wand, aiming at the window. But in her panicked haste, she unleashed a spell far too powerful for the task.
"CONFINGO!"
The resulting blast didn't just break the window; it obliterated the entire wall in a deafening roar of splintered wood and shattered stone. The aftermath of the Blasting Curse ignited the dry, ancient timber of the floor and ceiling, and the entire structure began to groan, preparing to collapse in on itself.
"Go! Now!" Sean roared, shoving her toward the gaping hole.
Fleur didn't hesitate. She scrambled through the opening, so focused on escape that she didn't notice Sean deliberately slow his pace, falling a half-step behind. As the roof began to cave in, a tide of thick, black smoke erupted from Sean's body, a silent, shadowy serpent that propelled him away from the collapsing house and in a completely different direction from Fleur.
Fleur stumbled out into a dense, dark forest. The hunter's cabin behind her was now a collapsing pyre of timber and flame. There was no sign of civilisation anywhere.
She spun around, expecting to see Sean right behind her. But there was no one. The forest was empty, silent save for the crackle of the fire. Sean and his attacker were gone.
"Sean?" she called out, her voice trembling. A knot of pure terror tightened in her stomach. "SEAN!"
Her desperate shouts echoed through the trees, answered only by silence.
Miles away, Sean heard her faint calls but did not answer. He pressed on, putting more distance between them. Separating had been a calculated risk. It was partly to keep her out of the line of fire, but more importantly, it was to keep his own methods hidden. The Smoke Rope Curse, the Imperius Curse... these were not spells one used in front of witnesses.
He finally found a small clearing and took cover behind the trunk of a massive oak, his breathing steadying.
Soon, the sound of footsteps crunching on dry leaves reached him. His pursuer emerged from the trees, and Sean finally saw his face. It was the man Borell had hired: the dark wizard, Malo.
"Running deep into the forest alone? Did you do it so as not to burden that pretty little girl?" Malo sneered, his scarred face twisting into a contemptuous smile. "Such a gentle child. Behave, and I'll give you a painless death. Perhaps I'll even let the little Veela go."
Sean remained silent behind the tree. He had no intention of engaging in a so-called honorable duel. When an enemy wants you dead, you do not meet them on their terms. You hide, you wait, and you strike to kill.
His grip on his wand tightened. He took a single, deep breath and spoke the incantation, his voice a low whisper.
"Fumus Laqueus."
A Level 5 MAX spell was the absolute pinnacle of magic. At this level of mastery, wandless and silent casting were effortless. But they came at a cost to raw power. He had used a silent cast to escape the cabin, a whisper of the spell's true potential. Now, he needed its full, terrifying strength.
Tendrils of thick, oily black smoke poured from his wand and seeped from his very being, pooling at his feet like living ink. The shadows on the forest floor began to move, to stretch and crawl, spreading outward from his position.
At first, Malo dismissed it as a trick of the fading light. But as the black smoke encircled him, cutting off the paths of retreat, a prickle of unease ran down his spine. "What is this?" he muttered. He was beginning to realize that he had gravely underestimated his target.
Borell had called Sean an "excellent" young wizard, strong for his age. What could a first-year possibly do? But Sean was no normal wizard. His situation was an anomaly, an aberration of nature.
Hiss...
The shadows began to coalesce, twisting and rising from the ground. The streams of black smoke took on serpentine forms, hundreds of black snakes slithering out from the darkness, their non-existent eyes fixed on him.
Malo stared, his arrogant demeanor melting away, replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror. His body began to tremble violently. His knees gave way, and he crashed to the forest floor, prostrating himself, his face pressed into the dirt.
"D-Dark... Dark Lord!" he stammered, his voice choked with fear. "My Lord!"
Sean watched from the shadows, a plan solidifying in his mind. The man didn't just fear the spell; he recognised it. He knew it was Voldemort's signature. This changed everything. Still, it could be a trick. Caution was paramount.
With a thought, Sean began to weave the smoke. He shaped it into a tall, black-robed figure, wreathed in shadows. He modelled the face on the one that had been forever burned into his memory, the monstrous visage from the back of Quirrell's head. The silhouette of Lord Voldemort stepped slowly from behind the tree and into the clearing.
Sean brought his left hand to his own throat, pinching his larynx hard. When he spoke, his voice was a chilling imitation: high, cold, and unnaturally hoarse.
"Ah..." the voice hissed, echoing through the silent forest.
"You recognize my magic..."
"Who... are you?"
(End of Chapter)
***
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