(A/N):
Drop a meme here that you find funny. Or reflects your mood.
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France...
Abandoned Church...
Meanwhile, in France, an abandoned church stood silent under the dark sky.
Hidden within its decaying walls was a chamber known only to the witch hunters.
Access to it required a gruesome ritual:
The leader pressed two fingers into the stone eyes of the statue of Saint Killer Bee.
With a faint grinding sound,
The saint's carved mouth creaked open, revealing a jagged keyhole shaped unlike any ordinary lock.
From his cloak,
The leader produced a blackened iron key, its shape resembling twisted fangs.
Inserting it into the mouth and turning it anticlockwise, the crucified cross on the altar slowly slid aside, exposing a narrow tunnel.
One by one, the hunters descended, the air heavy with the stench of earth and age.
Once the last man passed through, the leader retrieved the key, and the path sealed shut again, leaving no trace of their passage.
Inside the chamber, torches flared against stone walls etched with sigils of hunts long past.
The meeting began.
"The government has called upon us once more,"
Growled one hunter, his voice echoing.
"They want the earth cleansed of those abominations—the witches and wizards who hide among mankind."
Another thumped his fist on the long oak table.
"Our ancestors nearly succeeded in wiping them out, cornering their kind until they swore secrecy. Because of the betrayal of a few fools, that cursed pact was made! But look at them now—breaking their oaths, mingling openly, daring to flaunt their powers!"
Murmurs of anger rippled through the chamber.
"They call themselves guardians of the weak,"
A third sneered.
"But we know the truth. They are parasites. Their blood is corruption itself. It is time the world remembers who the true hunters are."
A chant began to rise—
Low, fervent, like wolves calling to the night.
"We are the blade. We are the flame. We are the hunters."
The leader raised the iron key, its edge glinting in the firelight.
"Then let the hunt begin."
The chamber echoed with laughter, harsh and mocking, as the hunters taunted the very idea of witches and wizards hiding in the shadows.
"For too long,"
One snarled,
"those vermin have whispered their false promises into the ears of kings, ministers, and merchants. They've bought their safety with illusions and sweet lies."
Another slammed his hand against the table.
"And humanity—our own blood!—betrayed us. We fought and bled to protect them during their darkest nights, only for them to kneel before the power of witchcraft. Out of greed, they chose sorcery over loyalty. They spat on the memory of the hunters."
The room grew heavy with a tense silence, broken only by the hiss of torch flames.
"But no more,"
Said the leader, his voice low but cutting through the chamber like steel.
"The balance has shifted. At last, the government calls on us—not them. For the first time in centuries, the law stands on our side."
Faces hardened, eyes glinted with fanatic zeal.
"We will not waste this chance,"
Another declared.
"The oath of secrecy they once bound us with has become their shield, but now that shield crumbles. We will remind the world who truly protected them when the dark ages swallowed the earth."
The hunters rose as one, fists raised.
Their chant rolled like thunder inside the hidden chamber:
"Humanity betrayed us. Sorcery deceived them. But we… we are the hunters."
The iron key, still clutched in the leader's hand, glowed faintly under the torchlight—like an omen of blood to come.
Meanwhile...
Few days before...
The wider wizarding world was stirring.
Reports of unrest among the witch hunters had already reached the Ministries overseas,
And the alarm spread like wildfire.
One by one, the great Ministries tightened their borders, reinforcing wards and patrols against any intrusion.
Letters were dispatched across nations—
Stern, urgent notices to every witch and wizard registered under their care:
Return to the wizarding side at once.
A war with the Muggles may be brewing.
In the midst of this.
Dumbledore and Grindelwald—
old companions in these turbulent times—
Personally undertook diplomatic journeys.
Together with Nicolò Machiavelli's descendant, Micolo Bultrix,
They spoke before councils and schools, persuading the heads of magical academies to act before panic consumed the youth.
Their efforts bore fruit.
Schools agreed to follow the Ministries' lead, urging students to remain within the wizarding world for safety.
Yet there remained one sharp divide:
while the continental Ministries accepted the policy of protection, they were hesitant to extend invitations to Muggle families—
Even those bound to their own students by blood.
"The risk is too great,"
They argued.
"Muggles bring eyes, and eyes bring exposure."
But Britain chose another path.
After long debates with foreign counterparts,
The British Ministry stepped forward to host something unprecedented—
The First Wizarding New Year Gathering.
Families, even Muggle parents and relatives, would be allowed.
Dartmoor was chosen as the site, a land steeped in ancient wards and traditions.
The Ministry promised that all costs of stay and security would be covered, leaving no excuse for absence.
Thus, Britain opened its arms, determined to show unity rather than division—
Even as shadows of war crept closer.
Even through they accepted the cost the reaction of those ministries were hesitant.
The announcement sent ripples across the magical world.
In China and Spain, the Ministries exchanged uneasy glances, muttering that Britain had grown reckless—
foolish even.
"Inviting Muggles inside their wards? Madness,"
Scoffed the Spanish Secretary of Magic.
The Germans called it
"An experiment doomed to backfire."
Yet, beneath the sharp words, there was a flicker of envy.
For centuries, secrecy had been their greatest shield—
But now, perhaps, it also chained them to fear.
In the northern lands, whispers carried a different tone.
Scandinavian wizards, bound closely to old magic and runic prophecy, wondered if Britain's gesture was the first step toward the "reunion of the fractured world" their elders had long spoken of.
Some even praised it as an act of courage.
But admiration did not ease suspicion.
"What game is Britain playing?"
Muttered an Italian official after the announcement, his fingers tightening on the parchment.
"If this gathering fails, it will not be just Britain who burns—it will drag us all."
Despite the unease, families began preparing.
Wizarding Britain wasted no time:
Aurors and Hit Wizards patrolled Dartmoor day and night, weaving new layers of wards over the already ancient ones.
Portkeys were prepared for safe passage.
Entire sections of the moor were transfigured into vast encampments and temporary cottages, each charmed with warmth against the winter chill.
Great banners of Hogwarts and the Ministry flapped proudly in the cold wind.
And soon, they came.
Wizards and witches arrived in clusters, some with cautious faces, others with sparks of excitement.
Muggle families, wide-eyed and disbelieving, followed their sons and daughters into a world they had only glimpsed through letters.
Their gasps filled the air as they beheld flying brooms darting overhead, tents that were larger inside than outside, and enchanted lanterns lighting paths like floating stars.
For many, it was the first time Muggles and the wizarding world stood openly side by side.
Some embraced it with wonder.
Others whispered that it was a mistake.
But all agreed on one thing:
History was being made on the windswept hills of Dartmoor.
Flashback ends...
Inside the abandoned church, shadows danced along the cracked stone walls as the Witch Hunters gathered around a crooked wooden table.
Their leader, a gaunt man with sunken eyes, slammed his palm against the rotting surface.
"Our first strike must be clean. We do not go straight for their champions,"
He hissed.
"No—we take what is easiest. The Muggle-borns. The outcasts. Squibs who the wizarding world itself threw aside. They will serve as the message: no wizard is safe among men."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.
One hunter leaned forward, his scarred lips curling into a sneer.
"A perfect place to begin. Their own people abandoned them—we shall finish the work."
But then—
A sound.
Soft at first, delicate, almost playful.
A woman's chuckle, faint yet echoing across the ruined pews.
Chuckle~
The air turned colder.
Every hunter stiffened.
"____"
"____"
"____"
The chuckle grew into a low, lilting laugh—
Neither near nor far, as though it seeped from the walls themselves.
"How… amusing,"
The voice drawled, dripping with cruel delight.
"Plotting against the very children who barely know the weight of magic. Brave men, aren't you?"
A shiver crawled down every spine. Hands reached for weapons.
Crossbows creaked.
One muttered,
"Who's there?"
His voice already cracking.
From the shadows at the edge of the church, the air seemed to ripple, as though darkness itself peeled away.
A figure emerged—
Slender, graceful, cloaked in living shadow.
Her eyes glowed faintly crimson, her smile sharp and knowing.
Valac.
She tilted her head, savoring the fear that flooded the room.
"Do continue your little meeting. I adore hearing vermin speak of slaughter as if they were wolves."
Silence hung thick, broken only by the dripping of water from a cracked roof beam.
"____"
"____"
"____"
Not one of the Witch Hunters dared breathe too loudly.
Then her smile widened, predatory.
"Shall I show you,"
She whispered, her voice like silk across their throats,
"How wolves hunt?"
The silence snapped like glass.
Thwip!
A steel bolt whistled through the air, burying itself deep into Valac's chest.
The hunters watched it pierce clean through her heart, her body jerking with the force before she crumpled to the stone floor.
Blood pooled quickly, spreading in a dark river across the cracked tiles.
Her shadowy figure twitched once, then lay still.
"____"
"____"
"____"
The Witch Hunters froze in disbelief.
One, then another, began to laugh.
"Ha! I literally got goosebumps just staring at this women?"
Sneered the man with the scarred lips, kicking at a pew.
"A single shot! The mighty witch's lapdog—slain like nothing!"
Another spat on the floor, edging closer to the body.
"Cowards' whispers, that's all she ever was."
Crossbows lowered, swords clinked back into sheaths.
The room filled with taunts and cruel jeers as the hunters crowded around the corpse.
"Pathetic."
"Too easy."
"She bleeds like any other."
But then—
The laughter faltered.
The blood pooling on the floor… moved.
It crawled backward, as though drawn by some unseen force, climbing up the woman's hair, her arms, her chest.
The bolt lodged in her heart slid free with a wet crack.
Valac rose slowly, gracefully, as though her fall had been nothing more than a bow in a performance.
Her eyes burned crimson now, brighter, sharper, alive with hunger.
The wound in her chest knit closed before their horrified eyes.
She tilted her head, smiling with razor amusement.
"Oh…"
Her voice dripped like honey over glass shards.
"You really thought that would work."
A hunter stumbled back, his legs trembling.
Another raised his crossbow with shaking hands, only for the weapon to snap in half as a shadowy tendril coiled around it.
Valac stepped forward, her bare feet leaving no sound,
Her smile widening as panic spread through the church.
"Now,"
She purred, savoring their fear,
"who wants to play first?"
The scar-lipped hunter—
The one who had felled her with the first bolt—
Snarled and lifted his crossbow again, rage sharpening his aim.
But before his finger could tighten on the trigger—
The church around him was gone.
He now stood in a moonlit graveyard,
Endless rows of crooked tombstones stretching into the mist.
Chains of rusted bells hung from each grave, clattering softly in the night air.
One by one, they began to toll.
Ding… ding… ding…
With each hollow chime came a new sound—
Screams, howls, voices clawing at his ears.
"Help me!"
"Father—please!"
"Don't leave us here!"
The voices were unmistakable—
His mother, his sisters, his wife, his daughters—
All crying from beneath the soil.
"____"
His chest seized.
"No… no, no, no!"
He dropped to his knees before a mound of earth, clawing desperately to dig them out.
But when he moved to tear at the soil, his arms froze.
An unseen force clamped around his wrists—
Fingers pressing into his flesh.
The impression of hands, hundreds of them, tightened against his body.
"N-No! Let me go! I have to—!"
The hunter thrashed violently, his crossbow jerking upward.
Back in the church,
To the eyes of the others, the man had lost his mind.
Instead of aiming at Valac, he whirled on his comrades, firing blindly.
Thwip! Thwip!
Two hunters dropped instantly, bolts buried in their throats.
Two more screamed, collapsing as the steel tore into their arms and bellies.
"Restrain him!"
One shouted, panic cutting through the chaos.
"He's bewitched!"
They rushed him, grappling for his weapon, as he kicked and raged against the invisible hands only he could feel.
Valac, standing in the midst of the mayhem, simply watched.
Her smile was wide, her eyes glinting crimson.
Her voice, silken and cruel, carried above their cries:
"Ahh… he's playing so nicely for me."
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(Author's POV)
(A/N)I hope you guys are enjoying the story.
Thanks for reading the chapter!
Please give a review
And power stone!!!
It will Motivate Me.