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Ron eyed Fred and George suspiciously. "How do you know why Professor Dracula wrote the book?" he asked.
In the living room, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Percy, and Harry turned their attention to the twins, curiosity evident on their faces.
Fred and George exchanged a satisfied nod before launching into their explanation.
"You've heard of Cedric Diggory, right?" Fred began. "He's in fourth grade now. Anyway, he was the top scorer in our year's final exams!"
Mrs. Weasley, unimpressed, crossed her arms. "Then why don't you two follow his example and study harder?"
"Mom, that's not the point!" George objected. "We're in the middle of a story!"
"Alright then," she conceded, settling in to listen while enchanted sponges scrubbed the dishes behind her.
Fred continued, "Harry, you should remember this—Cedric once received a pendant made by Professor Dracula, just like the one you had."
Harry grimaced at the memory—he hadn't just remembered it, he'd lost ten galleons to Fred and George over it.
Cedric, known for his stellar academic performance, had nearly lost his top ranking due to an unusual misunderstanding. Despite consistently scoring far ahead of the second-place student, he had approached Professor Dracula before the final exams with a pressing question.
"When answering the exam, should I follow the textbook 'Dark Magic: A Guide to Self-Defense' or your lectures?" Cedric had asked.
Professor Dracula's response was direct: "Everything I teach is correct. If it contradicts the textbook, then the textbook is wrong!"
Percy, startled, interjected, "Wait… but I answered according to the textbook, and my score wasn't affected!"
"Exactly!" George exclaimed. "That's the issue! Professor Dracula didn't write or grade the exams, and he never told Dumbledore about his unconventional teaching methods."
As a result, Cedric—who had answered entirely based on Dracula's lectures—lost a significant number of points. Had his textbook knowledge been less aligned with Dracula's lessons, he might not have secured first place.
The room buzzed with reactions. Mr. Weasley sighed, "Poor Cedric."
Then, a realization hit him. He nearly spit out his drink. "Wait… who graded the exams?"
"Dad, you heard right—it was Professor Dumbledore," George said with a smirk. "And he also set the questions."
Fred added, "So you see, it's understandable that Harry and Ron are skeptical about Professor Dracula writing a book. Someone that lazy wouldn't suddenly take up writing!"
Ron frowned. "But what does Cedric's exam fiasco have to do with Dracula publishing a book?"
George grinned mischievously. "A few days ago, we played Quidditch with Cedric, and he told us a secret."
Fred took over, "After Cedric received his results, he went straight to Professor Dracula to demand an explanation."
"And that," George revealed, "is why Professor Dracula decided to write a book—he was embarrassed and wanted to publicly correct all the errors in the textbooks!"
The explanation was unanimously accepted. Dracula publishing a book seemed unlikely—unless it was motivated by bruised pride.
Just then, a feeble owl crashed through the window.
"Errol!" Ron gasped, rushing to retrieve the exhausted bird. He pulled a letter from its wings. "Finally! This must be Hermione's reply."
As Ron set the owl down gently, Harry studied it. "How old is this poor thing?" he asked Fred.
"Errol was Bill's owl when he first went to Hogwarts," Fred explained. "And Bill graduated five years ago."
Harry did some quick math—Errol was already twelve years old. Nearly ancient for an owl.
"We've wanted to retire him for ages," Mr. Weasley sighed. "But with Ginny starting school, money's tight. Hopefully, when things improve, we can give him a proper rest."
Harry glanced at the frail bird and silently hoped it would live long enough to see better days.
Meanwhile, Ron had finished reading Hermione's letter. His eyes widened in shock.
"Merlin's beard! Hermione's still doing homework during summer break!" he exclaimed.
George shook his head in disbelief. "Exactly! It makes no sense that she didn't place first in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Mrs. Weasley, unimpressed, shot the boys a stern look. "Instead of complaining, why don't you all start studying harder?"
Life at The Burrow moved quickly, filled with laughter, mischief, and the occasional explosion from Fred and George's experiments. But soon, the day arrived when Hermione and I had arranged to visit Diagon Alley to buy our textbooks.
Mrs. Weasley was up before the sun, bustling through the house as she woke everyone. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon drifted through the air, but there was no time for a leisurely meal. Everyone grabbed five or six hastily prepared sandwiches, wolfing them down as they pulled on their coats.
Then, Mrs. Weasley, with her warm, motherly authority, retrieved a delicate flowerpot from the kitchen mantelpiece and presented it to Harry.
"Guests go first!" she announced with a smile, holding it out to him.
Harry blinked at the flowerpot, utterly bewildered.
"I… should I water it first?" he asked hesitantly, scanning the room for a suitable container. Perhaps this was an old wizarding custom—maybe they watered the flowers before embarking on magical travel?
Ron let out a laugh. "Mom, he's never used Floo Powder before!"
Mr. Weasley's brows shot up in surprise. "Never? Then how did you get to Diagon Alley last year?"
Harry scratched the back of his head. "I took the subway…"
"The subway!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed, eyes shining with curiosity. "A Muggle invention! How does it work? Is it like a car? Does it—"
"Arthur, dear," Mrs. Weasley sighed, "this isn't the time for that." She turned back to Harry. "Floo Powder is much faster, dear, but if you've never used it before..."
Fred clapped Harry on the shoulder. "He'll be fine, Mom. Just watch me!"
He grabbed a pinch of shimmering silver-green powder from the flowerpot and strode towards the fireplace. With a dramatic toss, he flung the dust into the flames.
A loud whoosh filled the kitchen as emerald fire burst forth, spiraling upwards in a towering column of supernatural light. It flickered like dancing specters, crackling with unseen energy.
Fred stepped into the flames, unfazed, and spoke clearly.
"Diagon Alley!"
He vanished instantly.
Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry. "You must pronounce the words perfectly, dear. Otherwise, you might end up somewhere unexpected."
Harry nodded stiffly as George casually followed Fred's example, disappearing in a burst of green flames.
Mrs. Weasley and Ron rattled off additional warnings. Harry swallowed nervously, trying to commit them to memory.
After Mr. Weasley had vanished as well, Harry steeled his nerves, reached into the flowerpot, and took a pinch of Floo Powder.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.
He tossed the powder into the flames.
A howling inferno erupted, sending waves of heat against his face. Smoke and embers spiraled in a whirlwind. As the fire engulfed him, Harry instinctively inhaled—only to choke on a mouthful of thick, hot ash.
"Ugh—Diagon Alley…" he coughed out.
And then, it was as if the floor had collapsed beneath him.
Harry felt himself sucked into a swirling vortex, spinning wildly, tumbling head over heels. Green fire blurred past, rushing at impossible speeds. The world was a tunnel of roaring flames, twisting in a deafening cyclone.
Pressure crushed against him. His stomach lurched. His mind reeled.
Then, thud.
Harry slammed onto cold, hard stone.
He groaned. His glasses had slipped from his nose, possibly cracked. He felt bruised and soot-streaked, every muscle aching.
Pushing himself up carefully, he retrieved his glasses—one lens now broken—and looked around.
Where was he?
The room was dimly lit, filled with a musty scent of old magic and decay.
This was definitely not Diagon Alley.
Strange artifacts cluttered the space, each one more sinister than the last. A mummified hand, curled into a claw, rested in a glass box. A stack of blood-stained cards sat beside it, and a lifeless glass eyeball gleamed ominously.
On the walls, grotesque masks leered at him, frozen in expressions of malice. Rusted tools dangled from the ceiling, their jagged edges looking alarmingly tooth-like.
Through a grimy window, Harry glimpsed a dark, narrow alleyway beyond.
The heavy fog and crooked street signs confirmed it.
He had landed in Knockturn Alley.
---
Deep within Knockturn Alley, nestled above an ominous-looking wizard tattoo shop, stood a hidden establishment: the Green Dragon Bar.
Its polished marble exterior gleamed in eerie contrast to the decayed surroundings. Above the entrance, a massive metal plaque bore the engraving of a two-legged dragon, its gleaming white scales catching the flickering lantern light.
Unlike the rowdy, lawless bars found elsewhere, this one was different.
It was silent.
The interior was divided into private compartments, each warded with powerful protective magic to ensure absolute discretion. No one dared to disturb the privacy of another patron.
And yet, today, something unprecedented occurred.
For the first time in centuries, the most exclusive compartment—the Golden Chamber—opened.
Its walls shimmered in pure gold, crystal-carved windows reflecting the flickering candlelight. Blood-red gemstones adorned the chandelier, casting an unsettling glow over the velvet furnishings. The edges of the wine table sparkled with pure diamonds, every detail radiating extravagant wealth.
No one had ever entered this room.
Until now.
The bar's regular patrons watched in stunned silence as the bar owner's wife—a woman whose appearance had remained unchanged for decades—personally escorted a silver-haired man inside.
With practiced precision, she traced a sigil on the golden door.
It swung open without a sound.
The entire bar seemed to hold its breath.
Who was this man?
Whispers rippled through the crowd. A hush fell over them.
Then—swift as a blade—the landlady turned, her gaze like frozen steel.
Her silver-white hair, streaked with a single strip of blood-red, curled like wisps of smoke. From her head extended two twisted dragon horns, black as obsidian.
She raised a slender, yellowed wand, its surface pulsing faintly.
"Have you forgotten the rules of this place?" she asked coldly.
Every patron shuddered, shrinking in their seats.
Silence returned.
With a final glance at the subdued crowd, the landlady gracefully stepped inside.
Dracula lounged lazily on the plush velvet sofa, one arm draped over the gilded armrest, his silver hair catching the dim candlelight. His crimson eyes flickered with amusement as he regarded the woman before him.
"Bring me a bottle of blood wine—the rare vintage your Feilong clan collected in its early years," he mused, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "Also, someone will arrive shortly. Nothing noteworthy—just ensure a waiter brings him up. That should do."
The landlady inclined her head, her movements poised and graceful. "As you wish," she murmured, turning on her heel before vanishing through the gilded doorway.
Not long after, the entrance to the White Dragon Bar swung open, revealing a man with sharp, aristocratic features—his face pale and pointed, his cold gray eyes surveying the room with calculated precision. His sleek blond hair was immaculate, and his polished black cane clicked softly against the marble floor.
"I'm here for Mr. Dracula," Lucius Malfoy announced coolly, addressing the waiter standing at the threshold.
The waiter met him with a polite but indifferent smile. "Mr. Malfoy, correct?"
Lucius nodded curtly, confidence radiating from his posture—yet the waiter showed no reverence for the infamous surname. He merely extended his hand toward the corridor.
"This way, please."
As they traversed the dimly lit hall, the atmosphere remained unnervingly silent. Conversations were murmured, barely above a whisper, as hooded figures sipped their dark liquors under flickering chandeliers.
Lucius recognized many high-profile patrons, their identities masked by the shadows. Their gazes met, brief nods exchanged in acknowledgment—but no one dared to speak. To break the sacred rule of silence was to tempt fate.
After all, there had once been a powerful wizard who defied the bar's unwritten law—mocking its traditions, disrupting the solemn peace.
His remains had long since been swept into the hearth.
Lucius followed the waiter through the ornate passageway, the floor lined with polished obsidian and trimmed with gold. Finally, they halted before an extravagantly adorned door—its surface carved with intricate sigils, each pulsating faintly with concealed enchantments.
The waiter gestured with an elegant sweep of his arm.
"Please, step inside."
For the first time that evening, Lucius's cool demeanor faltered. His gray eyes widened in surprise.
He had never expected to be granted entry here.