Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary of the Ministry of Magic, had been captured by the centaurs. Because she had spoken with disrespect, the centaurs refused to release her.
The prophecy crystal ball the Ministry wanted was delivered, but it only foretold Voldemort's successful resurrection. The Dark Lord's consciousness, however, remained unstable, and that was all the content revealed.
"These centaurs only like to play tricks. A prophecy like this is no different from saying nothing."
That was Cornelius Fudge's comment after hearing the prophecy.
Yet the officials of the Department of Mysteries scoffed at his remark. How could he possibly understand the spirit of Ravenclaw?
A stray cat leapt over a trash can. From the shadow of the corner, a figure emerged. His face was that of a wicked clown, as if he had been born with it. Watching the rising sun, a smile spread across his face.
Behind him stood a sewage treatment plant—his target this time. Inside lived a small family of vampires: a husband and wife with both biological and adopted children, nine in total, a mix of vampires and humans. In truth, those adopted children were nothing more than blood slaves.
The clown strolled leisurely up to a surveillance camera, grinned, waved at it, and then vaulted over the two-meter-high wall.
"Who are you? Get out of our territory!"
A pale-faced man aimed a long hunting rifle at the clown.
"You're not a vampire."
The clown frowned, certain of his judgment, and quickly dodged the gunfire.
Swish!
A black playing card sliced through the air. It cut horizontally across the man's neck, severing his throat, windpipe, and the blood vessels on both sides. Blood trickled out, then was sucked back in.
When the clown stepped forward and pulled the card free, the man had already withered into a dry corpse. All the returning blood had been absorbed by the card. Once plain black, the card now gleamed with a darker, radiant sheen.
"So that's it. The dark magic Bloodthirsty by Nature really is perfect for dealing with vampires—and for vampires to use as well."
The clown didn't rush forward. Instead, he checked his deck of fifty-two cards. Back when he had left that Muggle neighborhood, his bloodlust and craving for slaughter had driven him to wipe out a small gang. At that time, though, he hadn't left any cards in their bodies. He'd relied mostly on his fists and their own guns.
Still, he remembered using a few cards as blades, slashing open one gangster after another.
Sure enough, a few cards were now faintly darkened, though none as pitch-black as the Queen of Spades he held.
"In that case, let's see how much blood this card can drink."
Like a magician, the clown flicked his wrist, tucking away the rest of the deck and keeping only the Queen of Spades. Whoever came seeking death next would have their blood feed it.
"Die, you bastard! How dare you kill Tom!"
A bald man in sewage-plant overalls leapt out. His muscles were well-built, his movements quick. When he opened his mouth to shout, the clown saw two slightly elongated canines. Clearly, this was a recent recruit to the vampire clan. And the "Tom" he shouted about was just a blood slave, but the two seemed to be brothers.
This thought flashed through the clown's mind in an instant. The bald man held a pistol in each hand. The clown was unfamiliar with firearms. Wizards generally were, unless they worked with Muggle agencies. Otherwise, why would they bother with tools that had no magical effects?
The bald man fired rapidly. Bullets ricocheted everywhere, but the clown's movements were far too erratic and bizarre. He simply couldn't keep up. By the time both magazines were empty, the clown was standing right in front of him.
"Your attacks can't continue, can they? Then it's my turn. How does that feel?"
With exaggerated curiosity, the clown bent down to glance at the pistols, then straightened up and pulled the card lodged in the man's throat. By now, the bald man's corpse had also shriveled into a dry husk.
"Looks like you can't answer me. I'll have to ask someone else."
Not far away, someone was hiding at the corner. But a faint reflection on the machinery gave him away.
The clown pranced toward the corner in a mocking dance.
Two companions had already been slain—Tom and Jerry, brothers, both fallen under the clown's cards and drained into husks. Clearly the attacker was another vampire. As their master's blood slave, Mickey knew his duty: to protect his master, even if only out of instinct.
The enemy was coming. From the sound of it, he was approaching unguarded. Since becoming a blood slave, Mickey had gained a trace of vampiric power. His hearing, sight, smell, and taste had all grown sharper.
Now was the time. The enemy was about to appear!
Mickey raised his gun, ready to pull the trigger—only to see a thin black streak flicker before his eyes, followed by a hand darting back behind the corner.
Was he testing him? Mickey suddenly felt a sharp pain in his neck.
The neck. That's right—Tom and Jerry had both died with their throats cut by a card.
He tried to lower his head and look, but the light in his eyes was already fading.
"The third one. It feels like this black glow is getting even stronger."
The clown pulled out the card and admired it.
When Regulus Black had modified this deck, he had also changed the designs.
The backs of all the cards bore the Black family crest. The big joker now showed a coffin with bat wings, while the little joker bore a clown's face—half human, twisted in malice, the other half shadow formed from a swarm of bats.
The four suits had been replaced with Italian tarot motifs: wands, cups, coins, and swords, instead of spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds.
For the Kings, Queens, and Jacks, Regulus had fused Gothic and vampiric elements.
The figures had no clear gender traits, leaning instead toward an androgynous elegance. The Kings were regal, the Jacks martial, and the Queens a blend of both.
"I'll avenge Tom, Jerry, and Mickey!"
A man clad head-to-toe in armor charged out. He carried no firearms but wielded two massive blades. Both his armor and his weapons were crude, heavy, and ugly, yet this blood slave's strength was far greater than the previous three.
When the clown entered a corridor, the armored man was already blocking the way. His bulky frame and twin blades nearly filled the entire passage.
"I once hacked my way down the streets three times over, leaving rivers of blood in my wake. You won't escape today either! Sinai!"
The ironclad brute slammed his armor with pride. He had watched the clown's methods through the cameras and had reinforced his neck with a steel plate, like the protective masks kitchen staff wear to keep from contaminating food. The half-circular plate shielded his throat perfectly, though it made his voice muffled and distorted.
With that, he charged. The clown stepped back, but the door behind him was locked. The opponent wasn't fast, but his strength and height more than made up for it. In a few heavy strides, he was upon him.
The clown feinted, then sidestepped and darted behind him, sprinting toward the far door—only to find that it, too, was locked.
"Hahaha! Trying to run? There's no escape. Only one of us will leave here alive today. My name's Goofy. When you get to hell, don't forget to tell the others who killed you!"
With that, Goofy swung his massive blades wildly, charging back down the corridor.
"Did you really think I was running? I only wanted to make sure you wouldn't escape."
The clown tucked away his card and began stretching his limbs, preparing himself.
"You don't need a knife to kill. Fists will do just fine."
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