The lantern's pale glow faded behind him, leaving only darkness and the stink of rot.
Harry clutched the saw-cleaver with both hands, the weapon heavier than his broom ever was. The pistol's weight tugged at his belt, its cold iron presence as unnerving as the shadows.
He crept down the corridor of the clinic. The walls sweated with damp, each step echoing louder than it should have. From ahead came the sound of breath ragged, wet, hungry.
The beast emerged.
It crawled from the gloom on all fours, shoulders hunching, claws dragging furrows into the stone. Its head was half-wolf, half-man, jaw split wider than any natural thing. Blood matted its fur. Its eyes, wild and gleaming, fixed on him.
Harry's wand hand twitched but there was no wand. Only steel.
The creature shrieked and lunged.
Harry swung wildly. The cleaver's teeth scraped bone, tearing into its shoulder. The impact jolted his arms, nearly tearing the weapon free from his grip. The beast howled, slashing back. Claws raked his side. Pain burned hot.
Harry staggered, raising the pistol. He fired without aiming. The crack filled the corridor, smoke blinding him. The beast recoiled, shrieking, its chest torn open.
Adrenaline drowned his fear. Harry pressed forward, teeth clenched, cleaver rising high. He slashed, tore, hacked. Blood sprayed across the walls, hot and coppery, spattering his face. He didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
The beast collapsed, twitching. Harry raised the cleaver again, driving it down into the skull. Once. Twice. Again. Until bone shattered and silence fell.
Only his own ragged breathing remained.
Harry stumbled back, chest heaving. His hands shook, sticky with gore. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to wake up in his four-poster bed and find this was only a nightmare.
But the body was real. The blood on his skin was real.
And yet something strange stirred in the air. Wisps of faint light drifted upward from the corpse, curling into Harry's chest. Warmth filled him, terrifying and intoxicating, as though the beast's death had poured strength into his veins.
Harry dropped the cleaver, clutching at his chest. His heart pounded too hard, too fast. He could feel the whispers of that same alien voice from the shoreline.
Blood echoes… good hunter.
His stomach lurched. He fell to his knees, gagging, but no sickness came. Only that warmth, that dreadful vitality.
The beast's body was gone, leaving only scraps of bloodied cloth.
Harry forced himself up, legs shaking. His side still bled, but faintly. He remembered the vials strapped to his belt glass bottles glimmering with red liquid. His hands moved on instinct. He pressed one against the wound.
The glass shattered, the blood soaking into his skin. Heat spread through his body, closing the gash, knitting flesh and bone. Pain gave way to shivering relief.
Harry stared at the unbroken skin.
He was healing… with blood.
His mind reeled. This wasn't magic. This wasn't Hogwarts. This was something older. Wilder.
And he wasn't sure he hated it.
A lantern burned faintly nearby, its smoke coiling silver. The Doll's voice echoed in his memory: When you return, I shall channel your echoes into strength.
He reached for the light.
The world dissolved in white.
The garden of pale flowers unfolded before him once more. The Doll waited at the steps, hands folded. She inclined her head. "Welcome home, good hunter."
Gehrman chuckled from his chair. "Still alive, eh? Then you've the makings of a Hunter after all."
Harry's hands trembled around the cleaver. He whispered, almost to himself, "I killed it…"
The Doll stepped closer, porcelain face unreadable, voice soft as lullaby. "And you shall kill again. For the Hunt does not end until the night does."
Harry lifted his eyes to the pale, swollen moon.
The Hunt had only just begun.