The clock on the Burrow's mantelpiece ticked softly, its hands jerking forward with tiny, deliberate movements that seemed to echo louder in the silence. The warm scent of tea and Molly's lavender polish filled the small sitting room, yet the atmosphere inside was anything but comforting.
Arthur Weasley leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced tightly together as though holding himself from shaking. Across from him, Kingsley Shacklebolt sat rigid, the usual easy calm of his deep voice replaced by a tension that vibrated beneath the surface.
And then there was Dumbledore.
He looked maddeningly at ease, perched in the old armchair Molly had fussed over before darting back into the kitchen. His half-moon spectacles caught the firelight, turning the blue of his eyes into glacial reflections. He stirred his tea with slow, unhurried motions, as though the entire evening hadn't just unravelled into something far darker than any of them had expected.
Kingsley cleared his throat, leaning forward. "You came quickly, Headmaster."
Dumbledore smiled faintly at the formal address, shaking his head. "When one receives a message from Kingsley Shacklebolt, one doesn't dawdle."
Arthur's patience snapped before Kingsley could reply. "You'd have done the same if you'd seen what I did tonight!" he blurted, voice rising despite himself. "Harry Potter — the Harry Potter — flying through the night sky, no less, with vampires and Merlin-knows-what-else chasing him!"
The crack of ceramic on wood startled them all — Dumbledore had set his cup down rather more sharply than necessary. His expression, however, hadn't shifted, save for the sharpening of his gaze.
"Ghouls," he said softly, almost to himself. "You mentioned ghouls."
Arthur nodded, but his eyes darted to Kingsley.
Kingsley picked up where Arthur left off, his voice smooth and measured despite the tightness in his jaw. "It wasn't just vampires, Albus. The marks on some of the bodies… twisted, jagged — definitely ghouls' work. I cross-referenced with field patterns, and I'd bet my wand on it."
Dumbledore's brows knitted together ever so slightly, the only sign of his concern.
"That's why I was planning to check with the Magical Law Enforcement," Kingsley continued. "Missing persons reports. If any local witches or wizards vanished recently, it might narrow the search for where the vampires came from — if they're from Britain at all."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers together. "A sound plan, Kingsley. But do remember — that would only help if our adversaries are local. And I am not certain that they are."
There was a pause. Arthur, who had been chewing anxiously on the inside of his cheek, broke it.
"Vampires don't just… cross the Channel and go on rampages, Dumbledore," he said, his voice trembling more than he'd have liked. "Not without someone noticing."
Dumbledore glanced at him over the rim of his spectacles, and this time, there was no twinkle in his eye. "Ordinarily, Arthur, you would be quite correct."
Arthur blinked. "Ordinarily?"
"Before Italy," Dumbledore said simply.
A shadow passed over Kingsley's face.
"You're talking about the outbreak."
"Indeed."
Arthur swallowed hard. He'd read about it, of course, though most of the Ministry reports had been heavily redacted. Italy had been locked down for nearly six months, cordoned off magically and physically, and yet even so, rumours had seeped through like smoke through cracks. Entire villages gone overnight. Ships burnt to cinders in their harbours. People — wizards, Muggles, even squibs — vanishing without a trace.
"It's not just an outbreak anymore," Kingsley said grimly. "It's a disaster. Those who turn… they aren't like before. They don't regain control. They don't come back."
Arthur looked between them, bewildered. "I thought — Merlin, I thought the whole point was that they could. That after the… turning, they had their minds back eventually!"
"That was before," Dumbledore said softly. "Before whatever happened in Albania. Before the sickness… or curse… or whatever we are facing now."
The words hung heavy in the room, thick as smoke.
"And you still think it's not a disease?" Kingsley asked, leaning forward.
Dumbledore shook his head firmly. "No. Calling it a disease implies it can be treated, cured. This… this is different. Healers are divided on the cause, but I have seen too much now to mistake it for a simple illness."
Arthur rubbed at his temples, as though willing the headache away. "If not a disease, then what, Albus? Magic? A curse?"
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately, sipping his tea instead. The silence stretched until it was nearly unbearable.
Finally, he said, "Whatever it is, Arthur, it spreads through bite and blood — and so far, no counter-curse or charm has slowed it."
"Brilliant," Arthur muttered darkly. "Absolutely brilliant."
Kingsley shifted, folding his arms. "We need to prepare for the possibility this spreads here. If it hasn't already."
Arthur gave a short, humourless laugh. "You think it hasn't? We've already got ghouls showing up in Devon. For all we know, half the south coast's crawling with them!"
"It isn't," Kingsley said immediately, but there was a flicker in his expression that betrayed doubt.
Dumbledore watched them both quietly, his calm presence an anchor amid the growing storm. Then he spoke, his voice low but cutting through their arguments like a blade.
"It may not be a question of whether it spreads here," he said. "But whether someone wants it to."
For a moment, no one reacted. Then Arthur sat bolt upright, nearly upsetting his teacup.
"You think someone's… deliberately bringing them here?"
Beside him, Kingsley's expression hardened. "Who? The French? The Bulgarians? Merlin forbid, the Russians?"
Dumbledore lifted one long hand, stilling their protests with a single, graceful motion. "I accuse no one. Not the French, nor the vampires themselves. But we would be foolish to assume this is coincidence."
The fire popped in the grate, showering sparks across the hearth.
Kingsley leaned back, his voice low and tight. "Then we're talking about a third party. Someone powerful enough to bypass our wards, our patrols, and Merlin knows how many Aurors watching the ports."
Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "A most unlikely possibility," he said softly. "And yet, the only one that fits."
Silence fell again, but this time it was different — heavier, darker, almost suffocating.
Arthur swallowed, his mouth dry. "A third party," he repeated under his breath, as though saying it aloud might make it less terrifying.
Kingsley's jaw tightened. "If someone's orchestrating this… if they're spreading it deliberately…" He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to. The implication hung in the air between them.
Molly, quiet until now, set down the tray she'd been clutching and finally spoke, her voice trembling.
"But where does Harry come into this?"
All three men turned to look at her.
"Why was he out there, Albus?" she asked softly. "Why was he flying in the dead of night with Hagrid? Was he being attacked?"
Dumbledore sighed, his fingers brushing absently against his long beard. "It was not my intention for him to leave his residence so soon. He should have received a letter, as the others will, inviting him to Hogwarts."
Kingsley frowned. "Then why was he out there?"
"I arranged certain protections for Harry," Dumbledore said, his tone measured. "Items, discreetly enchanted, meant to shield him should any danger approach."
Arthur blinked. "And he didn't know?"
"No," Dumbledore admitted. "Nor was he meant to. But when the item detected a vampire nearby, it alerted Hagrid, who acted at once to extract Harry before the danger reached him."
Arthur slammed a hand against his knee. "He's a boy, Albus! A child! You can't just dangle him over a pit of monsters and hope for the best!"
Dumbledore's expression softened, though his voice remained steady. "I do not dangle him, Arthur. I protect him, as best I can. But there are forces moving against him, forces who wish him harm — and I cannot ignore that."
Arthur opened his mouth, hesitated, then whispered the name neither of them had dared to voice yet.
"You-Know-Who?"
Kingsley turned sharply to Dumbledore, his deep voice rough with something dangerously close to fear. "He's gone… isn't he?"
Dumbledore's gaze drifted toward the fire, the shadows of the flames dancing across his lined face.
"Yes," he said at last. "He is gone."
Arthur sagged back into his chair with a shuddering exhale. Even Kingsley seemed to relax, if only fractionally.
But then Dumbledore added, almost too softly to hear:
"What state he was in when he vanished… no one knows."
Kingsley stared at him, cold dread creeping down his spine. "You think this is him, don't you? The vampires, the ghouls, all of it — you think it's his doing."
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately.
"I cannot say for certain," he said finally.
The silence that followed was deafening. Molly's hand tightened around the teapot, Arthur stared at the floor, and Kingsley clenched his fists until his knuckles went white.
Speculation would help no one. But even as Dumbledore urged caution, the thought took root in each of their minds, dark and heavy as storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
If Voldemort was somehow involved…
…then this was only the beginning.
-+--+-
The kitchen had quieted at last, save for the low crackle of the dying embers in the hearth and the steady tick of the old mantel clock. The rush of events from earlier — the frantic reports, the shocking revelations, the sudden arrival of Dumbledore — had left the small Burrow feeling strangely hollow now, as though the chaos had drained away and left only silence in its wake.
Molly stood near the table, one hand on the worn wood, staring absently at the chipped teacup before her. Her mind was a whirlwind — Harry, ghouls, vampires, the unspeakable possibility that Voldemort might somehow be involved — but her body moved on instinct, clearing plates, stacking cups, wiping a surface already spotless.
Arthur watched her from across the room, leaning against the doorframe. He felt just as restless, his thoughts tumbling into one another so quickly they blurred: the vampires, the ghouls, the troubling hints of something larger at work. Dumbledore had given them little more than scraps, and Arthur knew the man well enough to realise that scraps were all they would get until Dumbledore chose to share more.
Kingsley, seated still at the table, seemed locked in his own thoughts. He stared into the dregs of his tea, thumb running idly along the rim of the cup, his usually sharp focus dulled by sheer exhaustion.
And then Dumbledore spoke, his voice as soft and deliberate as the turning of a page.
"Enough about the dreary and the dark," he said gently, breaking the trance.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him at once, pulled by the weight of his calm.
"Have you checked on Harry, Kingsley?" Dumbledore continued, his gaze shifting between the Auror and Molly. "I see Molly has already done a splendid job tending to his and Hagrid's injuries."
Kingsley blinked as though surfacing from deep water. "Ah. Yes." He straightened in his chair, smoothing the front of his deep blue robes. "I checked on them both before you arrived. Hagrid had some minor cuts and bruises, but nothing more serious. No bites, no broken skin from the ghouls, and no signs of turning."
Molly drew in a sharp breath at the last words, her knuckles tightening faintly on the edge of the table.
Kingsley noticed and softened his voice when he added, "Harry's even better off. A few scrapes here and there, but no infection, no spread. He's resting now."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, relief ghosting across his face before fading into his usual unreadable serenity. "That is good to hear," he said. "I checked on Hagrid outside while arriving — I suspect he'll be fast asleep until morning. Best for him, I think. As for Harry…"
He turned to Molly and inclined his head approvingly. "I see you've given him a draught of calming essence. Very wise."
"Oh, yes," Molly said quickly, glad for the momentary shift to something she understood. "A little Calming Draught, mixed light — just enough to soothe his nerves and help him rest properly. I keep a few bottles ready for the twins, Merlin knows they give me reason enough…" Her voice trailed off with a weak chuckle, though it faltered halfway.
Calming Draughts were staples in wizarding households, the magical equivalent of a Muggle first-aid kit. Brewed carefully, they helped soothe frayed minds and coax restful sleep without muddling thought — a small mercy when the world tilted suddenly upside-down.
"I'd still suggest," Dumbledore said gently, "taking Harry to St. Mungo's. If nothing else, they can run a few deeper checks. Some signs don't always show straight away."
"Of course," Arthur said immediately, nodding. "We'll make sure he gets seen to."
Molly hesitated, worry pulling her brows together. "So he can stay with us then? He doesn't need to go straight to Hogwarts, does he?"
"Goodness, no," Dumbledore said at once, a soft chuckle escaping him, though his gaze remained kind and steady. "It's far too early for school yet. He should stay here, where he's safe and comfortable."
A little of Molly's tension eased at that, though Arthur's hand, he had moved beside her silently, brushed hers under the table, grounding her in the lingering unease neither of them voiced aloud.
Dumbledore rose from his seat then, the movement fluid despite his age, and brushed a few stray crumbs from his robe. "That said," he added lightly, "I'll return tomorrow to see him myself, if you'll allow it."
"Of course," Arthur said quickly. "You don't even need to ask."
Kingsley stood as well, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "I should get back to the Ministry. There'll be reports waiting and questions to answer."
The group drifted toward the door, the night air cool and damp as it spilled inside. Outside, the sky was still and clear, a scattering of stars glimmering faintly above the treeline — a deceptive calm, given the chaos of the evening.
Kingsley glanced sideways at Dumbledore as they stepped into the garden. "So, I assume you'll write to his relatives, then? Explain what's happened?"
Dumbledore paused, hands clasped lightly behind his back. "No," he said after a moment's thought. "A letter won't suffice for this. I'll meet them in person. There are… matters better explained face-to-face."
Kingsley's mouth quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "If you'd like, I can rouse the Minister tonight, though I suspect he'll hex me for it."
Dumbledore's laugh was soft, low, and fleeting. "Best let him sleep for now. I'll see you both at the Ministry tomorrow — we'll need to discuss this further."
Kingsley nodded. "I'll have preliminary reports ready by then."
Dumbledore turned back toward Arthur and Molly, his expression warm but tinged with apology. "Arthur, Molly… I'm sorry to have dragged you into such matters at such an hour. Thank you, both of you, for your help tonight."
"You don't need to thank us," Arthur said firmly. "Just… keep us informed, Albus. Please."
Dumbledore inclined his head in a small bow, then, with a soft crack, disapparated into the night.
Kingsley hesitated a moment longer, his dark eyes serious beneath the starlight. "I'll be in touch," he said simply, before vanishing with his own sharp pop.
And suddenly, the garden was silent again, save for the distant croak of frogs by the pond and the rustle of wind through the hedges.
Arthur shut the door behind them as they returned inside, leaning heavily against it for a moment. He caught Molly's gaze, seeing the same exhausted worry mirrored there.
They didn't speak — there was nothing left to say.
Upstairs, somewhere down the hall, Harry Potter slept deeply under the influence of Molly's potion, unaware of the storm brewing just beyond the Burrow's warm walls.
Tomorrow would bring questions.
And, inevitably, answers.