"Our business here is finished. It's time to go," Clark murmured. Without another word, she turned and glided away, moving in the opposite direction of the open balcony where the dawn light was just beginning to break.
Allen watched her go, and as the spectral woman approached the seemingly solid wall of the invisible chamber, a faint, shimmering outline of a square door appeared. He didn't hesitate. He hurried after her, his hands trailing along the cold, unseen boundary until he found the threshold.
Stepping through the doorway, the illusion dropped completely. Allen found himself standing at the top of a narrow, rusted iron ladder. He descended quickly, his boots clanging softly against the metal, until his feet hit solid earth. He was standing behind a dense, overgrown patch of thorny bushes in the manor's sprawling, neglected courtyard.
Curious, he reached a hand back toward the space he had just descended from. His fingers met solid stone. The illusion was flawless, a one-way mirror in the architecture of reality—designed to let someone escape the treasure room, but completely barring entry from the outside.
Pushing his way through the brambles, Allen stepped out into the open courtyard and looked back up at the manor. The morning sun was now fully illuminating the second-floor balcony. It looked completely normal. There was absolutely no indication that an invisible, floating Chamber of Secrets was suspended right there in the air.
He patted the heavy leather grimoire tucked securely inside his robes. The Illusion Magic of the Clark family wasn't just clever; it was a profound manipulation of space and perception. Its value had just skyrocketed in his mind.
"Allen!"
The frantic, booming voice cut through the quiet morning air. It was his father, Owen Harris.
Allen turned to see Owen rushing across the courtyard, his wand drawn and his usually neat Ministry robes rumpled from travel. But what caught Allen's attention was the figure trailing closely behind him.
Aunt Josephine.
She looked entirely different from the composed, elegant woman she usually presented herself as. Her face was pale—paler than usual—and she was trembling slightly, the small velvet flowers on her dark hat vibrating with the chill of the morning wind. She wore an expression that was a volatile mix of profound relief and suffocating guilt.
"Allen! Are you hurt? What happened?" she gasped as she reached him, her eyes darting around the courtyard as if expecting an ambush. "The Duke... the Duke of Night. Where is he? I... I can't feel the tether anymore. His presence is gone."
"He's gone," Allen said simply, his voice steady. "The Duke of Night is dead. Permanently this time. You won't ever have to worry about him again."
The rising sun was directly in Allen's eyes, and he had to squint to read his aunt's expression. He didn't relax his posture. His hand remained casually tucked in his pocket, his fingers wrapped tightly around his wand.
"You're a vampire, aren't you, Aunt Josephine?" Allen asked, the words falling like stones into the quiet courtyard.
He directed the statement to his father as much as to her. Even though the Duke was dead and the hierarchical control over her should theoretically be broken, she was still an immortal creature of the night. Caution was necessary.
Owen Harris stopped dead in his tracks. His wand lowered slowly as he stared at his sister, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.
"Josie?" Owen whispered, his voice cracking. "Josie... what is he talking about? Is this true?"
Aunt Josephine seemed to physically shrink under her brother's gaze. She turned away slightly, her shoulders shaking. She couldn't look him in the eye. The shame of what she was, an immortal creature of darkness, was a heavy, suffocating weight. She had lived with the fear that revealing her true nature would cost her the only family she had left.
"Please... please forgive me," she whispered, her voice like dry leaves scraping against stone. Her eyes, usually so vibrant, were dull and ashen. "I had no choice, Owen. I was bound to his will. When I married into the Clark family... I had no idea what was waiting for me in the dark."
The dam broke. The secret she had harbored in terrified silence for years finally spilled over. She covered her face with her gloved hands, her body wracked with dry, tearless sobs.
"Oh, Josie..." Owen's shock instantly melted into profound sorrow. He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms tightly around his sister, pulling her into a fierce embrace. "You foolish, wonderful woman. What an absolute failure of an older brother I am. All these years... all this time, and I never saw it. I never noticed."
Owen's voice was thick with regret. His lips trembled as he held her, blaming himself for not seeing the signs, for not protecting her from whatever horrors she had endured in this cursed house.
Aunt Josephine looked up, startled by the warmth of his embrace. Her face was contorted in a mask of grief, but her eyes remained completely dry. As a vampire, she had lost the biological ability to weep.
"You're brilliant, but you're an idiot, Josie," Owen said, his voice rough with emotion. "Why didn't you come to us? Did you honestly believe we would stop loving you just because of... this? That we would hate you?"
"I couldn't speak of it," she replied, her voice steadying slightly, anchored by her brother's unwavering support. "If Allen hadn't destroyed him, I would never have been able to tell you. The Duke's control was absolute. If I had even formulated the thought of betrayal or escape, he could have turned me to ash from miles away."
She took a deep breath, the frantic tension finally leaving her frame.
"The notebook," Allen interjected, his tone shifting back to analytical. "The diary Clark wrote. You were the one who planted it on the bookshelf in Daisy's room, weren't you?"
Aunt Josephine looked at him, a faint, weary smile touching her lips. "I was. I had hoped Daisy or Albert might stumble upon it, perhaps piece together the history of this place without drawing the Duke's attention directly. I never expected it would be you who unraveled it all." She looked at her nephew with a mixture of awe and respect. "You are far more formidable than any of us realized, Allen."
Owen, meanwhile, looked between the two of them, completely lost. The pieces of the puzzle were swirling around him, none of them fitting together yet.
"Standing out here in the wind like a bunch of melodramatic gargoyles isn't helping anyone," Allen pointed out, shivering slightly in the morning chill. The emotional reunion was touching, but the logic of standing in a freezing courtyard was flawed. "Dad, Aunt Josephine, let's take this inside."
"Yes, of course," Aunt Josephine agreed, quickly composing herself. "Follow me. We can talk properly in the study."
She led them back into the manor, navigating the grand, dusty halls with the familiarity of a ghost. They climbed the sweeping staircase opposite the main entrance and headed down the western corridor of the second floor.
They stopped before an exquisitely carved wooden door. Aunt Josephine reached out, her pale hand grasping the brass knob.
Suddenly, a thick cascade of what looked like fresh blood poured from the ceiling directly above the door frame, splashing over the three of them.
Owen yelled in surprise, leaping back and raising his wand to cast a shielding charm, his heart hammering in his chest.
But before he could even utter the incantation, the blood vanished. There was no stain on their clothes, no metallic smell in the air. It was a flawless illusion.
"Clark," Aunt Josephine sighed, looking up at the ceiling with a mix of exasperation and deep affection. "That really wasn't necessary."
The spectral form of Clark materialized near the wall, looking slightly chastised but clearly amused. Allen just shook his head, a wry grin on his face. He should have expected the ghost to have a twisted sense of humor.
"I was watching from the balcony," Clark said defensively, floating closer. "You were all being so dreadfully serious, crying and hugging. I thought a little shock might lighten the mood. Was it too much?"
In life, Josephine had been one of the very few people who had shown Clark genuine kindness.
"It was a bit dramatic, dear, but I appreciate the sentiment," Aunt Josephine smiled softly. During her years of forced servitude and isolation, this eccentric little ghost had been her only confidante. Unable to have children of her own after the change, Josephine had adopted Clark in her heart, treating the spirit with the warmth of a mother.
Satisfied she wasn't in trouble, Clark giggled, did a little twirl in the air, and faded through the wall.
With the prank over, they entered the study.
It was a surprisingly cozy room, a stark contrast to the oppressive grandeur of the rest of the manor. The walls were lined with heavy oak bookshelves, and the north side of the room featured a comfortable sitting area with plush armchairs arranged around a low tea table. Books were everywhere—stacked on the table, leaning haphazardly on shelves, and even piled neatly on the floor.
Allen noticed the titles. Most were heavy tomes on magical creatures and ancient architecture, sprinkled with a few classic Muggle literature novels. Despite the clutter, the room was immaculately clean. Not a speck of dust remained on the faded but elegant Persian rug. It was clearly the space where Aunt Josephine spent most of her long, sleepless nights.
"Alright," Owen said, dropping heavily into one of the armchairs. He looked exhausted. "Josie, Allen. Start from the beginning. What in Merlin's name is going on?"
Allen took the floor. He didn't brag, but he didn't omit the details either. He laid out the sequence of events with calm precision: the diary, the secret passage, the blood altar, the truth about the Duke's immortality, and the final, fiery confrontation in the treasure room. He spoke with the clinical detachment of a researcher presenting a thesis, making sure his father grasped the full scope of the threat they had faced.
"You went down there alone?" Owen's voice rose, the paternal instinct overriding his shock. His face flushed with a mixture of pride at his son's power and absolute fury at his recklessness. "Allen, that is incredibly dangerous! Why didn't you wait? We were on our way back!"
"Because," Allen replied calmly, meeting his father's angry gaze, "I suspected Aunt Josephine was compromised. If I had waited, the Duke might have used her against you. I couldn't risk our family being forced to fight each other. I had to sever the connection at the source before you arrived."
He offered a small, disarming shrug, trying to defuse his father's temper. "Besides, I wasn't going in blind. I had spent time researching the necessary Ancient Magic to counter his specific type of immortality. I knew exactly what I was doing, Dad. And, as you can see, I handled it."