Chapter Text
Harry hated Halloween.
He always had.
And no, it wasn’t because he was some sort of passionate activist who believed holidays were capitalist inventions designed to empty wallets — although, thinking about it, that theory wasn’t entirely off the mark.
He simply… saw no charm in it. That was all.
He never understood the appeal of wandering around in fancy dress, knocking on strangers’ doors and begging for sweets — strangers who, statistically speaking, could easily be serial killers. (Harry had watched far too much Criminal Minds to ignore that possibility.)
Or of bumping into smiling neighbours handing out sweets and ruffling his hair, only to spend the rest of the year pretending he didn’t exist.
Originally, Halloween had made sense.
It had been Samhain once — an ancient Celtic festival marking the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter, a time when people believed the veil between the living and the dead grew dangerously thin.
They lit great fires to keep out whatever ought not cross over, and wore masks to trick wandering spirits. Poetic. Slightly grim, perhaps. But it had meaning.
Now, all that remained was the hollow and noisy version: a parade of polyester costumes, artificial sweets, and perfectly rehearsed selfies. What once honored the mystery of death had transformed into a silent competition for likes. There was no more reverence, just consumption. Just another holiday that had lost its meaning.
Draco Malfoy, for instance, was his most overtly elitist and detestable classmate. He spent the entire year mocking the D&D club for being “Geeky freaks”, but on Halloween he would appear with his face painted like the Joker — striking dramatic poses as if he’d invented originality itself. As if mocking anyone different hadn’t been his favourite sport for the other 364 days of the year.
And, of course, there was the tiny detail — the sort of “tiny detail” that ruins a holiday entirely: his parents had died on Halloween. Hard to enjoy the date after that, even with all the chocolate in the world trying to help.
Harry stared out of the bus window at the decorated houses, each one seeming to compete for some secret prize titled Who Can Waste the Most Electricity. He adjusted his earphones and put on Tear in My Heart — because if there was one thing he could be (besides deathly boring), he could be someone with excellent taste in music.
Unfortunately, just as Tyler Joseph reached the best part of the chorus — She’s the tear in my heart… — his delightful (and sometimes unbearable) best friend Hermione appeared, tugged the the cable from your headphones free, and cut off his moody reflection.
“I don’t know why you still use that ancient thing,” she grumbled, tossing her rucksack onto his lap and dropping down beside him — completely unaware of the twig tangled in one of her braids. “I gave you brand-new Bluetooth ones for your birthday.”
“And they still fall out of my ears,” Harry replied, reaching up to remove the twig with the practised care of someone who had saved her hair from far worse disasters. “And, you know… I don’t trust Bluetooth. Anything that sends information through the air shouldn’t sit that close to someone’s brain.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow — half amused, half exasperated. A faint blush crept into her cheeks.
“Faisca tried to escape again,” she muttered, and Harry promptly flicked the twig out the window.
“Again? That beast needs an ankle monitor.”
“He’d rather that than live with you, Wi-Fi paranoid,” she shot back. “Honestly, you spend three hours playing online games every night and then worry about radiation? Hypocrite.”
Harry sighed, folding his arms. He knew better than to argue — but irritating Hermione was practically a hobby.
Besides, he truly despised those neon-green headphones she’d given him. Their box was still untouched, buried deep in a desk drawer since the day he received them.
Too guilty to throw a gift away.
Too ashamed to give them to someone bold enough to wear them.
“Faisca still hasn’t settled into the new place?”
“Settle? He tried to climb the curtains and launch himself at his own reflection. I think he sees himself as a misunderstood predator.”
Harry smirked.
“Definitely the right cat for you, ’Mione.”
Hermione Granger was one of Harry’s favourite people on earth — and completely unhinged.
The brightest in their year, of course. The sort of person who earned top marks even in History with Professor Binns — who was so ancient and creaky that he might very well be a corporeal ghost who simply died mid-lesson and then stood up when the bell rang to carry on as if nothing had happened.
Hermione had a kind of brilliance that looped round itself too fast, like it might fling off its axis at any moment. For instance: she genuinely believed she was restoring cosmic balance by taking in every stray animal that crossed her path.
Harry personally suspected she just had trouble saying “no” to anything with fur and sad eyes.
This “noble philosophy” lived in the small flat she shared with her mum and six other cats — above a café called Sugared & Even Sweeter. One of its residents was Faisca: an orange cat with the spiritual energy of a vengeful deity, notorious for yowling at three in the morning and terrifying any unsuspecting visitor.
Hermione adored him.
Harry feared him.
“Anyway…” Hermione began, digging through her bag for something. “Are you coming to the meeting tonight?”
Harry sighed, ready for the argument.
“You know I’m not. My aunt and uncle—”
“Hate you going out at night because they’re religious fanatics and think you’ll be possessed by a demon if you step outside after six,” she finished for him, rolling her eyes in perfect synchrony with his. “Honestly, it’s absurd. It’s still a week until Halloween! What are they going to do until then — keep you under house arrest?”
“Probably,” Harry said with a shrug. He didn’t bother arguing anymore. The Dursleys had disliked him from the moment he was dumped on their doorstep, after his parents died. Still, he tried to be grateful: they fed him and let him have a room of his own. Harry read enough books to know things could be worse.
“Harry!” Hermione shrieked, as the hefty tome she’d finally fished out smacked straight into his arm.
“Ow!” He clutched the sore spot. “Have you any idea how much that thing weighs? Two kilos, at least!”
“You have to convince them!” she said, folding her arms, resolute. “Tonight we’re starting the part where Lowen discovers the manuscript! It’s going to be brilliant, Harry — you can’t miss it!”
Every Friday evening, Harry, Hermione, and a few friends from the book club gathered to read aloud and perform the characters — like improvised theatre. Embarrassing, obviously, but Harry adored it.
Even so, he couldn’t go. Hermione already knew that.
Whenever Halloween approached, the Dursleys became… different. Paranoid.
That week, he was forbidden to leave the house after sunset, and Harry knew — from a very young age — that disobeying never ended well.
Missing a reading night wasn’t the end of the world. He could join by voice call. Hermione was overreacting. He told her exactly that.
She, however, refused to accept his lack of outrage.
“You don’t get it,” she insisted. “We need you there. Your reading makes everything come alive — the others will be disappointed…” She leaned closer, eyes shining with earnest hope. “We could reschedule earlier, it’ll be quick! Your aunt and uncle won’t even notice you’ve gone. Please, Harry. Come with us—”
“Hermione…” he began, already sensing defeat approaching.
She took hold of his arm, fixing him with the most shamelessly pleading expression anyone had ever attempted.
“Please, Haz.”
Harry let out a sigh of pure surrender. She knew exactly what she was doing — and how unfair it was.
“All right,” he muttered, beaten. “But we start at seven. I’m back home by eight, at the very latest. Got it, ’Mione?”
The smile she gave him in return was almost enough to justify the scolding — and the likely week without his phone — that he’d face if his aunt and uncle discovered the plan.
They talked for a little longer about the details for that evening and then, as usual, drifted comfortably back into their own worlds: Hermione with her nose buried in a book; Harry lost behind a wall of music.
Their friendship was one of the best parts of Harry’s life.
They could talk for hours, or sit beside each other in complete silence — and still understand one another perfectly.
Harry, who had grown up as “the strange orphan boy”, had never been good at making friends. He was genuinely grateful for her.
The rest of the school day went exactly as he’d predicted: dull, airless, and narrated by teachers who seemed to communicate solely in sleep frequencies.
He dozed his way through History and Geography and only woke up properly when the Physics teacher threatened a surprise test.
At three o’clock, he caught the bus home — and nearly suffered a minor heart attack when he opened the living-room door to find his cousin, Dudley — shirtless and idiotic as ever — in front of the television, accompanied by his equally insufferable friend Peter Jackson, who was attempting a painfully inaccurate impression of Led Zeppelin.
When the music hit a dramatic pause, Dudley hurled a cushion at him.
Harry ducked just in time and took off up the stairs, determined to erase that mental image before it scarred permanently.
Dudley attended an expensive private school in town and was on “half-term break”, which, in his mind, granted full permission to do whatever he pleased around the house while his parents were at work.
It was hell.
But Harry had learned how to survive: lock the bedroom door, put his earphones in, and only emerge when it was time to make dinner. Which was precisely what he did that afternoon.
His aunt and uncle arrived home by five, which meant Harry needed to be in the kitchen by half four.
Dudley had never so much as touched a saucepan — and honestly, with that amoeba-sized brain of his, Harry believed the idiot could probably burn a boiled egg.
So the cooking fell to Harry.
He didn’t mind. In fact, he rather enjoyed it.
That day, he queued up one of his favourite podcasts — My Favorite Murder. A Halloween special about a serial killer who collected victims’ hair to create costumes and sell them. As the hosts chatted cheerfully about horrors no one should feel cheerful about, Harry began preparing roast beef with vegetables and pumpkin mash (the pumpkins were on sale that week, after all).
His aunt and uncle walked through the door just as he was taking the meat out of the oven.
Petunia Dursley worked as a realtor. She was pointy in every conceivable way — sharp nose, long chin — and carried an outdated elegance, always dressed as if she’d stepped straight out of an eighties perfume advert.
Vernon, on the other hand, was enormous — the sort of man who needed to have his clothes specially tailored because no shop dared attempt the challenge.
Both were unbearable at the dinner table.
Petunia, because she barely ate.
Vernon, because he ate far too much.
Harry had learned to calculate portions with surgical precision: too little and no one got enough; too much and he’d be lectured about wastefulness.
Bracing himself for the daily criticism, Harry watched his aunt take a seat.
Petunia inspected her plate with unsettling scrutiny — and, to everyone’s surprise, seemed pleased. She looked up and gave him a curt nod.
That was the signal.
As if they’d all been holding their breath, the Dursleys — Harry and Jackson included — clasped their hands and murmured a short, routine prayer before starting to eat.
During dinner, the radio on the kitchen shelf stayed on. It was one of Petunia’s traditions — she claimed she liked “keeping informed”, though Harry suspected the truth was that she couldn’t be bothered to open a newspaper or watch the evening news.
The reports were rarely interesting. They lived in a quiet, boring town where the most thrilling event in months had been when Ethan — a Year 13 lad — got off his face drunk, streaked through the central park, and flung his pants directly onto the face of the city’s founding-father statue, which, inconveniently, was protected heritage.
Aside from that, the radio droned on about supermarket offers and petty thefts. Harry usually tuned it out.
But that evening, the announcer’s grave tone made him glance up from his plate.
“Last night, at around ten o’clock, police were called to investigate suspicious activity at the old Riddle mansion on the north hill. Upon arrival, officers found the property vandalised, with walls covered in graffiti and symbols of yet unknown nature. Three teenagers were caught on-site and remain in custody. Authorities are investigating a possible connection to other cases of vandalism reported in the region in recent weeks.”
“I heard about that. Bernes told me this morning. It was those idiots — Mickey, Steve, and Bill!” Peter groaned, mouth full of mash, spraying crumbs across the table.
Dudley roared with laughter.
“Seriously? Those losers must’ve wet themselves.”
“Language, Dudley!” Petunia snapped, her voice sharper than a carving knife. She leaned forward, curiosity betraying her disapproval. “What exactly were they doing in that dreadful house?”
Peter straightened, grin spreading.
“Oh, you know, auntie,” he began, draping an arm over the back of her chair. “Sort of an initiation ritual, yeah? Freshers have to go inside, sign the wall, take a photo… proof of courage. Tradition. Man stuff.”
Dudley shoved him before he could finish, and Peter nearly toppled out of his seat.
“They’re still doing that nonsense?” Vernon asked, one of his sideburns twitching. “In my day, some fool nearly got himself killed in that place.”
Petunia, meanwhile, was turning red.
“‘Tradition’?” she repeated, voice climbing half an octave. “That’s what imbeciles say when they want to justify stupidity! Breaking into abandoned property, vandalism, getting arrested!” She slapped her napkin onto the table. “I should hope my Dudley would never take part in something so idiotic!”
Dudley gulped. Peter shrank into his seat.
Harry just kept eating, hiding a smirk. Watching his cousin get scolded directly in front of him was always a delight.
Still, the story didn’t rattle him. He’d heard it all before.
Every Halloween, the upper-year students dared the younger ones to spend the night in the old Riddle mansion — a decrepit estate clinging to the slope of Little Hangleton. The place had been abandoned so long that it practically was local history.
They said it was haunted, of course. There was always someone swearing they’d seen lights in the windows, heard footsteps upstairs, or felt a cold chill “not of this world”. Harry doubted every word.
Risking your life to prove your “manliness” to a bunch of loud idiots who confused recklessness with bravery? Not his style.
If there was anything truly terrifying about that tradition, it was how easily people believed in absolute rubbish.
After dinner, Harry marched upstairs to his room — same as every night — making sure to shut the door loudly enough for the Dursleys to hear.
The plan was simple. Convincing, even.
No one ever checked what he did once he locked himself inside his room. As long as the familiar click of the lock echoed through the house, the Dursleys seemed perfectly content to pretend he simply… ceased to exist.
Escaping wouldn’t be hard.
Being caught would.
And with the Dursleys, being caught never ended pretty.
So he turned on his laptop, queued up a marathon of his three favorite horror movies, and set the volume at a carefully calculated level — loud enough that, if anyone came close, it would sound like just another one of his weird Friday nights.
There was still half an hour before he could leave.
Harry pressed his ear against the door, waiting for the familiar sound of the TV in the living room. That was the sign the Dursley trio had entered their “perfect American family” mode: early dinner, snoring on the couch, pretending life was flawless.
The bedroom window faced the backyard — the opposite side of the living room — which made it his escape route.
The least fun part of the plan.
Harry wasn’t exactly athletic. The closest he’d ever come to physical activity was a disastrous game of cricket with Ron’s family during summer break. So balancing on the window frame and reaching the tree branch ahead required coordination, flexibility, and a level of luck bordering on divine intervention.
By some miracle, he made it down without breaking his neck.
Getting back in later?
That was Future Harry’s problem.
Autumn was nearly over, the wind already carrying that metallic taste of winter, and the sky — drowned in charcoal shades — looked ready to collapse.
Fortunately, as much as the Dursleys despised Halloween, their neighbors did not. The streets were so bright it seemed impossible to get lost — or noticed.
He hopped over the Moores’ short fence, kept close to the hedges, and followed the main road.
If he wasn’t already used to the absurdly realistic decorations in the neighborhood, the severed head he stumbled upon in Mrs. Lewis’s front yard would have given him a heart attack.
The walk to Hermione’s apartment took just over twenty minutes. The town was small and quiet, and the creepiest stretch was the one past the abandoned lot of the old Riddle mansion. The windows there seemed to watch him as he walked — exactly the kind of thing he told himself was just a lapse in sanity and an overactive imagination after too many murder documentaries.
Thankfully, Hermione's building — above the café Honeyed & Ever Sweeter — stood out from all the rest: no cobwebs, no zombies, no strobe lights calling for alien abduction.
Hermione’s mom was from a small town in the Mexican countryside, where they celebrated Día de los Muertos instead of Halloween.
So the café’s decorations followed a completely different vibe: brightly painted skulls, scented candles burning on the tables, delicate orange petals scattered with care, and the aroma of cinnamon blending with freshly brewed coffee.
Nothing plastic. Nothing cheap. Just that quiet kind of beauty that honored the dead instead of mocking them.
Harry liked that place.
There was something warm about it — as if every sound, every scent, every flicker of light whispered: you can breathe here.
Helena was behind the counter when Harry walked in. The sweet smell of coffee and cinnamon floated around the room, carried by a soft old song playing on the radio.
He gave her a smile and greeted her before heading to the stairs.
“Buenas noches, querido. Good to see you,” Helena said, her light accent and warm grin brightening the room even more.
Her warm skin and lively eyes gave her a youthful look. She wore a simple white dress adorned with colorful necklaces, and her curly hair sat in a messy bun on top of her head.
“I thought your uncle and aunt wouldn’t let you come tonight,” she said, raising a brow.
Harry leaned his elbow on the counter.
"Well, I won't tell if you don't, ma'am."
Helena laughed, wiping her hands on a cloth over her shoulder.
“Mi hija is really a bad influence on you, querido,” she said, shaking her head with unmistakable pride. “But don’t worry. My mouth is a grave.”
Harry smiled and turned to go upstairs when she called after him.
“Oh, and Harry?”
He looked back.
“Don’t call me ma’am.” She winked. “Ma’am is in heaven.”
Harry let out a small laugh.
“Noted, Helena.”
Halfway up the stairs, he nearly died. A black cat appeared out of thin air on the last step, crossing his path with the precision of a feline assassin. For a second, he lost his balance and almost tumbled back down.
Good thing he didn’t believe in that old black-cat-bad-luck superstition.
Still, he shot the animal a suspicious look.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
The cat blinked. Completely unbothered.
Harry sighed, scooped the furry menace under his arm, and used his free hand to knock on the door.
Hermione opened almost instantly, grinning. She wore a Fall Out Boy T-shirt, a long black skirt, and no shoes. Her hair was tied up in a bun that defied physics.
“Finally!” she said, grabbing his arm and yanking him inside. “I see you found Sirius on the way up.”
Harry raised a brow and handed her the cat, who looked perfectly content nestled against his chest.
“Found him, yes. Survived the encounter, barely. He almost sent me falling to my death.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“You’re so dramatic,” she said, lifting the cat to eye level. “Right, sweetie? You just wanted to say hi and show some love, didn’t you, Sirius?”
The cat meowed softly and glanced at Harry — a dirty trick if Harry had ever seen one. He was sure the feline had learned that from its owner.
He sighed, defeated, and gently scratched the little menace’s head.
“Fine, you win, tiny reaper.”
Hermione smirked, and the cat purred like it knew.
“Harry, mate! You actually managed to escape the dungeon?” Ron called out as soon as Harry collapsed onto the couch with a blissful sigh.
“Yeah.” Harry threw an arm over the backrest. “It was rough. Nearly died. Twice.”
“We would’ve paid your ransom,” Ginny said from the floor beside the coffee table — she was painting Luna’s nails with ridiculous focus. “But since our parents cap our allowance at fifty bucks a week… you probably would’ve died anyway.”
Harry raised a brow, and Ginny lifted the polish brush in a theatrical apology.
“Hello, Harry,” Luna greeted, looking up, voice soft and airy as always. “I would pay your ransom.”
“Hi, Luna.” He chuckled. “Good to know I have one loyal friend left.”
Before he could say another word, something smacked the top of his head.
“Ow!” he yelped, clutching the spot she’d struck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione lowering the book she’d used as a weapon and settling beside him on the arm of the sofa — serene, unbothered, thoroughly unapologetic.
“Could you please stop using me as your personal punching bag?” he grumbled.
“Sorry,” Hermione said, placing a dramatic hand over her heart. “It’s stronger than me.”
Harry narrowed his eyes in challenge, but she merely stuck her tongue out before he could retaliate. Then, lifting the book again, she cast her gaze over the gathered group.
“Let’s get on with it,” she declared, voice crisp with the ease of someone who had naturally assumed command. “We’ve postponed long enough. Ginny, grab your book. We left off right when Lowen finds the manuscript. And we’d better be quick, before the brownies I made are done.”
“The ones with passion fruit sauce?” Ron asked, stretching over Harry, hope spreading across his face.
Hermione smiled, pleased with the effect.
“Exactly those.”
“I truly adore you, ’Mione,” he declared, full of theatrical devotion.
Hermione’s flat was the sort of place that felt like it had a soul of its own.
The living room — wide and welcoming — blended into the kitchen, divided only by a counter cluttered with books and forgotten coffee mugs. A spacious purple sofa claimed the centre of the room, strewn with bright orange cushions that clashed delightfully with a green rug patterned like something out of the Victorian era. On the coffee table sat stacks of old magazines and a half-melted candle, its scent of vanilla and cinnamon softening the air.
Luna and Ginny sank into the deep navy pouffes, exchanging conspiratorial glances as the lights were dimmed and the curtains drawn.
Hermione brought out a small flashlight — the single point of light — and set it on the table. The warm glow lit only their faces, casting the rest of the room into a comfortable, almost magical dusk.
Harry pulled his own copy from his backpack and rested it on his knees, watching the quiet ritual of his friends doing the same.
Hermione, looking rather like a priestess on the verge of chanting a spell, chose a low, haunting track on her phone — slow violins, a distant piano — and began to read, her voice low and spellbinding:
“What you are about to read will sometimes taste so foul you’ll want to spit it out. But you’ll swallow these words until they become part of you, until they hurt. And even with that generous warning… you’ll keep consuming my words. Because that is who you are.”
A brief pause — just long enough for everyone to hold their breath.
“Human. Curious. Do carry on.”
Luna lifted her head and murmured, voice deep and enchanted:
“Find what you love and let it destroy you.”
No one laughed. No one commented.
They read and performed the characters, their voices intertwining with the music and the flicker of light. For a moment, they weren’t Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Luna.
They were the voices in the book. Creatures breathing through ink.
Harry kept his gaze on the page, his voice low and threaded with emotion as he read his lines:
“I needed to please him. To be the reason he smiled, breathed, got out of bed in the morning. And for a while, I was. He loved me more than anything. I was his only reason to live. Until the day he discovered something that mattered more than me.”
At that instant, a loud, booming laugh shattered the silence so abruptly that all five of them nearly leapt from their seats.
Ginny let out an awkward giggle, grabbing her phone and jabbing at the screen.
“Sorry, everyone. Mum texted.”
Hermione pulled a face and stood, marching towards the light switch. The moment the lights came on, Harry blinked rapidly against the brightness, while Luna made a small noise of disappointment.
“You know, Gin,” she muttered, tucking her hair behind her ear, “that ringtone is going to stop my heart one day.”
“It’s not even that creepy,” Ginny protested indignantly.
“Well… splendid way to ruin the mood,” Ron muttered, stretching and leaving his book face-down on his leg. “We were finally getting to the good bit.”
Harry laughed and stood.
“We can at least take a break for food first, mate.”
Everyone agreed with a chorus of mumbled approval and shuffled towards the kitchen, sprawling lazily around the counter.
Hermione opened the oven, and a sweet wave of heat rushed out — chocolate and passion fruit swirling into the faint music still playing.
The brownies were still steaming. She poured the golden sauce over them with almost ceremonial concentration. It was her mum’s recipe — and considering Helena Granger was the best cook Harry had ever encountered, claiming these brownies were the best in the world wasn’t an exaggeration. At least not in the northern hemisphere.
Ron snatched a piece while it was still scorching, ignoring Hermione’s warning.
“Ow!” he complained, flapping his tongue. “Worth it.”
Harry chuckled, leaning against the counter. As the chatter began to quiet, Ron — between one bite and the next — spoke up:
“You lot heard about those idiots who got caught sneaking into the Riddle mansion again?”
Harry grimaced.
“Yeah, it was in the papers,” he said, propping his elbow on the counter. “The Dursleys were going on about it earlier.”
“Wish I’d seen it,” Ginny said through a mouthful of brownie, grabbing a second piece. “Your aunt must’ve had a full-on meltdown.”
Harry gave a half-smile, but Hermione huffed, arms crossed.
“I still can’t believe anyone would actually leave their house just to break into a private property in the middle of the night,” Hermione said, with that same judgemental tone their English Literature teacher used after reading one of Harry’s essays. “I mean… aside from being illegal, it’s unbelievably dangerous.”
“Oh, but it’s rather fun,” Luna commented, shrugging as though discussing the weather. “My cousin Jacks says the later it is, the more fireflies you can see.”
The group stared at her in collective bewilderment.
“Honestly, Luna,” Ginny sighed. “No wonder you’re terrified of my ringtone.”
“I simply don’t like loud noises,” Luna replied serenely, and went back to licking chocolate off her spoon.
Harry cleared his throat, steering them back.
“Anyway…” He turned to Hermione. “You must know what really happened in that house. Why it’s been abandoned so long? I realised I’ve never heard the full story.”
Hermione arched a brow, headed to the fridge, and pulled out a jug of cold water.
“You think I’m a walking encyclopaedia?”
Harry stared pointedly.
She sighed, poured herself a glass, and sat.
“Of course I know,” she said, as if it were obvious.
The others automatically leaned in across the counter, expectant. Hermione waited for silence before beginning — calm, precise, as she always was when explaining something important:
“The Riddle family was murdered around eighty years ago,” she began. “Three generations wiped out — even the servants, the gardener and the dog. It was the most brutal crime ever recorded in the area. The reports described the bodies as ‘unrecognisable’, which is a polite way of saying they were in pieces.”
Ron’s eyes widened.
“Bloody hell. Who did it?”
Hermione shook her head.
“No one ever found out. The official investigation lasted months, but no arrests. The family was filthy rich — owned half the farmland and most of the local business. Some think it was envy, others say revenge. There are theories that Mr Riddle was drowning in debt, and it was… a very literal kind of collection.”
Harry frowned.
“So why leave the house abandoned? If everyone died, someone should’ve sold the land, right?”
Hermione rested her chin on her hand, thoughtful.
“Apparently not. The land is still registered under the Riddle family name,” she said. “And the strange part — the taxes are paid every year. Anonymous cheques, sent straight to the council. None of them ever bounce.”
The silence that followed had weight.
“How do you know all this?” Ginny asked, eyebrow raised.
Hermione shrugged, a ghost of a smug smile touching her mouth.
“Council records are public. And, well… I’m curious.” She took a sip of water and added, dryly: “Some people binge True Crime. I conduct database cross-referencing.”
Harry let out a nervous laugh — but said nothing.
For some reason, the name Riddle felt heavier than it ought to.
Harry had passed that abandoned manor countless times but had never cared enough to learn the real story. And although he devoured horror films and podcasts about serial killers, even he had limits — and that particular story gave him shivers he couldn’t quite explain.
After they ate, the group returned to their shared reading. They didn’t get far, though: not long after, Harry had to leave.
So far, his aunt and uncle hadn’t called in a rage, but he decided not to push his luck. He said his goodbyes, promised he’d be back the next day, and slipped out.
The street was quieter than before.
That was the trouble with small towns — after eight o’clock, everything seemed to shut down. Window lights faded one by one, and the chill of early autumn stung his cheeks.
To distract himself, Harry put his headphones in and let a soft song play — something gentle to fill the emptiness.
As he walked, he noticed the house decorations.
He passed a front garden with a dummy hanging from a tree, simulating a man being hanged; another window where paper cut-outs pressed their hands against the glass, as though begging for help; and a vast lawn filled with plastic animals — wolves, crows and deer — arranged around an eight-pointed star, ringed with flickering candles. They looked as though they were in the midst of some ritual.
Harry swallowed hard and quickened his pace.
Crossing the main road, he took the shortcut through the grounds of the old Riddle house — only to realise how deserted the street had become.
That part of town had always made him uneasy.
There was just one lonely streetlamp, casting a weak yellow pool of light. And atop the hill, motionless and silent, the Riddle mansion stared down at him — or so he felt.
Abandoned. Not a single lamp lit. No Halloween decorations. No noise. No movement.
Only darkness.
Oddly enough, though it was one of the few houses without any decoration, that place was far more frightening than all the others combined.
Harry pulled out his phone, forcing himself to look away from the mansion and pretending to be deeply focused on his screen. He was just about to press play when a scream tore through the night.
Loud. Human. Terrified.
He jolted so violently he nearly dropped his phone.
His heart took off at a sprint and, instinctively, he looked up — just in time to see a figure hurtling towards him.
A dirt-streaked face came into view, soaked in tears and scratched raw. It was a boy — younger than Harry — and before he could react, the child grabbed his arm with an iron grip.
The fingers trembled. The wide eyes were drowned in panic.
“Please…” he gasped, voice ragged and nearly stolen by the wind. “He’s coming!”
For a moment, Harry could only stare.
His own breath sounded too loud, like it echoed.
“Hey, slow down,” he said, trying to pull his arm free. “Who’s coming?”
The boy darted a look over his shoulder, gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the hill.
His breathing was sharp and broken — as though he’d been running for miles.
“He… he was inside…” the boy stammered. “In the house. I swear I saw—”
Harry followed his gaze, but all he saw was the silhouette of the Riddle mansion, black against a bruised sky. No light. No sound. Just wind scraping dead leaves along the road and making the wrought-iron gate groan faintly.
“You went in there?” Harry asked, incredulous.
The boy nodded, trembling.
“It was a dare. Me and my mates… but they legged it when… when the lights came on.”
Harry frowned.
“Lights?”
“Upstairs.” The boy’s voice was a thread of sound. “And someone… someone laughed.”
The silence that followed was so complete a distant cricket sounded like an alarm.
Harry felt goosebumps prickle from his neck to his wrists.
The boy suddenly released him and stumbled back, eyes locked on something behind Harry.
“It’s him…” he whispered — then bolted down the hill.
Harry spun round so fast he almost fell. A cold gust swept past, whipping leaves round his trainers.
No one.
The house stood there, motionless, silent — as though mocking the very idea it could ever move. No lit windows. No sound, save the faint rustle of trees. For a brief second, Harry nearly laughed — a nervous, weak sound that refused to come out.
Maybe the kid was just playing tricks. Some students trying to spook the locals.
But then, something inside him froze.
Every hair on his body stood on end, as if the air itself had changed.
And that was when he heard it.
A voice.
Low, soft — almost sung — so close it felt as though it bloomed from inside his ear:
“What’s this…?”
Harry froze.
From the corner of his sight, a shape began to form: pale and translucent, as if the air was folding around it.
Pale skin. Hollowed eyes, ringed with soot-dark shadows.
And a smile.
Cruel. Lazy. Mocking.
Harry’s heart skipped a beat.
He tried to move. To breathe. Anything.
But his body simply refused.
And in that moment — the gate creaking in the distance, the air buzzing around him — he understood:
He was very close to a heart attack.