The curse seed sank into the earth, buried under altar fragments. It grew fast, roots digging deep, sprouting into a plain weed in moments. Soon, flowers and grass bloomed around it, hiding the ritual's traces. The clearing looked normal, as if no dark magic had ever touched it.
But any skilled wizard could sense a faint dark magic trace lingering. Gavin's notes had warned of this, and Sean was ready. He pulled out two potion vials, sprinkling one over the ground to erase the dark magic's scent. The other he poured over himself, cleansing his own aura.
With the Disillusionment Charm cast, Sean's form blurred, and he sprinted toward the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade, leaving no trace behind.
In the Slytherin common room, Tarquin Hunter lay in bed, usually deep in sleep. But tonight, he tossed and turned, his breaths loud and ragged. Sweat coated his body, fine beads glistening on his skin, soaking his sheets.
A silver rune, evil and strange, glowed faintly on his chest. It shrank to the size of a thumb, then burrowed into his flesh like a seed, planting itself deep in his heart, silent and unseen.
Tarquin's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and wild. His lips cracked, dry as dust. Sweat dripped down his cheeks as he gasped, "Am I sick?"
He threw off the quilt, not noticing its damp weight, and stumbled to the bathroom. Splashing water on his face, he glanced at the mirror and froze. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his skin dull and gray, his lips peeling. He looked worse than after a beating.
"What's happening?" he muttered.
"I'll go to the hospital tomorrow…"
Tarquin washed his face again, exhaustion pulling at him. Ignoring the soaked bed, he collapsed onto it and fell back into a heavy sleep.
The next morning, Tarquin woke feeling strong, as if the night's sickness was a dream. After stretching, his body felt light and ready. He skipped the hospital, changed clothes, and left the common room. Mannan and Jidin's defeat by Sean had shocked him. If the Squib's son wouldn't bend, Tarquin was ready to take harsher steps. A Hogwarts diploma meant little to him—a family heir needed no certificate. Expulsion wouldn't stop him.
At breakfast in the Great Hall, Tarquin sat with Dorian, eating oatmeal. He glanced at Sean across the room, sneered, and looked away, his mind plotting.
After breakfast, Tarquin dragged through classes, barely listening. By afternoon, as the sun dipped low, a deep tiredness hit him. Without a second thought, he returned to his room, lay down, and never rose again.
In Tarquin's room, Dumbledore, Snape, and Madam Pomfrey stood by his bed. Madam Pomfrey examined his body, her face grim, then shook her head. "Dumbledore, this child died of illness, like an old man at life's end. His body looks young, but his organs aged terribly, especially his heart. It failed, like in middle-aged folk with bad habits."
Dumbledore studied Tarquin's body, his gaze lingering on the chest. "Madam Pomfrey, any signs of magic?"
She understood his meaning. "I've seen many injuries at Hogwarts. I can't swear there's no magic involved, but I found no trace of it."
"I trust your skill," Dumbledore said.
Madam Pomfrey nodded, then added, "In our world, some children die young from organ failure, especially hearts. Muggles see it more often. I think this boy…"
She didn't finish, but Dumbledore and Snape caught her drift.
"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore said. "We'll take him now. It's not right to leave him here. I'll handle notifying his parents and the aftermath."
"Yes, Dumbledore," she replied.
Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey removed Tarquin's body, while Snape stayed to calm the Slytherin students, though few seemed to need it.
The matter seemed settled.
In Dumbledore's office, Snape stood before him. "Severus, how was Mr. Hunter?"
"Tarquin Hunter was a pure-blood fanatic, deep into dark arts," Snape said. "If Voldemort were at school, Hunter would've been a Death Eater, no question. He admired Voldemort and cursed Muggle-borns in secret."
"You don't seem fond of him," Dumbledore noted.
Snape's eyes flickered, then stilled. "I don't like him, or any pure-blood fanatics like him."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Thank you, Severus. I'll take it from here."
Gavin's notes held many curses, but Sean picked the hardest one. It needed Tarquin's teeth, hair, and blood, plus fresh blood from a powerful magical creature like a unicorn. These complex steps and long preparations ensured the curse stayed hidden.
It struck only at night and could only be spotted during its first attack. When Tarquin woke, sweating and weak, that was his only chance to survive. If he'd gone to Madam Pomfrey then, she might have found the curse.
Even if she did, without finding Sean's ritual site and destroying the curse seed, Tarquin couldn't be saved. Magic might keep him alive, but he'd be bedridden forever.
When Sean finished the curse and slipped back to the Slytherin common room, he knew Tarquin was no longer a threat. Standing in the room's shadows, he realized he fit Slytherin perfectly—more than Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff.
In the common room's corner, Sean watched Tarquin's body being carried away. He mirrored the confused students around him, his face showing just the right mix of worry and shock.
Blaise Zabini stood beside him, glancing at Sean's act. "Nice expression," he whispered.
"I've got six more years here," Sean murmured. "Gotta play nice when it counts."
Blaise paused, then asked softly, "This past month, all your sneaking around… was it for this?"
Sean wasn't shocked that Blaise guessed. Blaise knew him well, saw through his calm front. Though he acted carefree, Blaise kept things close, never showing his full hand.
Sean trusted him. He nodded. "I planned a bit. Looks like it worked."
Blaise gave a small nod. "Keep it quiet. Don't tell anyone else. I'll forget this happened, like it never did."
"Thanks," Sean said.
"No need for that between us," Blaise replied.
They shared a quick smile, then dropped the topic.
By morning, word of Tarquin's death spread through Hogwarts, pinned on a sudden illness. That afternoon, the Hunter family arrived, taking his body. Wizards they hired poked around, searching for foul play.
They found nothing. If Dumbledore, Snape, and Madam Pomfrey couldn't crack it, others had no chance. The curse's secrecy hid it too well. It was hard to spot before death, impossible after.
Sean gained new respect for Gavin's notes and the magic they held. He grew curious about his grandfather, who wrote such powerful spells but left no trace of his own life in the pages.
Late at night, Sean shut the notes and set them aside, ready for sleep. Harry and his friends were moving closer to the trapdoor, he sensed. But they'd likely wait until after exams. Until then, Sean could ease up, focus on school. He wanted strong grades in key subjects, especially Potions.
Eyes closed, Sean drifted off.
In Hogsmeade, a figure stepped through the foggy streets. Dumbledore approached the Hog's Head Inn, his face heavy with guilt, regret, and a flicker of hope.
He didn't enter. Standing outside, he waved his wand. Golden sand swirled from thin air, pooling before the inn's door.
The sand spun, flashing scenes like a sped-up film. Dumbledore turned his hand, speeding the images until they showed Tarquin's beating. He clenched his fist, freezing the scene.
With a slow wave, the images played normally. Dumbledore guided them, spotting a drunkard—Sean in Polyjuice Potion—picking up Tarquin's bloodied tooth before fleeing.
"So it's true," Dumbledore whispered.
He waved again, and the golden sand traced the drunkard's path. It showed Sean shift into a Hogwarts girl, then a boy. But as Dumbledore pushed further, the sand collapsed, its magic failing.
Staring at the spot where the trail died, Dumbledore sighed. "Magic has limits. Multiple Polyjuice shifts muddled his aura. The backtracking spell can't follow. If he's an outsider, fine. But if he's a student, is he tied to Quirrell? If not, who is he, and why kill Hunter?"