Old Avery could hardly believe what was happening.
He lay half-collapsed over the table, staring in stunned horror as blood spread across the polished surface, seeping into the wood grain, soaking into the collar of his elegant robes with a foul metallic stench.
"You—" He tried to speak, but the words dissolved on his tongue.
The situation was simply too absurd.
A measly shopkeeper—an insignificant stall owner from Diagon Alley—had dared stab him through the hand in the middle of a pure-blood banquet?
Did this fool have any idea what he was doing?
Rage surged through Avery, hot enough to dull the agony in his palm. He reached with his free hand, intending to yank out the blade and make this pig of a man pay—
But—
Another violent crack rang out.
A second gleaming table knife plunged downward like a hunting vulture, pinning his other hand to the table.
The force, combined with Avery's own movement, tore his palm open from side to side.
Blood gushed everywhere, spraying across his face, tinting his vision red.
"Wha—what are you doing?!"
Slughorn finally snapped out of his shock—between the Dark Mark outside and the bloodshed beside him, he had been frozen. He fumbled for his wand inside his robes.
°Stupefy°
Dawn didn't even look at him. He didn't draw a wand. He simply spoke the spell softly.
Slughorn froze mid-motion, eyes rolling back, and collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
Dust puffed upward. Avery's rage evaporated, replaced by a piercing dread. Even a fool could sense something was terribly wrong.
He lifted his head, trembling.
Through his blood-blurred vision, the face of "Jiggs"—grinning silently—tilted into view.
"Someone, anyone… notice this. Help me!" Avery began shouting, but it was useless.
The hall was in chaos—everyone's attention fixed firmly on the Dark Mark floating outside the castle.
"Silencing Charm, plus a Disillusionment Charm, and a scent-blocking charm," Dawn murmured casually. "A very practical combination."
"You—what are you doing?!" Avery's voice cracked. Sweat dripped down the side of his face into the pool of blood.
A sickening premonition washed over him.
"Mr. Avery."
He heard his name whispered through the pounding of his heart.
Metal scraped against porcelain.
Pinned to the table, Avery's limited field of view caught sight of a fat hand lifting a silver fork with absurd delicacy, as if performing some aristocratic ritual.
What is he going to do?!
Panic surged. Avery gritted his teeth, ready to push the knives out with brute force.
But before he could— A fist seized his hair.
His head was yanked violently upward.
"Mr. Avery," Dawn murmured, smiling faintly at the pale, sweaty face staring back at him. "Why did you have to make me angry?"
Silver light flashed.
A piercing whistle sliced through the air. When the fork reappeared from the blur—it was buried to the hilt in Avery's right eye.
"Ah—AH—AAAH—!"
Avery froze in disbelief, then the pain detonated through his skull—like every nerve in his brain was being ripped out one by one.
He shrieked, body convulsing, blindly slapping the table in an attempt to free his hands.
He had never experienced the Cruciatus Curse, but he knew, with absolute clarity, that surely the pain could not be much worse.
But his efforts were futile.
Dawn pressed firmly down on the knife handles, keeping both hands pinned.
Avery's wet screams mingled with drool and blood. He jerked uncontrollably.
And still—no one noticed.
The hall remained absorbed in their panic over the Dark Mark, oblivious to the horror unfolding just meters away.
Dawn chuckled, lifting his drink with one free hand and taking a slow sip.
The dim lighting reflected off the trembling handle of the fork.
Its polished surface shone brightly—bright enough to mirror a pair of eyes alight with twisted delight and swelling cruelty.
"Hah."
Dawn laughed openly.
He truly looked like a madman.
Mercurial. Unpredictable. Sadistic. Perhaps even more chaotic than Voldemort himself.
Colors in his vision blurred and blended, transforming the bleeding table into a glittering beach paved with ruby stones.
For a strange moment, Dawn recalled a dream about a game he once saw—Talking Tom. Strip away the cartoon filter, and it was basically a game about tormenting a small animal.
Millions had played it.
That didn't make them monsters.
When a person is separated from the world—watching through a glass screen—cruelty becomes entertainment. Pain becomes curiosity.
Maybe, Dawn thought, everything horrifying becomes harmless when viewed from far enough away.
He laughed harder, overcome with giddy delirium.
Between alcohol and the Anger Potion, the fragile thread tethering him to normality thinned almost to nothing.
Right now, Dawn was a child with a magnifying glass aimed at ants. A boy pulling a slingshot at sparrows.
He didn't think himself cruel.
He merely marveled at the way ants burned—or delighted in a perfect shot.
Still grinning, Dawn drained another glass.
Then—
As though testing a fun new idea— He pressed Avery's head down and began to twist the fork.
A sickening crunch echoed.
The eyeball contorted unnaturally, the pupil rotating grotesquely. Blood and murky fluid spurted out.
"AAAAAH!"
Avery's screams rose again, cracking with hysteria.
His face quivered violently. He dared not move—any shift dragged the fork deeper into his eye.
And in that agony, something clicked.
He recognized the man behind the disguise.
"Dawn—you're Dawn Richter?!"
Dawn smirked but didn't confirm or deny it. Instead, he leaned close and whispered, "Mr. Avery, I like the fear in your eyes. But it's not enough."
Without warning— A savage slam shook the table.
Avery's skull cracked against the wood, the fork's handle grinding deeper.
Bone scraped metal.
Dawn's fist clenched tighter in Avery's hair. Blood splattered across his borrowed face, making "Jiggs's" black eyes gleam a vivid, unnatural red.
"Why, Mr. Avery? Why make me angry? Why sling filth at me? Why try to frame me?"
He laughed—a high, manic sound.
But Avery couldn't respond anymore. His breath rasped shallowly; shock numbed his senses.
Another loud crack rang out.
Dawn released him, letting the limp head fall onto the table. He flicked sticky blood from his fingertips.
He checked the time.
He had to stop playing.
Dawn's plan with Jiggs was simple:
One hour into the banquet, he would raise a mock Dark Mark above Avery Manor, then flee via rapid Apparition before anyone could react.
It didn't need to be a true Death Eater's mark. Even a conjured illusion would be enough.
Dumbledore couldn't afford to assume it was harmless—not when Voldemort still had a functioning body.
He was guaranteed to investigate.
Which meant Dawn needed to act fast.
"Avery, I enjoyed myself," Dawn said softly. "You made me angry, but I won't kill you. I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself."
Avery was barely conscious. But Dawn knew wizards were hardy—he would live.
Bored now, Dawn stood, grabbed the unconscious Slughorn— And with a soft pop, Disapparated.
Moments later~
As Dawn's silencing and concealment charms faded, someone finally smelled the blood.
"Mr. Avery—Merlin's beard! What happened?!"
A scream split the hall.
People rushed to the table. Healers rummaged for potions.
Three bottles later, Avery's color improved—barely. The injuries weren't magical; painful, but treatable.
"Mr. Avery, who did this?" an Auror demanded.
Avery, panting, forced out the words, "I-It was Dawn Richter. He came for revenge. And he disguised himself as a fat man in purple robes—he kidnapped Professor Slughorn!"
The hall erupted.
"That boy? The one who attacked the savior and killed a professor?"
"He's that bold? I thought the papers exaggerated—but this—"
"And the Dark Mark—Merlin's beard, he must be tied to the Dark Lord!"
Whispers filled the hall.
Avery covered his ruined eye, shaking.
He did not hide Dawn's identity—not after what he'd endured. The boy was a lunatic. Protecting him would only bring destruction.
Somewhere nearby~
Rita Skeeter froze mid-photo.
She recalled the purple fat man watching her earlier—those strange red-rimmed eyes.
She shivered violently. "No way…"
In a darkened corner~
Dumbledore, newly returned and concealed by a Disillusionment Charm, heard Avery's words.
His expression hardened.
He was horrified by the brutality of his student.
"Mr. Jiggs," Dumbledore said softly, turning to the trembling shopkeeper beside him, "is there truly nothing you can tell me?"
"I—I can't, sir…" Jiggs whimpered, showing the glowing scar of the Unbreakable Vow.
Dumbledore sighed deeply.
The Unbreakable Vow… truly a dreadful magic.
"Then may I at least see your memories?"
"No, sir! I swore not to reveal anything—not intentionally or unintentionally! I can't!"
Another sigh.
Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had no leads.
Why would Dawn take Slughorn? If he wanted rare potions, that was one explanation—but it felt too simple.
Unable to reach an answer, he decided he would go to Slughorn's home to search.
But first—
"For your own safety, Mr. Jiggs," Dumbledore said gently, "you will stay at Hogwarts for a time."
"Yes! Of course! Anything you say!"
Jiggs looked relieved beyond measure.
After all, Dawn had used his face. Avery would surely seek vengeance—regardless of fault. Hogwarts was the safest place in Britain.
Dumbledore nodded.
He summoned Fawkes, who whisked Jiggs away in a burst of flame.
Then, with a soft crack, the headmaster vanished.
___________
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