Chapter 315: Accident
But after taking two steps, he stopped.
"Shanti!"
He called out, and another house-elf appeared with a pop.
"Hope, this is Shanti, a house-elf who grew up in the Black family. She'll take care of you during this time."
Phineas looked at Hope with a steady gaze and continued,
"Earlier, you didn't invite me into the house, and you served tea laced with verbena instead of regular tea. Are you on guard against vampires? Why? Have you been targeted by them, or have you provoked them?"
He paused, then added indifferently,
"It doesn't matter. I won't ask for the reason. Shanti was trained by me as a fighter. She will protect you while she takes care of your daily needs. I'll also place some protective enchantments around your house. Whatever your reasons may be, take this as my brother's compensation to you. Or, if you prefer, a gift from me—your uncle."
Only then did Hope realise—if what Phineas said was true, then she was his brother's daughter… which made him, younger than her as he seemed, her uncle?
Three days passed in a blur.
Phineas returned to Hope's door, knocking just as he had before—but this time, there was no response.
He frowned. He didn't believe Hope was ignoring him, nor that she wasn't home. Their last conversation had been pleasant. Even if Hope had forgotten the appointed day, Shanti certainly wouldn't have.
He knocked again, louder this time.
Crunch—
A door opened, but not Hope's. It was the door next to hers.
"Stop knocking. She's not home."
A young man about Hope's age stepped out. His complexion was pale, his eyes sunken, and his movements sluggish—clearly the result of indulgence and poor health.
"Not home?" Phineas asked, puzzled, then gave a faint, wry smile. This was Europe, after all, where neighborly bonds weren't strong, especially for someone like Hope, who lived alone in a detached house.
But how did her neighbor know she wasn't home?
The young man seemed ready to talk, his voice laced with a strange mix of resentment, jealousy, and mockery.
"She went out with two men last night. Always acts so aloof, but turns out she's that kind of woman. Ha!"
Went out with two men and didn't return?
Phineas's eyes narrowed. That wasn't like Hope—not from what Damon had told him, and not from what he'd observed himself. Something was wrong.
Without another word, he drew his wand and silently cast an unlocking charm.
Click.
The lock disengaged.
Phineas pushed the door open and entered. The tidy room from three days ago was now in disarray. A struggle had clearly taken place, though not a violent one. But where was Shanti?
Shanti wouldn't have left Hope unprotected—not with Phineas's orders and the enchantments he had placed on the house. Even if the spells weren't as strong as a Fidelius Charm, they should have hindered intruders.
He scanned the room, calling softly, "Shanti?"
No response.
He ascended the staircase, reaching the second floor—his first time seeing it.
The layout mirrored the first floor: a bathroom in the center, two smaller rooms in the rear, and a large bedroom at the front.
One of the small rooms was a study filled with books from both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. The other was clearly unused for some time—a childhood bedroom, judging by its pink decor.
The master bedroom was larger, adorned with oversized stuffed animals and pink netting. Phineas hadn't taken Hope for someone who liked such girlish things.
Then he saw it.
Shanti.
Her small body was in the bathtub. Someone had clearly moved her there intentionally.
Phineas's eyes burned. He'd suspected this might be the outcome—but seeing it made the loss real.
Shanti had grown up with him. She had the Black family crest embroidered on her clothes—she was one of their own. This was a message. A challenge.
A provocation.
Phineas inhaled deeply, twice, and steadied his emotions.
Then he began searching the house thoroughly. But whoever had been here knew what they were doing. All traces of magic had been removed.
Still, Phineas wasn't without leads.
He remembered Hope's wariness three days ago. The vervain tea. The hesitation.
Vampires.
All her precautions had been aimed at vampires. Phineas had assumed a dark creature might strike—he hadn't considered that a human wizard could be involved.
But this still smelled of vampires.
More than four years ago, vampires had kidnapped Phineas himself, and he'd nearly died. Since then, he'd made it his mission to dismantle their influence. The Reformist faction had been crushed. One of their founders had perished.
Only the Old Blood faction remained—and they were weakened.
If anyone had touched Hope, it would be them. And if so, Phineas knew exactly where to go: the vampire stronghold in Nicholas Town, the closest hub to her home.
Phineas still had a vial of blood gifted to him by Jonathan, one of the Old Blood's founders. Perhaps it was time to return it.
Nicholas Town was a known wizarding enclave in France. The vampire stronghold there was no secret—The Bloody Tavern, adorned with vampire iconography.
Without hesitation, Phineas entered.
The appearance of a lone wizard among vampires was like a lamb among wolves. Some younger vampires stirred, tempted.
"Wait!" an elder snapped. "Look who that is!"
"It's him? Why is he in France?!"
"Damn—did someone offend him?!"
Their voices trembled.
Phineas strode to the bar and addressed the bartender directly.
"Are you the one in charge?"
"Yes—yes, Master Black," the bartender stammered, nearly dropping the bottle he held.
"Do you need anything, sir? I'd be happy to help."
Phineas leaned closer.
"All vampires in France are under the authority of the Blood Council, yes? No wildlings?"
"In theory, yes," the man replied quickly. "Though sometimes the young are reckless—they might turn humans without permission."
Phineas nodded.
"Has anyone in your clan recently targeted a witch named Hope Mikaelson, living in a nearby town? Or planned to?"
The bartender opened his mouth, but Phineas cut him off.
"Let me rephrase. I know someone tried. I want to know who. And where they are."
The bartender blinked, stunned. A Muggle-born-sounding witch—why would she matter to someone like him?
But he answered quickly,
"I'll find out. I'll give you the answer tonight—no, in three hours."
Phineas's eyes sharpened.
"She was taken last night. If she's harmed in any way—even slightly—I'll clean out every vampire nest from here to Lestrange's estate. And this time, Sirius Black will act too. You won't just face me—you'll face the entire House of Black."
The bartender turned pale. Phineas's name alone had broken the Reformist faction. The massacre of several British pure-blood families earlier this year still haunted the wizarding world.
If he was serious—and he was—the vampires were in mortal danger.
Phineas continued coldly,
"When those fools dared to strike at Hope, they slaughtered one of my house-elves—a loyal servant I raised from infancy. For that alone, every last one of them will be dragged before me. And if anyone is foolish enough to interfere?"
Phineas's voice dropped to a lethal whisper, his magic crackling like storm-winds around him.
"Tell them it is Phineas Black who demands it. Let them weigh their next words carefully, unless they wish to see whether their house burns brighter than mine."
A pause. Then, colder still:
"If Hope remains unharmed, I don't mind giving Lestrange some face. But if even a single hair on her head is harmed?"
His smile was a blade.
"There will be no negotiations. No appeals to the Elders Council. Only ashes."
The bartender trembled and fled the tavern to begin the search.
Phineas helped himself to a bottle of aged Firewhisky, poured a glass, and sat down to wait.
Exactly three hours later, the bartender returned—with several vampires in tow.