The forest on the western side of Dracula Castle.
Before night fully fell, a boy of fifteen or sixteen stepped into the woods at an unhurried pace.
The dense forest was deathly silent. Jon Hart lifted his head and saw the last strand of twilight slipping through the canopy, sunlight flickering faintly between the leaves—dazzling, elusive, and unsettling.
To be honest, the forest felt lifeless.
The trees grew thick and dense, yet there was little sense of vitality. There were no blooming flowers, no birdsong—no croaking frogs or chirping cicadas either.
The reason wasn't hard to guess.
According to the tour guides at Dracula Castle, this place had once been a burial ground.
Legend had it that Vlad III—the first Count Dracula—and his descendants slaughtered every captive they took using methods of extreme cruelty, discarding the bodies deep within this forest. Even decades ago, local passersby would sometimes claim they heard the cries of "vengeful spirits" echoing among the trees.
Muggle folklore might differ from the true history of the magical world, but such stories were rarely without a source.
For centuries, the victims who had been tortured and drained of blood by the vampires of Dracula Castle were said to lie here… including Albania's national hero, George Skanderbeg, and his loyal followers.
Jon walked slowly through this forest steeped in death, quietly listening to the eerie sounds drifting through the woods.
When he reached nearly the very center of the forest, he stopped.
...
A stone no larger than a fingernail appeared in Jon's hand.
With extreme care, he turned it clockwise three times.
In an instant, the forest lost its silence.
It was as if countless figures were moving softly across the branch-littered ground—before him, beside him, and behind him.
Jon felt the Resurrection Stone in his hand grow warm.
The shapes—seemingly formless, yet disturbingly real—multiplied rapidly.
"Return…" Jon murmured softly. "You innocent lives slaughtered by vampires. You were tortured. You were murdered. You died burdened with injustice and resentment…"
"For centuries, you have slept here, denied peace—and never allowed to rest."
He paused, lifting his gaze to the unfamiliar faces surrounding him, each stained with blood, and continued calmly:
"Today, through the power of a Deathly Hallow, I summon you back—not only to grant you a chance for revenge… but also a chance for redemption."
"Revenge…" the long-dead spirits murmured.
Their eyes all fixed on Jon, filled with longing.
"Half an hour from now, after night falls, the vampires will enter this forest with their werewolf allies," Jon said evenly. "At that time, you will have your chance for vengeance. And after vengeance… you will be granted eternal rest."
"We do not have the strength to fight them," said the spirit of a frail, elderly man. "We were no match for those monsters in life, and death has not changed that…"
Whispers spread among the spirits. Fear surfaced on many faces.
"No—you do," Jon said with a faint smile. "Because I am here. I will give you my aid, as long as you serve me."
"What must we do?" the elderly spirit asked.
"Bind them," Jon called out. "Bind the vampires and werewolves who dare enter this forest. Do not let them move. Do not let them escape. You have this power—I know it."
More than a year ago in Little Hangleton, when Voldemort had only just been resurrected, the accidental collision between Harry Potter's wand and Voldemort's had summoned the spirits of Harry's parents, Bertha Jorkins, and an old muggle man. They had exhausted their strength to restrain Voldemort for mere seconds—long enough for Harry to escape.
Jon believed these beings, caught between corpse and soul, possessed a similar power.
"We can bind them… but not for long," the elderly spirit replied.
"Five minutes is enough," Jon said calmly. "In that time, I will erase those Transylvanian vampires and werewolves from this world—and you will be redeemed."
"I accept your terms, Lord of the Deathly Hallows," said a stern spirit clad in armor. "Since you summoned us back and are willing to avenge us, it is our duty to serve you. Five minutes to restrain the intruding vampires and werewolves—I will give everything I have."
Jon nodded.
"Yes… but there are two exceptions. You must release those two. Let them leave."
...
"The giant eagle!" Countess Ilyana Dracula screamed. "Over there!"
A pair of bat wings had already spread from her back, carrying her into the air.
"After it!"
The giant eagle soaring above the distant forest was the clearest target.
The vampires flew through the sky. The werewolves charged across the ground.
The distance between them rapidly closed.
Until they fully entered the forest.
Mixed among the werewolves, Remus Lupin unconsciously slowed his pace. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he felt a deep sense of danger.
The earlier Fiendfyre had already put him on edge—dark magic infamous for its unpredictability and lethality. Lupin had never heard of any wizard capable of truly controlling it.
And now, the atmosphere of this forest felt completely different from the last time he had been here, as though something sinister lay hidden within.
Could this be Jon Hart's doing…?
Impossible. He was far too young.
Lupin buried his doubts deep inside, revealing nothing on his face.
The giant eagle descended into the forest and transformed back into a wizard—clearly an Animagus.
The werewolves and vampires surrounded him from both air and ground.
A feral grin spread across Fenrir Greyback's face. From afar, he snarled,
"So you really were impersonating Gene. Don't worry—soon enough, I'll make you wish for death itself and force every truth out of you."
Almost at the same moment—
Soft footsteps echoed from every corner of the forest.
The entire woodland seemed to tremble.