The Doll guided Harry through the flower-strewn garden, her steps soundless on the cobbled path. The great tree above seemed to drink in moonlight, its branches hanging like a shroud.
Gehrman wheeled himself to the porch, his laugh dry and crackling. "No use standing idle, boy. A hunter needs a weapon."
Harry blinked. "I have a wand"
"A stick won't save you from beasts," Gehrman snapped. "You'll need steel and lead."
From the ground itself, pale hands pushed through the soil. Tiny, twisted figures clambered out, faceless and eyeless, their bodies half-formed. Harry recoiled, wand flashing into his hand by instinct.
The Doll touched his arm gently. "Do not fear them. They are the Messengers. Loyal guides of the Dream."
The creatures offered up their gifts. One pair lifted a cleaver, long and toothed like a saw. Another raised a pistol, wood and iron darkened with age. Their skeletal fingers trembled, as if eager for him to take them.
Harry hesitated. The saw-cleaver glistened, faintly damp with old blood. The pistol's barrel was etched with runes he could not read. They felt wrong. Heavy. Final.
"I don't..."
"A hunter must hunt," Gehrman cut in, his voice sharp as a whip. "If you would survive, take them."
Harry's hand closed around the cleaver. It was heavier than it looked, the teeth biting the air as he swung it experimentally. The pistol followed, its grip cold in his palm. The Messengers crooned softly before sinking back into the earth.
The Doll bowed her head. "Now you may defend yourself, good hunter. And when you return, I shall channel your echoes into strength."
"Echoes?" Harry asked.
"The remnants of blood," she said softly. "The proof of your Hunts. They will shape you."
Gehrman wheeled closer, leering. "Don't think too hard on it. Just kill a few beasts. It's for your own good."
Harry's stomach twisted. He didn't want any of this. He wanted Hogwarts, Quidditch, even Snape's bitter sneer. But he remembered the beast in the clinic, the way its claws had torn through him. Magic alone wouldn't have stopped it.
He tightened his grip on the cleaver.
The Doll gestured toward the graveyard path. A single tombstone glowed faintly, etched with the outline of a door. "The lantern will take you back. To where the Hunt began. Face your first prey."
Harry swallowed hard. "And if I die again?"
The Doll's porcelain face tilted, expression unreadable. "Then you shall return here. Until the Hunt is over."
The words chilled him.
But there was no choice.
Harry placed his hand on the cold stone. The world folded in light, and the garden vanished.
When he opened his eyes, he stood once more in the clinic, the saw-cleaver heavy in his grasp.
From the corridor came the wet scrape of claws on stone.
The Hunt had begun