Chapter 11 - A New Direction

The air was thick and heavy, a curtain of fog stretching endlessly in every direction.

It was cold—sharp and unmoving—but to Axel, who had just endured the bitter nights of London, it might as well have been a gentle breeze.

"Ah," he murmured with a rueful smile. "Home sweet home."

A vast, majestic castle loomed ahead; its silhouette carved against the sky like a relic from another age. Towers spiralled into the clouds, stitched together by narrow bridges and steep, sloping rooftops. The walls—black stone with a faint, unnatural sheen—caught what little light pierced the mist. Tall, arched windows glowed with warm golden light, casting long reflections onto the lake below, still and choking with fog.

Axel strolled across the bridge, hands in his coat pockets, taking in the ever-shifting landscape. The castle never changed—its spires, its corridors, its ancient heart remained as timeless as the bloodline it housed. But the world around it shifted with each visit.

Sometimes desert. Sometimes jungle. Sometimes ruin.

The castle moved—untethered to geography or reason—drifting through space like a thought in the mind of a god.

He liked that about it. Which was why he always took a moment to enjoy the view.

At least, until he bumped into a wall of muscle.

"Oh—sorry, didn't see you there," Axel said casually, looking up to find Zwei staring down at him with the warmth of a thundercloud. The man's shoulders were broader than most doorways, and his glare carried enough weight to make lesser men wilt.

"Zwei! What's up?" Axel grinned.

Zwei said nothing. The stare continued. Axel began to sweat.

"You know," Axel added, fidgeting, "I'll get embarrassed if you keep staring like that."

Zwei finally gave a grunt of disgust and turned, stomping toward the castle without a word.

"My poor heart…" Axel sighed, trailing behind. "I really thought I was going to die just now."

"…That attitude of yours continues to sicken me," came Zwei's deep, gravelly reply.

Axel scratched his cheek with a sheepish smile. "Hey, at least I don't go around trying to kill people with my eyes."

Another glare.

"See? That right there! One of these days you're going to pop out of a shadow and give me an actual heart attack."

"We're vampires," Zwei rumbled. "Creatures of the dark. 'Popping out' from shadows is a given."

"Say that again—'popping out.' It sounds weird coming from you."

Zwei wisely ignored him.

"I'm probably the last to arrive, huh?" Axel asked, stretching.

"…If you already knew that," Zwei growled, "you should've reported in immediately. Now we're all waiting on you."

"Can you blame me? This is… what, Africa? We've only been stationed here once, maybe twice in the last few centuries. It'd be criminal not to take in the scenery."

"Even if he is your father," Zwei said, slowing his steps, "To keep Dracula waiting is—"

"—to invite death. Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. I don't think he'll mind though." Axel gave a lazy wave. "But if he does, I think he'll forgive me once he hears what I've brought."

Zwei glanced over. "And that is?"

Axel's grin widened. "You'll see."

The two of them stopped before a pair of towering black iron doors, etched faintly with runes that shimmered like dried blood in the torchlight.

With a deep breath, Axel pushed them open.

The moment he stepped inside, a hush fell over the chamber. Quiet whispers and low conversations ceased—every gaze turned to the late arrival.

Axel gave the room a quick once-over.

In one corner, an elderly vampire in an immaculate suit flipped idly through a pocket-sized book, seemingly oblivious to Axel's entrance. Nearby, a boy—far too young in appearance to suit the cold calculation in his eyes—watched him with quiet, unnerving focus.

Beside the boy, a dark-haired woman offered Axel a sultry wink and blew him a kiss. He tilted his head just enough to let it drift past, earning a theatrical pout in response.

But none of them—none—matched the presence of the man seated at the far end of the hall.

Atop an obsidian throne sat a figure wrapped in stillness, regal and unmoved. A middle-aged man, draped in dark robes, his long black hair falling over his shoulders like silk shadows. Crimson eyes met Axel's without warmth—cold, ancient, and utterly devoid of surprise.

And then, in a voice that silenced thought as much as sound, he spoke.

"Axel. You're late."

"…Father."

Gone was Axel's casual demeanour—replaced with a seriousness rarely seen—as he bowed his head in greeting.

"…No matter," Dracula's gaze swept the room. "Since all are accounted for, let us commence the meeting."

And so the meeting commenced.

The first reports were grim—strays and rogue vampires growing bolder by the week. Some had begun feeding openly on Muggles. One had even dared to attack a witch.

The Ministry had yet to issue an official response, but tension was rising fast, spreading through the magical world like the first winds of an approaching storm.

The council listened, stone-faced. Axel watched them. Some angry, some amused, most unreadable. Many resented the rules. But they all understood the cost of defiance.

Their King was bound—shackled by ancient magic, cursed treaties, and Unbreakable Vows. Dracula, the living nightmare, held in place by chains not born of weakness, but of some forgotten necessity.

A king who could not strike.

Axel's eyes drifted toward his father. Dracula hadn't moved, but he could feel it—that pressure beneath the stillness, like something ancient coiled just beneath the surface. It prickled at his skin.

As murmurs rose again, Dracula turned to Axel.

"Before we delve further, Axel, did you complete your mission?"

Axel sighed. "Ran into complications. One escaped."

"What?" A young vampire sneered. "Axel—the strongest among us, unbound by any law—failed his mission? Laughable."

A few chuckled. Axel scratched his neck, grinning sheepishly.

Then silence—Dracula had raised his hand.

"I trust," the King said coolly, "you have an explanation."

"Well… does 'Hell's Hunter' count as a good one?"

The reaction was immediate.

Murmurs. Shifting. Fear. Interest.

There weren't many names that stirred a room like hers.

She had earned it. After all, she alone was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of Death Eaters during the First Wizarding War.

Even Dracula's eyes held a glint of recognition.

"She wasn't alone either," Axel added, "Do you remember the King's Candidate I mentioned before? The Trespasser? He was there, too."

The title King's Candidate wasn't rare. Nor was it revered. It was simply a label passed through vampire circles when certain traits emerged in a Muggle.

Always Muggles. Never wizards. Never witches.

Just people—stubborn, strong, the type who looked monsters in the eye and didn't flinch. Most didn't even know what they were.

It came with no prophecy, no fanfare. Just quiet observation.

A flag for those watching.

Because if they lived long enough… Dracula would test them.

To see if they could carry the crown, the curse, the madness.

"That boy?" an old vampire scoffed. "The one with delusions of grandeur? The self-styled hero?"

Axel grinned. "The very same."

"And why mention him now?"

"Because I believe," Axel said, "he may be the only King's Candidate with a real shot at defeating Dracula."

The room exploded.

Mockery. Disbelief. Outrage.

Then—

CRACK.

Zwei's fist shattered stone. Silence fell.

"You say that," he growled, "knowing full well most of us were once King's Candidates?"

He stepped forward, eyes blazing.

"Are you mocking us, Axel? Saying we were lesser? That this Muggle boy is more than centuries of warriors?"

Axel shrugged. "Not lesser. Just different. Out of every Candidate we've seen this past millennium—Vincent Wong might have the best chance of succeeding."

Disbelief. Discomfort.

Even Dracula stirred.

"I trust," he said, "you have evidence."

Axel stepped into the centre.

"Of course. You've all heard the rumours—from Britain. A Muggle accepted into Hogwarts."

Shock. Murmurs.

"It's true," Axel said. "And not just any Muggle. Vincent Wong—backed personally by Albus Dumbledore."

Even the air seemed to draw breath.

Dracula's expression remained unreadable.

Then came the laughter. Low at first, then rising—rich, cold, and full of amusement. It echoed through the chamber like a haunting melody, bouncing off stone and shadow alike.

There was nothing warm in it. Just the kind of delight that unsettled the spine—like a predator enjoying the thrill of a long-anticipated hunt.

It filled the room, and no one dared interrupt.

"Incredible," Dracula said at last, voice threaded with mirth and menace. "Little Albus… he found it. How delightful."

He leaned back in his throne, eyes glowing faintly.

"Vincent Wong," he whispered. The name lingered, too soft for comfort.

"What future will you bring, little Trespasser?"

The silence that followed clung to the walls like frost.

And in that stillness, one thing became clear:

Dracula was watching.

Waiting—to see what would unfold.

…

"…Why did I even get you?" Vincent muttered, eyeing the small, pink, snake-like creature curled in his palm. Tiny wings fluttered on either side of its head, more ornamental than useful.

"Right," he sighed, remembering. "I thought I could use you—along with Harry—to practice Parseltongue."

The little serpent hissed softly at him, curious at its new owner.

"Well," Vincent said, shrugging, "if nothing else, Nyx has a new friend."

It had been a few days since the fight with Axel. Though his injuries had looked severe—potentially life-threatening—they were routine for the veteran healers at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He was treated and patched up within a day, then promptly discharged with a vague order to rest, dismissed with the brisk efficiency of those who had seen far worse.

It wasn't the first time he'd landed in their care, and he wasn't the first Muggle to do so either. Occasionally, Muggles caught in the crossfire of the magical world found themselves admitted there—quiet cases, quietly handled. Usually, Sister An saw to his wounds herself, but when something exceeded her ability, she didn't hesitate to send him to St Mungo's.

Vincent set the little snake on his shoulder and gave his arms a slow stretch, feeling the stiffness still lingering in his muscles. He rolled his shoulder, tested his grip, flexed his fingers.

His mind returned, unbidden, to the moment Axel's spear struck.

"He held back," Vincent thought bitterly.

The blow had been perfect—too perfect. Had Axel been even slightly off, Vincent would've been run through. But instead, the spear had landed dead centre against his raised rod. Not a mistake. A deliberate choice.

Vincent's jaw tightened. "With all the training I've done—plus the potions—I should be stronger than a normal adult."

He stared at his hands, flexing it somewhat.

"But even with that strength… it meant nothing to him. If that's the case, then it must be even more so to those wielding magic."

Experience aside, if Vincent continued growing at his current pace, he might one day rival Axel in strength. But that would take time—far too much time. And when it came to magic, muscle alone meant nothing. Against that kind of power, it was all but meaningless.

He needed something—an edge to level the playing field.

His experiments might one day yield a potion strong enough to tip the scales, but the chances were slim, and even if possible, who knew how long that would take?

His rods, though a valuable assed, wouldn't be enough on their own.

That's why he came here—Diagon Alley.

If there was anywhere in the magical world to find something that could give him that much-needed edge, it was here.

It was strange. Vincent had known about the place for quite some time, yet he'd never once visited. Despite all his curiosity about the magical world, something had always held him back. Maybe it was the constant distractions—his nightly hunts, his training, the near-constant danger—or maybe it was something subtler. A charm, perhaps, quietly nudging Muggles like him to look away. He'd heard there were spells like that, enchantments that bent perception and gently guided non-magical folk away from places steeped in magic.

Whatever the reason, he was here now—and something stirred within him.

A quiet, familiar feeling.

Wonder.

The cobbled streets buzzed with life. Owls swooped overhead, carrying letters. Cauldrons bubbled in shopfronts. Robed figures bartered over shimmering stones and bundles of dried herbs.

It was chaos—but the kind with rhythm. Purpose.

Vincent let the sound wash over him, just for a moment.

He didn't belong here—not fully. But even so, he couldn't deny the feeling.

This was the world he'd chosen to step into.

"Alright, I've already made an account at Gringotts, I've already gotten some potion ingredients, I guess all that's left with is—" Vincent muttered, brushing a hand against the little snake curled around his shoulder—just in time for it to give him a cheerful lick.

"You were an impulse buy," he said with a sigh. "And now I'm down twenty galleons because of it."

The small creature, oblivious to being wrongfully blamed, nuzzled against his neck with contentment. Vincent groaned in resignation.

"Fairy Dragon Snake," he grumbled. "Honestly, what kind of name is that?"

He went back over the conversation in his head, already getting a headache just thinking about it.

"What's it called?"

"A Fairy Dragon Snake."

"No, really. What's it actually called?"

"A Fairy Dragon Snake."

"...Who even came up with that?"

"A wizard called Old Man."

"Old Man what?"

"Just Old Man."

"…"

That moment had taught Vincent something important—wizards come up with the most ridiculous names.

"Enough getting sidetracked," Vincent muttered, eyes settling on the shop before him. "Let's see if this works. If not… I'll have to start considering other options."

Sister An had told him about this place—how the wandmaker here was the one who forged her sword. If anyone could provide what he needed, it would be him.

Ollivander's Wand Shop was cramped, almost claustrophobically so. Shelves stacked to the ceiling bowed under the weight of thousands of slim boxes—each holding what Vincent could only assume were wands. The air smelled faintly of dust, wood shavings, and old magic.

"Hello there! How can I help you today?"

Vincent glanced up just in time to see an elderly man glide smoothly along a ladder, coming to a stop at the end of the shelf. Meanwhile, the small pink snake on Vincent's shoulder flicked its tiny tongue, curious about the new surroundings.

"I'm just here to look around, sir," Vincent replied politely.

"Ah, no trouble at all. Not much to look at, really," the old man said as he stepped down from the ladder with surprising ease. "Name's Ollivander—Garrick Ollivander. But I suspect you already saw that painted above the door, didn't you? Hmm?"

Before Vincent could respond, Ollivander leaned in—far too close. The sudden proximity made Vincent instinctively lean back, uncomfortable under the man's scrutinizing gaze. The snake twitched its small wings nervously.

"Sir, what—?" Vincent began, only for Ollivander to hum thoughtfully, cutting him off.

"Ah… I see. You're a Muggle." The old wandmaker turned away, shuffling back toward the cluttered counter. "I suppose you already know that Muggles can't use magic?"

"I'm very well aware of that," Vincent thought glumly, but he spoke evenly.

"I wanted to inquire about your failed wand creations, sir."

Ollivander stopped mid-step, glancing back at him with a raised brow. "Now that's not something I hear every day. Tell me, young man—who sent you my way?"

"My caretaker, Sister An."

"An… An…" Ollivander muttered, sifting through memory as he absently rummaged through nearby boxes. "There have been many An's in this shop."

"You made her sword."

That gave the old man pause. He straightened slowly, eyes suddenly sharper. "Annie Pettigrew? That's a name I haven't heard in quite some time. Tell me—how is she?"

"…I think she's doing well," Vincent said after a beat. "Though… I might've caused her some grief over the years. I wasn't exactly the easiest child to care for."

"Oh?" Ollivander chuckled, a spark of amusement lighting his pale eyes. "A troublemaker, were you?"

"…You could say that," Vincent replied with a wry smile.

"Well, regardless of the circumstances, I'm glad to hear news of her," the wandmaker said warmly, setting a large box down on the counter with a soft thud. "Now, I haven't the faintest idea why anyone would want to sift through these failed experiments… but as the saying goes: the customer is king, and the shopkeeper must serve. Or something like that."

Vincent leaned forward and peered into the box, its contents a chaotic mix of oddities.

Most of it was broken wands—splintered shafts, cracked handles, and fraying cores that spilled out like pale, brittle threads. Some were intact, though visibly damaged, the wood warped or fractured in ways that reminded him vaguely of Ron's unfortunate wand.

Buried between the ruined wands were stranger things—items that clearly hadn't started as wands at all. Rings etched with faded runes. Gloves reinforced with thin metal channels. Hybrid tools and weapons, strange and experimental. Odd little objects humming faintly with forgotten enchantments and unrealized purpose.

And then, nestled beneath a tangle of wand shards, he spotted something unusual—a small silver revolver. It was compact and oddly shaped, with delicate runic engravings spiralling along its barrel and chamber.

He lifted it, examining the craftsmanship.

"You really tried everything, didn't you…" Vincent muttered.

Beside him, Ollivander's voice came quietly.

"Wandmaking has been around for centuries," he said, as if continuing an old thought. "When I was just a boy, I wondered… why must a wand always look like a wand?"

Vincent gave a simple nod, eyes still on the odd little weapon.

"And?"

Ollivander smiled faintly, his gaze drifting over the contents of the box. "I thought—perhaps—there might be another form. Another way to channel magic. Another shape for power."

Vincent set the revolver down gently and ran a hand over the mess of failed dreams and discarded designs.

"I've had some success over the years," Ollivander said, eyeing the gun with a faint smile. "An umbrella made for a half-giant, a sword for a witch... and my favourite—a feather duster. That one was fun to make."

He looked quietly proud of his unusual creations.

Vincent turned the gun over in his hands as Ollivander spoke.

"This gun was meant to fire spells stored inside the bullets, so a wizard could shoot magic quickly. But it broke after just two shots—the chamber cracked," Ollivander explained, pointing.

Vincent nodded thoughtfully and looked at the glove and ring.

"These were designed for wizards who didn't want to wave wands around," Ollivander continued. "But they required a lot of magic from the user. The glove, made with unicorn hair and spider webs, was strong but tiring to use—one spell and the wizard would be drained."

Vincent considered this carefully. "So, the problem is that the user has to provide almost all the magic."

"Yes," Ollivander said.

As Vincent studied the scattered items, an idea began to form—like he was piecing together a puzzle only he could see.

He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care.

 "What if the spell could be prepared ahead of time and stored inside something—like a bullet or a glove—that's ready to be activated? Then, instead of the user supplying the energy, a kind of 'magical battery' could power the activation."

Ollivander raised an eyebrow. "So, the spell is preloaded, and the user only needs to trigger it using stored magic?"

"Something like that. The user wouldn't need to cast the spell themselves, just switch on the power source to make it work. That way, even someone without magic—a Muggle—could use it."

Ollivander's eyes began to sparkle with interest. "A battery to power pre-made spells... Fascinating. But the spells would still need to be crafted first. What would you suggest?"

Vincent glanced down, hesitating for a moment. "I don't know much about it, but maybe we could use runes? A friend told me that a wizard only needs to channel magic through them to activate their power. Perhaps we could engrave runes onto something, and the battery would then power them up when triggered."

Ollivander smiled thoughtfully. "Runes… an ancient art, but a difficult one. Still, if it's possible, combining them with a magical battery could truly make magic more accessible."

Vincent looked up at the old wandmaker. "Mr. Ollivander, do you think you could help me build this?"

"My good boy," Ollivander said, eyes gleaming with renewed fire, "I would help you even if you hadn't asked. But there's one important question we must settle first—what exactly do you plan to use as this 'magical battery'?"

"Leave that to me," Vincent replied, a small grin forming as he thought of a particularly volatile potion—unstable, dangerous, and possibly just the thing he needed to make it all work.

The little pink snake on his shoulder let out a cheerful hiss, completely unaware of the weight of the conversation, but content to bask in Vincent's warmth all the same.