Your parents left for the Ministry gala three hours ago. The house is silent, sprawling, and far too big for just one person.

You'd changed into your silk pajamas early—a short set, the kind your mother would frown at if she saw—and spent the evening scrolling through news articles. Another attack. Another pureblood family reduced to tragedy.

Ghostface strikes again: Third Ministry official found dead in Wiltshire manor.

You'd saved the article. Read it twice. Traced the grainy photo of a masked figure with your fingertip.

Now you're lying in bed, the lights dimmed low, the silence pressing in on all sides.

Then you hear it.

A faint creak. Somewhere downstairs.

The kitchen, maybe.

Your breath catches. You wait, ears straining.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it's the house settling. The old pipes. Anything.

But your heart is already hammering as you slip out of bed, feet silent on the hardwood floor.

The hallway stretches dark before you. The kitchen door is slightly ajar, a sliver of moonlight spilling through the window.

You push it open slowly.

The kitchen is empty.

But the back door—

It's open. Just an inch. Not how you left it.

A cold draft brushes your bare legs.

And then you feel it.

A presence behind you. Warm breath on the top of your head. A wall of muscle pressing against your back.