{St Mungos Hospital}
"You're telling me he just appeared there?"
Alastor Moody's voice was gravel ground over steel. The dim lamplight of the ward cast his scarred face into sharp relief. He leaned on his cane with habitual suspicion, his magical eye swirling beneath the brim of his hat, scanning the corners of the hospital room like the enemy might leap from the curtains.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the foot of the child's bed, arms crossed. He was younger then—no beard, clean-shaven and calm, his robes uncreased despite the chaos of the night before.
"I'm telling you," he said, eyes fixed on the unconscious boy, "there was no Apparition trace. No Portkey signature. The wards didn't so much as flutter until the vampires attacked. It's like he was just... dropped there."
The boy lay motionless under the pale-blue healing lights, skin paler than it should be, bandages soaked with potion-infused gauze. He couldn't have been more than five. One side of his shoulders was bound tightly where the vampire's fangs had sunk in. Even now, the flesh there twitched unnaturally, pulsing like something beneath the skin still writhed.
Moody's magical eye stopped spinning.
"Bite's holding too long. That's not normal."
"I know."
Just then, the door creaked open, and a witch in deep green robes entered, her expression weary but focused. Healer Mirren, Head of Spell Damage at St. Mungo's, strode in with a floating diagnostic scroll glowing with unstable magical sigils.
"Well?" Moody asked gruffly.
Mirren sighed, tucking her wand behind one ear. "Well, It's as we suspected, the boy is indeed magical, but the vampire venom fused with the child's magical core—incomplete conversion."
"Incomplete?" Kingsley echoed.
"He's not turning," she said. "Not fully. But he's not staying human either."
She gestured to the gauze on his shoulder. "The venom adapted. His body is adapting back. Magical children are… volatile. The bite tried to overwrite him, but his core pushed back. It didn't destroy the infection—it's just… absorbed it. They're tangled now."
"So what is he?" Moody asked, voice quieter than usual.
"A hybrid," Mirren said grimly. "He'll never be fully human again. And he'll never be a full vampire either. Daylight sensitivity, heightened senses, possible blood dependency. Long life… if he survives his magical maturity. But mentally, magically—he's still a child. His magic will try to catch up to his body. Or tear itself apart trying."
Kingsley exhaled, tension in his jaw. "Can he… be cured?"
Mirren shook her head. "There is no cure. Not for this kind of transformation. He's no longer dying… but he'll have to live the rest of his life as the very thing that caused this."
"The same creature that started the damn tragedy," Moody growled, glaring at the boy like he could interrogate the truth from his skin.
They stood in heavy silence.
Then—
CRACK.
Glass shattered.
Both men snapped to attention, wands raised. The air around the boy had shifted — thickened. The pressure built in waves like storm winds behind stone.
"Merlin—"
The boy gasped in his sleep, eyes shut tight, chest rising like he was choking on invisible water.
Then — magic burst.
Chairs flew across the room. Bedframes rattled. A hot searing pulse of golden energy cracked the floor tiles. This wasn't accidental magic. This was uncontained core overflow.
"Stasis field, now!" Moody barked, already tracing sigils mid-air.
Kingsley responded instantly, casting a translucent shielding dome around the bed. The child floated above the sheets, limbs spread like a puppet held by lightning. His eyes snapped open—empty and glowing, lit from within.
Kingsley's voice dropped. "What is this kid…"
And then it stopped.
The glow faded. The boy dropped, limp, onto the mattress.
Everything around him was scorched or broken.
Kingsley stared. "He's not just magical. He's…"
"Wrong," Moody finished, voice low.
They both looked at the child. For once, the silence was edged with uncertainty—not about what they saw, but what it meant.
"Keep this quiet," Moody muttered. "No press. No visitors. If someone dropped this kid here, I want to know who—and why."
Kingsley gave a short nod, but didn't take his eyes off the boy.
The child stirred, lips parting to whisper—not in English, not in any language known to either man— and at the end just three recognizable fragmented words:
"Where… am I…?"