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HRHL# CHAPTER 267
🕑 Added 2025-08-11 00:54:06 +0000 UTCSan Diego, USA
The lingering echoes of Halloween had yet to fade, at least not at San Diego High School, where students were still immersed in the festive revelry.
This year’s homecoming dance was unlike any before. Traditionally, the alumni dance was held a month after the start of the school year, but this year, it was scheduled for the day after Halloween.
Perhaps this was tied to other reasons, ones not so easily explained.
The alumni dance, by its very name, was meant to welcome students back to campus after the summer break. Each year, it boasted a unique theme, its formality second only to the prom, with the school renting a special venue to create an atmosphere brimming with ceremony.
This year’s theme was an enigmatic wizard motif, steeped in mystery.
“You know what? We’ve invited a cool friend tonight!” a blonde girl exclaimed with uncontainable excitement.
She looked positively thrilled, as if she’d secured the presence of some grand, larger-than-life figure.
“Alright, Tiffany,” a slightly chubby girl nearby responded, her curiosity piqued. “Sounds like someone’s already asked you to the dance. Is it Spencer from our school? Oh my gosh, he’s so cool—I’ve never seen a guy that suave…”
Spencer, the captain of the school’s football team, was the kind of person who, in high school hierarchy, held prime dating privileges. The VIP kind, to be precise.
The alumni dance was also a prime opportunity for confessions. Those hoping to ask someone out typically made their move shortly after the school year began. An invitation to the dance was, in its own way, a declaration of interest.
But, as the universal law of high school romance dictated, accepting a dance invitation did not equate to agreeing to be someone’s girlfriend. Formalizing a relationship required an extra step, a bolder gesture.
“Oh, it’s not Spencer,” Tiffany said with a proud smile. “I met a really cool friend. I’d bet even Spencer can’t hold a candle to him!”
“Seriously?” the girls around her asked in unison.
Their interest wasn’t feigned; they were genuinely curious. After all, Tiffany was the kind of girl with impossibly high standards. For a guy to catch her eye, he had to be anything but ordinary.
“Heh,” Tiffany giggled, keeping her secret close.
For this dance, she’d gone to great lengths. The friend she’d invited was a stunning young man from England.
Not only was he strikingly handsome, but his flawless Oxford accent sent shivers down Tiffany’s spine. Truth be told, many women exposed to the English language harbored a peculiar fascination with British accents—especially the refined, upper-class Oxford drawl.
Seeing Tiffany’s dreamy expression, her friends were dying to know more. They were eager to catch a glimpse of the boy who could make the famously discerning Tiffany swoon like a lovesick schoolgirl.
By evening, Tiffany, who had been waiting eagerly outside, finally spotted the boy she’d been dreaming of.
“Thomas!”
She waved excitedly, and her classmates followed her gaze.
In their line of sight, a young man approached, dressed in a black hooded trench coat with a black bow tie. A white mask obscured his face, rendering his features unreadable, yet his presence was impossible to ignore.
No one knew where he’d come from, but his sudden appearance didn’t feel jarring. It was as if he belonged there.
In his hands, he held a bouquet of vibrant red flowers, matching the corsage pinned to his chest. He walked straight to Tiffany and offered her the bouquet with a graceful gesture.
“You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he said in an elegant, almost sensual British accent—at least, that’s how the surrounding girls perceived it.
“In your eyes, I swear I see stars shining.”
The boys nearby, who had already noticed this mysterious Thomas, made exaggerated gagging motions at his “peculiar” British accent. While American women might swoon over such an accent, most men—especially Americans—found it grating. A century ago, when Britain’s navy ruled the seas, Americans wouldn’t have dared criticize the British openly. Any grievances were muttered in private. But times had changed. Britain’s glory had faded after the First World War, and by the Second, they’d only clung to victory thanks to American support. Their humiliating defeat in the Falklands (or, as the Argentinians called it, the Malvinas) a few years back had left them a shadow of their former selves. To the average American man, a Brit was just a washed-up has-been, begging for scraps in Washington.
Naturally, even the most down-and-out Texan redneck would stand a little taller at the thought of America’s invincible military might.
Tiffany, overwhelmed by Thomas’s sweet words, covered her mouth with both hands, staring at him in disbelief.
“Thomas…”
She’d only seen such a moment in her dreams.
“Come, Tiffany,” Thomas said, his voice steady and magnetic. He gazed at her warmly. “Let’s not keep your friends waiting.”
Friends?
Tiffany assumed he meant her classmates and didn’t think much of it. Beaming, she linked her arm with his and followed him into the school.
As Thomas and Tiffany entered the dance, they instantly drew the eyes of nearly everyone in the room. Thomas was impossible to miss—his black trench coat and white mask made him stand out like a figure from a gothic novel.
Unfazed by the attention, Thomas seemed accustomed to being the center of it all. They crossed the dance floor and took seats at the dining area.
Thomas didn’t sit immediately. His eyes, deep and searching, scanned the surroundings.
“What are you looking at, Thomas?” Tiffany asked with concern.
“Nothing,” he replied with a faint smile, though the mask hid most of his expression, leaving only a slight shift in his gaze.
Before Tiffany could say more, her friends approached and gathered around the table.
“Sir, are you really…” one girl began, her hands clasped over her heart, but she stopped short. Asking about his accent outright would be too rude, even for an airheaded American sweetheart.
“If you think so,” Thomas replied, his voice rich with that classic Oxford cadence.
Tiffany’s friends erupted into squeals. To them, his accent was irresistibly sexy. Thomas, however, seemed mildly baffled by their reaction. It was just a sentence—why the hysterics?
Is screaming now a bit premature? he wondered.
The girls peppered him with questions, and Thomas answered each with patience. Soon, servers arrived, bringing food to the tables. Only then did the girls reluctantly return to their seats, still buzzing with excitement.
Thomas barely touched the food before him, his attention fixed on the environment, as if the surroundings fascinated him more than the meal.
“Why aren’t you eating, Thomas?” Tiffany asked with a smile.
“I’m on a diet,” he replied gently.
“Your figure’s perfect, Thomas,” Tiffany said, her tone full of admiration. “You don’t need to starve yourself.”
She was, undeniably, his biggest fan. His intellect, his life experiences, and the occasional sleight-of-hand trick he performed had utterly captivated her.
Before Thomas could respond, music filled the hall.
At that moment, over a dozen men in black robes entered. Their attire clashed starkly with the dance’s ambiance, looking like something from decades past.
As they strode purposefully toward Thomas, the young couples heading to the dance floor froze, their eyes fixed on the menacing newcomers.
Thomas slipped a hand into his robe and rose slowly.
Seeing his movement, the students around him tensed. The instinct to gawk gave way to self-preservation, and they edged away. Even high school sophomores, raised in a country where gun violence was a grim reality, knew better than to linger. They’d been taught—through whispers and grim lessons—that a hand reaching into a coat often meant trouble. Big, dangerous, caliber-sized trouble.
But as they watched Thomas, expecting a Glock 17, an FN57, or at least an M1911, he pulled out… a small wooden stick.
The students blinked in confusion.
A stick? What kind of damage could that do?
“You’re surrounded, Mr. Unknown,” the lead man in the trench coat said, his eyes fixed on Thomas, ignoring the crowd as if they were insignificant spectators.
They knew exactly who this “unknown” figure was, but they refused to believe it. Everyone knew Voldemort, the terror of Britain’s wizarding world, was dead—defeated by a one-year-old baby, reduced to nothing. When someone like Scamander showed up at the American Magical Congress, spouting warnings, they dismissed it as British nonsense, a ploy to meddle in American affairs.
Yet this “unknown” figure had caused enough chaos to give the Congress a headache. He’d slaughtered magical creatures, performed dark rituals, and massacred Muggle civilians in major cities.
They’d tracked this Voldemort to San Diego.
And this time, they’d arrived before he could unleash another bloodbath.
It wasn’t too late.
He was just another dark wizard with a vendetta against Muggles.
“So, the self-righteous Aurors have finally shown up,” Thomas said coolly. “Should I toss my wand and beg for mercy, gentlemen?”
“Wand?”
“Aurors?”
The Muggle students exchanged bewildered glances, utterly lost by the cryptic exchange.
“We’ll make your death quick,” the lead Auror said. “For someone with your crimes, that’s mercy enough.”
“I’d hope your skills match your bravado,” Thomas replied.
With a snap of his fingers, a gust of wind erupted in front of the lead Auror, staggering him backward. Yet the surrounding students felt nothing—not a breeze. To them, the Auror was grimacing as if battling a hurricane, his acting skills apparently top-notch.
But these were seasoned Aurors, hardened by America’s daily chaos. They countered swiftly, wands flashing with spells.
In Thomas’s presence, however, they were outmatched.
Crimson beams shot from the Aurors’ wands, striking an invisible shield around Thomas, rippling harmlessly.
“Cool!” a student shouted. “What is that? Some new tech gadget?”
Their noses were sharp for gunfights, but Muggle instincts couldn’t grasp magic. They had no sense of the danger before them.
Thomas remained unfazed, his invisible barrier effortlessly deflecting the Aurors’ spells, some ricocheting into the crowd. One student hit by a spell collapsed, fast asleep. Another’s goblet flew from their hand. A third was hurled backward as if struck by a speeding truck.
Panic erupted. Students screamed, scrambling to flee, only to find the hall’s exits sealed.
“Thomas…” Tiffany whimpered, terror in her eyes. She didn’t know who he was, but her gut screamed he was no ordinary threat—worse, perhaps, than the legendary terrorist Otto Skorzeny she’d learned about in history class yesterday.
Thomas didn’t answer. With a flick of his hand, he sent a barrage of colorful spells back at the Aurors.
The Aurors, skilled as they were, blocked their own reflected curses and pressed their attack.
Thomas raised his wand, pointing at the group.
“Expelliarmus!”
The wands of the nearest Aurors flew from their hands, spiraling to land behind him. This wasn’t a chained spell but the inherent power of Expelliarmus, disarming multiple targets in close proximity.
“Avada Kedavra!”
A sickly green light shot from Thomas’s wand, bathing the hall in an eerie, hellish glow. The Killing Curse struck relentlessly, claiming Auror after Auror.
The onlookers didn’t understand the spell’s significance, but even the densest among them sensed the situation spiraling into horror.
Soon, only one Auror remained—the leader, still reeling from the wind curse.
Thomas approached him and removed his white mask, revealing a strikingly handsome face.
Before he could speak, a bang rang out. A bullet hung suspended in a ripple of air before Thomas.
He turned to see a trembling young man, hands gripping a gun, his face pale with fear.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Before he could finish, Thomas flicked a finger. A deep gash appeared across the boy’s throat, blood spraying like a fountain. He collapsed, clutching his neck in vain.
The hall erupted in piercing screams.
Thomas, unmoved, raised his wand and began systematically ending the lives of everyone left in the hall.
In the end, only two remained: the wind-cursed Auror and Tiffany, who had invited him.
“Please… don’t kill me…” Tiffany stammered, paralyzed with fear.
Thomas knelt beside her, gently stroking her hair.
“I’ve always believed the best should be saved for last,” he said softly.
“Y-you…”
Before she could finish, Thomas flipped her over. The sound of tearing fabric filled the air, followed by a sharp, searing pain across her back.
Tiffany screamed, but her cries stirred no pity in Thomas.
He moved his wand slowly, carving into her back, savoring the act rather than rushing to complete the pattern.
With a wave of his wand, a bowl appeared beneath the Auror’s neck. A muffled groan followed as a deep cut opened, blood pouring into the bowl.
When it was half full, Thomas summoned it to hover over Tiffany’s back, aligning it with the inverted pentagram he’d etched.
The blood in the bowl began to boil.
“Speak to me—” Thomas hissed.
“The youngest child of the Dark Lord!”
T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
