Hp/Marvel: John Wick The Witch King

The real estate agent's smile was plastered on, but his mind was already plotting his escape. Behind him, the woman he was trying to sell the haunted house to hesitated, her hand hovering over a bedroom doorknob.

"Let's go see another one first," she said, sensing something was deeply wrong with the room.

A bead of sweat trickled down the agent's temple. "Eighteen hundred," he croaked, the words tasting like defeat.

The price had just dropped by another two hundred dollars.

The woman paused, her resolve wavering. She turned back, a new smile playing on her lips. "Alright then. Let's see the other rooms first."

They shut the door, a deal happily struck, completely oblivious to the man standing beside the rocking crib inside. John Wick stood perfectly still, a Disillusionment Charm rendering him as invisible as the air itself. It was a staple spell for Aurors and for men who preferred not to be seen.

He glanced at the crib he had accidentally nudged, then at the baby bottle that had rolled across the floor. He picked up the porcelain doll left in the crib, its face a mess of dark circles and dull, cracked paint. A label on its back read 'children's toy'.

"What kind of taste is this?" he wondered, a faint smirk on his lips. "Are kids' tastes this unique?" A thought crossed his mind. "If I got one of these for Peter, would he be touched?"

He briefly pictured the boy's face. Peter was still sulking after their last encounter. John had been brutally honest about why the boy had been kidnapped. "They thought you were my son," he'd explained. Peter had been withdrawn ever since.

Pushing the thought aside, John refocused on the task at hand. There was no trace of his sister here, but the house itself was peculiar. He tapped his wand, and a diagnostic charm flooded his mind with the building's layout.

There was a basement.

He opened the bedroom door and walked out. The agent and the family, who were still deliberating in the hallway, froze as the door swung open on its own, then clicked shut with polite finality.

For a moment, even the determined, poverty-stricken mother fell into a stunned silence. Her two children clung to her legs, trembling.

With a pained heart, the agent whispered, "Fifteen hundred."

The woman took a deep, steadying breath, muttering under her breath like a mantra. "It's just a house. It has good bones. It's an investment." But logic was a poor shield against this level of strangeness. She turned to the agent, her voice firm. "I don't want it anymore!"

His expression changed. He reached out, grabbing her arm in desperation, and delivered his final, killer blow. "One thousand!"

The woman froze, turning her head slowly. The light of pragmatism once again shone in her eyes, banishing the shadows of fear.

Her children began to cry.

The basement was locked, but the cheap wood was no match for a well-aimed kick. John descended into the damp, musty dark, his gaze immediately falling to the center of the room. With a wave of his hand, a blanket covering the floor was whisked away by an unseen force.

Beneath it was a magic circle, painted in dark, blood-red pigment. The remnants of burnt candles marked its perimeter. John's eyes narrowed. This wasn't the magic of wizards. It looked like a summoning ritual, something from the schools of Kamar-Taj.

He drew his wand again. A golden mist sprayed from its tip, blanketing the entire basement. In the ethereal light, the scene transformed. The summoning circle pulsed with faint, burning embers, and on the dusty floor, a single set of footprints appeared, revealing where someone had stood to perform the ritual. As the spell had neared its conclusion, an explosion of magical energy had been contained, preventing it from leaking out.

"Magical interference," John noted.

A trace of residual power lingered. He recognized the energy signature—a deal made with forces from another dimension. He stretched out his right hand, and a sheath of silver metal flowed over his arm. He carefully drew the errant wisp of magic from the air, containing the chaotic particles in his palm as the silver receded, reforming into a ring on his finger.

His work here was done. He walked out of the basement, strode through the house, and left.

Outside, the agent and the woman were finalizing the contract. As the woman hesitated, wondering if she should offer a little more, the front door behind them suddenly swung open. The splintered lock visibly repaired itself with a series of clicks, and the door then closed with a gentle, considerate thud.

The woman turned her head and looked the agent dead in the eye. "Eight hundred," she stated, her voice devoid of all negotiation.

The agent looked like he wanted to die right there on the porch and add one more aggrieved spirit to the property. Finally, for the price of eight hundred dollars, the haunted house had a new owner. Poverty, it seemed, could breed infinite courage.

John returned to the supermarket. The clerk saw him and whistled. "How was the haunted house tour?"

"Quite fun," John replied, raising an eyebrow. "That place just sold, by the way."

"Huh?" The clerk was stunned. "Someone actually wanted that place?"

"Eight hundred."

John stated the number, and the clerk fell silent. For a working man still living with his parents, that price was dangerously tempting.

John bought a bottle of water and stepped outside. He pressed the ring on his right hand to the bottom of the plastic bottle, releasing the wisp of magic he'd captured. The clear water inside instantly turned to churning, black ink, then erupted outward, forming into a struggling crow.

The bird flapped frantically in his palm. John released his hand, and it shot into the sky, flying towards a row of neat, identical houses. John followed.

The crow landed on the eaves of one particular house and let out a harsh, unpleasant caw.

A moment later, the front door opened. A woman with long, dark, wavy hair stepped out, casting a strange look at the crow on her roof. Her expression quickly soured.

"Shoo! Get out of here," she snapped, grabbing a broom and standing on her tiptoes to swat at the bird.

The crow exploded in a shower of inky droplets, splashing across her face and hair before vanishing, leaving behind nothing but clear water.

John watched quietly from the street, then stepped forward.

The woman sensed him. She spun around, her eyes widening as she met his gaze. For a frozen second, it felt as if a large hand had gripped her heart, squeezing the air from her lungs. An expression of pure, lingering fear painted her face.

"Who are you?" she stammered.

John's deep eyes stared into hers, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Let's talk," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Witch."

Her identity was exposed. The woman's pupils constricted. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"You wouldn't want to deceive me, would you?"

She swallowed hard, her attempts to form a lie dying on her lips. Finally, she gave a heavy, defeated nod.

John sized her up. She wore a purple sweater, projecting the image of a nosy but harmless next-door neighbor. Sensing his unfriendly intentions, she seemed to shrink into herself.

"Who are you?" he asked again.

She mumbled, looking both timid and fearful. "Agnes."

"Is that so?" The smile on John's lips did not reassure her. He pressed on. "Have you seen a blonde witch come through here?"

"A blonde witch?" Agnes thought for a moment, then nodded vigorously. "I did! Over at the church in town." She pointed toward the edge of town, where a small church with a bronze bell stood against the skyline. She then very consciously offered to take him there.

As they walked, a performance began. Neighbors waved and called out to Agnes, who responded with a practiced, neighborly warmth that was almost convincing. She had clearly integrated herself deep into the fabric of this town.

They arrived at the church and went inside. The sacred silence of the sanctuary was calming, a stark contrast to the tension between them.

"Thank you for showing me the way," John said, his voice dangerously smooth.

"You're welcome, Mr. Wick," Agnes replied with a helpful smile, urging him forward. "I saw her right over there!"

She pointed toward the front pew, where the silhouette of a blonde girl was just visible, facing the cross. Agnes was about to walk over, but John didn't move. He simply smiled.

"That's funny," he said, the smile not reaching his eyes. "I don't remember telling you my name."

(End of Chapter)

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