Alison Westwood hid in an alley in Diagon Alley, watching the people passing by with eyes empty of everything except hunger. Her eyes, in fact, were much different than they had been her entire life. Her irises and pupils had shrunk, or at least they had dulled. The whites of her eyes were what was most visible in them, now, as if the foggy color of them had begun to take over her eyes. Her face, which had already begun to grow so pale from the confines of Puxley Manor, was paler now, the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced.

But not so much more pronounced. Because when someone, like Alison, for example, become a slave, they become much like a zombie. For what is a zombie, really, other than something that has digressed into something less human, something that only functions on lower levels, only able to address the things it needs to survive? Anyone that glanced at Alison would have simply excused her appearance as a slave; that is, the people that knew about the slaves in the Puxley Manor.

But in no way was Alison just a slave now. Something had... happened that day. There was something in the Manor that she had stumbled upon, something that looked like a dead finger, and Alison, without realizing it was there, had touched it. At first she had been horrified, because then she had realized that it was a finger. But then... a change had come over her. Alison was suddenly more aware of how hungry she was, and, without thinking, she had picked the finger back up and ate it.

It tasted delicious. A mix of an almost salty, metallic taste and sweet meat. It was stringy, though. And then Alison had been horrified at herself, and then she wasn't, because it was the first good food she'd had in days, and as the seconds went by, she found she cared less and less and she was thinking less and less and then before she knew it she had punched through the window of the room she had been in, and lept out the window.

She's gotten out without so much as an alarm. Maybe it was because she wasn't human anymore, but whatever it was, Alison hadn't thought about it. She was hungry.

She had managed to get into Diagon Alley, although she didn't know how. She didn't care. She simply scanned the people, wondering to herself which person would taste the best.

Finally she spotted her target: a child, a fat one, plump but still so young and probably the best tasting. She didn't smile, but instead let out a low moan, and began to run at the little girl

The child didn't notice, at first; it laughed, thinking that this was just a game. Its parents were nowhere to be seen. But then Alison grabbed the girl, somehow able to pick her up, and sunk her teeth into the girl's tender flesh.