From the little Harry had learned so far about the wizarding world, goblins were never mentioned as roaming fighters or magical creatures-hunting raiders.
He knew them as the bankers of Gringotts.
Sam had once told him in passing that goblins weren't just guarding vaults full of wizarding gold—they were also world-class curse-breakers. They traveled to lost temples and ancient tombs across continents, hired by rich witches and wizards to unearth magical artifacts and secure hidden vaults. And when it came to warding, Sam said goblins were the best. Their wards were old, powerful, and worked differently from wand magic. It was what the goblins had turned to, after wizards stripped them of the right to wield wands long ago.
But nothing—nothing—Harry had heard ever said anything about goblins hunting griffins.
Or attacking children.
Maybe to adults, goblins didn't seem threatening. They were short and wiry. Their teeth, claws, and growls may have been overlooked when a fully grown wizard stood twice their height.
But to Harry… they were his size. And they wielded their blades with the ease of veterans, probably having fought more years than Harry had been alive.
He didn't want this fight. Not with goblins. Not after everything he'd been learning about magical society. If they worked at Gringotts—if they kept records of vaults and names—what if they did have something hidden under his parents' name? What if making enemies now would mean losing something vital later?
So, Harry did the smart thing.
He took a sharp breath and whispered, "Shadow Veil."
Darkness exploded around him.
Thick, pitch-black smoke poured out, flooding the entire clearing in seconds. The goblins panicked immediately. He heard them shouting, hissing, weapons clashing as some of them blindly struck at the air—or each other.
Harry moved like a ghost between them, his form invisible within his own veil. He didn't strike. He didn't cast. He just observed, listened, and thought.
He didn't want blood.
He wanted answers.
"Stop attacking!" Harry's voice echoed through the darkness, bouncing between the trees. "I don't want to fight."
A few goblins growled. One screamed—stabbed by a confused comrade, from the sound of it.
"I'm not your enemy," Harry said again. "I killed the griffin because it attacked me. I didn't even know you were hunting it."
Still no answer.
"I have no reason to harm goblins," he added, "but I do have reasons to stay on your good side. Maybe you should think twice before attacking me again."
Silence.
Then… a growl. Deep. Angry. Controlled.
The goblin leader's voice pierced the smoke. "Show yourself, wizard boy."
Harry didn't respond, but he could see the shape now—thanks to Observe, the leader's outline flickered even within the veil.
"You speak too well to be a thief," the leader said grudgingly. "Too clever for a wild wand brat."
"I'm not a thief," Harry said. "I didn't come here for the griffin. It attacked me. I defended myself. That's all."
"You carry mithril," the goblin said. "You wield our metal like it's your right."
Harry's grip on the sword tightened.
"It's mine now," he replied firmly. "Earned. Not stolen."
A pause.
The smoke thinned, then faded completely. Harry let the spell drop on purpose.
The goblins stood in a loose circle, many of them bruised or nursing accidental cuts. A few glared at Harry, but most looked… hostile.
Harry was just starting to relax when he felt it.
A shift in the air.
He didn't even look—his body moved before his mind caught up. Instinct. Training. Danger.
A goblin had broken formation and rushed at him with a gleaming axe, aiming to take his head off while he was distracted.
CLANG!
Steel met steel as Harry blocked the strike with his mithril sword, the force shuddering through his arm—but he didn't falter. With a swift turn of his wrist, he twisted the blade and slashed upward, cutting clean through the goblin's throat in one clean motion.
The body hit the ground with a dull thud.
For one breath, silence.
Then the clearing erupted in chaos.
The remaining goblins screamed in rage and charged, their eyes wild and mouths open in howls of vengeance.
Harry didn't hesitate.
"Poison Mist."
A cloud of green gas burst from his palm and rapidly flooded the clearing. The toxic fog swirled around the goblins, and almost immediately, [Status: Poisoned] appeared over their heads.
Their health bars began to tick down.
Harry took advantage of their slowing reflexes, darting through the fog like a ghost, his Wraith Flight letting him glide effortlessly between the stunned attackers. His sword sang through the air—clean cuts, precise movements, no wasted strikes.
The goblins stumbled, coughed, gasped for breath.
One by one, they fell.
And when the green mist finally cleared…
Not a single goblin was left standing.
Harry stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. His blade was dripping with dark blood, and the earth beneath him was soaked in it.
He didn't feel triumph.
Only silence.
He looked around cautiously, half-expecting another ambush. When none came, he silently opened his inventory.
[Collectable Items]
[Goblin Iron Axe (x4)]
[Curved Goblin Dagger (x5)]
[Light Mithril Breastplate (x7)]
[Goblin Helm (x7)]
[Mithril Chain Shirt (x5)]
[Cracked Goblin Talisman (x3)]
[Gold Teeth (x12)]
Harry didn't want anyone to find out.
He dragged the bodies silently into his [Instant Dungeon: Personal Dimension], making sure no trace remained in the clearing.
Then he began to search the area, retracing the path from which the goblins had emerged. It took nearly an hour, but eventually—he found it.
A hidden camp.
Built deep into a natural cave in the forest.
It was filled with butchered magical creatures—hippogriff wings, manticore venom sacs, thestrals feathers, and dozens of others. Goblin processing tools lay scattered around, stained with dried blood. It wasn't just a hunting group—they were black-market suppliers, harvesting and selling magical parts.
He emptied the entire camp into his inventory.
Nothing was spared. Crates of vials, enchanted bones, rare claws, blood jars, troll hearts, powdered scales—all of it.
Once the camp was empty, Harry turned and conjured a fireball.
Then another.
And another.
Until the entire area burned into ash, and not a single trace of goblin activity remained.
When the fire died down, the forest looked like it had suffered a wildfire.
And Harry?
He silently went back to his Personal Dimension, where he began stripping the goblins of their mithril armor, belts, scabbards, boots, and even enchanted jewelry. Anything of value.
He packed everything away, wiped his blade clean, and turned toward the trees.
When he left that place, it looked like nothing had ever happened.
Just another forgotten clearing in a wild forest.
But Harry knew the truth.
And so did the system.
[Quest Completed: Silent Butcher of the Glade]
[You eliminated a hostile goblin hunting squad and their illegal trafficking camp without alerting magical authorities.]
Reward:
+800 EXP
+Title Gained: [Silent Butcher]
+Skill Scroll: Goblin Warding (Uncommon)
Harry arrived at Regina's place just as the sun dipped below the tree line. What was once a rickety old shack now stood proudly as a proper cottage, its stone-reinforced walls patched and freshly painted, a modest chimney smoking gently at the top. It was simple—but clean, strong, and most importantly, safe. Just like every Sunday, this was Harry's meeting point with Sam, Regina, and a few other trusted werewolves who helped with gathering ingredients.
Inside the cottage, warm light spilled across the wooden floorboards. The place buzzed with quiet voices and movement. It was no longer just a hideout—it had become a center of hope.
Several werewolves had found jobs since the Wolfsbane Potion project began—some in Muggle trades, others through Sam's connections in Knockturn Alley. They still lived humbly, but they walked straighter, spoke brighter, and held themselves with a new sense of purpose.
Harry stepped into the living area where Sam was already waiting for him, several satchels of potion ingredients piled on the table.
"Here's your order," Sam said with a toothy grin, nodding toward the bundles. "Full ingredients for both Wolfsbane and Strengthening Potion. Should last you the month."
Harry smiled, "Thanks, Sam. I know they said they'd gather the stuff themselves, but I can't afford to wait. The full moon isn't going to delay itself."
"I figured you'd say that," Sam replied with a knowing look. "Besides, they're still learning what's what. You—well, you don't wait for anyone."
Harry placed a bulging pouch of Galleons on the table and pushed it toward Sam.
"This month's potions… they're on me."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Feeling generous?"
"Feeling responsible," Harry replied, more serious than usual. "I made a lot of money this month. I can afford to cover it. And if I can brew more in advance, even better. I don't want to ever miss a cycle."
Sam gave a grunt of approval and started organizing the bundles while Harry brought out the second reason he'd come.
"I've got items to offload," Harry said, pulling open his inventory screen. One by one, he laid out a series of artifacts, materials, and potion ingredients, others humming faintly with magic. Most were rare… and several were unmistakably illegal.
As the items spilled across the table, Sam's smirk faded into wide-eyed silence.
"Bloody hell…" Sam breathed, reaching for a vial of Unicorn blood. "Where'd you get these?"
Harry simply shrugged. "Let's just say… a camp I cleared out. They're not going to miss them."
Sam gave him a long look—but didn't ask any further. The two had an understanding. No questions asked.
"These aren't things you sell in Knockturn Alley," Sam said finally. "But I've got contacts. Dangerous items like this… it'll take time to move them quietly. You'll get your coin, but be patient."
Harry nodded. "As long as it moves. I've got use for every Galleon."
With the deal made, Harry returned to his brewing chamber. Thanks to a recent upgrade to, the potion room had been completely transformed. The walls were now self-cleaning stone, enchanted to resist heat and spillage. And most importantly, ten cauldrons now stood on enchanted pedestals, each connected to temperature-regulated fire-runes.
[Production capacity: 200 doses every three days]
The full moon was coming fast. And this time, it wasn't just the original 22 werewolves.
Thanks to Sam's growing influence in Knockturn Alley, dozens of outcast werewolves had heard about the wizard who brewed perfect Wolfsbane. Sam estimated at least 60 werewolves would show up this time—perhaps more.
That meant 180 doses needed just for this month's full moon cycle.
Harry already had 60 doses stockpiled from his last brewing session. He just needed two fresh brews—and if everything stayed on schedule, he'd have enough time for three batches before the full moon.
He didn't want to cut it close.
If something went wrong—an ingredient spoiled, a cauldron exploded, or he got injured—then someone could transform without the potion.
Harry refused to let that happen.
"Better overstock than fail them," he murmured as he began sorting the ingredients, organizing everything by color and magical volatility.
He looked at the bubbling cauldrons with a determined gleam in his eyes.
This was more than just a quest.
This was a promise.
A mission.
And Harry would not let his people suffer again—not when he could stop it with his own hands.
The night of the full moon arrived once again, and just like the last time, the werewolves began to gather. The clearing that once held a handful of desperate souls now buzzed with the presence of seventy individuals—men and women from all walks of life, now bound by a common fate and a common hope.
Harry stood near the center, checking the notifications that floated gently before his eyes.
[Inventory: Wolfsbane Potion ×660]
[Required for Tonight: 70 doses]
[Remaining: 590 doses]
He let out a quiet breath of relief. Thanks to the bulk brewing he had done earlier in the month, he wouldn't need to make another batch for at least two more full moons.
This time, the werewolves came prepared. Many brought tattered tents, worn-out cooking pots, and meager supplies—ingredients scavenged or saved from scraps. Most of them still had no jobs, but that didn't stop them from arriving early and pitching camp as if it were a festival rather than a transformation. And in a strange way, it was.
Harry walked the perimeter of the clearing, his hand raised slightly as glowing runes carved themselves into the trees and rocks. He had spent hours studying the warding scrolls looted from the goblins and now, for the first time, he used them on a large scale.
[New Skill Gained: Goblin Warding – Lv.1]
[Effect: Territory Lockdown / Duration: 2 days]
He finished carving the last rune into the soil and activated the barrier with a pulse of magic. A faint shimmer passed through the air. It was now sealed. Anyone trying to leave the area would be immediately detected—and stopped.
Harry turned toward the assembled group, many of whom were sitting around small fires, chatting and preparing a simple meal. Laughter echoed between the trees as people shared stories and memories. The mood was light. Hopeful. He raised his voice slightly.
"Same rule as always," Harry said, his voice steady. "No one steps out of the boundary. You have full control over your body after the potion, but that makes you more dangerous than ever. If I catch anyone breaking the rule, you won't get the potion again."
Everyone nodded. They understood.
Harry moved down the line, handing out the small vials of Wolfsbane Potion—each glowing faintly blue. One by one, the werewolves drank, grimacing at the bitterness. But none of them hesitated. The memory of painless transformation was stronger than the taste.
Night fell.
The clouds parted, revealing a brilliant full moon. The howling began—but not from pain. Not from madness. This time, the howls were different. Purposeful. Triumphant. The transformations began with no screams, no thrashing on the ground. Bones shifted, fur grew, and in moments, where once stood people now stood wolves—calm, sentient, aware.
They looked to the moon. Then to one another.
No fighting. No chaos. Just stillness... and peace.
Harry sat high in a tree, watching over the area. He knew better than to stand too close, even if he trusted the potion. But still, he smiled. For many of them, this was the first time in years they had faced the full moon without agony. He watched them all night, as they wandered the territory, howled at the stars, and eventually laid down beside one another and fell asleep under the sky.
The next morning came quietly.
Harry yawned as he climbed down from the tree. As expected, he was met with smiling faces, groggy but joyful. And as he always did, he reached into his inventory and pulled out a crate of Strengthening Potions—one for each.
The effects were near-instant. The sluggishness faded. Their eyes brightened. Muscles regained their strength.
Many thanked him before heading off to work in nearby towns. The others remained behind, cooking, sharing food, and laughing over a fire that never seemed to go out.
And just like that, three days passed.
Three days of peace. Three days of safety.
And at the heart of it all—Harry stood, quietly watching, as the world he was building began to take root.