The eight bodies were dragged carefully behind a thick bramble hedge. Jason and Cassia handled the levitation while the mercenaries checked for pulse and wands. One by one, the limp shapes disappeared into the dark recess between the old stones and thorn roots. Cassia snapped her wand in small arcs, muttering a sequence that made the air shimmer faintly. The leaves bent away from the spell, creating a veil of emptiness.
[Notice-Me-Not Charm: Applied]
[Invisibility Field: Active | Duration — 16 Hours]
When the last glint of a boot vanished, one of the mercenaries murmured, half-in awe, "Lord Slytherin's trick with that green mist… never seen magic work like that. No wand, no incantation."
Jason grinned faintly. "That wasn't a trick. That was pure poison control."
They turned back toward Harry — or rather, toward Lord Slytherin, as he was called tonight. His hood was still drawn low, but the mist had long since faded from his cloak. The title wasn't his own, but it was a convenient mask for this mission. The hired men didn't need to know who he really was.
Cassia broke the quiet first. "Do you have any antidote for your own poison? If we could wake even one of them, we might learn who they are and what they are doing here."
Harry shook his head. "No antidote. The poison's bound to my magic output. I never tried to brew an antidot."
Jason knelt by one of the unconscious bodies, examining the faint green residue clinging to the man's robes. "Efficient work, though. Their vitals are steady. You measured the dose well."
Harry gave a small nod. "I wanted them asleep, not dead. Dead men don't talk—and they raise alarms when they're found."
Cassia sighed, lowering her wand. "Still, an antidote would've made this simpler. Now we have to keep them hidden until the mission's done."
Jason smirked and muttered, "You'll have to teach me that 'non-lethal' mist one day."
Harry's eyes glowed faintly under the hood, a flicker of emerald light. "Perhaps. If you promise not to use it on me."
The group chuckled quietly, tension bleeding from the air. Above them, the moon slid behind clouds, and the manor stood silent again.
Cassia straightened her robes and whispered, "Let's move before anyone else apparates in. Whatever meeting they were coming for—it's starting soon."
Harry froze mid-stride, realization flickering across his mind like lightning.
He reached into the [Inventory] and scrolled through the neatly sorted list of items until his eyes caught it—
[Item: Serpent's Antidote (High-Grade)]
Effect : Cures all toxin-type status within 10 seconds.
Remaining : 14 vials.
"Wait," he whispered, halting the group. "I've got something."
Jason arched a brow. "Please tell me it's not more poison."
"Quite the opposite."
Harry knelt beside one of the unconscious men, pulled a vial from the pocket space, and tilted the glass. A drop of emerald liquid rolled onto the man's lips. The potion hissed faintly as it met skin.
Within moments the man jerked violently, gasping as color flushed back into his face. His eyes darted wildly before fixing on Harry's masked figure.
"W-where am I? Who—"
Harry's voice came out low and serpentine, distorted by a charm. "Answer carefully. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
The man trembled. His wand was long gone, his companions motionless nearby. "W-we—we were sent for a delivery! That's all!"
"By whom?" Jason pressed.
"Lord Celtigar!" he blurted. "We don't even know where we are! He—he just hosts the shipment sometimes."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "What kind of shipment?"
"I don't know! I swear it. We were only told it's valuable merchandise. We were to bring it to the warehouse under the manor once it's loaded."
Cassia crossed her arms. "So, couriers, not buyers. They have no idea what's being traded."
Harry nodded slowly, the beginnings of an idea crystallizing.
"Good," he murmured. "Then you'll rest now."
He exhaled another thin breath, softer this time, the mist curling around the man's face like a lullaby. The courier slumped soundlessly to the ground once more.
[Status : Target — Unconscious]
[Action : Information Gathered — Complete]
Straightening, Harry turned to the others. "We're not barging in anymore. We're going in their place."
Jason's eyes lit with realization. "Polyjuice?"
Harry shook his head. "No need, they don't know each other, so McNair will never suspect anything. You three," he gestured to Sam and the mercenaries, "stay cloaked and act just like them. Once we're inside, we find the holding area and locate Leora."
Cassia smirked. "Clever."
Jason chuckled darkly. "Lord Slytherin, I do like the way your mind works."
Harry adjusted his mask and glanced toward the towering manor ahead.
"Then let's make sure that our real identities stay hidden."
[Quest Update]
[Operation Silent Wings — Stage 2]
[Infiltrate the Auction as Disguised Couriers]
[Objective — Rescue Leora Alive]
[Success Bonus : +500 EXP]
A faint blue glow flickered before his eyes.
Congratulations! You have reached Level 20.
[Status Window]
[Name: Harry James Potter]
[Level: 20]
[EXP: 0 / 2000]
[Class: Shapeshifter]
[Title: Lord Blackfyre]
[HP: 720 / 720]
[MP: 1380 / 1380]
[Stamina: 580 / 580]
[Strength: 45]
[Dexterity: 43]
[Intelligence: 59]
[Wisdom: 51]
[Endurance: 51]
[Luck: 36]
[Charisma: 35]
[Skill List]
[Lunar Bond] – Lv. 2
[Moonlit Aura] – Lv. 2
[Goblin Warding Style] – Lv. 8
[Parseltongue] – Lv. Max
[Soul Read] – Lv. 5
[Skin Changer] – Lv. 3 – Wolf, Eagle, Serpent
[Shadow Veil] – Lv. 10
[Death Ward] – Lv. 8
[Soul Drain] – Lv. 13
[Bone Spear] – Lv. 8
[Wraith Flight] – Lv. 13
[Wind Step] – Lv. 12
[Poison Mist Attack] – Lv. 9
[Fireball] – Lv. 11
[Water Shield] – Lv. 9
[Observe] – Lv. 11
[ID Create] – Lv. 5
[ID Escape] – Lv. 5
[Stat Points to Distribute: 10]
The seven cloaked figures stopped before the massive door of McNair Manor, its windows glowing faintly through the night mist. The plan was simple: blend, confirm, locate Leora, and extract.
Sam took the lead, his broad shoulders squared under the hood. Harry, much shorter and more shadow-wreathed, stayed in the middle, letting the taller ones frame him like bodyguards. Their masks hid every trace of expression.
A deep clang echoed when Sam knocked. The door opened almost instantly.
Walden McNair stood there — tall, with a hawk-like nose and cold, gleaming eyes. Four men flanked him, wands half-drawn. His voice was smooth but carried the arrogance of old blood.
"Who dares knock at this hour?"
Sam bowed slightly. "Lord Celtigar sent us. We're here for the delivery."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then McNair's thin lips curled into a satisfied grin.
"Ah, excellent. Celtigar's men. You're earlier than expected."
He stepped aside and gestured inward. "Come then, the merchandise is ready."
They followed him through the grand hallway, lined with portraits of grim-faced wizards. The smell of oil, wine, and something faintly metallic hung in the air. Two of McNair's men closed the door behind them with a heavy click.
As they walked, McNair spoke casually, almost conversationally.
"I was in Diagon Alley yesterday. Imagine my surprise when I saw a Veela running through the crowd. Such a creature should never roam free."
He chuckled darkly. "So I went straight to Borgin. Picked up a few fine items—magic-restricting chains and cuffs. Nasty little things, but effective. She fought like a wildcat, burned half my robe, and nearly roasted Graham alive."
He jerked his chin toward the scarred wizard limping beside him, whose face and right arm were blackened from burns.
Sam made his voice sound detached, as rehearsed. "We weren't told what the shipment was, my lord."
McNair smiled wider, eyes glinting in the candlelight. "It's a Veela, my friend. A feisty one at that. Fetches a fine price in the right hands."
Harry's fingers twitched beneath his cloak. His knuckles whitened around the wand hidden under the folds.
They descended a spiraling staircase into the cold dampness of the manor's lower levels. Each step echoed like a drumbeat in Harry's ears. At the end of the corridor stood an iron door, runes glimmering faintly across its surface.
McNair produced a silver key, turned it once, and pushed it open.
Inside, the cell reeked of fear and burnt air.
Chains glowed faintly red with restraining magic.
And on the stone floor lay Leora.
Her silver hair was tangled, her skin bruised, but her eyes — sharp and defiant — lifted the moment the door creaked.
Harry's jaw tightened beneath the mask.
They found her… now it's time to bring hell to McNair Manor.
McNair swaggered into the cell first, his boots echoing against the cold stone floor. The torchlight glinted off the silver chains binding Leora, wrapping around her legs and arms like a spider's web. He
McNair grabbed one of the chains and yanked her upright roughly, forcing her to face him.
"These," he said with a cruel smirk, "are mostly for aesthetic. Makes them look properly tamed, doesn't it? The real security," he tapped the runed walls, "is the chamber itself. Magic-proof. Nothing gets cast in or out of here. If I need to discipline my guests…" — his grin widened — "I use traditional methods."
That was all Harry needed to hear.
The sound of metal scraping against stone filled the air as his [Equip: Iron Armor] skill activated.
[System Alert: Armor Equipped — Defense +25 | Magic Resistance +10%]
Before McNair could even react, Harry stepped forward and punched him square in the mouth.
The impact sent McNair crashing into the opposite wall, teeth flying.
"WHAT—" one of the guards started, but Sam was already moving.
A knee to the gut, a jab to the throat — the man folded before he could draw breath, much less his wand.
Cassia twirled her short blade, parrying another man's strike, and slammed the hilt into his temple. Jason hurled his opponent backward into the cell bars with a loud clang, and the mercenaries pinned the rest with brutal precision.
McNair spat blood, staggering upright. "You fools— you think you can take me?"
Harry stepped closer, cracking his knuckles beneath his gauntlets. "You were right, McNair. No magic in here. Just steel and bones."
He drove another punch into McNair's stomach, sending him sprawling over a broken chair. The room filled with the sounds of fists, curses, and the dull thud of impact. The armor made Harry's strikes hit like a hammer, and soon McNair's men were sprawled unconscious on the floor beside their master.
Leora watched from the corner of the cell, chained and breathless. Confusion and disbelief warred in her eyes — these people had just dismantled a pure-blood lord and his thugs with sheer physical force.
Harry turned toward her, his breath steady despite the fight.
"Easy now," he said softly. "You're safe."
He reached for the chains, already studying the runes glowing faintly across them — and preparing to break the last lock that kept her bound.
Walden McNair's head throbbed like a drum. The first thing he saw when his eyes blinked open was the flickering orange light of the sconces. The second was the familiar, damp-stone ceiling of his own dungeon.
Then realization struck—he was inside the cell. Shackled.
The air reeked of iron and stale blood. His own guards, every single one, lay slumped along the wall—bruised, bound, and unconscious.
He groaned and dragged himself upright. "You—bastards!" he shouted toward the silhouettes standing just beyond the bars. "Do you know who I am?! I'll have your heads mounted on my gate before dawn!"
One of the figures stepped forward. The hood fell back to reveal a scarred face with sharp amber eyes. Sam. Calm. Steady. Deadly.
"It's funny," Sam said, voice echoing off the walls, "you still don't understand, do you?"
McNair spat blood. "Understand what?!"
"That we're not Lord Celtigar's men."
McNair blinked, confusion crossing his face. "Not… Celtigar's?"
A second voice spoke, quieter—colder. The sound of boots against stone drew closer. The short figure who had broken McNair's jaw in the cell earlier stepped into the light. His gloved hand rose, and on it gleamed a silver ring engraved with a coiling serpent.
Sam's voice dropped to a growl.
"You thought you could just snatch a Veela, sell her like property. You forgot who she worked for."
McNair's eyes widened as recognition dawned. "Her employer… you mean…"
The figure with the serpent emblem tilted his head. Shadows curled around him like living smoke.
"Yes," Sam said. "Lord Slytherin."
For the first time in his life, Walden McNair felt true fear.
The cold, crawling, marrow-deep kind—the kind that told him he'd crossed a line he could never uncross.