Maybe it was the Gamer's Mind—the cold, logical detachment that came with his strange condition.
Harry had often wondered whether it was a blessing or a curse. He didn't panic when cornered, didn't grieve when he had to kill beasts in dungeons, and didn't flinch when his blade struck down his enimies.
He felt something, yes—but muted, distant, like hearing emotions through thick glass.
But this time was different.
The anger came fast and raw, cutting through the mental stillness like a blade through silk.
Because when Sam, Cassia, and Jason returned from sweeping the lower chambers, they didn't come back empty-handed. They brought victims.
Three house-elves, frail and trembling, their wrists covered in fresh burn marks where runes had been branded to suppress magic. Behind them followed four young witches—barely adults—dirty, half-starved, their robes little more than rags. One of them couldn't even walk; Jason carried her.
The sight made Harry's blood boil.
Sam's voice was low, barely contained fury. "He's been keeping them here for months. They were fed just enough to stay alive."
Cassia clenched her wand, knuckles white. "He tortured them for sport. The wards in this room—" she pointed to the iron runes on the walls "—they're set to amplify pain curses."
Harry turned his gaze toward the bars where McNair still sat, his magic pulsed dangerously beneath the armor.
[Status Effect Triggered: Emotional Override – Gamer's Mind temporarily suppressed.]
[Warning: Rising hostility detected.]
Jason's voice broke the silence. "Two of the girls said he used to… target Muggle-borns who outperformed purebloods."
Harry's eyes darkened. "And when they left school?"
"He hunted them down," Sam replied grimly. "Some he killed. The rest…" He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Harry walked toward the cell. Each step echoed, slow and deliberate. The torches flickered brighter as if reacting to the heat of his aura.
He stopped just in front of McNair, his eyes widened as Harry's shadow fell over him.
"I don't care if it's the Ministry, the Wizengamot, or the gods themselves," Harry said quietly. "You're not leaving this dungeon alive."
The old calm of the Gamer's Mind returned, but now it was sharpened—focused like a blade.
Harry turned away from the man's terrified eyes.
"Get them to safety," he ordered, voice cold as ice. "Then seal this place."
Sam's face went pale for a moment, then hard. He looked at Harry with that quiet, terrible question in his eyes.
"Are you going to kill him?" Sam asked.
"If we hand him to the Wizengamot he'll be out in a fortnight with a smile and few galleons less in his vault," Harry said, voice low but steady. "He'll keep doing it. Kids will keep disappearing. Do you want that weight on your shoulders, Sam? On any of ours?"
Sam had no answer. The hired hand who'd first agreed to Harry's plan stepped forward, voice rough with the kind of simple, ugly certainty that comes from seeing people suffer.
"So what do we do? Kill him here and go?" the man asked.
"No," Harry replied. "We burn this place down—same as Avery Manor. Let the flames take what's rotten. Anything truly valuable, take it. The rest goes with the rot."
He looked to Sam and the others and his tone sharpened. "Take what's salvageable for the people who need it. Nothing stays behind to be used by scum again."
Sam swallowed, then nodded once. "We'll do it your way. Quick and clean."
They moved fast and in grim, efficient silence. Cassia and Jason went through the deeper chambers and catalogued what was safe to haul out: many books and tomes, alchemical tools, a locked chest of gemstones that the goblins might want. The hired hands lugged looted items into sacks. Sam organized the little squad to form a cordon, making sure there were no prisoners left to overlook, while Harry checked the wards on the dungeon doors to keep any surviving guards contained.
"Seal the outer wards so the flames don't spread to the neighboring lands," Harry ordered. "We don't burn the ground—just the building and what's inside. Make it symbolic. Make them remember that this place bred cruelty."
Everything was packed before midnight. Saddlebags, crates of salvage, the rescued women wrapped in blankets, and the three house-elves bundled into a single cart that Sam's men pushed gently. Women who had once been prisoners now moved with a strange, fragile alertness — blinking against daylight, clutching each other, trusting for the first time that someone had their back.
Harry rode at the front of the procession, cloak drawn, the ring on his finger warm against his palm. He watched the manor smolder until only a seam of smoke marked where cruelty had stood, then turned and led them away from the ruin. Jason created a portkey to Sam's property — the Lycan's Refuge — deep in Knockturn Alley; by dawn it would hold hearths and care and people who would not ask questions.
The house-elves and the rescued women were shown into warm rooms; blankets were spread; soup was ladled from big pots. Sam organized people with a quiet authority that made the chaos look almost like choreography: one team to tend wounds, one to inventory the salvaged goods, another to secure the perimeter.
Jason came up beside Harry while the others fussed. He wiped soot from his hands and looked like a man who had seen too many things burned and yet still had the look of someone surprised by mercy.
"We got them out," Jason said. "Leora's alright. She's muttering, but she's alive. The others are with the house-elves. Sam's organized guards at all exits. For practical purposes, this is done. You can breathe now."
Harry didn't relax. He sat on a low stone and watched a group of rescued women through the open doorway, their shadows long in the late light.
"It's not over," Harry said.
While the others busied themselves helping the rescued victims—feeding them, dressing their wounds, and offering comfort—Harry's mind was already elsewhere. Even some of the Zeus Hotel staff had arrived through the Floo, carrying warm food and blankets. But for Harry, the night was not over.
He, Sam, and David Whitehorn—the wiry, grim-faced mercenary they'd hired—returned to the smoldering ruins of McNair Manor. The mission had two parts: rescue first, retribution second. Now came the latter.
The dungeon still reeked of cold iron, blood, and fear when they descended the spiral stairs. Walden McNair sat chained to the wall, bruised and furious. The others—his guards and accomplices—were already woke beside him. McNair's eyes darted up the moment he saw them, and his voice trembled between rage and panic.
"You think you can keep me here? Do you know my influence in the ministry?" he spat, but the bravado didn't last long. The steel in Harry's eyes made him falter.
Harry spoke softly, each word carrying weight.
"Tell us everything you know about the Midnight Auction… and maybe, maybe, I'll let you live."
McNair swallowed, sweat gleaming on his temple. "I—I don't—"
David interrupted, stepping forward with quiet menace. "Save your breath. We don't trust you." He pulled a small vial from his pouch. "Truth Serum. Five drops. Drink."
McNair hesitated, but the silent look Harry gave him stripped away any illusions of choice. His trembling hands took the vial. Five drops glowed faintly before vanishing past his lips. Within seconds, his pupils dilated and his body slackened.
"Now," Harry said quietly, crouching before him. "Tell me where the Midnight Auction will be held."
McNair's voice turned flat, mechanical. "The Dock… hidden harbor… near Hartland. Protected by wards. Accessible only by ship or portkey."
"Who runs it?"
"Lord Celtigar. He organizes every event personally."
Harry exchanged a look with Sam. The name meant trouble. Celtigar wasn't a fool—he was old money, old blood, with ties stretching into both the Ministry and foreign black markets.
"Who attends these auctions?" Harry asked next.
"Purebloods… collectors…" McNair blinked slowly. "Malfoy… Rookwood… Carrow… others from the continent. Buyers from France… Bulgaria… the East."
Sam's fists clenched. "And what do they buy?"
McNair's lips twitched. "Creatures. Veela, goblins, vampires… werewolves. Sometimes people. Muggle-borns, mostly. Everything for the right price."
Harry's expression didn't change, but his voice grew colder. "And how do they move them?"
"Ships… enchanted hulls. Sail by night. Each harbor leads to another auction overseas…"
McNair stopped. The potion's influence left his head lolling, his breathing shallow.
Harry stood slowly, the shadows clinging to his cloak like smoke. "That's all we need."
When McNair had nothing left to offer, Harry stepped back and exchanged a look with David. The mercenary nodded once, understanding.
"Harry," Sam said quietly, "we got what we came for. Let's finish this."
Outside, the cold night wind howled across the fields. The manor loomed above them like a corpse waiting to fall. Harry looked at it one last time.
"David," Harry said, "you know the spell."
David gave a grim smile. "Yeah… haven't cast it since the War."
He raised his wand high. "Fiendfyre."
The ground shook.
The cursed fire burst from the wand's tip—living flame twisting into the forms of serpents, lions, and dragons that roared as they consumed the manor's walls. Windows shattered. The sky blazed orange as the creatures of flame tore through every beam and stone.
Harry turned away without watching it fall.
Two soft ding echoed in his mind.
[Quest Completed: Operation Silent Wings]
Objectives Completed:
Disable perimeter wards
Locate and rescue Leora
Eliminate Walden McNair
Rewards:
+1000 EXP
+Reputation (Knockturn Alley +10 | Gringotts +5 | Ministry -5)
+Item Acquired: McNair Family Grimore
(+3 INT | +2 WIS | +5% Parseltongue Efficiency)
[Quest Completed: "The Missing Veela"]
Type: Urgent Side Quest
Status: Complete
Objectives:
Locate Leora, the missing receptionist of Zeus Hotel.
Identify and eliminate her kidnappers.
Rescue additional captives from McNair Manor.
Rewards:
+1000 EXP
+Item Acquired: Veil of the Silver Flame — enchanted accessory that grants major fire resistance.
+Skill Unlocked: Astral Gate - Teleportation.
+Reputation (Zeus Hotel Staff +20)
[Level Up!]
You have reached Level 21!
[Updated Status Window]
[Name: Harry James Potter]
[Level: 21]
[EXP: 0 / 2100]
[Class: Shapeshifter]
[Title: Lord Blackfyre]
[HP: 740 / 740]
[MP: 1400 / 1400]
[Stamina: 590 / 590]
[Strength: 46]
[Dexterity: 43]
[Intelligence: 62]
[Wisdom: 52]
[Endurance: 51]
[Luck: 36]
[Charisma: 37]
[Skill List]
[Lunar Bond] – Lv. 2
[Moonlit Aura] – Lv. 2
[Goblin Warding Style] – Lv. 9
[Parseltongue] – Lv. Max
[Soul Read] – Lv. 5
[Skin Changer] – Lv. 3 (Wolf, Eagle, Snake)
[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] – Lv. 9
[Fireball] – Lv. 11
[Water Shield] – Lv. 9
[Observe] – Lv. 11
[ID Create] – Lv. 5
[ID Escape] – Lv. 5
[Astral Gate] – Lv. 1
It was well past midnight when chaos erupted inside the Ministry of Magic.
The magical detectors stationed across Britain began to scream at once — a massive surge of dark and uncontrolled magic had just been recorded somewhere near Wiltshire.
Within minutes, Aurors and Department of Magical Law Enforcement officials were summoned from their quarters.
Senior Auror Amelia Bones personally led the strike team, her face set in grim determination as she barked orders in the main atrium.
"Coordinate through Floo Network Sector Three! I want containment wards around the area immediately — no witnesses, no trace!"
When the team arrived through the apparition zone outside Wiltshire, the scene before them was devastating.
A manor — enormous, ancient, and now engulfed in roaring magical flames — stood as a collapsing inferno against the dark countryside. Cursed Fiendfyre, wild and untamed, twisted into serpentine shapes above the rooftops before consuming themselves in the heat.
The air shimmered with unstable magic, and even seasoned Aurors hesitated to get closer. One of the Ministry officials stepped forward, his face pale.
"Director Bones… I've been here before," he said, his voice trembling.
"That's… that's McNair Manor — the Executioner's estate!"
Murmurs broke through the ranks.
Walden McNair — a name that carried whispers of cruelty even within the Ministry — was a man feared by many.
If his manor was burning with cursed fire, it meant something catastrophic had happened.
For nearly half an hour, the combined force of wizards and Aurors struggled to contain the flames. Even with dozens of water charms and ice wards, the Fiendfyre refused to die easily.
Only after Amelia herself conjured a massive Containment Dome of runes did the fire finally begin to smother, leaving behind a skeletal ruin.
And then — a shout came from the east wing.
"Director! We've found something!"
Eight figures lay sprawled behind a thick line of bushes — all unconscious, all wearing matching black cloaks and masks. Their robes were burned in places, but their bodies were intact.
Amelia approached, wand in hand. Her sharp eyes scanned their attire, her instincts screaming that this was no coincidence.
"Take them in," she commanded coldly.
"Full restraints. Veritaserum interrogation at dawn."
As the unconscious bodies were levitated into containment stretchers, the other Aurors examined the ruins.
There was no trace of Walden McNair.
No survivors, no wards left intact — only the echo of a fire too deliberate to be an accident.
Amelia turned back toward the burning horizon. Her jaw tightened.
"Something's wrong here," she muttered.
"Someone wanted McNair gone… and they made damn sure no one would ever know who."