A few days later.
Harry stood before a towering building, its shadow looming across the street like a guardian from another age.
The structure itself was carved from deep, dark stone, polished to a sheen that reflected faint glimmers of the sun overhead.
Its architecture was sharp and imposing, designed less for comfort and more for intimidation.
At the very top of the building, mounted against the sky, was a massive obsidian dragon head.
The dragon's maw was wide open, frozen in an eternal roar, its fangs glistening like daggers freshly pulled from the forge.
Even from where he stood far below, Harry felt the pressure of its gaze—the black glassy eyes seemed alive, as though they could pierce through his skin and stare into his soul.
The monstrous sculpture radiated the fierce pride of what the guild used to be, and the silent desperation of what it had now become.
He exhaled quietly, lowering his gaze back to the massive double doors in front of him.
