For an entire week, the halls of the Zeus Hotel felt incomplete.
At first, no one noticed. The hotel was too large, too alive, and too full of guests from every corner of the world for the absence of one boy to immediately disturb its rhythm. Witches and wizards still arrived through the grand entrance with trunks floating behind them. Families still gathered in the dining halls. Former werewolves still came and went under careful supervision, their faces marked by hope and disbelief.
But slowly, little by little, people began to ask.
"Where's the boy?" one guest asked near the reception desk.
"The one who works here," another added, frowning as though trying to remember. "What was his name?"
"Harry, I think."
At the reception desk, one of the Veela smiled politely, as though she had already answered the question a dozen times that morning alone.
"He is away on a short tour," she said. "He will return next week."
Harry had become something rare in that place. He was not merely a worker, not merely a boy helping in a hotel that belonged to others. Somehow, without anyone truly noticing when it happened, he had become a presence.
He spoke to everyone. He listened when people rambled about their past adventures. He helped without being asked and explained things without making anyone feel foolish. Guests who had arrived confused and frightened often left calmer after speaking with him, and some of the foreign witches and wizards staying at the hotel had come to treat him almost like a familiar face in a strange country.
A French witch sighed over her meal one evening, glancing toward the entrance as if expecting him to appear at any moment.
"I was hoping to thank him before I left," she said softly.
Beside her, a Spanish wizard nodded in understanding. "He helped me understand the process. I would not have come here without him."
Even some of the newly cured former werewolves lingered longer than necessary, wandering through the common halls or sitting quietly near the gardens. They did not say they were waiting for Harry, but everyone knew they were. Some wanted to thank him. Others wanted reassurance. A few simply wanted to see the boy who had somehow become part of the miracle that had changed their lives.
But Harry did not return.
Because far from the calm elegance of the Zeus Hotel, deep within the hidden depths of Slytherin Castle, Harry Potter was doing something far more important than greeting guests.
He stood in an underground chamber lit by cold magical flames.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of purification magic lingering in the air. The stone walls reflected the pale light, and runes carved into the floor pulsed weakly beneath his feet. The chamber smelled faintly of old metal, ash, and spent curses.
At its center stood Harry.
Before him was a mountain.
Hundreds of objects lay scattered across long tables, stone platforms, and the floor itself. Rusted daggers. Tarnished rings. Broken amulets. Old books bound in cracked leather. Masks, chains, cups, mirrors, bones sealed in glass, and things that had no clear purpose at all.
Every single one of them had once been cursed.
Some had carried madness. Some had carried possession. Some had carried diseases that clung to magic instead of flesh. Others had been soaked in dark rituals so old that even identifying them had taken effort.
Now they were clean.
Completely empty of dark magic.
Harry stared at the pile with a tight jaw. His breathing remained steady, but only because he was forcing it to remain steady.
"Bring me more," he said.
A house-elf standing near the wall bowed deeply. "Master Harry."
The elf remained there for a moment too long.
Harry's eyes shifted toward her.
The elf lowered her head further. "There are no more, Master Harry."
Harry did not move.
"…what?"
The elf trembled slightly but answered. "We have searched all storage rooms, hidden vaults, and recovered caches. All cursed artifacts currently stored in Slytherin Castle have already been cleansed."
Harry turned fully toward her then, and the calm mask on his face cracked.
"That's not possible."
"It is, Master."
Harry exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. For days, he had worked without pause, moving from one cursed object to another. Every purification had fed the skill. Every successful cleansing had pushed him closer to his target. He had known the supply was large, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he had expected it to last longer.
It had not.
"Then find more," he said.
The house-elf hesitated. "…where, Master?"
"Anywhere." His voice sharpened. "Black markets. Hidden vaults. Confiscated Ministry stockpiles. Old family stores. Ruined manors. I don't care where."
The elf bowed lower.
Harry paused, then added, "Tell Jason. He'll know where to look."
"Yes, Master."
The elf vanished with a soft crack, leaving Harry alone in the underground chamber.
The room felt emptier now. Useless.
The massive pile in front of him should have felt like an achievement. It should have been proof of progress, proof of power, proof that he had taken things poisoned by darkness and made them harmless. Any other wizard would have seen the chamber and felt pride.
Harry only felt frustration.
He had done it.
Every artifact he had stored. Every cursed object he had collected over years. Every dangerous trinket hidden away in the castle's vaults.
Purified.
And still, it was not enough.
A translucent blue window appeared before his eyes.
[Status Window]
Mystic Cleansing – Lv. 20
Progress to Next Level: 72%
Harry's fingers curled into a fist.
"Not enough…"
He knew exactly why.
Curing werewolves was important. No part of him regretted doing it, and he knew the value of what he had accomplished. Men and women who had lived for years under the curse of lycanthropy were now free because of him.
But in terms of growth, it was inefficient.
Another window flickered into view.
[EXP Gain Comparison]
Lycanthropy Cleansing → Moderate EXP
Artifact Purification → High EXP
Harry's eyes narrowed.
The system did not care about morality in the way people did. It measured difficulty, density, resistance, and magical corruption. A living curse was complex, but werewolf cleansing had become repetitive after enough practice. The skill still grew, but slowly.
Artifacts were different.
Old cursed objects carried concentrated darkness. They resisted purification. They fought back in ways living curses did not. Every artifact forced the skill to adapt, sharpen, and strengthen.
That was what he needed.
Because of her.
Astoria Greengrass.
The memory returned instantly: a brief meeting in the hotel, a carefully timed step, the faint brush of contact that had lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
It had been enough.
[Observe Result Stored]
Target: Astoria Greengrass
Curse Type: Ancient Bloodline Curse
Removal Requirement: Mystic Cleansing Lv. 25
Harry exhaled slowly.
"I'm still five levels short."
And time was not on his side.
Everything had been planned carefully. Grandpa Theo had invited the Greengrasses and set the meeting in motion, creating a reason for them to be there and a reason for Harry to come close without drawing suspicion. Harry bumping into Astoria had not been an accident.
Nothing about it had been an accident.
That single moment had given him everything he needed to know.
It had also shown him exactly what he lacked.
He needed Mystic Cleansing to reach Level 25 before Theo's promised timeline ended.
Two weeks to prepare. Two weeks before expectations hardened into questions. Two weeks before the Greengrasses began to wonder whether the hope offered to them had been empty.
And now half that time was already gone.
Harry began walking slowly around the cleared pile, his gaze moving over objects that no longer mattered. His mind raced faster than his steps, calculating options, eliminating possibilities, measuring risk against reward.
Cleansing people would be too slow. Werewolves gave moderate growth, but not enough. Minor curses were useless. Household hexes and family maledictions would barely move the progress bar. He needed something dense, corrupted, powerful, and resistant.
Harry looked toward the empty doorway where the house-elf had vanished.
"Jason better find something…"
Because if Jason did not, Harry would have to go searching himself.
Harry turned back to the mountain of cleansed artifacts. The pile stood as proof of what he had already achieved, but now it felt more like an accusation.
He had done so much.
And he was still not ready.
The order spread without sound.
No explanation accompanied it—only a single instruction that passed from one trusted hand to another within the circle of the Serpent Court.
Find dark artifacts.
As many as possible.
At first, there had been questions. The kind that came from people who needed to understand the scope of what they were about to undertake.
Jason had been the first to voice it.
"How many are we talking about?"
Harry had not hesitated.
"All of them."
There had been no softening of the demand. And somehow, that made it clearer than any detailed explanation ever could.
The members of the Serpent Court did not require further clarification. They understood urgency when they heard it, even if the full reason behind it remained unspoken. They had seen enough of Harry to know that he did not move without purpose—and when he did move, it was never without consequence.
They were no longer ordinary witches and wizards.
Each of them held a place within the Ministry of Magic. They were respected, positioned carefully within departments that mattered, and most importantly, they were trusted.
And their duties, at least on the surface, were light.
The werewolf cleansing operations had become structured with near mechanical efficiency. Teams worked in rotation, processing hundred and twenty cases a day when needed, sometimes fewer when conditions allowed. The system ran smoothly, almost effortlessly now.
And when their work was done—
They were free.
Free to obey the order that had quietly reshaped their priorities.
Jason and Cassandra began with the Ministry itself, diving into confiscation records that had not been touched in years. Files were opened, re-examined, cross-referenced. Old cases—long forgotten or intentionally buried—began to surface again.
Sealed evidence.
Restricted vaults.
Artifacts deemed too dangerous for release but too valuable to destroy.
Rooms that had not been opened in decades were unlocked under legitimate authority, their contents catalogued, verified, and quietly redirected.
Elsewhere, Sam and Regina approached the black market as buyers. Gold spoke in ways few things could, and they carried enough of it to ensure doors opened rather than closed.
And in the darker corners of the magical world, that was often more effective than force.
Charles and David worked beyond Britain, extending the reach of the operation into Europe. Their contacts ran deep—private collectors who hoarded cursed relics out of fascination, retired curse-breakers who had kept dangerous objects rather than surrender them, and hidden inventories that had never been recorded by any official body.
Old magic surfaced.
Forgotten names returned.
And slowly, quietly, the network expanded.
Then there was Teozad Umbra.
He simply opened one of his personal vaults.
The chamber Jason stepped into was unlike anything he had seen before. Rows upon rows of artifacts rested in controlled containment, each sealed behind layers of wards that hummed with restrained power. Ancient relics sat beside constructs that should not have existed at all—objects that pulsed faintly, as though they were alive in ways magic was not meant to be.
"You may take what you need," Theo had said calmly.
Jason had paused, his usual composure slipping just slightly as he took in the scale of what lay before him.
"…this is enough to start a war."
Theo's smile had been faint, almost amused.
"Or end one."
But perhaps the most unexpected contribution came from Lord Greengrass.
He had not been told everything.
Only that the artifacts were needed—and that, in some indirect way, it was connected to his daughter.
That had been enough.
Letters were sent with careful wording and deliberate intent. Favours long owed were called in. Debts—some political, some personal—were invoked without apology.
Old pure-blood families were approached, those who hoarded cursed objects in vaults hidden behind layers of secrecy and pride. The negotiations were careful, measured, respectful.
"The artifacts will be returned."
"Untouched."
"After the process is complete."
No one was told what that process was.
But the name attached to the request—Theo—carried weight. His reputation alone ensured that few would refuse outright.
One by one, they agreed.
Family by family.
Vault by vault.
What began as a search became a stream.
The stream became a flood.
Back beneath Slytherin Castle, the underground chamber transformed once more.
Piles of cursed objects filled the space again, stacked across tables, arranged along the floor, sealed within containment circles waiting to be processed. Weapons whispered faintly as though recalling old violence. Jewelry pulsed with lingering malice. Books resisted being opened, their pages shifting as if unwilling to be read.
And at the center of it all—
Harry stood.
Harry Potter did not speak much anymore. He did not leave the chamber unless absolutely necessary. Rest came only in short, controlled intervals, just enough to maintain clarity.
Everything else was set aside.
[Mystic Cleansing Activated]
Again.
And again.
And again.
Golden light filled the chamber in waves, burning through layers of darkness that clung stubbornly to each object. Some artifacts shattered under the pressure. Others screamed in ways that were not quite sound. A few resisted longer than they should have, forcing Harry to push harder, to refine his control, to draw deeper on the growing strength of the skill.
Time lost meaning.
Cassandra stood at the edge of the chamber one evening, her voice low as she spoke to Jason.
"He's pushing too hard."
Jason didn't look away from Harry.
"But he won't stop."
They both knew why.
On the eleventh day, the chamber fell silent for a different reason.
An artifact rested in Harry's hands.
It was a ring—twisted, ancient, its surface carved with runes that seemed to distort when looked at directly. Even holding it felt wrong, as though the object resisted existing in the same space as something clean.
Harry closed his eyes.
"Just one more…"
[Mystic Cleansing Activated]
The light surged.
The ring trembled violently, its surface cracking under the pressure as the corruption within it was stripped away layer by layer. For a moment, it seemed as though it might resist entirely.
Then—
It shattered.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the system responded.
[Level Up]
Mystic Cleansing → Lv. 25
Harry's eyes opened slowly.
Another window followed.
[New Capability Unlocked]
Bloodline Curse Removal: Available
He exhaled, long and steady, the tension that had been coiled within him for days finally releasing.
"It's done."
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he stood still.
As promised, every borrowed item was returned, untouched in form but stripped completely of the darkness that had once defined it. The families who received them back found their relics altered in the most fundamental way—not damaged, not changed in appearance, but… quiet.
Harmless.
Those acquired through less legitimate means were handed over to the Serpent Court.
"Keep them," Harry had said simply. "They're clean now."
That night, Harry stood alone in the cleared chamber.
He looked toward the exit, toward the world above, toward the path that led back to the hotel and to the girl waiting unknowingly at the end of it.
"…Astoria Greengrass."
Everything had led to this moment.
And now—
There were no more obstacles.
Only the cure remained.
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