Dark Wings Over Hogwarts

The moon hung low over the city, casting silver streaks across the deserted industrial district. Zane Falconer moved like a shadow, his presence barely a ripple in the night. In this world—where magic met greed—he thrived. Tonight's mission was delicate, even by his standards.

His target, Viktor Crane, was a rogue wizard who had fled America with a stolen artifact—one that could not be allowed to slip into the wrong hands. His employer, as always, offered no explanations. Just three simple directives: retrieve the artifact, neutralize the threat, and disappear.

Zane never needed more.

The cracked pavement stretched beneath his silent steps as he approached a decrepit warehouse along the Thames. Magic stirred faintly in the air—a ward, hastily crafted to deter the curious. Sloppy work.

He crouched near the entrance, fingers brushing the energy. One precise motion of his wand. "Finite Incantatem." The magic dissolved like mist.

The door creaked open, and he slipped inside.

The stench of oil and mildew clung to the shadows. Dim lanterns cast weak, trembling light over rusted machinery and splintered crates. At the far end, four figures hovered around a silver amulet suspended in mid-air. Its core—blood-red and pulsing—beat like a living heart.

The Bloodveil.

A cursed artifact capable of binding a victim's life force to its wearer—unstable, seductive magic.

Zane stepped forward, his voice calm and cold. "I'll be taking that."

Four wands snapped toward him. Viktor Crane, lean and jagged like broken glass, smirked through the gloom. "You're bold. I'll give you that."

"I'm efficient," Zane corrected. "Hand it over."

The air shifted—tightened. Zane measured the threat. Four against one. But he didn't play fair.

He murmured a spell beneath his breath. "Umbra Noctis."

The shadows writhed and split, birthing eight identical copies of himself. Each illusion moved independently, their forms flickering between the broken beams of light.

One of the thugs cursed, his grip on his wand faltering.

Zane struck.

A silent Stupefy dropped the first man. The second fired a curse—a bolt of red that shattered one illusion. The others twisted and weaved, untouched.

Zane moved like water, smooth and lethal. The third came at him, faster than the rest. Zane ducked low, driving his elbow into the man's ribs. "Incarcerous." Thick ropes lashed around his limbs, dragging him to the ground.

Two left.

Viktor snarled, raising his wand. "Avada—"

"Tenebris Fractura."

Darkness rippled outward from Zane's wand, jagged and sharp. The spell fractured the light itself, twisting reality for a heartbeat. To them, the world splintered—sight blurred, hearing dulled.

Zane didn't hesitate. Two strides. A precise strike to Viktor's wrist sent the amulet clattering to the floor. He snatched it up.

The last man turned to flee.

"Petrificus Totalus." Zane's voice was quiet—final. The thug froze mid-step, crashing to the ground like a toppled statue.

The silence that followed was heavy. Zane pocketed the Bloodveil, letting his magic fade. The shadows melted back into place.

Another mission complete.

Without a backward glance, Zane slipped into the night.