Gui Gong Ja—known as "Nobleman"—and Gin Meo Ri, codenamed "Katana," had been brought into the Harry Potter world by Alexander. Now working as the Mikaelson Family's elite assassins, they now hunted under foreign skies.
Each carried an IMI Desert Eagle Mark VII—a semi-automatic magnum pistol built for power. Chambered in .44 Magnum, each weapon fed from an 8-round magazine, more than enough for their targets.
Through the dense woods, a werewolf sprinted—its breaths ragged, claws tearing at the ground, eyes wild with panic. It knew it was being hunted.
A single shot rang out.
A bullet pierced flesh with brutal precision. But it wasn't just the impact that killed. The moment the round entered the bloodstream, a specialized poison—a venom engineered for werewolves—spread like wildfire. It clotted the blood, burned through tissue, and paralyzed the beast from the inside out.
The werewolf didn't even have time to scream—at first.
Then came the burning. His veins turned an eerie mix of gray and black, spreading like cracks through stone. Muscles seized. Limbs twitched. And finally, the pain hit.
James—the werewolf—howled in agony, collapsing against a tree as his vision blurred. Through the haze, he saw two figures step out of the shadows.
Katana moved with a quiet, deliberate grace. Her eyes were cold. Focused.
Nobleman stood beside her, one hand resting casually on his pistol, the other tucked into his coat.
James coughed, blood lacing his breath. "Who… who are you?"
Nobleman offered a faint, almost amused smile. "Just some hunters," he said calmly, "after your leader—Fenrir Greyback."
James trembled, slumped against the tree, eyes wide with terror as the poison ravaged his body.
"Please… don't kill me," he gasped, blood dribbling from his lips. "I don't know where he is. He only calls us once a year… no one knows his location. I swear—please…"
Katana stepped forward, the muzzle of her Desert Eagle glinting faintly under the moonlight. Her expression was unreadable, voice cold.
"Yeah? Like you didn't hesitate when you bit and tore through children."
Without another word, she pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed through the woods—brief, final.
James slumped over, motionless.
Nobleman glanced down at the corpse, then turned his eyes toward the treeline. "One less monster," he said quietly. "Let's keep moving."
While Harry sat with Neville, Susan, Hannah, and Hermione in the Hogwarts Express compartment, the mood was light, conversations flowing easily—until Ron Weasley once again hovered outside, trying to insert himself into their circle.
It wasn't the first time.
The group had grown increasingly irritated by Ron's constant interruptions, especially whenever Harry was around. They all sensed it—Ron wasn't just being social. He was chasing something.
He was chasing Harry Potter.
Becoming friends with the Boy Who Lived would guarantee Ron attention. Fame by association. His name would matter. His life would be easier. His mother would be proud.
But there was one problem—Harry wasn't interested.
No matter how many times Ron tried to butt in, Harry never gave him the response he wanted. And that stung.
From the doorway, Ron stood with his arms crossed, a faint scowl forming as he watched Harry laughing with Neville, chatting with Hermione, or listening to Susan and Hannah with quiet interest.
Jealousy simmered beneath the surface.
He muttered something under his breath—something snide about Neville's clumsiness, and a cheap jab at Hermione's "know-it-all attitude."
Harry turned toward him, his expression hardening.
"Just shut up," he said, sharp and clear.
The compartment fell silent.
Ron's mouth opened slightly, then closed. He didn't say another word.
The compartment remained silent until the train finally began to slow. The group quietly changed into their Hogwarts uniforms, the weight of the earlier tension lingering in the air.
Outside, night had fully settled over Hogsmeade Station. The train let out a loud whistle as it came to a stop, steam hissing and curling into the cold night air. Lanterns flickered along the platform, casting long shadows.
From the side of the train, a towering figure with a lantern made his way down the aisle, the warm glow casting flickers of light across the platform. It was Hagrid.
Hagrid called out, "Right then! First years! This way, please! Don't be shy now—hurry up!"
Students began stepping off the train, a mix of excitement and nerves etched on their faces. Their robes rustled as they moved, eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.
Harry stepped down onto the platform, flanked by Neville, Susan, Hannah, and Hermione. Ron followed a short distance back, still sulking, dragging his feet.
Hagrid spotted Harry and gave a wide grin. "Hello, Harry."
Harry returned the smile. He didn't know Hagrid well, but he didn't dislike him. There was something genuine about the half-giant.
"Hey, Hagrid."
Ron looked up as the castle came into view through the mist and trees, his earlier mood forgotten for a moment.
"Whoaa..." he muttered under his breath.
Hagrid turned, raising his lantern. "Right then. This way to the boats! Come on now, keep up!"
Later…
A fleet of small boats glided across the dark lake, each holding a handful of wide-eyed first years. The water was still and cold, disturbed only by the gentle splash of oars and the movement of the boats. Overhead, the night sky stretched endlessly, stars mirrored in the black surface below.
Then, rising in the distance, came Hogwarts Castle—tall towers, glowing windows, and stone walls that seemed carved into the very cliffs. It stood like something pulled from another world, ancient and alive.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Even the chattiest students sat in silence, staring up at the place that would define the next chapter of their lives.
The journey had truly begun.