Harry Potter, the weakest E-Rank hunter, is mocked as "the Fraud Who Lived." When his team dies in a cursed dungeon, he's offered a choice: accept a mysterious System or perish. The choice is obvious, and now he can grow stronger. But ancient Monarchs are awakening, and Harry must rise to become a legend. Harem. Weak-to-Strong. HP/NT/DG/FD/SB.
My attempt at a Harry Potter fanfic with elements from Solo Leveling.
Chapter 1
The queue at the British Hitwizard Association stretched around the block, a mix of robed wizards and Muggle-born hunters in tactical gear checking their phones. Harry Potter stood somewhere in the middle, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket, trying to ignore the whispers.
“That’s him, isn’t it? The Boy Who Lived?”
“Merlin, he looks rough. Is that the same jacket he wore last year?”
“I heard he’s E-Rank. Twenty-five years old and freaking bottom tier.”
Harry kept his eyes forward. The BHA headquarters loomed ahead, all steel and enchanted glass, with holographic displays cycling through the day’s dungeon assignments. A coffee shop next to it advertised half-price lattes for guild members. He couldn’t afford either the coffee or the guild membership qualifications.
The line shuffled forward. Through the windows, he could see the main hall where dozens of assessment desks processed hunters. Above them, massive screens showed real-time footage from active Dungeons across Britain. A team of A-Rank hunters battled a chimera in Birmingham. Another group cleared a nest of Lethifolds in Dover. The footage was sponsored by Nimbus Racing Brooms, their logo glittering in the corner of each feed. Everything was sponsored these days.
Harry would never see assignments like those.
A woman in front of him turned around, recognition dawning on her face. She was young, maybe twenty, with the fresh-faced enthusiasm of someone who’d just received their C-Rank certification. Her badge gleamed on her chest.
“You’re Harry Potter,” she said, not quite asking.
“Yeah.”
“I heard about you in school. You’re the reason we study the Protection Charm variants in year three. Your mum’s sacrifice, I mean.” She hesitated. “Is it true you can’t cast a proper Patronus?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Never needed to. Dementors are extinct.”
“Right, but I mean, theoretically. The Patronus Charm is considered basic C-Rank magic. If you can’t manage that...” She trailed off, her expression shifting from curiosity to pity. “Sorry. That was rude.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s just, you know, you’re famous. People talk. There’s that whole forum dedicated to you on WizardWeb. Half of them think you’re faking being weak for some secret reason, and the other half think you’re just tragic.” She laughed nervously. “I’m in the tragic camp, for what it’s worth.”
“Thanks,” Harry said flatly.
She seemed to realize she’d crossed a line and turned back around, but the damage was done. Harry could feel other eyes on him now, people in the queue reassessing him. The Boy Who Lived, standing in line with the rest of the E-Rank dregs, waiting for whatever scraps the BHA decided to throw their way.
His phone buzzed. The screen showed a message from the BHA automated system: “Assignment Posted. Report to Desk 47.”
He left the queue and pushed through the revolving doors into the chaos of the headquarters. The smell hit him first, a combination of singed hair, potion fumes, and the metallic tang of spent magic. Hunters crowded around the desks, shouting for attention, comparing gear, or bragging about their latest clears.
The main hall was a cathedral to modern magical society. Fifty meters of open space, with the ceiling enchanted to show a live map of Britain marked with active Dungeon locations. Red dots for confirmed breaks, yellow for emerging threats, and green for cleared zones. Most of the country glowed green or yellow. The red dots clustered around major cities where reality was thinnest.
Guild recruitment booths lined the walls. The Phoenix Guild had the biggest presence, their banner showing a magnificent phoenix wreathed in golden flames. They were the premier Guild in Britain, counting two S-Rank hunters among their roster. Membership required a minimum C-Rank certification.
Harry had applied when he was twenty-two, desperate and stupid enough to think his name might mean something. They’d rejected him within an hour.
Other guilds had their own booths. The Serpent Guild, one of the most reclusive ones out there. The Lionheart Guild, the only one to somewhat challenge the Phoenix Guild with the sheer number of A-Rank hunters they had at their disposal. The Merlin Guild, an old-blood Guild that still cared about lineage despite the official line that blood purity was dead.
None of them wanted Harry Potter.
Desk 47 sat in the far corner, naturally. The old clerk barely looked up as Harry approached. Her name tag read “M. Spinnet” and given how bored she looked, it was evident that she had processed too many E-Rank assignments.
“Name and registration?”
“Harry Potter. BHA-E-1991-10-31.”
Her fingers flew across her keyboard, his name not getting the slightest of reactions from her which he was rather grateful about. “Low-E Rank assignment. Forbidden Forest, grid reference 447-B. Standard Acromantula colony with minor dark creature activity. Team assembly at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.” She slid a folder across the desk. “Next.”
Harry grabbed the folder and moved away before anyone could start pestering him again. The paperwork inside was depressingly familiar. Estimated completion time: four hours. Estimated threat level: minimal. Estimated reward: two hundred Galleons, split six ways.
Thirty-three Galleons. Barely enough to cover rent.
A holographic display near the exit showed the current rankings. The S-Rank list hadn’t changed in months. The S-Rank hunters held the top spot in Britain, and it was obvious that Harry didn’t know any of them personally. The A-Rank list scrolled past, hundreds of names. B-Rank had thousands. By the time you got to E-Rank, there were so many names they didn’t bother displaying them.
Harry Potter, lost in a sea of mediocrity.
He pushed back out onto the street, where London sprawled in its strange hybrid state. Double-decker buses rumbled past broomstick traffic lanes. A group of teenagers in Muggle clothes chatted outside a shop selling both wands and smartphones. Above it all, the enchanted billboards cycled through advertisements.
One showed a young witch holding a potion bottle. “Vitality Draughts: Because Your Magic Matters. Temporarily boost your magical output by up to 15%. Not BHA approved for Dungeon use.”
Another displayed footage from the latest professional Dungeon Racing League, where B-Rank and above hunters competed to clear mapped Dungeons in record time. The current champion, a cocky A-Rank named Marcus Belby, grinned from the screen. “Speed, power, glory. Join the Dungeon Racing League today.”
The third billboard showed the photo from 1991, baby Harry in Sirius’s arms, the ruins of Godric’s Hollow behind them.
“The Boy Who Lived,” the caption read. “Twenty-four years later, still our symbol of hope.”
Harry turned away and started walking. That photo haunted him. It appeared every Halloween without fail, usually accompanied by think pieces about what the Potter legacy meant in the modern age. Last year, the Daily Prophet had run an entire supplement about it, complete with interviews from people who’d known his parents.
“James would be so proud,” someone had said. Harry couldn’t remember who.
Would he though? Would James Potter, who’d made B-Rank by twenty and died fighting a dark lord, be proud of his E-Rank son who could barely manage a shield charm?
The world hadn’t always been like this. His earliest memories were of Sirius telling him stories about the old days, when magic was secret, when wizards hid from muggles behind careful wards and memory charms. Then Grindelwald had fallen in 1945, and everything changed.
Sirius had been drunk the first time he’d really explained it. Harry had been maybe ten years old, sitting in their cramped flat in Knockturn Alley while his godfather worked through his third bottle of Firewhiskey.
“Dumbledore beat him,” Sirius had said, his words slurring together. “Beat him fair in a duel that leveled half the village. But Grindelwald knew he was finished. So he activated his final plan, the mad bastard. Triggered every single piece of magic he and his followers had planted across the world. Floating castles over Paris. Dragons burning through Calcutta. Mass panic charms failing in New York.”
“What happened?” Harry had asked.
“The Statute of Secrecy shattered. Couldn’t put that genie back in the bottle. Too many muggles saw too much, and their primitive cameras captured it all. Spent the next fifteen years fighting riots and witch hunts. Your grandmother Euphemia, James’s mum, died in ‘53 when a Muggle mob stormed Godric’s Hollow. They burned twenty-three houses before the Aurors stopped them.”
Sirius had stared into his glass. “The Ministry tried everything. Mass Obliviations, but there were too many witnesses. Threats of force, but the Muggles had weapons that could hurt us. Bombs that didn’t care how powerful your shield charm was. Eventually, the International Confederation of Wizards declared integration the only option. Took another twenty years to make it work.”
The Integration Period had been brutal. Harry had studied it at Hogwarts, though the sanitized textbook versions never captured the real horror. The riots of 1956 had killed thousands. The Boston Purge of 1962 had seen an entire magical neighborhood burned to the ground. The Tokyo Incident of 1967 had resulted in mutual massacres that both sides still refused to discuss.
The Guild System emerged from the chaos, proposed by a Muggle-born witch named Dr. Han So-Mi. Her theory was simple: if you could measure magical power objectively, you could regulate it. License it. Tax it. Make it part of society instead of something to fear.
The Thaumaturgical Assessment Scale became standard worldwide by 1975. Magic was no longer about blood purity or family lineage. It was about raw power, measured in Thaums and ranked from S to E.
S-Rank wizards were walking disasters, capable of leveling buildings with a thought. They were also rare, maybe a hundred worldwide. A-Rank wizards could take on small armies. B-Rank was considered professional grade. C-Rank was respectable. D-Rank was average. And E-Rank was Harry.
The powerless Boy Who Lived.
He’d learned the truth about his parents when he was seven. Sirius had waited until after Harry’s birthday, until after the annual swarm of reporters had finally left them alone. They’d been sitting in Grimmauld Place, which Sirius had kept as a storage space after his parents died. The Black family tapestry still hung on the wall, burn marks where his mother had blasted away her least favorite relatives.
“Your dad died protecting your mum,” Sirius had said quietly. “Voldemort came for you on Halloween night. James fought him, gave Lily time to hide you. But you know James, always rushing in without thinking. He died with his wand in his hand.”
“And Mum?”
“Your mum was brilliant. Top of her year, invented three new protective charms before she turned twenty-five. When Voldemort cornered her, she used sacrificial magic. Old, powerful stuff. Her love saved you, Harry. Turned Voldemort’s killing curse back on him.”
“But I still got hurt,” Harry had said, touching the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
“The curse was too strong. Your mum’s protection saved your life, but the magical feedback fractured your core. That’s why you can barely cast spells now. It’s not your fault. It’s just what happened.”
Harry had asked the obvious question. “Can it be fixed?”
Sirius had looked away. “We’ve tried everything. Healers at St. Mungo’s, specialists from America, even a curse-breaker from Egypt who claimed he could repair soul damage. Nothing worked. Your core is like a cracked cup. It holds just enough magic to keep you alive and functional, but it leaks constantly. You’ll never be more than E-Rank.”
That conversation had defined Harry’s life. He’d spent his childhood watching other kids perform magic he could only dream of. His Hogwarts letter had arrived like everyone else’s, and he’d gone to school hoping things would be different.
Hogwarts had been hell after that. The school had converted into a Hitwizard Academy in the ‘80s, training young witches and wizards for Dungeon clearance and magical combat. The old house system remained, but it was mostly ceremonial. What mattered was your projected rank.
Harry had arrived with his famous name and his tragic story, and everyone expected him to be extraordinary.
He’d been anything but.
His classmates could cast shield charms that stopped curses. Harry’s shields flickered out after blocking a single stunner. They could conjure fire and transform objects. Harry could manage a weak Lumos and a stunner that barely knocked someone back. Transfiguration class had been a nightmare. Potions only worked because it relied more on technique than magical power.
Professor McGonagall had pulled him aside after his first year. She’d looked older than he remembered from the stories Sirius told, worn down by decades of training hunters who would go on to die in Dungeons.
“Mr. Potter,” she’d said, not unkindly. “I knew your parents. Your mother was the brightest witch of her age, and your father had enough raw power to make most opponents think twice. I understand this must be difficult for you.”
“I’m trying,” Harry had said.
“I know you are. But trying may not be enough. The Academy is designed to produce professional hunters, and the failure rate is significant even among talented students. Given your magical limitations, I must advise you to consider alternative career paths. There are support positions in the BHA that don’t require combat magic. Administrative work, logistics, even equipment maintenance.”
“I’m not a quitter.”
McGonagall had sighed. “It’s not about quitting, Mr. Potter. It’s about survival. Every year, I send students out into the world, and every year, some of them die in Dungeons. The weak ones die first. I would prefer not to add your name to that list.”
But Harry had stayed, stubborn and stupid, convinced that hard work could overcome a fractured magical core. He’d graduated seven years later with an E-Rank certification and a barely passing grade point average. The ceremony had been held in the Great Hall, with families watching from the stands. Sirius had been there, cheering louder than anyone when Harry’s name was called.
Most of Harry’s classmates had been recruited by Guilds before they even finished school. The talented ones got signing bonuses and training programs. Harry got nothing.
The years afterward blurred together. Sirius had worked as a freelance curse-breaker, taking on dangerous assignments to keep them afloat. Harry had tagged along on the easier jobs, mostly doing grunt work while his godfather handled the actual magic. They’d been happy enough, or at least content.
Sirius had never married, never had kids of his own. He’d dedicated himself to raising Harry, to making sure James and Lily’s son had a chance at life. Looking back, Harry wondered if that had been fair to him. Sirius could have found a nice witch, settled down, had a family. Instead, he’d gotten stuck with his best friend’s broken son.
Then three years ago, Sirius had taken a job clearing a B-Rank Dungeon break in Manchester. Something had gone wrong. The details were still classified, but the end result was clear enough. Sirius Black, one of the last living Marauders, had died along with six other hunters when the Dungeon collapsed.
The funeral had been well-attended, at least. Half the old Order of the Phoenix showed up, people Harry barely knew who’d fought in the war against Voldemort. They’d told him stories about Sirius, about James, about his mother. Remus Lupin had hugged him tightly and promised to stay in touch, though they both knew it was a lie. Lupin was B-Rank and worked for one of the big Guilds. He didn’t have time for an E-Rank nobody.
He reached his flat as the sun started setting. Knockturn Alley looked worse in the half-light, all crumbling brick and suspicious characters. His building leaned against the neighboring structure like a drunk against a lamppost. The stairs creaked ominously as he climbed to the third floor.
The building super, an ancient wizard named Burke, was standing in the hallway. He looked up as Harry approached, his face settling into familiar lines of disapproval.
“Potter. Rent’s due.”
“It’s due next week.”
“Aye, and you were late last month. And the month before. I’m giving you fair warning. I’ve got three people interested in this flat, and they’ve all got steady income.”
“I’ve got an assignment tomorrow. I’ll have the money.”
Burke snorted. “How much is this one paying? Thirty Galleons? Forty? Your rent’s one-twenty a month, boy. The numbers don’t add up.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You always say that.” Burke shook his head. “Your godfather was a good man. Paid his debts on time, treated people with respect. I’m giving you leniency because of him, but that well’s running dry. Get me the rent by next week or you’re out.”
The old wizard shuffled away, leaving Harry standing in the hallway. One hundred twenty Galleons a month for a flat the size of a shoebox in the worst part of London. It was highway robbery, but it was also all Harry could afford.
The flat was exactly as he’d left it. One room serving as bedroom, living room, and kitchen. A bathroom the size of a closet. His bed was a mattress on the floor. His kitchen was a hot plate and a mini-fridge. Posters from his Hogwarts years covered the walls, mostly to hide the water damage.
A stack of bills sat on the floor near the door. Harry kicked them aside without looking. He knew what they said. Overdue notice from St. Mungo’s for a healing session three months ago. A collections letter from Gringotts regarding Sirius’s outstanding debts that Harry had foolishly co-signed. A subscription renewal notice from the Daily Prophet that he’d forgotten to cancel.
His phone buzzed. The screen showed a message from Dennis Creevey.
“Hey Harry! Just got the assignment notification. Same team as last time! This is going to be great!”
Harry smiled despite himself. Dennis was nineteen, fresh out of Hogwarts, and relentlessly optimistic. He’d grown up idolizing Harry, apparently deaf to the whispers about The Fraud Who Lived. Colin Creevey’s little brother had his same enthusiasm, though thankfully less camera-related.
Another message popped up, this one from Romilda Vane.
“Another E-Rank slog. Wonderful. Try not to slow us down this time, Potter.”
Harry ignored that one. Romilda had graduated two years after him, convinced she’d be an A-Rank hunter. Three years later, she was E-Rank and still bitter about it. She took her frustration out on anyone nearby, but especially Harry. There was a particular venom reserved for people who squandered advantages, and in Romilda’s eyes, being Harry Potter was an advantage he’d completely wasted.
His phone rang. Unknown number. Harry almost ignored it, but rent was due next week and he couldn’t afford to miss any opportunity.
“Hello?”
“Potter.” The voice was unmistakable. Cormac McLaggen, their team leader, somehow made Harry’s surname sound like an insult. “Got the assignment. Forbidden Forest, Acromantula colony. Should be straightforward, but I’m telling you now, if you fuck this up like you did in Cardiff, I’m reporting you.”
“I didn’t fuck up Cardiff. The intelligence report was wrong.”
“You froze when that Boggart showed up. Creevey had to cover you.”
“The Boggart turned into a Dementor. I thought they were extinct.”
“They are extinct, you idiot. That’s why it was a Boggart. A D-Rank hunter would’ve recognized it immediately.” McLaggen’s breath crackled through the phone. “Nine o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late. And Potter? Wear something better than that ratty jacket. You make us all look bad.”
The line went dead.
Harry threw the phone onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Water stains formed patterns that looked like faces if he squinted. He tried to see his parents in them sometimes, tried to imagine what they’d think of him now.
His mum had been brilliant. His dad had been brave. Their son was neither.
The worst part was knowing he’d had opportunities. After Sirius died, Remus had offered to help him get into a training program for low-rank hunters. It would have meant two years of intensive study, learning to maximize his limited magical output. Harry had turned it down because it cost money he didn’t have and required him to admit he needed help.
Pride. Stupid, worthless pride.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had even reached out personally. He’d known Harry’s parents, had fought alongside them in the war. He’d offered Harry a desk job, something safe and stable with a regular paycheck. Administrative work processing dungeon reports.
Harry had turned that down too. The Boy Who Lived, shuffling papers while other people risked their lives. The press would have had a field day.
So here he was instead. Twenty-five years old, broke, alone, and barely scraping by on E-Rank assignments that paid next to nothing. Living up to his legacy one catastrophic decision at a time.
Sleep came eventually, broken and restless. He dreamed of green light and his mother’s screams, the same nightmare he’d had since childhood. He woke before dawn and went through his morning routine on autopilot.
Shower in lukewarm water because the heating charm had failed weeks ago. Instant coffee that tasted like burnt tar. His “battle gear” consisted of dragon-hide boots Sirius had bought him years ago, cargo pants with reinforced knees, and a black tactical shirt. The jacket McLaggen hated was actually essential since it had a few protective wards woven into the fabric. Sirius had paid three hundred Galleons for it seven years ago. The wards were probably half-degraded by now, but it was still better than nothing.
His wand sat on the windowsill, eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather. Ollivander had proclaimed it “brother” to Voldemort’s wand, which should have meant something profound. Instead, Harry could barely channel enough magic through it to light a candle.
He grabbed it anyway and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
The journey to the Forbidden Forest took two hours by Knight Bus. Harry spent most of it pressed against the window, trying not to vomit as the bus lurched through impossible turns. Other passengers gave him a wide berth after someone recognized him.
“Bit past your glory days, aren’t you?” an old wizard muttered, loud enough for Harry to hear.
The bus dumped him at the Hogsmeade station. From there, it was a fifteen-minute walk to the forest’s edge, where the BHA had established a forward operating base. Temporary structures dotted the clearing, all prefabricated walls and magical generators. Hunters from various teams milled around, checking gear and reviewing assignments.
Harry found his team near the perimeter. McLaggen stood front and center, his arms crossed and looking like a recruitment poster for the BHA. Tall, square-jawed, with perfectly styled hair and gleaming armor. His D-Rank badge glinted in the morning sun.
Dennis spotted Harry first and waved enthusiastically. “Harry! Over here!”
The rest of the team turned. Besides Dennis and Romilda, there were three others. Joshua Dingle, a stocky wizard who barely spoke and specialized in shield charms. Orla Quirke, tall and nervous, decent with healing magic. And Terry Boot, who’d been in school with Harry and had somehow become even more forgettable with age.
“You’re late,” McLaggen said, checking his watch.
“It’s eight fifty-seven.”
“I said nine o’clock. That means you should be here at eight forty-five, ready to go.”
Harry bit back a response and moved to stand with Dennis. His friend grinned at him, practically vibrating with excitement.
“This is going to be brilliant,” Dennis whispered. “I heard there might be a rare Acromantula variant in this nest. If we bag it, the venom alone could be worth a thousand Galleons.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Harry said. “These Low-E assignments are usually cleared out before we even arrive. We’re basically janitors.”
“Still exciting though. Better than sitting in my mum’s house, right?”
Harry couldn’t argue with that.
McLaggen pulled up a holographic display from his wrist device, showing the forest terrain. A red marker pulsed about two kilometers in. “Standard Acromantula nest. BHA scouts report maybe twenty to thirty individuals, mostly juveniles. A few Redcap colonies in the surrounding area. Should be cleared by lunch.” He looked directly at Harry. “Potter, you’re on rear guard. Stay back and don’t engage unless absolutely necessary.”
“I can handle front-line work.”
“The last time you tried front-line work, you nearly got Terry killed.”
“That was a C-Rank Dungeon. We shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”
“I cleared it, didn’t I? Maybe if you’d pulled your weight instead of cowering behind your pathetic shield charm, it would’ve gone smoother.”
Romilda snorted. Dennis looked uncomfortable. The others studied their boots.
Harry forced himself to breathe slowly. “Fine. Rear guard.”
“Good.” McLaggen’s smile was sharp. “Everyone else, standard formation. Orla, stay with Potter. Josh and Terry up front with me. Romilda and Dennis on the flanks. Let’s move out.”
They entered the Forbidden Forest in formation, their wands drawn. The morning light barely penetrated the canopy, leaving everything in green-tinged shadow. Harry’s boots crunched on fallen leaves. Somewhere in the distance, something howled.
The forest had changed since the olden days. Back then, it had been forbidden because of the magical creatures living in it. Now, those same creatures were classified threats, and the forest was prime hunting ground for low-rank Dungeons. The BHA had marked paths through the worst areas, but they still had to watch for sinkholes where reality had grown thin.
Dungeons were poorly understood even sixty years after they’d started appearing. The leading theory suggested they were tears in reality, gates to pocket dimensions filled with magical creatures and phenomena. Some thought they were a consequence of Grindelwald’s final gambit, reality itself damaged by the shattering of the Statute. Others believed they’d always existed, just hidden by the veil of secrecy.
What everyone agreed on was that they were dangerous and profitable. Dungeon cores could be harvested and sold. Rare materials found inside financed entire industries. And the creatures themselves, once killed, often dropped valuable components.
The Guild System existed primarily to regulate dungeon access. High-rank Dungeons required high-rank hunters. Low-rank Dungeons got farmed by people like Harry, desperate E-Ranks trying to make enough money to survive another month.
“Contact,” McLaggen hissed, holding up a fist.
Harry moved to the side, peering around a massive oak. Ahead, in a small clearing, three Redcaps squabbled over something dead. They were ugly little things, like twisted garden gnomes soaked in blood. Their hats dripped red.
McLaggen pointed at Romilda and Dennis. They moved forward silently, wands raised. Romilda struck first, a cutting curse that took one Redcap’s head clean off. Dennis followed up with a stinging hex that scattered the other two. Josh’s shield charm absorbed the retaliatory thrown rocks.
The whole encounter took maybe thirty seconds.
“Clear,” McLaggen announced. “Collect the cores. Potter, you’re not doing anything useful, so you might as well harvest.”
Harry gritted his teeth and moved forward. Redcap cores were small, marble-sized things that formed near their hearts. They sold for maybe a tenner each at the BHA exchange. He knelt by the first corpse and started cutting.
The cores went into a collection bag that Josh carried. They continued deeper into the forest.
More Redcaps appeared, then a small pack of oversized spiders that weren’t quite Acromantulas. Each time, the team handled them efficiently. Each time, Harry stayed in the back, occasionally stunning something that got too close but mostly just watching.
“This is depressing,” Romilda said during a water break. She’d addressed her comment to Dennis, but her voice carried over to Harry. “Watching him stand around while we do all the work. Why does the BHA even let him take assignments?”
“He’s trying his best,” Dennis said loyally.
“His best isn’t good enough. We could’ve brought an actual fighter instead of dead weight.”
“That’s enough,” Orla said quietly. “We’re supposed to be a team.”
“We’re supposed to be hunters. He’s just famous.”
Harry pretended not to hear. He’d gotten good at that over the years. McLaggen didn’t stop her, which meant he agreed. They continued on.
The Acromantula nest appeared after another hour of walking. The trees here were cocooned in thick webs, and the ground crunched with egg casings. A massive burrow descended into darkness, easily wide enough for three people to walk abreast.
“Thaumaturgical assessment confirms Low-E Rank,” McLaggen said, checking his scanner. “Twenty-seven signatures, largest one is maybe the size of a small car. Josh, barriers up. Romilda, Terry, you’re with me on entry. Dennis and Orla, support positions. Potter, stay here and guard the exit.”
“Guard it from what?” Harry asked. “Everything dangerous is down there.”
“Then you should have an easy job. Try not to screw it up.”
The team descended into the burrow. Harry stood at the entrance, wand in hand, feeling useless. He could hear the sounds of combat echoing up from below. Screams from the spiders. Shouts from his teammates. The bright flashes of spellfire.
He should be down there. E-Rank or not, he’d trained at Hogwarts. He’d survived encounters that would’ve killed most people. But McLaggen was right about one thing: Harry wasn’t strong. His magic couldn’t match the others. His shield charms broke too easily. His offensive spells were weak.
The Boy Who Lived was a fraud.
Movement caught his eye. Something in the trees, too large to be a Redcap. Harry raised his wand, squinting into the shadows.
A spider emerged, but not an Acromantula. This thing was different, with translucent carapace and too many eyes. It moved wrong, jerky and unnatural, like a puppet on broken strings.
Harry’s scanner wasn’t showing anything.
“Contact,” he called down the burrow. “Unknown hostile.”
No response. Either they couldn’t hear him or were too busy fighting.
The spider-thing lunged. Harry threw up a shield charm and felt it shatter immediately under the impact. He rolled to the side, coming up with his wand pointed at the creature’s center mass.
“Stupefy!”
The red bolt hit the spider’s thorax and splashed harmlessly across its carapace. The creature’s mandibles clicked together, producing a sound like breaking glass.
Harry backed toward the burrow entrance, firing off stunning spells that did nothing. The spider matched his pace, scuttling across the web-covered ground with unnatural speed.
His back hit stone. The burrow entrance.
The spider jumped.
Harry ducked and the creature sailed over his head, disappearing into the burrow. For a moment, everything was quiet.
Then someone screamed.
Harry ran down the burrow, his wand light bouncing off the walls. The tunnel twisted and turned, sloping deeper underground. The sounds of combat grew louder, mixed with shouts of confusion.
He emerged into a large chamber lined with cocoons. His team stood in the center, surrounded by dead Acromantulas. But they weren’t looking at the bodies. They were staring at a door.
It dominated the far wall, easily three meters tall and two wide. The wood was black and polished, carved with intricate runes that seemed to shift when Harry looked at them directly. Silver inlay traced patterns that hurt his eyes.
“Where did this come from?” McLaggen demanded. “There was nothing on the scans.”
“It just appeared,” Dennis said, his voice shaking. “Right after that weird spider attacked us.”
“What weird spider?” Harry asked.
They all turned to look at him. Romilda’s face was pale. “A spider that didn’t read on our scanners. Translucent, wrong number of eyes. It came from above and disappeared into the shadows.”
“I saw it at the entrance,” Harry said.
McLaggen’s jaw clenched. “Everyone stay alert. Potter, actually make yourself useful and watch our backs.” He approached the door slowly, his wand raised. “These runes are old. Pre-Hogwarts founding, maybe even pre-Roman.”
“Should we report this?” Orla asked. “Call for a higher-rank team?”
“And lose the credit? No way.” McLaggen reached for the door handle. “This could be an undiscovered Dungeon. Do you know how much the BHA pays for first-clear bonuses?”
“This seems like a bad idea,” Harry said.
“No one asked you.” McLaggen gripped the handle.
The door swung open silently, revealing darkness beyond. Cold air rushed out, carrying the smell of old stone and something else, something wrong. Harry’s scar tingled.
“Formation,” McLaggen ordered. “We go in together. Stay tight.”
They moved through the doorway. Harry went last, looking back at the chamber behind them. The dead Acromantulas were already starting to dissolve into shadow, which didn’t happen naturally.
He turned back to say something.
The door slammed shut.
Everyone spun, their wands raised. Dennis fired a blasting hex at the door, but it splashed harmlessly against the black wood. McLaggen tried a cutting curse. Nothing.
“Alohomora,” Romilda tried. The lock didn’t budge.
“Bombarda Maxima!” McLaggen roared.
Still nothing.
Harry pressed his hand against the wood. It felt warm, almost alive. The runes glowed faintly under his touch, pulsing in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.
“Well,” Terry said into the silence. “This is bad.”
The darkness around them began to recede. Light bloomed from nowhere, revealing their surroundings.
They stood in a temple.
The ceiling soared overhead, lost in shadow despite the sourceless light. Massive pillars marched away into the distance, each one carved with flowing script in a language Harry didn’t recognize. The floor was polished black stone, so smooth it reflected their frightened faces.
“This isn’t possible,” Orla whispered. “We’re still under the forest. This space can’t exist.”
“It’s a dungeon,” McLaggen said, but he sounded uncertain. “Has to be. Just unlike anything on record.”
Flames erupted along the walls, torch brackets igniting with black fire that gave off no heat. The light changed, casting everything in shades of gray and dark purple. More details emerged. The pillars were carved with scenes of battle, of people kneeling, of a figure in robes accepting worship.
At the far end of the temple, maybe fifty meters away, stood a statue.
It depicted a robed man holding a chalice. The face was beautiful and terrible, serene and cruel. The chalice overflowed with something that might have been water or blood, frozen in stone.
The statue’s eyes began to glow.
“Everyone back to the door,” McLaggen ordered, his voice cracking slightly. “Now.”
They retreated as a group, but the door was gone. Just smooth stone where it had been, as if it had never existed.
“Apparition?” Dennis suggested.
Romilda tried and immediately doubled over. “Can’t. Anti-Apparition wards.”
“Emergency portkeys?” Harold pulled one from his belt and activated it.
Nothing happened.
The statue’s glow intensified. Harry felt something building in the air, pressure that made his ears pop. His scar burned like it hadn’t since he was a child.
Light streamed from the statue’s eyes, coalescing in the air before them. Words formed, written in glowing runes that hung in space. They were in English, which somehow made it worse.
COMMANDMENT THE FIRST: WORSHIP THE DIVINE.
The words pulsed, each letter a meter tall and burning with cold light. Harry’s scanner exploded, along with everyone else’s. The devices burst into sparks and smoke, frying their circuits.
“What the hell is this?” McLaggen shouted, his composure finally cracking. “What kind of dungeon talks?”
Nobody answered. They stood frozen, staring at the words that hung in the air like a sentence and a threat.
Harry’s wand hand shook. Whatever this place was, it wasn’t a normal dungeon. Dungeons had monsters and traps, but they were fundamentally about survival and combat. This was something else entirely.
This was a test.
And Harry had a terrible feeling they were going to fail it.
The statue remained motionless at the far end of the temple, its stone eyes fixed on them with patience, yet Harry felt a sense of inevitability. The black flames burned on in their brackets. The words continued to glow.
Dennis moved closer to Harry. “What do we do?”
Harry wished he had an answer.