The Screech Owl Alley, the most inconspicuous, filthy, and perpetually damp offshoot of Diagon Alley.
The flagstones here were constantly coated in a slick, mossy veneer of murky green. The air was a permanent, nauseating cocktail of expired potions, cheap firewhisky, and the excrement of some unknown magical creature.
Deep within this alley, which even stray house-elves avoided, a battered wooden door, its paint long peeled and mottled, was reluctantly pulled open with a "screeecch."
Behind the door, a woman's face peered out—still beautiful, but heavily drawn from a recent binge and the relentless stress of life. Her once-lustrous golden hair was haphazardly tied up like dry straw, and a few unruly strands clung to her damp, smooth forehead.
She was loosely draped in a sheer, lavender silk negligee. The robe's neckline plunged extremely low, and as she leaned forward, a breathtaking, creamy expanse of cleavage and a deep shadow were tantalizingly visible in the dim light of the alley.
"Who is it?"
The woman's voice was thick with nasal congestion, full of annoyance and suspicion. "So early in the morning? Can't a person sleep?"
Her gaze traveled down the crack in the door and she paused, slightly stunned.
Standing outside was a child. A blonde boy who looked barely eleven, maybe even smaller than his peers. Yet, it was this small figure, who should have been queuing with the Hogwarts first-years, that filled her sleepy eyes with an overwhelming sense of absurdity.
The reason? His "gear" was simply too... ostentatious.
Around his neck hung at least three magical chains of varying materials: a silver chain engraved with micro-Runes, a leather cord threaded with tiny obsidian shards, and even an innermost bone necklace, strung with the teeth of some unknown creature, giving it a primitive air.
His hands, excessively fair and clearly unused to manual labor, were utterly plastered with rings—seven or eight of them across ten fingers! There were ones set with cat's eye opals, one carved into the shape of a snake, and even a massive, vulgar signet ring made of cheap brass, the kind a nouveau riche would flaunt.
His wrists were even more exaggerated. His left arm sported two jingling silver bracelets enchanted with the Shield Charm, and his right wore a seemingly heavy, dragon-hide bracer set with a Protective Rune.
He stood there, amidst the continuous clinking of metal and bone, and raised his impossibly fair, almost beautiful, baby-fat-still-evident face. He looked at the woman behind the door with a pair of strangely calm, chilling blue eyes that contradicted his age and his gaudy attire.
"Good morning, Mrs. Gudgeon."
The boy's voice was clear and pleasant, yet delivered with a cold, businesslike cadence. "My name is Jerry. I'm here to collect a debt."
The woman, Amelie Gudgeon, froze for three full seconds, then burst out laughing as if she had just heard the funniest joke of the century. The laugh caused the striking fullness of her chest to swell and ripple.
"Collect a debt? Little one, did you get the wrong address? Or are you playing 'Little Auror' with your Auntie?"
"It seems Mr. Barnaby Gudgeon hasn't informed you of the matter."
Jerry's expression remained unchanged as he calmly stated the facts. "Eleven years ago, Mr. Gudgeon borrowed one thousand two hundred Galleons from my father to expand his smuggling business in magical creatures. The contract clearly stipulates an annual interest rate of fifteen percent, compounded. Calculated to this day, the principal plus interest totals five thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven Galleons and fourteen Sickles."
"Your... your father?"
Amelie's laughter instantly died in her throat. A flicker of doubt and alarm crossed her alcohol-muddied eyes.
"You may have heard my father's name!"
Jerry's voice was still unruffled. "Aurelius Rosier."
Amelie was stunned for a moment, but quickly put the pieces together!
BOOM!
The surname exploded in Amelie's mind like a thunderclap!
Rosier!
The pure-blood Dark Wizard family that had once followed the Dark Lord in glorious fashion! The unfortunate family that had backed the wrong side a decade or so ago, resulting in the Ministry of Magic's total purge, confiscation, and annihilation!
The last shred of color drained from her face.
"You... you're lying! The Rosier family... they were all..."
"They were all finished, right?"
Jerry finished the sentence for her, a faint, almost mocking smile finally appearing on his face. "Yes. Fallen on hard times, parents deceased, only an orphan left. But that doesn't mean the money people owe us is suddenly forfeit."
Just then, a rough, impatient man's voice boomed from inside the house.
"Amelia! Who's that squawking out there!"
With the sound of heavy footsteps, a hulking, bearish brute of a man, with a face full of fleshy jowls, emerged from the room shirtless, clad only in shorts. He saw Jerry at the door, then glanced at his wife's ashen face, frowned, and impatiently waved his hand.
"Where did this brat come from? Get lost! Don't bother an honest man's sleep!"
"Honey, he... he says he's from the Rosier family..." Amelie's voice was trembling.
"Rosier?" Barnaby Gudgeon paused, then a look of utter contempt and cruel pleasure spread across his meaty face.
"Oh, I remember now! The dead man's spawn! What, has the little half-blood gotten so desperate he's begging on the streets now? Collect a debt? With what? With those jingling pieces of junk you're wearing?"
As he spoke, he took a step closer, his huge body completely blocking all the light from the doorway. A potent stench of stale sweat and cheap alcohol washed over Jerry.
"I'll tell you something, brat!"
He peered down at Jerry with his small, menacing eyes. "Don't just say I don't have the money now, even if I did, I 'borrowed' it fair and square! If you want it back, tell your dead old man to crawl out of his grave and ask me for it! Now, vanish from my sight! Otherwise..."
His arm, thicker than Jerry's thigh and covered in coarse black hair, slowly lifted. He actually drew a rough, crudely whittled wand of poor-quality walnut wood from his waistband!
"...I won't mind sending you down to join him!"
Faced with this undisguised, naked threat to his life, Jerry's expression remained as calm as a deep pool, utterly undisturbed.
He simply, and gently, raised his own delicate little hand, adorned with all the rings. A similarly slender wand made of ash wood, looking almost like a toy, was lightly clasped in his palm.
"It seems, Mr. Gudgeon, you intend to solve the debt issue with violence."
His voice even carried a hint of small, almost amused pleasure, as if things had just become interesting.
"You're asking for it!"
Barnaby was completely enraged by the boy's blatant confidence! He violently swung his thick arm, and a malicious, sickly green light instantly shot from his rough wand tip!
"Stinging Jinx!"
This was an extremely venomous curse, designed to inflict agonizing, severe pain as if the victim were being stung by a swarm of wasps! To use it against a half-grown child was utterly depraved.
However, facing the rapidly approaching curse, Jerry didn't even blink. He didn't even bother to make a token attempt at dodging.
He simply, and just as gently, flicked his own wand.
"Expelliarmus."
There was no earth-shattering commotion, no dazzling flash of color. A thin, small beam of red light, seemingly ready to be swallowed by the sickly green curse, flashed and was gone from his wand tip.
Then!
"BOOOOM!!!!"
In the eyes of Barnaby and Amelie, which instantly widened to the limit, filled with terror and disbelief, the small red light, upon meeting the dark green Stinging Jinx, erupted like a terrifying, violent "explosion," akin to a miniature, hyper-concentrated "Confringo"!
It wasn't a simple spell collision!
The dark green light couldn't hold its ground for even a second before it was completely, cleanly, and utterly annihilated by the white-hot red light, which instantly expanded dozens of times its size!
The unstoppable, brutal red shockwave then slammed heavily into Barnaby's massive, bear-like body!
"CRACK!"
A crisp, sickening sound of breaking bone rang out!
Barnaby's shoddy walnut wand shattered into splinters. His enormous body, weighing over two hundred pounds, was thrown backward as if he had been struck head-on by a charging Norwegian Ridgeback!
With a scream of pain and terror, his massive frame hit the wall behind him with a crash, like a sack of broken rags. The entire dilapidated shack shook violently from the impact.
"Urgh..."
Barnaby slid down the wall to the floor, spitting out a small mouthful of blood. He clutched his broken arm, which was twisted at a grotesque, unnatural angle, and let out an animalistic groan of agony. His eyes, wide with fear and incomprehension, were locked on the small figure by the door, still holding the wand, as if he were staring at the most horrifying demon from hell!
Silence.
A deathly silence.
Only Barnaby's heavy, labored breathing, like a broken bellows, echoed in the dusty air.
Jerry slowly lowered his wand, a small, satisfied smile, as if pleased with his handiwork, gracing his face.
The one hundred percent critical hit rate Expelliarmus! The effect was, as always, deeply satisfying.
He stepped forward, walking through the wreckage and the constant clinking of his jewelry, and slowly entered the room. He even gave a small, polite nod to Amelie Gudgeon, who was utterly pale, shaking uncontrollably, and covering her sexy, gaping mouth with a trembling hand in shock.
Then, he walked up to Barnaby, who was lying on the floor groaning like a stuck pig, and slowly crouched down.
He looked at the hulking brute who had just threatened to kill him with his calm, utterly placid blue eyes, and asked in a voice so gentle, as if discussing what to have for afternoon tea:
"So, Mr. Gudgeon."
"Regarding the debt of five thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven Galleons and fourteen Sickles... can we now, perhaps, have a calm, reasonable discussion?"
Amelie watched the nightmarish, bizarre scene unfolding before her, her mind turned to sludge. Fear, like an icy tide, completely submerged her. But beneath the endless terror, a more peculiar emotion, one she herself could not comprehend, quietly began to sprout from the deepest part of her heart.
Her gaze involuntarily fell upon the small, crouching figure.
On the absurdly clanking jewelry that covered him.
On his impossibly pretty, innocent face.
And on the profound, calm blue eyes on that face—eyes that looked completely unbothered, as if that earth-shattering blow had merely been a casual flick of a booger.
Half an hour later, Jerry emerged from the dilapidated shack, thoroughly satisfied.
In his hand was a faintly glowing parchment deed. Barnaby Gudgeon's painful and humiliating blood-stained fingerprint was glaringly obvious at the bottom of the contract.
The whole process had been smoother than he had anticipated. After personally witnessing the terrifying power of that Disarming Charm, Barnaby Gudgeon had been completely reduced to a docile, waiting pig. Far from just the broken property in Screech Owl Alley, if Jerry had demanded his unbroken arm right then, the brute probably would have chopped it off himself without hesitation.
As Jerry was leaving with the deed, he passed Mrs. Amelie Gudgeon, who remained frozen, as if turned into a perfect, elaborate statue.
He stopped.
Amelie's body, which had been subtly trembling from fear, instantly went ramrod straight.
Jerry looked up, studying the mature, voluptuous woman of unique charm with his pure blue eyes. His gaze was unapologetically bold, sliding from her pretty face, still marked by fear and humiliation, down her snowy neck, which slightly rose and fell with her anxiety.
Finally, his eyes settled on the breathtaking fullness that the sheer negligee couldn't fully conceal.
Then, amidst the clinking of his jewelry, he reached out his delicate, ring-laden little hand.
Under the scrutiny of Amelie's instantly constricted pupils, his hand pressed gently, but firmly, directly onto the soft, full, incredibly resilient flesh.
Then, with an almost sickeningly playful manner, like inspecting merchandise, he gave it a small, deliberate squeeze.
"Nngh!"
Amelie let out a suppressed, ambiguous groan—somewhere between pain and something else—and her body went instantly limp as if she'd been electrocuted. Had the wall not been behind her, she would have collapsed to the floor. A powerful surge of heat, mixed with shame and strange stimulation, violently erupted from the depths of her lower abdomen, sweeping through her entire being!
"Nice grip, Mrs. Gudgeon."
Jerry retracted his hand, giving her a pure, almost demonic smile that was utterly out of sync with his age. "Consider that the interest your husband has owed for all these years."
With that, he didn't spare another glance for the woman who was on the verge of fainting from shock, turned around, and, with a brisk stride, vanished into the gloomy end of the alley.
Walking on the noisy, cobbled main thoroughfare of Diagon Alley, Jerry felt exceptionally pleased. He didn't mind the curious, almost contemptuous looks the surrounding wizards cast upon him, the "tacky little rich boy." Instead, he contentedly jingled the chains on his wrist, enjoying the crisp sound.
Nobody knew the terrifying entity hidden inside this seemingly foolish young master who looked like he'd escaped from a parvenu family with terrible taste.
Jerry was not a native of this world. His soul hailed from a peaceful, non-magical, almost boring world. When he reopened his eyes, he found himself reincarnated into the utterly familiar, fantastic, and dangerous world of Harry Potter, as a wailing infant named Jerry Rosier.
Rosier: a notorious pure-blood Dark Wizard family that followed Voldemort during the First Wizarding War. His start was an absolute disaster. Before he could grow up, Voldemort fell. His parents, identified as Death Eaters, were swiftly purged by the Ministry of Magic and died in Azkaban. The vast family fortune was seized, and the illustrious name was ruined overnight. Had it not been for the distant Lestrange family—a similarly fallen, but at least surviving, relative—who, out of a sense of blood duty, offered him basic shelter and minimal living expenses, he would have starved on the streets.
However, where fate closed one door, it opened a window for him.
The [Task System] was his greatest cheat. This system was simple, brutal, yet incredibly powerful. Since its awakening a year ago, it issued a new task periodically. Completing it granted a reward, with difficulty increasing alongside his age and strength.
His first, and so far most incredible, reward was [Synthesis].
This skill allowed him to merge items imbued with the same magical property, effectively stacking and strengthening that property!
Thus, a genius, "bug-exploiting" plan was born in his young mind.
Over the past year, using the Lestranges' meager, almost patronizing pure-blood subsistence allowance, he had saved every Knut, frantically scouring every corner of Diagon Alley for the cheapest, lowest-quality magical jewelry—the kind sold by the pound—that had garbage properties like "+0.1% Magical Critical Rate" or "+0.2% Spell Penetration."
Then came the tedious, relentless cycle of synthesis.
Two "+0.1%" rings merged into one "+0.2%."
Two "+0.2%" earrings merged into one "+0.4%," and so on...
Finally, just before his eleventh birthday, by synthesizing dozens of pieces of "junk" jewelry that looked utterly ridiculous on him, he had successfully stacked the "Magical Critical Rate" property to the cap of one hundred percent!
This meant that every offensive spell he cast would automatically trigger a critical hit effect! This was the secret behind the terrifying Expelliarmus that had just sent an adult brute flying!
The task issued today was: [First Collection: Recover the Rosier Family's first debt from Barnaby Gudgeon.]
Now, the mission was perfectly completed.
Jerry muttered to himself as he walked.
[Task "First Collection" completed.]
[Task Rating: Perfect.]
[Task Rewards: 1. Deed to "Screech Owl Alley No. 17." 2. Skill "Silver Tongue" (Passive): Success rate slightly increased when performing verbal acts such as persuasion, intimidation, and deception.]
[Daily Task Completed. Please wait for the new Task refresh!]
"Heh, Silver Tongue... a nice little bonus."
Jerry smiled with satisfaction, carefully tucking the deed into his pocket. This was only the beginning. In his pocket lay a long list of wizards who had failed to repay their debts after his father's downfall. Gudgeon was merely the first. Next, he would visit every single one of these self-righteous scoundrels, one by one.
He would reclaim everything that rightfully belonged to the Rosier family, with interest!
Undoubtedly, collecting the family's outstanding debts, piece by piece, and watching those who once kicked them while they were down wear expressions of sheer terror, was a delightful prospect.
However, before that, he had a much more crucial and mandatory undertaking. This "undertaking" was an obligation he, as the host of the [Task System], had to fulfill every month. It was a compulsory monthly mission issued by the cold, mechanical system, allowing for no doubt or negotiation.
If the [Task System] was the gift of fate, this mandatory monthly task was the heavy, cruel price he had to pay for it. The frigid "System" never explicitly stated the consequences of disobedience, but the soul-deep chill and stinging pain Jerry felt whenever a task generated was enough to fill him with dread.
And this month's mandatory task was... to rob Gringotts!
[Monthly Mandatory Task - Goodwill Initiative!]
[Task: Reorganize the Gringotts Frontline Office.]
[Objective: Ensure the "Gringotts Goblin Welfare and Goodwill" charity project progresses smoothly, eliminate internal disruptive factors, and establish your absolute authority as "Project Manager."]
[Target 1 (Half-Giant "Bonebreaker"): Suppress the Half-Giant "Bonebreaker's" clamor, causing him to cease meaningless boasts and destructive behavior.] [(Current Clamor Value: 85/100)]
[Target 2 (Potions Witch "Whisper"): Cause the Potions Witch "Whisper" to interrupt her suspicious private potion experiments and focus on the task core.] [(Current Focus Level: 15/100)]
[Target 3 (General Wizard Deterrence): Instill reverence for the "Project Manager" in all present wizards, ensuring smooth command execution.] [(Current Deterrence Value: 0/100)]
[Challenge: The wizards inside are specially recruited outcasts for the Gringotts operation, possessing volatile temperaments and considerable strength. Your disguised identity will restrict your direct combat output, requiring clever use of strategy and psychological pressure.]
Rewards:
[Base Reward: [Influence Points] +50 (Used to unlock Rosier family high-level contacts), [Disguise Proficiency] +10%.]
[Bonus Reward (If all sub-objectives are met): [Gringotts Plan Progress] +15%, gain a temporary [Aura of Deterrence] effect (Increases pressure on lower-level wizards in future interactions).]
[Failure Penalty: [Gringotts Plan Progress] -5%, [Disguise Exposure Risk] +10%.]
Jerry, clutching the deed still bearing Barnaby Gudgeon's snot and tears, turned into an even darker, damper alley. The air here was filled with a curious bouquet of stewed Troll toes mixed with cheap Hair-Raising Potion, enough to make any creature with a normal sense of smell pass out instantly.
He stopped confidently before a dilapidated wooden door that looked like it would fall apart if touched. A crooked sign hung on the door, its lettering too blurred to read, though the words "Laugh" and "Hiccup" were vaguely visible—perhaps it once sold joke sweets or hiccuping solutions.
The current undercover infiltration was facing a critical challenge. Before pushing the door open, Jerry pulled out a small crystal bottle from his pocket. The liquid inside was thick like a Slime's vomit, and suspiciously bubbling.
Pinching his nose, and with a look of heroic sacrifice, he downed the whole bottle of "vintage." The taste was probably like boiling Troll armpit hair, swamp sludge, and a Potions Professor's week-old unwashed socks together for three days and three nights.
After a moment of gut-wrenching distortion and transformation, a brand new "Jerry" was born.
He peered at his reflection in a grimy piece of glass near the door: an utterly unremarkable middle-aged man, with a receding hairline, dull eyes, oily spectacles perched on his nose, and wearing a tweed robe that any self-respecting house-elf would refuse to touch.
Perfect.
No one would connect this seemingly hapless, low-level Ministry clerk with the ruthless young master of the Rosier family who had just executed a brutal debt collection. Even less would anyone suspect that he was the organizer of today's "Gringotts Goblin Welfare and Goodwill" major charity event.
Jerry cleared his throat, making his voice as bland and uninteresting as his appearance. Then, he took a deep breath of the wonderfully scented air and pushed open the creaking wooden door.
"Gentlemen, the Project Manager is here to check on progress."
Behind the door was a world even worse than the alley. If the alley's scent was a symphonic blend of Troll toes and hair potion, the room's odor was akin to throwing the Troll and its entire lineage into a thousand-year-old Potion cauldron and then scattering a handful of dried slugs on top.
Jerry's somewhat ritualistic opening line garnered no attention. Because no one in this "War Room" had the time to listen to him.
In the center of the room, a hulking Half-Giant was using an arm-thick table leg as a toothpick, spitting furiously as he boasted about how he had single-handedly tied a Norwegian Ridgeback's nostrils into three knots just last week.
In the corner, a pallid, fish-eyed witch was hunched over a green bubbling cauldron, stirring the viscous liquid with what looked like a creature's finger bone, murmuring to herself as if in intimate conversation with an old friend inside the pot.
By the window, a man as thin as if he'd been drained by a Dementor nervously paced back and forth, his hands constantly rummaging inside his robes, pulling out a throwing knife one moment, a skull-labeled bottle of poison the next, glancing nervously at the door every three seconds, as if Aurors were about to burst in and invite him back to Azkaban for afternoon tea.
This was Jerry's "elite team," hired over the past two weeks through the Dark Wizard underground network for the bargain price of a few Galleons. A complete and utter rabble.
Jerry, or rather, the Ministry clerk-faced Jerry, calmly observed the scene of chaotic madness. Behind the oily lenses of his spectacles, the eleven-year-old boy's eyes flashed with a shrewd, and utterly age-inappropriate, sense of satisfaction.
Good.
They were a perfectly disposable, affordable, and excellent batch of cannon fodder.
He walked over to the only table still somewhat intact and tapped the stain-covered surface lightly with his index finger.
"Dong."
A faint sound.
A strange thing happened. All the clinking bottles and jars, all the wobbly tables and chairs, the table leg in the brute's mouth, and the green bubbles rising from the witch's cauldron—all of it instantly froze.
The entire room fell into a deathly silence.
All eyes finally turned to the harmless-looking, receding-hairline middle-aged man.
Jerry pushed his oily glasses up his nose and began to speak slowly, his voice flat and uninteresting.
"It seems everyone is here. Let's discuss the procedures for our goodwill initiative for the Gringotts Goblins tomorrow."
Ignoring their varied expressions, Jerry pulled a roll of yellowed parchment from the inside pocket of his shabby tweed robe. He spread it out on the table with a "snap," his movement as crisp as a real project manager displaying a monthly blueprint.
The parchment showed a crudely drawn... bank floor plan. It even featured childish stick figures representing guards, labeled: "Pointy-eared midgets."
"Gentlemen, lady, and the one over there contemplating whether the cauldron can make stew," Jerry tapped the map's center with his quill, his voice flat. "This is our target for tomorrow."
All heads leaned in.
"Gringotts... Knockturn Alley South District Gnome Savings and Credit Self-Service Point."
Jerry read out the small print at the top of the map, word for word.
The brute's brow furrowed enough to trap a Billywig. "What the hell? Doesn't sound like Gringotts."
"Think of it as Gringotts' community branch, opened in the slums to expand its market reach. Or, the tutorial level in the starting zone."
Jerry explained as if reading a financial report. "Low security configuration, simple internal structure, and most importantly, independently accounted. Even if we emptied every last Knut from it, the Dragon at Gringotts' main branch wouldn't bat an eyelid."
Now, everyone understood. This job sounded... very safe!
"I just wanna know," the brute interrupted gruffly, wood shavings still caught in his fingernails, "Is there... gold in there?"
The thin man also spoke nervously: "What about... the defenses? Are there Dragons? Or man-eating sofas?"
Jerry pushed his glasses up; the lenses reflected a flash of shrewd light.
He looked at the brute first: "More than your robe can hold."
Then, his gaze turned to the nervous man, his tone carrying a subtle, professional contempt for amateurs: "No Dragons, no sofas. Only three standard-issue Goblin security guards, two second-rate Dark Magic Curses, and an alloy door that can barely sever a slug."
He circled the area labeled "Money! Money! Money!" on the map with his quill.
"Our job is to go in tomorrow at ten a.m., during the fifteen-minute window when the Goblins switch shifts and drink their mushroom tea, and make what's inside this circle our own. Simple, efficient."
He looked up, scanning the "team members," whose eyes were now gleaming.
"Now, put away your fantasies about Dragons and your fears about furniture. Listen to the specific steps of the operation. Remember, I'm the manager, you're the employees. Follow the procedure, get paid, and leave. Any objections?"
No one objected. Or rather, no one dared to object.
"Good. Then, Step One: Infiltration."
Jerry tapped an inconspicuous spot on the map with his quill—an area marked with a trash bin symbol in the back alley.
"The sanitation in Knockturn Alley is perpetually poor, which gives us an opportunity. The waste chute for this 'Self-Service Point' opens every fifteen minutes to dump shredded customer deposit slips and empty Butterbeer bottles. Our Mr. Brute," he looked at the muscular man, "your task is to use brute force to hold open the chute's closing mechanism during that fifteen-second window."
The brute patted his arm, which was thicker than many people's thighs, and grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth: "Piece of cake."
"Don't get cocky!" Jerry's voice remained flat. "The chute is warded with an Anti-Goblin Itching Jinx. Once inside, you'll feel like hundreds of Flobberworms are dancing in your crotch. Endure it. Don't shout, and don't scratch. Remember, you are a wall."
The brute's smile froze, and he instinctively clamped his legs shut.
Ignoring him, Jerry moved his quill to the interior of the map. "Our nervous Mr. Skinny," he looked at the jittery man, "Once you confirm the brute has the door held, you follow immediately. Your task is to deal with the first line of defense—two patrolling Goblin guards."
"Kill... kill them?" the thin man nervously rubbed his hands, his voice trembling.
"Kill them? No, no, no. We are civilized people, not Trolls." Jerry shook his head, pulling out another small bottle from his robe, containing several sluggish green beetles. "These are Sleeping Beetles. Grind them up and sprinkle them on their route. They'll fall asleep immediately upon smelling the scent. Your job is to accurately deliver these 'sweet dreams' to their feet."
Jerry's quill finally pointed to the vault's location. He looked up at the silently observing, pale-faced, fish-eyed witch.
"As for you, 'Cat.' Once you hear silence inside, it's your turn. There's a nasty curse on the vault door. Any creature motivated by greed that touches it will be stuck in place until they starve to death."
The woman's eyes sharpened: "How do I break it?"
"You don't break it."
Jerry pushed up his glasses, his eyes shining with intelligence. "The Goblins designed the curse; its identification criteria are the 'greed' of a 'sentient being.' And you," he pulled out a small cage containing a bright-eyed Niffler, "will take 'it' inside."
The Niffler, seeing the golden candlestick outside the cage, immediately started hopping excitedly.
"Nifflers only like shiny things; they have no greed, only instinct. Let it open the door. The curse is ineffective against it. Once it nudges the door open, what's inside is ours."
At this point, the entire plan was crystal clear. A "Tank" responsible for breaching the door and drawing attention, a "Mage" responsible for control, and a "Rogue" with her "Lock-picking Tool" responsible for opening the vault. Clear roles, clear duties.
"But... what about you?"
Jerry leaned back in the chair, hands crossed on the table, speaking with a profound, seasoned tone that completely belied his face. "Me? I'll be across the street at the cafe, sipping pumpkin juice and enjoying your performance. After all, a good Project Manager only needs to sit in the office, ensure every step is executed as planned. And, help keep any potential Aurors off your backs!"
He looked at the three of them, concluding: "Remember, we only have fifteen minutes. Take everything you can and retreat the way you came. No diversions, no extraneous actions. This is a commercial operation, not a treasure hunt."
He rolled up the parchment and tucked it back into his robe.
"Now, go rest. Be at your assigned posts tomorrow morning at 9:50 a.m. Whoever is late, I kill them."
With that, Jerry rose and left the gloomy room, leaving his three "employees" staring at each other, digesting the "Goodwill Initiative" plan that seemed simple yet cunningly interlocked.
[Task: Successfully deter the three core executors, ensuring they are clear on the task objectives and have begun to form obedience. Complete!]
A prompt sound, audible only to Jerry, gently whispered in his mind, like a feather brushing calm water.
[Base Reward Disbursed:]
[Influence Points] +50 (Used to unlock Rosier family high-level contacts) [Disguise Proficiency] +10%
[Bonus Reward Judgment: All sub-objectives achieved.]
[Bonus Reward Disbursed:]
[Gringotts Plan Progress] +15% [Acquired temporary [Aura of Deterrence] effect (Increases pressure on lower-level wizards in future interactions)]
The air in the austere Ministry of Magic office was thick, as if solidified into amber.
Minerva McGonagall, the current Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, sat across from a lavish mahogany desk. Her dark green wizarding robes were impeccably tailored, subtly outlining her well-maintained, still-curvaceous figure. Unlike her usual severe attire at school, her robe's slit was slightly higher now. As she elegantly crossed her legs, a section of taut calf, encased in high-quality black silk, was fleetingly exposed to the air, before disappearing into a pair of exquisite black stiletto heels.
Every silent, subtle shift of her heel on the carpet seemed to tap on the already frayed nerves of the Ministry official opposite her, Percival Diggle.
"I will say it one more time, Mr. Diggle!" Professor McGonagall's voice was cool, yet carried an undeniable, magnetic authority. Every syllable sounded precisely polished. "Jerry Cole must be enrolled. His name is on the acceptance list, the Quill has recorded his magical trace. This is an inviolable tradition."
"Tradition? Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, these are exceptional times!" Diggle, a typical departmental director with a receding hairline and a hooked nose, was currently wiping sweat from his forehead with a precious silk handkerchief. "This boy... he has no birth record, no guardian information, and is untraceable in our Wizarding Census! According to the Post-War Underage Wizard Placement Act, he should first enter the review procedure!"
McGonagall's lips curved into an almost imperceptible cold smile. She leaned forward slightly; the simple movement emphasized the fullness of her chest and slightly closed the distance between them. A scent of parchment, old book ink, and subtle perfume wafted silently into Diggle's nostrils.
"Review procedure? You mean locking an eleven-year-old child in a holding facility, interrogating him with Veritaserum and various jinxes for three months until he becomes a cowering Squib, or a dangerous individual filled with hatred for the magical world?"
Her voice lowered, becoming soft and persuasive. "Percival, you are a clever man. Can't you see this is stifling a genius, not protecting the safety of the Wizarding world?"
"Hogwarts' duty is education and guidance. Dumbledore and I have always believed that even the most dangerous background can be steered toward the light with proper guidance." Her words sounded like a lover's whisper, yet retained the authority of a Headmistress. "Furthermore, to reject a student already chosen by Hogwarts... you know what that means in the Wizengamot Education Charter."
Diggle's Adam's apple bobbed.
"Percival?" McGonagall's voice snapped him out of his daze. He jolted up, finding McGonagall watching him with an all-knowing, half-smiling gaze.
Diggle's face instantly flushed red. He fumbled for his quill but realized he was holding it backward. "I... I'm merely fulfilling my duty, Deputy Headmistress," he stammered defensively.
"Of course, you are." McGonagall smiled slightly, calmly taking the enrollment approval form and the quill from his hand and placing them gently before him. "And I trust that an official as highly placed and sagacious as yourself will make the most... 'correct' decision."
Diggle looked at the document, struggled for a moment, and finally sighed in defeat. He picked up the quill and scrawled his signature across the document.
"The enrollment process will be completed tomorrow," he said weakly.
"Thank you for your cooperation."
"For the future of the Wizarding world."
With that, she turned and left. The click of her high heels on the polished stone floor, a clear and rhythmic "clack, clack," sounded like a triumphant battle song fading down the long corridor.