Chapter 180: Chapter 180: The Pan Elf

“Avada Kedavra!”

The killing curse ripped through the air—a streak of brilliant, terrible green light that promised instant death.

But Ariadne didn’t flinch.

She moved.

Using the flash of emerald light as cover, she exploded forward, closing half the distance in a single stride. Chi surged through her legs, her body a coiled spring unleashed.

This was the moment. The split-second window after a spell was cast, when the caster’s wand was still resetting, when their guard was momentarily open.

The lead wizard’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected her to charge into death.

Three steps. Two. Her dagger cleared its sheath—one clean strike to the throat and his arrogance would end in a gurgle.

Then—

“Confringo!”

“Reducto!”

The other two wizards fired in perfect unison from their flanks.

Ariadne twisted sideways on instinct, her attack aborted mid-stride as twin explosions lit the room. She rolled through the blast wave, came up in a crouch—ten feet farther than she’d started. The spot she’d been standing a heartbeat before was now a smoking crater.

Her momentum was gone. Her opening, closed.

“We can’t allow you to close the distance, little muggle,” said the second wizard smoothly, stepping left to adjust the triangle. His wand tracked her with surgical precision. “This isn’t our first time operating in your world. We’ve learned from experience.”

The third wizard mirrored him on the right, completing the formation. Three wands trained on her—overlapping angles, no blind spots.

The lead wizard lowered his wand slightly, though his aim never wavered. His lip curled as he studied her like something he’d scraped off his boot.

“We’ve fought your kind before,” he said. “The fast ones who think speed makes them invincible. The silent ones who believe stealth conquers all. The skilled ones who assume technique trumps magic.” He shook his head slowly, almost pitying. “It never does.”

He gestured lazily toward the space between them. “Stay where you belong, muggle—out there, at a distance where you can’t contaminate us with your mundane touch.” His voice dripped venom. “I don’t like filth getting near me.”

For the first time, Ariadne’s confidence wavered. She knew how to fight wizards—get close, disrupt their casting, use their dependence on wands against them.

But these wizards knew that too. They’d prepared for her kind, working in perfect coordination to erase the one edge she had.

“Incendio!”

Fire erupted across the floor. Ariadne vaulted over it, landing in a crouch—

“Petrificus Totalus!”

She dove flat, the spell screaming overhead. Her shoulder slammed against the stone. She rolled, came up running—

“Sectumsempra!”

Pain flared white-hot as the curse grazed her arm, slicing it open. Blood soaked her sleeve instantly.

“Give up, Miss Anderson!” Reinhardt’s voice carried from somewhere safe behind his hired killers, filled with vindictive pleasure. “You fought well, but this is wizard magic! You can’t touch them! Can’t even get close!”

Another spell. Another dive for cover that wasn’t really cover at all.

“Reducto!”

The floor exploded beneath her. She stumbled, barely caught herself—

“Immobulus!”

She ducked just in time, the freezing spell whispering past her cheek.

“You should have stayed away!” Reinhardt crowed. “You should have accepted your defeat! But no—you had to come back! Had to play the hero! And now you’ll die for it!”

Ariadne’s mind raced through options, discarding them as fast as she thought of them. Rush the left wizard? The others had clear shots. Circle around? No space. Create a distraction? With what?

Her chi could heighten her body—but it couldn’t conjure cover from nothing.

Arthur had made fighting wizards look easy. Get inside their guard, disrupt their casting, end it quickly.

But Arthur could Apparate. Could portal. Could do a dozen things she couldn’t.

She was just fast. And fast wasn’t enough against three trained mages who knew exactly how to prevent her from closing distance.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The green light forced her behind a stone pillar. It was the only real cover left in the room, but it wouldn’t last long.

“Confringo!”

The blast cracked the stone, raining debris onto her head.

This was it. No escape, no miracle. Just three wizards, unlimited angles, and her—bleeding, cornered, out of time.

“Bombarda!”

The pillar exploded.

Ariadne rolled through the debris, coming up in a crouch she knew was useless. Three wands tracked her every move with predatory precision. No cover. No options. Just open ground and certain death.

The lead wizard smiled, his wand glowing with gathering green light.

“Avada—”

POP.

The distinctive crack of house-elf Apparition split the air.

A figure materialized directly between Ariadne and the three wizards, appearing out of literally nothing in the space of a heartbeat.

Winky.

But not the Winky Ariadne remembered from a year ago.

This Winky stood taller—noticeably so, nearly a full head higher than a normal house-elf. She had already been tall for her kind, but now she was statuesque—and beautiful in a way that made the air seem to still around her.

She wore elegant robes of deep blue, embroidered with silver runes that shimmered faintly as if alive. Small gold hoops gleamed on her long ears. Her posture was straight, regal—radiating calm, contained power.

And in her hand was a cast-iron frying pan that gleamed with an almost supernatural sheen.

“Winky?!” Ariadne stared, still crouched on the floor. “What are you doing here? How did you even—”

“Master Arthur was not the only one keeping track of Ari,” Winky said primly, her gaze never leaving the wizards. Her voice carried a new authority—steady, confident. “Winky also keeps watch.”

Ariadne opened her mouth to respond, relief and confusion flooding through her in equal measure, but the lead wizard’s angry voice cut through.

“A house-elf?” he scoffed, lowering his wand slightly. “You look different, I’ll grant you that. But you dare interrupt wizard business, servant? Run along. Go back to scrubbing pots or whatever miserable thing you were made for. This doesn’t concern you.”

The second wizard chuckled. “Honestly. The audacity. Doesn’t even know her place.”

Winky’s expression didn’t change—but something in the air did. The pressure thickened, humming with unseen force. Ariadne’s skin prickled.

“Winky must teach bad wizards a lesson,” Winky said sweetly, though the promise beneath the words was anything but.

The pan in her hand seemed to gleam brighter.

“Winky, wait—” Ariadne pushed herself up, wincing as blood dripped from her arm. “Are you even allowed to fight them? Shouldn’t we just leave? Arthur told you not to—”

“Master Arthur told Winky not to fight muggles,” Winky interrupted cheerfully. “He said nothing about bad wizards.”

Ariadne blinked. “But three wizards? Can you even—I mean, do you need help? Should I—”

Winky turned her head slightly, giving Ariadne a look both proud and mildly offended. “Winky is no ordinary house-elf.” She lifted her pan. “Winky is the strongest.”

The lead wizard’s face went crimson. “The strongest? You delusional little creature—” He snapped his wand upward. “I’ll show you what happens to house-elves who forget their place. Avada—”

“Wait!” the second wizard hissed, grabbing his arm. His face had gone pale, eyes fixed on the pan in Winky’s hand. “That— that pan! And she said her master’s name—” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “Is your master… Arthur Hayes?”

Silence fell.

Not calm silence. The kind that comes when three men realize they’ve just signed their own death warrants.

The lead wizard’s wand trembled. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “H-Hayes?” he whispered, as if saying it too loud might summon something worse than death itself.

From his corner, Reinhardt frowned. “Hayes? Who the devil is—”

But the wizards weren’t listening. They were staring at Winky like she’d just sprouted fangs and wings.

Winky tilted her head, her smile innocent and terrifying all at once. “Winky is a proud elf of the Hayes family.”

The third wizard made a small, choked sound—like a man who’d just remembered he’d left his will unsigned.

“You’re his elf,” he breathed. “The one from Hogwarts. The… Pan Elf.”

“I heard she led the house-elves during the battle,” the second wizard stammered, backing up so fast he tripped over his own robes and nearly fell. “Used Weasley prank stuff—exploding wands, swamp spells—turned the whole right flank into a bloody carnival!”

“Worse,” the third wizard muttered, face gone ghost-white. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “I heard she cracked a giant’s skull with that pan. One swing. Just—crunch.” He mimed it weakly, then flinched and dropped his hand like it burned.

The lead wizard’s breathing came fast and shallow. “Hayes’s bonded elf,” he rasped. “The Dark Lord’s killer’s personal servant.” His eyes darted to his companions, wild with panic. “We weren’t told he was involved! Why weren’t we told?!”

“He is not—” Reinhardt began.

“If his elf is here protecting someone,” the second wizard cut in, backing toward the door, “then he is involved. That’s how bonded house-elves work—they don’t act without their master’s will!”

Winky said nothing. She just tilted her head again and lifted her pan a fraction higher.

“Winky does not understand,” she said sweetly. “Are we going to fight?”

The words were gentle.

The effect was catastrophic.

The lead wizard screamed—a raw, wordless sound—and stumbled backward, tripping over a chair. The third wizard dropped his wand. Just dropped it, like it had turned molten in his hand.

“NO!” the second wizard babbled, fumbling for his sleeve. “No fight! No! We’re leaving! Now!”

“Y-you can’t!” Reinhardt shrieked. “Our agreement—my gold—”

“SCREW YOUR GOLD!” the lead wizard howled, scrambling to his feet. “Do you have any idea what that man does to people who hurt his own? He doesn’t just kill you—he unmakes you! Leaves your soul screaming in some forgotten place!”

“I heard,” the third wizard whispered, shaking, “he once made a Death Eater eat his own wand… then fed him to a dragon. A pet dragon.”

Reinhardt staggered forward, voice breaking with desperation. “I’ll pay you triple!”

“NOT ENOUGH!” all three shouted in unison.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

They Disapparated so fast they left shimmering afterimages behind—three panicked silhouettes vanishing like smoke in a storm.

Reinhardt stood alone, mouth agape, hands shaking.

Silence fell.

He stared at the empty spaces where his hired protection had stood only seconds before. His face cycled through disbelief, anger, and calculation. Finally, his expression smoothed into something reasonable, almost friendly.

“Miss Anderson,” he began, voice suddenly calm, conciliatory. “Perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot tonight. There’s no need for this to end in violence. You’re clearly a woman of considerable skill—and resources. The Hand values such talent.” He even smiled. “Name your price—position, wealth, territory—we can provide it all. Join us, instead of fighting us.”

Ariadne’s blade took him in the throat mid-sentence.

His eyes went wide. He clutched at the wound, blood spilling across his immaculate collar. He stumbled back, hit the desk, and slid lifelessly to the floor.

Ariadne wiped her blade clean on his jacket without a glance. She’d heard enough from that man’s mouth.

Then she turned to Winky.

The house-elf had made her pan vanish and was now looking at Ariadne with an expression that was equal parts relief and reproach.

“Ari did not write,” Winky said, voice tight with hurt. “Did not call. Did not send messages. Winky was very worried.”

Guilt hit Ariadne like a blow. She knelt so they were eye level. “I know. I’m sorry, Winky. I should’ve stayed in touch. I just…” She hesitated, searching for words. “I needed to do this on my own. To prove I could.”

“Winky understands,” the elf said softly, though her stern look remained. “But Ari should still write. Winky and Master Arthur worry.”

“You’re right,” Ariadne admitted. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

She reached out hesitantly, and after a deliberate pause, Winky stepped into her arms.

“Winky forgives Ari,” she murmured against Ariadne’s shoulder. “But no next time. Next time, Winky will punish Miss Ari.”

They stayed like that for a moment before Ariadne pulled back. “I need to find the self-destruct system. Something to destroy everything here.”

She moved toward the control banks. Winky hopped up onto the edge of the desk, swinging her legs idly as she watched.

“What’s Arthur been up to?” Ariadne asked, scanning the consoles. “Still doing this and that and everything?”

“Master is always busy,” Winky said with a sigh. “One day he works with muggles and makes much money. Another day he studies muggle tech-no-logy and tries to make tele-vision work.”

“Television,” Ariadne corrected absently, prying open a panel marked Emergency Protocols.

“Yes, that,” Winky said, waving a hand. “Then another day, he flies to faraway countries where there is muggle war and saves a random muggle family.”

Ariadne paused, turning to look at her. “He saved a family? So they’re living with him now? Like I did, for a while?”

Winky shook her head. “No. Master just saved them from the fighting and sent them safely to America—with money. He did not ask them to stay.”

Ariadne frowned. “That’s… odd. But that’s Arthur. Always doing things his own way. Like saving me.” She smiled faintly. “I’m sure he had his reasons. So what else does he do these days?”

“Always training,” Winky continued, ticking items off on her fingers. “Always practicing new spells and techniques. Always destroying things by accident. Always making Winky clean up explosions, magical residue, and broken furniture.”

Ariadne raised an eyebrow. “So he’s doing all of that—business, technology, helping people, training—all at once?”

“Master has gotten better at doing many things at once now,” Winky said worriedly. “It makes Winky concerned. Master pushes too hard.”

“Many things at once?” Ariadne muttered, finding a red switch behind a locked panel. She jammed her dagger into the seam and forced it open. “Where is Arthur now?”

“Master is at a party,” Winky said simply.

Ariadne’s hand froze. She turned to stare. “Arthur? At a party?”

“Yes,” Winky replied matter-of-factly. “A very fancy party in—”

Movement.

A sound came from behind Reinhardt’s desk—from a section of wall that shouldn’t have had space behind it.

Winky’s expression changed instantly. She vanished with a soft pop.

Ariadne spun toward the sound, hand going to her dagger.

A hidden panel slid open.

And from it stepped a woman.

Tall. Elegant. Dark hair drawn back severely. Eyes like polished obsidian that had watched centuries pass. She wore modern, expensive clothes that somehow carried the gravity of ancient power.

The air seemed to bend around her presence.

Alexandra Reid.

One of the Five Fingers of the Hand.

Her gaze swept the room—Reinhardt’s body, the wreckage, the blood—before settling on Ariadne with cold, predatory interest.

“Well,” Alexandra said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “You’ve been busy tonight, Miss Anderson.”

The hidden panel slid shut behind her with a soft, final click.

Ariadne tightened her grip on her dagger.

The night wasn’t over. Not yet.

One battle remained—one against a woman who had survived centuries through power, cunning, and will.

And this time, Winky couldn’t intervene. Wouldn’t intervene.

This fight would be Ariadne’s alone.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep