Waiting for an Apology

Amosta lay sprawled across the table with his head resting on his arm, snoring softly as if he were sleeping soundly, utterly unaware of the wand pointed at him.

The Muggle waiter swiftly circled his wand, and Amosta's spatial pouch shot out of his arms and landed in his palm.

"Accio Fang!"

The waiter pointed his wand at the tightly drawn mouth of the pouch, his voice slightly urgent. But instead of retrieving the fang, his spell triggered an abrupt burst of silver light.

The powerful impact hurled the waiter away like a shot put. Yet the airborne man displayed an agility no wizard could possess, adjusting his posture in midair and lightly planting his feet against the wall he was about to crash into before smoothly sliding back down to the floor.

The hand holding the spatial pouch had been sliced open by that burst of silver light, leaving many savage wounds deep enough to expose bone. Blood streamed from them in thin rivulets. Yet the Muggle waiter showed no sign of pain. He stared coldly at his left hand as the blood that had fallen to the floor flowed back into his body as though time were reversing. Within barely a dozen breaths, the wounds had healed without a trace.

Tap, tap, tap—

The waiter cautiously approached Amosta again. He carefully observed the three unconscious people and, after confirming that Amosta showed no sign of waking, let out a breath of relief.

Amosta's spatial pouch lay on the floor, glowing faintly with silver light. It appeared that its defensive magic had been activated. Touching it now would not have been a wise move.

After hesitating, the Muggle waiter raised his head and looked at Amosta again. After a moment's consideration, he pointed his wand at Amosta. One of