Lupin watched the children. His chest felt tight.
He was happy for them. Truly. They'd learn magic. Control their own fate.
But then he'd remember. Douglas. Those thirteen bodies. Buried like trash.
It felt unreal.
He barely knew Douglas at all.
If Sirius heard this, he'd throw an arm around Lupin's shoulder. Tell him about their first meeting. How Douglas caught every stray dog in the area just to find him. How even after learning Sirius was innocent—Harry's godfather, for God's sake—Douglas still treated him like dirt.
Gentle and refined?
That was Hogwarts. A mask.
The other end of the cavern told a different story.
Valerius. Former vampire noble. Red Moon Brotherhood faction leader.
Now? Kneeling on the ground like the most devoted apprentice.
Before him lay velvet cloth. Fine stuff. In the center sat that palm-sized coffin model. Eastern craftsmanship. Exquisite.
His entire being focused on that tiny work of art.
He reached out. Pale fingers. Nails immaculate. Fingertips traced the silver inlay with pilgrim-like reverence. Hair-thin threads of metal embedded in wood.
Around him lay scattered oak scraps. A dozen pieces. Each bore his failed attempts. Some cuts too deep—destroyed the grain. Others crooked—lost that flowing grace.
"No... not right..."
He muttered. His dark red pupils burned with obsessive fervor.
"This curve... it wasn't carved with force. It grew. This feeling—what is it?"
He'd forgotten where he was. Forgotten his noble status. Forgotten the near-death experience, the humiliation.
The soul contract had transformed into something deeper. A spiritual shackle—the pursuit of perfect, ultimate beauty.
Douglas hadn't chained him. He'd built a prison from art. One Valerius would inhabit willingly. Forever.
The cavern's deepest point.
Douglas stood before the crack leading outside. Mountain wind whipped his robes.
His gaze seemed to pierce vast distances. Seeing Rome's conspiracies. Vatican depths. The darkness being awakened there.
A cold smile crept across his face.
Come on.
All of you.
This party's just getting started.
The Italian-French Magical Border
The Alps snowline. A silent dividing line.
It separated human warmth from eternal high-altitude cold.
Moonlight couldn't penetrate the clouds. Only cast dull gray—like aged parchment—across the endless peaks.
An invisible barrier rippled along the ridge. Refracted barely perceptible colors. Frozen aurora.
This was the Italian Ministry of Magic's "Tacitus Line." Ancient runes and modern detection charms woven together. A massive network. It flagged any powerful magical signature trying to slip across.
Fenrir Greyback emerged from a boulder's shadow.
Behind him, a dozen hunched figures radiated hunger.
His last crew. His most loyal hyenas.
Blood and mountain decay mixed on them. Nauseating. But their movements carried innate, beast-like caution.
They followed ancient animal trails. Used mountain shadows. Slipped past abandoned detection points like ghosts.
Greyback himself looked worse than any of them.
His robes—color long gone. Greasy yellow hair clumped together. Dried blood and black dirt packed under his nails.
Only his eyes shone in the dim light. Arrogant. Top predator. Cruel.
He stopped. Breathed deep. The thin, freezing mountain air.
Memory fragments flooded in with the cold.
Thirty-some years ago, these mountains. Italian Ministry Aurors and Vatican's hypocrite knights chased him like a stray dog.
Humiliating. Exhilarating.
He grinned. Two rows of yellowed, blackened fangs.
"This land's guardians got soft. Like house dogs."
Suddenly Greyback froze.
His nose twitched violently. A low, animal growl rumbled in his throat.
A scent.
Faint. Nearly buried by wind and snow. But unmistakable.
Lupin.
That little mongrel he'd created. The one who refused to acknowledge his noble bloodline.
But the scent was wrong.
The wolfsbane's savage, bloodthirsty component—almost gone.
Replaced by something purified. Herbal. Clean. Yet at its core, the shared mark remained.
Like strong liquor cut with too much water.
Lost its kick. Only a pathetic aftertaste left.
Greyback's body went rigid. Every muscle spasmed with excitement. His throat produced a satisfied, teeth-grinding growl. A beast starved for weeks finally catching prey's scent.
"He's wounded!"
His eyes blazed bloodlust. He turned to his crew—they'd caught the scent too. Restless now.
"That traitor's badly hurt! His blood's everywhere. He's dying!"
Greyback laughed. Harsh. Ugly.
"Find him! I'll taste his last scream myself!"
He abandoned all caution. The prey was close. That frenzy overwhelmed everything.
He led his pack. Followed that blood scent—magically amplified, he realized—straight into the Apennines' heart.
His charging form was a stone thrown into still water.
A node on the Tacitus Line flared silver.
Then turned screaming red.
Highest-level alert.
Triggered.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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