Unfortunately, Allen, who was still itching to vent some frustration… ahem, rushing in as backup, arrived too late for the final battle.
The werewolves had merely been stunned by the sudden onslaught; they weren't fools. In fact, under normal circumstances, they weren't at a disadvantage against vampires. With the support of the North American Ministry of Magic, they had even begun to turn the tide, this was precisely why the Ministry refused to give up interfering in werewolf affairs. Just as the British Ministry of Magic employed Dementors as enforcers, they hoped to turn werewolves into their own kind of weaponized force.
So, once a portion of the vampires fled and another portion was drawn away by Allen, the pressure on the werewolves eased significantly. They launched a fierce counterattack. When the remaining vampires were wounded or slain to a third of their numbers, they finally realized that the balance had shifted. They were no longer the hunters, they were the prey being hunted.
In the end, the vampires fled in disarray, abandoning their dead and a dozen or so slower-witted comrades. The battlefield, now a vampire graveyard, grew quiet. The battle was finally over.
But instead of victorious cheers, there was only silence and muffled sobbing, intermittently pierced by the low, hoarse howls of younger werewolves who had not yet regained their senses.
The vampires had left a field littered with corpses, but the werewolves had suffered even heavier casualties.
By the time Allen returned, the werewolves were already tending to the aftermath. The bodies of their own were laid out with solemn order on an open patch of land, while the vampire corpses were stacked off to the side.
Near each werewolf's body, a relative knelt in tears. Those who had no family nearby were instead accompanied by two other corpses, one large, one small.
Wounded were lining up to receive healing potions. That supposedly useless wizard was busily distributing steaming pale-green brews. At his side was a smaller werewolf, helping to dress wounds, if Allen guessed correctly, that was probably Nelly, the girl he had mentioned.
The rest were still doing their best to carry out the mourning rites. Some of them were clearly still injured, yet they gritted their teeth to help calm and guide the younger werewolves.
"A resilient race, aren't they, kid?" said the Auror softly, having walked up behind Allen.
"Yeah," Allen nodded. "A race that pushes forward even in grief, never forgetting to keep on living." He looked toward a still-smoking tent and offered quiet praise. Under the silvery moonlight, the war-torn ground was bathed in a bright, ghostly glow.
Just then, the female leader of the werewolves, who had been presiding over the ceremony, noticed them. She gave a few instructions to those nearby and walked toward Allen and the Auror.
She gave a deep bow. Neither man avoided it; they had earned the thanks.
When she straightened up, her voice no longer carried the confidence she had shown the day before. Instead, it trembled with a barely restrained sorrow and anger.
"Thank you both for your aid. But our tribe is in dire straits. We don't have much to offer as gratitude, just these."
She took two pitch-black wooden boxes from a fellow werewolf. The material was foreign to Allen, but the carvings etched into their surfaces made both his and the Auror's eyes widen.
They each drew a sharp breath.
Neither of them recognized the wood, but both instantly recognized the ancient magical runes carved into the boxes, sigils commonly used to protect priceless artifacts. Allen only knew this because Filch had lectured him about it during one of his cleaning punishments.
Inside the boxes were two objects: one held a deep-black short sword, so compact it resembled a dagger; the other, a large horn adorned with mysterious patterns.
"The Dragon-Repeller's Horn?" the Auror exclaimed in disbelief. "Merlin's beard, isn't this the very one used during the founding of the American Ministry to drive off the dragon flocks blocking key trade routes? It wasn't lost?!"
Without hesitation, and before Allen could even consider his own choice, the Auror snatched up the horn's box.
Allen didn't protest, he had no particular need for it anyway.
"Forgive me," the werewolf leader said. "I must return to the rites and funeral. You may rest now… although it may be rude, werewolf funerals cannot allow human presence."
"What about him?" the Auror asked, pointing toward the potion-distributing wizard. As an Auror, it was his duty to ensure the Ministry had influence in werewolf affairs.
"Him? His name is Garvin. He's about to become one of us. I've approved his application to join the tribe, we've lost too many."
With that, the Auror had no more objections. He and Allen turned back toward their tent.
As they passed the potion station, the clumsy wizard spotted Allen and ran up to him, stumbling over his words:
"S-Sir! I… I've been accepted into the werewolf tribe. From now on, I can be with Nelly! Thank you, really, thank you for everything! Oh, wait a moment!"
He dashed off into a nearby tent and returned with a thick notebook.
"I know I'm basically a squib when it comes to magic… but I'm confident in my potions. If you wouldn't mind, please take this. It's all my notes, maybe they'll be of some help."
Before Allen could decline, he had already scurried away, his joy evident, though he restrained it out of respect for the grief surrounding him.
The Auror made no comment. His attention was entirely fixed on the box he held. He even requested a new tent from a werewolf specifically to avoid being disturbed. That was his explanation, anyway.
Allen didn't mind. If he had something that valuable, he wouldn't sleep soundly either. From its origin alone, one could tell how important the item was to the Ministry.
Earlier, the Auror had been confident he could control Allen, so long as he avoided traps, he thought he could keep this law-breaking kid in check. But Allen's display of stealth magic had shaken that confidence. So, the Auror shifted his strategy to focus on guarding the artifact instead.
It was understandable. His job was to apprehend people like Allen, he couldn't exactly make friends with a criminal after a few friendly exchanges.
Unfortunately for him, his plans were about to fall apart.
Allen looked up from the thick notebook, sensing his system's growing hunger for it. He had picked it up on a whim, flipping through it idly while hesitating to feed the vampire artifact to the system directly. Now, that decision proved worthwhile. Valor had returned from a week-long scouting trip, confirming there were no guards nearby.
With a soft incantation, Allen began a minute-long silent casting. As the blue glow around them intensified, both he and Valor vanished from the tent.
Auror Sir… I don't know what plan you had for capturing me… but for now, I'll be taking my leave. Goodbye!
••┈┈┈┈┈༓┈┈┈┈┈•••
A/N: Back to London….
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