March 15, 1969
In the dead of night, the lake at Ochertyel lay like a vast sheet of black silk, disturbed only by the faintest ripples when the wind brushed its surface.
The two houses by the lakeshore had long since gone dark, sunk deep into peaceful sleep.
But that peace had already been shattered by uninvited guests.
“Splash… splash…”
The soft sound of oars dipping into water was almost swallowed by the night.
Several small, ghostlike boats emerged from the darkness, bearing four hulking, fur-covered black shapes.
They cut across the still surface of Ochertyel, gliding in silence toward the wooden pier.
High above, the full moon seemed unwilling to witness the tragedy about to unfold.
It slipped behind a curtain of thick cloud, hiding its cold light.
“Thud.”
The bow of the lead boat brushed against a pier piling with a dull, muffled knock.
Fenrir’s eyes, glowing with a sickly green light, fixed on the shadow-shrouded house not far away.
His massive wolf claws scraped lazily across the wood of the pier, leaving deep, jagged grooves.
Then he sprang up, his heavy body landing on the boards with a surprisingly light tap.
Behind him, three slightly smaller werewolves followed suit.
Their pairs of eerie green eyes burned with cruelty in the dark.
No sooner had they stepped onto the pier than the boats that had carried them began to decay.
Planks blackened, warped, and crumbled; in the space of a few breaths, the remaining fragments dissolved into dust and drifted down through the water, vanishing into the depths of the lake without a trace.
Fenrir cast a contemptuous glance back over the water, a cold sneer curling in his heart.
Those so‑called “big shots” were certainly thorough when it came to cleaning up after themselves.
But that had nothing to do with him.
He was here for revenge.
One of the werewolves beside him tipped back its head, instinct urging it to howl at the sky—only to be cut off as Fenrir’s fist crashed into its jaw.
The blow drew a low, strangled groan.
The werewolf staggered, a thin whimper leaking from its throat, and fear flickered across its ghostly green eyes.
Fenrir answered with a low, warning growl, thick with menace.
At once, the other werewolves lowered their heads, bodies shrinking in submission.
Satisfied, Fenrir dropped his stance.
Like a true predator, he led the three cowed werewolves forward, moving low and silent toward the Lupin family’s house.
The air reeked of wet lake water and sour mud.
Each breath Fenrir drew only sharpened the killing urge coiled inside him.
Everything, so far, was going smoothly.
When they reached the low stone wall that marked the Lupins’ courtyard, one of the restless werewolves behind him could no longer hold back.
It stretched out a coarse, black‑furred claw, eager to haul itself over the wall.
“BOOM!!!”
The instant its claws brushed the stone, a blinding burst of fire erupted.
A heartbeat later, a thunderous explosion tore through the night and through the werewolf’s body.
The impatient brute paid dearly for its recklessness.
More than half of its right arm vanished in the blast; what remained was a ragged, bloody stump, with splintered white bone jutting naked into the air.
The metallic stench of blood rushed out, thick and overpowering.
“Awooo—!”
The anguished howl burst free at last.
The maimed werewolf clutched its ruined arm and collapsed, rolling and jerking on the ground in agony.
Almost at the same moment, lights flared on inside both wooden houses.
Shouts of alarm and the thud of hurried footsteps drifted into the night.
Fenrir spat a curse under his breath, but didn’t hesitate.
He seized the howling, half‑blasted werewolf by what was left of its arm, roared, and heaved it straight at the closed courtyard gate of the Lupin house.
“Bang!—BOOM!!!”
Another violent blast split the darkness.
Thick smoke billowed as the werewolf’s already mangled body charred black and was torn open anew, peppered with wounds of every size.
The ruin of a body smashed through the courtyard gate and lay sprawled in the wreckage.
It gave one last faint whimper—then went still.
The two remaining werewolves stared, throats working.
Uneasy whines slipped out of them, and their steps faltered; neither dared move closer.
“ROAR!!!”
Fenrir’s gaze swept over them, sharp and cold, a low, animalistic growl rumbling from his throat.
Under that unquestionable command, the two werewolves trembled, then forced themselves forward, crawling carefully through the open courtyard gate.
There were no other traps in the yard.
Fenrir gave another low growl and vaulted into the yard with a powerful leap.
At his urging, the other two werewolves stalked up to the front door of the Lupin house, slamming into it with their shoulders and raking it with their claws.
“Bang!
Bang!
Bang!”
The door shuddered under the assault, the frame groaning, the whole thing threatening to give way.
Just then, a clear, firm voice rang out from inside: “Peaceful Guard!”
A pale blue halo of magic rippled across the door like water.
The door, which had been on the verge of collapse, suddenly steadied.
Seeing the direct assault fail, Fenrir let out a furious roar.
At once, the two werewolves at his side understood.
They split left and right, prowling along the courtyard wall in search of another point of entry, their claws scraping harshly over stone.
Suddenly, a familiar shadow streaked down from the sky.
“Repel!”
With an angry shout, a spell shot from above and struck a werewolf halfway through climbing a window, hurling him off the sill and sending him skidding across the lawn.
Fenrir’s head snapped up.
Robert Jr.
hovered on his broomstick, circling in mid-air, his wand carving a bright arc against the night.
All the anger Fenrir had suppressed for years burst free at once.
A roar like a caged beast tore from his throat.
Eyes bloodshot, he seized loose bricks and stones from the ground and hurled them with all his strength at Robert in the sky.
“Swish!
Swish!
Swish!”
The stones screamed through the air.
Robert darted up and down on his broom, narrowly avoiding each throw.
The werewolves’ relentless barrage couldn’t hit him—for now—but it kept him pinned in mid-air, forcing him to focus on dodging instead of casting spells to support Lyall inside the house.
Sure enough, once Robert was tied up, the two werewolves on the ground lunged for the windows on either side at the same time, and Lyall was hard-pressed to keep up.
“Crash!”
With a sharp crack, a living room window gave way, the glass shattered by brute force.
Shards sprayed across the floor.
Without hesitation, the two werewolves clambered through the broken window, one after the other.
“Remus!
Damien!
Quick!
Hide in the cupboard under the stairs!
Quick!”
Hope’s voice rang out, sharp with urgency.
Damien, who happened to be staying at the Lupins’ that night, was completely dazed.
Everything had happened too quickly, too suddenly; his mind was still fogged with sleep.
Hope had no time to comfort either child.
She shoved them both into the narrow cupboard under the stairs and turned the key, locking it tight.
Then she reached for the nearby bookshelf and pulled out two revolvers she had prepared in advance.
She gripped one firmly in her hand and slid the other into the waistband at her back.
Ever since Remus had been attacked, she had steeled herself, undergoing special firearms training again and again.
She would never allow her child to endure such a nightmare a second time.
She refused to let his endless possibilities be crushed into one bleak, hopeless future.
Drawing a deep breath, revolver in hand, she strode toward the living room, where the sounds of battle were growing louder.
Inside, Lyall stood with his wand raised, his expression grim.
“Stupefy!
Impedimenta!
Incarcerous!”
Spell after spell shot from his wand, each one striking true, slamming into the two invading werewolves.
But werewolves were naturally resistant to most magic.
Lyall’s spells could slow them, trip them up, even wound them—but not kill.
All he could do was push them back, keep them from closing in.
There was only one wizard.
There were two ruthless werewolves.
No matter how focused Lyall remained, he was being worn down.
The pair, relying on their powerful bodies, were steadily forcing the distance between them to shrink.
Lyall stared down the werewolves’ bared fangs and hooked claws without a flicker of fear.
Planting his feet, he stood his ground and hurled spell after spell at the two charging beasts.
At that critical instant—
“Bang!
Bang!
Bang…”
Gunfire tore through the noise.
Hope sprinted in from beside the stairs and instantly took in the danger Lyall was in.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the revolver in her hand thundered.
Round after round slammed into the nearer werewolf’s torso without mercy.
After six shots, the creature that had taken the hits let out a piercing shriek.
Blood burst from several wounds across its body, and it staggered back a few steps.
But a werewolf’s body was monstrously tough.
The bullets punched through and opened wounds, yet they were nowhere near enough to tear the beast apart.
“Incendio!”
Lyall seized the brief opening, flicking his wand in a sharp arc.
A wall of roaring flame erupted from the floor, surging up between him and the werewolves.
Fire was the natural enemy of all beasts. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Faced with the blistering heat and writhing tongues of flame, the two werewolves flinched on pure instinct.
Their charge faltered; they circled warily along the edge of the fire, pacing and snarling but not daring to rush through.
Lyall and Hope had only just begun to loosen their taut nerves when a brutal crash exploded from the front entrance.
“BOOM!!!”
Fenrir Greyback’s massive frame filled the doorway.
He had been battling Robert Jr.
outside only moments before and had now flung Robert aside and hurled himself bodily through the front door of the Lupin house.
A vicious, murderous aura rolled off him in waves.
His bloodshot eyes locked straight onto Lyall in the living room.
With a roar that seemed to shake the very air, he drove strength into all four limbs, splintering the Lupins’ door beneath him as he launched forward like a rampaging lion.
Behind him, Robert hit the ground in a controlled roll and burst into the house.
His wand flicked again and again, spells firing in a relentless stream toward Fenrir’s back like a pounding rainstorm, desperately trying to halt the charging beast.
Roused by the presence of their king, the two werewolves stalled by the wall of fire suddenly found fresh ferocity.
Forcing down their instinctive fear, they threw back their heads and howled in unison with Fenrir, then hurled themselves straight through Lyall’s flames.
Their fur curled and blackened under the fire, sizzling as the sickening stench of burnt hair filled the room.
But once they burst free of the blaze, the pain only drove them madder.
Roasted, bleeding, their savagery completely unchained, the two werewolves lunged straight for Lyall at point-blank range.
“No—!” Hope screamed, voice cracking with desperation.
In that moment, time seemed to snap taut.
Behind Lyall, the staircase gave a sharp, grating creak.
The handrail and steps twisted, spun, and warped at a dizzying speed—wood groaning as it stretched and contorted.
In the space of a heartbeat, the staircase had transformed into a massive wooden python, its hideous head rearing up to slam down in front of Lyall, blocking the two werewolves that had burst through the fire.
Lyall spun around in shock and saw the cupboard under the stairs now exposed.
Damien McGonagall stood on top of it, arms thrust forward, eyes wide and locked on the wooden serpent he’d just created.
His small face was flushed crimson, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.
His entire body trembled from the strain of holding the magic.
It was obvious that this wandless spellcasting was taking a brutal toll on him.
“Damien?!” Lyall and Robert shouted together, stunned.
Hope didn’t waste a heartbeat.
Taking advantage of the moment the werewolves were held back by the wooden python, she brought up her revolver again—this time sighting directly on one werewolf’s eerie green eye.
“Bang!
Bang!
Bang…” Another six shots rang out in rapid succession.
“Awooo—!”
Blood exploded from the werewolf’s face as one bullet drove cleanly into its left eye socket.
Its formidable physical defenses clearly didn’t extend to its eyes.
The instant it was hit, the creature let out a bloodcurdling howl.
Its huge body crashed to the floor, limbs clawing helplessly at the air as bestial instinct devoured what little reason it had left.
It rolled and writhed, shrieking in animal agony.
Lyall and Robert pounced on the opening.
Wands slashing through the air, they unleashed a storm of spells.
Twin showers of shimmering light rained down on the remaining two werewolves, trying to pin them completely and bring the rampaging beasts under control.
Fenrir staggered as several spells struck home.
Waves of stabbing pain and a dragging heaviness spread through his body.
In that instant, he understood: pressing the fight any further would only turn the tide against him.
Tonight’s surprise attack had failed.
The werewolves’ greatest edge lay in their explosive strength and natural resistance to magic, an advantage that made them terrifying in ambushes or sudden assaults.
But once a fight dragged on and turned into a standoff, the tide began to shift.
In a drawn-out battle, the flexibility and variety of a wizard’s spells let them slowly seize the upper hand.
Fenrir knew his own strengths—and his limits.
A flash of fury and frustration passed through his eyes, but he made his choice in an instant, forcing down the urge for immediate revenge.
He spun on his heel and bolted toward the sitting room window.
On the way, he seized the howling werewolf with the ruined eye and, with a savage heave, hurled him straight at Lyall and Hope, aiming to sow chaos and stall any pursuit.
Without a backward glance, Fenrir roared, stamped out the last dying flames, and scrambled through the shattered gap in the window, vanishing into the darkness beyond.
The other scarred werewolf tore after him, disappearing into the night.
At that moment, just as the werewolf Fenrir had thrown was about to slam into the wooden python Damien had conjured, the apparently solid serpent gave a strained, splintering groan.
“Crack… crash…” In a heartbeat, the huge python collapsed, coming apart into a rain of splintered wood and broken banister rails.
Lyall stepped in front of Hope without thinking, his wand cutting a sharp arc through the air.
The badly injured beast smashed into an invisible barrier and crashed to the floor with a heavy thud.
Up by the stairs, Robert’s gaze caught on the cupboard door, now hanging open.
At some point, it had swung ajar.
Damien’s small body had gone limp; he sagged into the arms of a shaken Remus.
Damien’s eyes were clamped shut, his face white as parchment.
“Damien—!” Robert’s cry tore from his throat as he rushed over and gathered the unconscious boy into his arms.
Fenrir, with his last remaining werewolf, melted into the Ochertyel night without once looking back.
Behind him, the two packmates he had coldly discarded—one dead, one grievously wounded—were left sprawled on the icy Scottish ground to meet whatever end awaited them.
And in the wake of the attack, the two families they had torn into were left to nurse their wounds.
Hunter and prey would not keep their places forever.