While Fenrir was plotting his revenge in the dense forest, further back behind the werewolves,
Alastor Moody held a monocular to his eye, studying the group with a hard, appraising stare.
These were no ordinary Muggle vagrants, that much was clear.
He let out a slow breath.
“It’s time for the Committee Chairman to be replaced.
To not even be able to recognise such obvious werewolf traits… that fellow Edgecombe is simply a waste.”
Once his suspicions were confirmed, Moody, unwilling to keep looking at the twisted shapes of the werewolves, lowered the monocular, turned on his heel, and headed for the Lupin family home.
By the dead of night, the lights in the Lupins’ yard were already out.
The house stood quiet and still, swallowed by darkness.
Yet through Moody’s scope, faint traces of magic shimmered over the fence encircling the yard.
He nodded to himself.
As expected of a Dark Arts defence expert—the most basic wards and alerts were properly in place.
Satisfied, Moody did not linger.
He set off at once on the road back to Hogwarts.
Early on the morning of 10 February, Moody stepped through the main gates, his boots thudding softly as he passed through the mist shrouding Hogwarts castle.
Beside him trudged Apollyon Pringle, the bleary-eyed caretaker of Hogwarts, still clutching a lantern.
The notoriously ill-tempered caretaker showed no courtesy even to an alumnus like Moody, who had graduated many years before.
He kept his face dark and stony, saying nothing the entire way.
Moody was long used to this.
He hadn’t understood Pringle back when he was a student at Hogwarts, but after entering the wider wizarding world he’d come to see the man differently.
This stern caretaker, who favoured corporal punishment, had his own burdens.
After all, keeping a horde of restless adolescents in line was no easy job—especially when every one of them could cast spells.
If the caretaker were any softer, he’d probably have been tormented to madness by the students.
The castle was almost deserted at this hour.
Their footsteps echoed faintly as they walked in single file through the corridors, all the way up to the eighth floor.
At last, Pringle spoke, a little awkwardly:
“Professor Dumbledore should be awake by now.
The password for the Headmaster’s Office is ‘Fizzing Whizbees.’ You can go there yourself; I need to go to the Great Hall to clean the castle.”
He hesitated, then hurriedly added:
“I’ve heard about what you did.
You saved my cousin’s family and caught the Dark wizard who attacked him.
Moody, thank you.”
As soon as the words were out, as if unused to such an expression, Apollyon gave a brusque nod and turned away, leaving in a rush.
Moody watched the caretaker he’d never much liked during his school days.
Noticing the grey now streaking the hair under Pringle’s hat, he suddenly found himself at a loss for words.
He stood there in silence for a moment.
Then the corners of his mouth twitched upward in the faintest of smiles, and he turned, striding towards Dumbledore’s office.
The spiral staircase carried him up, and once again Moody found himself at the door of the Headmaster’s Office.
Inside, Professor Dumbledore, wearing a moon-white dressing gown, stood in a corner of the room, carefully pouring a golden potion from a crystal bottle for Fawkes.
“Oh, Alastor, you’re here.
Wait just a moment, I’ll be finished shortly.”
Dumbledore greeted him warmly.
As he spoke, he tilted the last shimmering drops of the potion into Fawkes’s beak.
The phoenix swallowed, then affectionately nuzzled Dumbledore’s hand with his head.
A moment later, Fawkes spread his wings, soared up to the top of his perch, and began to preen his feathers with great care.
Meanwhile, Moody and Dumbledore had taken seats at the desk.
Moody reached for the silver teapot Dumbledore had set out and poured himself several cups in quick succession.
He had been on the move since the previous morning and was exhausted in both body and mind.
Dumbledore did not press him to speak.
Instead, he slid the box of sweets on the table towards Moody, silently inviting him to take some and recover his strength.
In the portrait behind Dumbledore, however, Phineas Black was clearly displeased by Moody’s rough manners, clicking his tongue over and over.
Dumbledore glanced back and frowned slightly at Phineas in warning.
Phineas felt a stab of guilt, but the urge to speak up still burned.
Before he could get a word out, however, Armando Dippet and Dilys Derwent in the neighboring portraits leaned in together and promptly bound him to his chair.
Armando even helpfully stuffed a handkerchief into Phineas’s mouth.
Dumbledore caught the scene out of the corner of his eye.
He could only give Headmaster Armando a quick, conspiratorial wink before turning back to Moody.
Moody, meanwhile, paid no attention at all to the commotion in the frames.
After downing several cups of black tea and popping a Fizzing Whizbee into his mouth, he finally spoke, slow and certain:
“The prophecy is true.
There is no problem with what that child saw.”
At those words, Dumbledore’s brows drew together instead of easing.
He reached out and gently pushed the tin of sweets closer to Moody, his voice low.
“Tell me the details, Alastor.”
“Lyall Lupin caught Fenrir Greyback,” Moody began.
“But during the identification and interrogation, the Review Committee’s Chairman labeled him a Muggle and personally let him go.
“Because of this, Fenrir bears a grudge against Remus, Lyall’s son, and means to retaliate.
Right now, he and his wolf cubs are outside Tredigar, where Lupins are living in seclusion.
“I expect they’re just waiting for the full moon to launch an attack on the Lupin family.”
Moody paused, took another bracing gulp of black tea, then went on, his tone edged with anger.
“I went back to the Ministry of Magic and pulled some files.
This Fenrir is suspected in over a dozen werewolf conversion cases involving both Muggles and wizards.
He’s steeped in evil.
Chairman Edgecombe is a complete fool!”
Dumbledore’s gaze darkened.
Moody’s report confirmed Damien’s prophecy.
Yet the prophecy itself—so detailed it bordered on the absurd—gave Dumbledore far more unease than the immediate danger looming over the Lupins.
His frown deepened as he sank into thought.
Seeing this, Moody didn’t dare interrupt.
He simply shifted to the side and quietly kept refilling his cup.
He really did need the rest—and the water.
It was only after a long while, when Moody had emptied the entire pot of tea, that Dumbledore seemed to rouse from a trance.
He turned toward the portraits behind him.
“Mr.
Everard, could I trouble you to inform Minerva and ask her to come to the office at once?”
A wizard in one of the frames, silent until now, inclined his head in acknowledgment and slipped soundlessly out of his portrait.
Watching him go, Moody couldn’t help murmuring with feeling:
“Mr.
Everard is highly respected; he’s truly a model for our Hogwarts Headmasters.
Every time I pass his portrait in the Ministry of Magic, I see many wizards bowing to him.”
At that, Phineas—trussed to his chair and clearly not held in such esteem—began to struggle furiously, letting out muffled whimpers around the handkerchief.
Moody’s lips twitched upward, and the old headmasters in the surrounding portraits broke into laughter.
Dumbledore gave a little blink and turned his back on Phineas’s frame, pretending not to see.
But the faint smile at the corner of his eyes did not escape Phineas, which only made him thrash all the harder.
In that oddly cheerful atmosphere in the Headmaster’s office, Minerva stepped through the door, her expression severe.
“Mr.
Headmaster, I have a class this morning.
May I ask what this is about?”
She had pushed the door open at a brisk pace, but her voice was steady.
Only a faint, almost unnoticeable tiredness rested in the lines of her brow.
Dumbledore set aside his usual gentleness.
When he spoke to Professor McGonagall, his tone was solemn.
“Minerva, Moody has found the werewolves planning to attack Lupin’s child.
This full moon, I’m afraid I’ll have to trouble you and Robert Jr.
to make a trip to South Wales.”
McGonagall’s already stern features tightened further, her brow knitting into a deep furrow.
She exhaled slowly and, without asking anything more, answered, “Very well.” Her voice, however, carried a faint tremor.
She had been worrying over Damien’s prophecy for days, and now, at last, it was about to be tested.
Moody spoke up.
“If possible, we should head there early and set a plan.
Professor McGonagall nodded, turning to him with genuine gratitude in her eyes.
“Thank you for your hard work, Alastor.
If not for you, we certainly wouldn’t have been able to confirm the exact location Damien saw so quickly.”
Moody waved a broad hand dismissively.
“Hunting down law‑breaking Dark creatures is part of our duty as Aurors.
Nothing to boast about.”
“In that case,” McGonagall said, inclining her head, “I still have a class, so I’ll go and prepare.
Mr Moody, if there is anything you need, please notify me by owl immediately.
Robert Jr.
and I will certainly arrive on time.”
She gave Dumbledore a brief nod, then swept out of the Headmaster’s office at her usual brisk pace.
Seeing that everything had been decided, Moody rose as well.
“Dumbledore, I need to get back to the Ministry.
You know the work in the Auror Office never ends,” he growled before stomping out of Hogwarts.
Silence settled over the office as the door closed.
Dumbledore stood alone for a long moment, then let out a sigh so soft it was almost swallowed by the ticking of the instruments around him.
Behind him, Phineas Black, no longer restrained by the other former headmasters, was irritably smoothing his rumpled collar.
He cleared his throat and barked at Dumbledore’s back:
“I don’t see what you’re so conflicted about, Albus.
We’re wizards.
Isn’t it perfectly normal to have a few inexplicable magical talents?
What’s all the fuss?”
Dumbledore turned.
The usual twinkle had vanished from his blue eyes; he regarded Phineas with grave seriousness.
“I’m not afraid of Damien having a rare talent, Phineas,” he said quietly.
“What I fear is that this is no talent at all, but a so‑called ‘miracle’ carefully crafted and deliberately shaped by someone behind the scenes.”
Phineas burst out laughing as though Dumbledore had told an absurd joke.
When he finally managed to rein himself in, he offered a perfunctory apology.
“Sorry, sorry, I simply couldn’t help myself, Dumbledore.
Even if someone has a few little schemes, what of it?”
He smirked.
“Dumbledore, you are the most powerful wizard of our age; your strength is beyond compare.
Even that little Tom, always making trouble, only dares to skulk in the shadows with his petty tricks instead of facing you outright.”
“As for a tiny ‘genius’ who’s only just turned five—what is there to be so wary of?”
Phineas gave an exaggerated shrug, leaned back into his cushioned high‑backed chair, and propped his cheek on one hand, his tone turning almost lazy.
“As long as he doesn’t intend to overturn the entire magical world or ignite another international war between wizards and Muggles, what do those minor schemes and plots matter to us old relics?
What can’t be tolerated?”
Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, then a faint, self‑mocking smile tugged at his lips.
“Perhaps you’re right, Phineas.
I am worrying too much.
Perhaps I should simply maintain some necessary contact with this child, so that I can better understand those things he might possess… or might not possess at all…”
His words faded into the still air.
Phineas, lounging in his frame, shook his head smugly and cut across him without hesitation.
“Oh, do stop fooling yourself, Dumbledore.
You’re only thinking that boy Damien’s talent is exactly like that Dark Lord you defeated with your own hands—Gellert Grindelwald.”
His voice stretched into a drawl, thick with the amusement of a man enjoying the spectacle.
“And honestly, if you care that much, why don’t you just go to Nurmengard and visit your old friend?
It wouldn’t be so bad to give yourself an excuse to see him.”
At this, a chorus of shocked gasps echoed from the surrounding portraits.
Dumbledore fell silent again.
The color seemed to drain from his face, and a complicated light flickered in his eyes.
It was a long while before he spoke, forcing his tone back to something like normal.
“There is no need, Phineas.
Doing that… would serve no real purpose…”
Despite his words, Dumbledore turned away without another sound.
He left the Headmaster’s Office, his tall figure seeming oddly solitary as the door closed behind him.
The office, which had been noisy all morning, finally fell completely silent.
Fawkes blinked and glanced around.
The portraits along the walls had already clustered around Headmaster Armando Dippet’s frame, noisily arguing over the Ninety-Nine Untold Stories of Gellert and Albus.
The phoenix gave a long, crackling yawn that shed a few harmless sparks, then tucked his head under his wing and nestled back into his warm perch, ready for another long sleep.
At last, on the afternoon of February 13th, after enduring several dizzying, bone-rattling trips on the Knight Bus, Damien finally returned to his steadfast home—the village of Ochertyel.
Light-headed and swaying, he stepped down from the violently lurching purple bus, feeling as though his internal organs had been rearranged.
He forced himself to focus on his front door, fully expecting it to be standing there quietly, with no one waiting.
Instead, he saw his grandfather and grandmother standing on the doorstep, waving at him with enthusiasm.
Robert Sr.
was wearing a rare, warm smile.
A rush of warmth surged through Damien’s chest, and he broke into a run toward the two elderly figures.
Unfortunately, the lingering aftereffects of the Knight Bus ride chose that moment to hit him again.
His legs turned to jelly, and he stumbled forward, staggering clumsily.
Robert Sr.
froze for a heartbeat, then hurried forward and caught his only grandson in a firm embrace.
He lifted a hand, the fingers roughened by years of work, and with reverent care traced a cross over Damien’s forehead, chest, and shoulders, murmuring a soft prayer for the Lord’s protection.
The origins of the McGonagall family lay right there: Damien’s grandfather, Robert Sr.
McGonagall, was not only a complete Muggle, but also a devout church pastor.
Sometimes, Damien couldn’t help marvelling at the passage of time and the odd twists of fate.
Had the clock been turned back three hundred years, Robert might have been forced to choose—painfully—between his loyalty to the Lord and his love for a witch.
Fortunately, Robert had been born into a comparatively tolerant age, one that allowed him the rare good fortune of a family where both faith and love could coexist in peace.
Now, Robert Sr.’s slightly calloused hands gently steadied Damien.
With great care he took a small silver crucifix from his pocket and fastened it around Damien’s neck.
“The Lord will watch over you, my child,” Robert Sr.
said kindly, his voice thick with affection and blessing.
Later, after Damien had enjoyed a warm dinner and gone to wash up under his grandparents’ watchful eyes, Robert Jr.
lowered his voice and spoke quietly to Catherine:
“Honey, I need to head out tonight.
I’ve got a small investment in the wizarding world I have to deal with.
You get some good rest; I might not be back until dawn.”
Catherine put down the ball of wool in her hands, a faint line of suspicion creasing her brow.
“What kind of business takes all night?
Robert Jr., you’re not… planning something dangerous again, are you?”
She was thinking of the time, back when they had just started dating, that he had secretly taken her to see a wild black dragon.
A slick smile spread across Robert Jr.’s face as he leaned closer.
“Honey, what are you thinking?
Our life is so stable now—why would I be mad enough to pull those kinds of stunts again?
Don’t forget, I’m a Gryffindor.
People from our House are the most steady.”
He spoke with an air of solemn conviction, as if every Gryffindor were naturally well-behaved and had never cost their house a single point.
Catherine still looked doubtful, but faced with Robert Jr.’s earnest tone and the way he patted his chest in assurance, she finally gave a reluctant nod.
“Alright.
If you’re lying to me, Robert Jr., I swear…”
She broke off.
The edge in her voice dulled as the words reached her lips, and instead she just let out a soft sigh.
“Come home early, and stay safe.”
Robert Jr.
chuckled; that was exactly what he’d been aiming for.
He drew Catherine into his arms and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then shrugged into his wizard robes and strode out of the house.
Behind him, Catherine stayed by the hearth, the half-finished knitting lying untouched in her lap.
The crackle of burning logs filled the room, but the warmth of the fire couldn’t melt the faint, stubborn worry in her eyes.
An hour and a half later, in a barren field on the outskirts of Cardiff, Robert Jr.
and Minerva appeared almost at the same time, apparating in with twin cracks.
Moody, who had been waiting for some time, stood with his wand raised, eyes fixed on them.
Only when he clearly made out their faces did his shoulders ease.
He lowered his wand slightly and strode over.
“Mr.
Robert Jr..
Minerva.”
Moody’s voice was as harsh and gravelly as ever.
After a few brief courtesies, he went straight to business, outlining the situation near Tredigar.
“It’s an old mountain village—traditional Welsh stone cottages.
Lyall Lupin’s family lives right on the northern edge of the woods.
Lyall has put a Muggle-Repelling Charm around the place.
Under normal circumstances, Muggles will just overlook their house…”
Moody paused and glanced toward the north, his tone growing heavier.
“The problem is, further north of Tredigar there’s a huge Muggle National Park.
Complicated terrain, no one living there.
If we let the werewolves slip into that, I’m afraid it’ll be very difficult to track them again.”
“So our task isn’t just to stop this tragedy from happening,” Robert Jr.
said, rubbing his chin and summing it up quickly, “but more importantly, to catch this lot of evil fellows in one go so they don’t get away?”
“Yes.” Moody confirmed his words with a curt nod and concluded,
“The key is to get all the werewolves under control.
At present, we know there should be three of them.
Considering Lyall’s no weakling, with the four of us against three, there should be no problem.
Tonight I’ll take you to get familiar with the terrain, so we can decide what to do on the night of the full moon and make sure not a single one escapes.”
“I have a question, Moody,” Robert Jr.
said suddenly.
“Since we’ve basically confirmed this attack, why don’t we move in advance and catch those werewolves before they transform?
Wouldn’t that be safer?”
Minerva, who had been silently listening, gave a slight nod as he spoke.
She clearly shared the same doubt.
Moody’s face tightened for a heartbeat as Dumbledore’s instructions flashed through his mind—especially the part he’d stressed separately:
“You must see if the werewolf climbs the wall and enters through the window…”
How was he supposed to explain that to the family of the Seer?
His thoughts snagged, then he forced out, a bit stiffly,
“Er—naturally it’s to…
catch them in the act!
That way we can lock them in Azkaban for long enough to make them pay for their crimes!”
He sounded righteously indignant; as an Auror, he knew procedure and legalities inside and out.
Robert Jr.
didn’t notice Moody’s brief awkwardness.
He simply nodded, satisfied.
“I understand.
Right—only with solid evidence can we keep them in Azkaban, to keep those Dementors company!”
Minerva, however, was far sharper than her brother.
She clearly caught the unnatural, less-than-convincing note in Moody’s explanation.
She didn’t call him out on it.
Instead she quietly filed it away, her gaze growing deeper.
Moody could feel Minerva’s eyes on him.
Normally indifferent to anyone’s opinion, he found himself oddly unsettled.
He cleared his throat and hurried to change the subject:
“It’s getting late.
Let’s head over and take a look now.
And be extremely careful—those werewolves are repeat offenders and jumpy as hell.
Don’t let them spot us beforehand.”
Minerva answered crisply, “Moody, you’re the expert here.
Just tell us what you need, and we’ll follow your lead.”
The three fell silent after that.
Each swung onto a broom, and like three soundless shadows they swept through the night sky toward Tredigar.
The night was as black as ink.
In the distance, the Lupin family’s house sat quiet and homely under the moonlight.
It was so late that every window was dark; by now, the Lupins were almost certainly asleep.
Moody and the others touched down in a small grove roughly two kilometers away.
Using Moody’s multi‑functional telescope, they took turns surveying the terrain and the surroundings of the Lupin home.
In a low voice, Moody reported, “I’ve had a general look.
Lupin’s put up Muggle‑Repelling Charms and a few basic warning spells around the courtyard.
“Under normal circumstances, that’s more than enough to deal with the usual accidents.
It’s just… the attack Remus is about to face will probably be beyond anything his father imagined.”
Minerva lowered the telescope and nodded.
“Indeed.
Then again, the world’s growing more and more unsettled—dark arts crimes are cropping up one after another.
“Robert Jr., when you go back, remember to strengthen the protections at home.
These days, nothing is out of the question.”
“Alright, sister, I’ll remember,” Robert Jr.
agreed quickly.
Watching the kind of assault the Lupins were about to suffer left his heart pounding with lingering fear.
In a way, their two families weren’t all that different: both had chosen a life of seclusion, and both were households formed by a wizard and a Muggle.
Under those conditions, any crisis Lyall Lupin couldn’t handle would likely be just as hard for Robert Jr.
to withstand.
Moody paid no attention to the siblings’ caution in peacetime.
All his focus was on the mission.
Kneeling on the ground, he took a dry branch and with a few quick strokes sketched a rough map of the area around the Lupin home.
He studied the lines for a moment, then marked several key spots.
The plan in his head was already complete.
He beckoned Minerva and Robert Jr.
over and, by the faint glow at the tip of his wand, pointed to the map as he laid out their roles.
“When it starts, we have to be certain these werewolves are actually here to attack the Lupin family—but we can’t let them succeed or let anyone get hurt.
So, once the operation begins, Minerva and I will wait outside the courtyard wall here.”
He tapped two positions on the map.
“Once that lead werewolf steps into the yard and gets ready to attack, we move in at once and take him down.
Robert Jr.”—his gaze shifted to the young man—”you’ll flank from this side, opposite us, to box in all three werewolves.
You must seal off every exit and give them no chance to escape.
We don’t leave future trouble behind.”
After that, the three of them circled the outskirts of the Lupin home, carefully walking through their routes and ambush points in person.
Once everything was confirmed, they slipped away as quietly as they’d come.
Everything was in place now.
All that remained was to wait for the full moon and take these criminals—who dared to prey on the innocent—in one clean sweep.
On the other side, the werewolves, completely unaware of the net tightening around them, were still out in the wilderness dividing up their own “jobs.”
Harland’s assessment of Fenrir had been accurate.
On the night of the full moon, his orders really were to slip into the Muggle village near the Lupin home and maul a few Muggles, all to draw Lyall Lupin out of his house.
Harland knew very well that once a werewolf transformed, almost none of them—aside from rare exceptions like Fenrir—could keep a clear, rational mind.
In a direct clash with an adult wizard like Lyall Lupin, the odds were high that he would end up gravely injured—or killed outright.
Yet under Fenrir’s gaze, those yellow eyes burning with tyranny and threat, Harland couldn’t even force out a single “no.” He could only shudder, terror locking his throat, as he accepted his fate.
As for Leon, Fenrir lazily assigned him to “provide backup” outside the Lupin family courtyard.
Leon knew full well that once he transformed, his Werewolf form had no real consciousness—only feral, bloodthirsty instinct.
In that state, there was no chance he could carry out some ridiculous “support” mission.
But since Fenrir had already given the order, Leon didn’t bother wasting breath arguing.
At worst, he would just be the scapegoat for Fenrir again; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d played that part.
After finishing his arrangements, a cruel, blood-red gleam flashed in Fenrir’s eyes as his yellow pupils began to darken and turn red.
His sharp nails scraped slowly down the trunk of a nearby tree while he muttered to himself,
“Now, just have to wait for the full moon.
Lyall, I’ll be bringing you a gift very soon.”
Grinning at the thought of the terror he was about to unleash on the unsuspecting family, Fenrir turned toward the quiet house.
Inside, the Lupins, completely unaware of the danger closing in on them, slept soundly in their warm, peaceful home.