The Feathered Serpent: Chapter 25

The month passed in a blur of training, dueling, and relentless self-improvement for Harry and Daphne. Their journey through the ranks of the Hogwarts Dueling Club was nothing short of meteoric, and their private training with Professor McGonagall, Moody, and Tonks only accelerated their growth.

Each session day, after classes, they would step into the dueling chamber, where the Dueling Club held its structured tournaments. The competition was fierce, especially among the older students whom they now faced, but Harry and Daphne were nothing short of relentless. Their approach to combat was methodical yet adaptable—Harry, as usual, wielded an unpredictable style that blended offense and defense seamlessly, while Daphne was ruthless in efficiency, her spellwork precise and devastating.

After the previous session, even the early matches had become more challenging, but they were adept at dispatching their opponents with controlled bursts of power. However, as they fought more and more, and kept climbing the ranks, they realized the Flitwick was indeed correct.

They met only older students who were much stronger duelists than those they had faced so far—students who had passed their OWLs and were now in their NEWTs, who had been at this for years. Their grind was proven in their abilities that they demonstrated in the duels, and they faced multiple challengers who could cast non-verbal spells effortlessly, use transfiguration offensively, had a massive knowledge of curses, hexes, and jinxes, and could chain complex spell combinations with nary a thought.

For Harry and Daphne, these duels became lessons in patience and endurance.

One of the most grueling fights for them both came against none other than Cassius Warrington, the Slytherin member of the Hierarchy who was known for his brutal, aggressive style. His curses came fast and unrelenting, his shield charms barely flickering before another offensive spell erupted from his wand. However, Daphne was quick to adapt, incorporating more movement into her dueling, dodging spells rather than relying on counter-charms. Meanwhile, Harry took a different approach against him, using deceptive tactics to bait Warrington into overextending before taking him down with a silent, near-invisible Disarming Charm.

As the weeks progressed, their names became even more feared in the club. However, what also followed was a massive throng of fan-following. Duelists were understandably scared of facing them, but there was also respect in their eyes for their abilities and proficiency with the wand. There were jealous people as well, but those numbered few, while most of them appreciated and even cheered for them in their duels.

After continuous grinding, they had almost reached their target, standing only one step away from earning the ranks of Duke and Duchess of the Dueling Club, and thus, becoming the fastest pair to achieve those ranks. Once they did, it would officially establish them as the most exceptional duelists Hogwarts had to offer, even though almost everyone agreed that they already were the most exceptional. Furthermore, it would give them the pass to enter the qualification process to represent their school on the circuit.

Their goal for the summer was within reach. One more session was all it would take.

However, dueling wasn’t their only focus. Three times a week, McGonagall guided them through Animagus training. What started as visualization exercises and meditation to control their animalistic instincts during transformation soon turned into grueling tests of will. Their bodies resisted the changes at first, their magic pushing back against the unnatural shift. Hours of deep concentration left them drained, but they pressed forward. McGonagall’s sharp eye and unwavering discipline ensured they never faltered, never lost control of their magic during the process, and slowly, focus started to transition into instinct.

By the end of the month, they had made remarkable progress. While full instinctual transformation was still out of reach, they had managed controlled shifts with only seconds of delays. Both Daphne and Harry had momentarily felt the altered vision and heightened senses of their transformations while in their human forms. McGonagall was impressed, although she did not voice it outright.

The most grueling aspect of their training was the combat sessions with Moody and Tonks in the Room of Requirement. Unlike structured duels, these sessions were unpredictable, violent, and designed to break them down. Moody’s philosophy was simple: learn to fight like you mean to kill. Tonks, being a student just like them, was getting more and more impressed by their agility and creative spellwork. She had seen evidence of it during their first session, but the ones that followed solidified the belief in her mind that there was something special about the couple that set them apart from not only their peers but also their seniors.

Moody had shown them what he’d meant with his little no-wand remark. The entire session, and a few more that had followed that, had been filled with nothing but Moody commanding the room to blast them with curses and jinxes which they had to either dodge, evade, or shield against using various objects scattered throughout the room. It had been the most grueling experience of their lives, and it was even more challenging for Tonks who was not as quick or sure footed as them. She did manage to evade the spells by morphing her body proportions but all it did was make Moody double down on her, taking away whatever advantage her metamorph abilities granted her. In the end, she was merely another witch, albeit with a distorted measure of balance.

Once Moody had had enough fun at their expense, they were made to fight against each other—quick duels where they pushed the limits of their non-verbal magic, throwing silent hexes and countering them on instinct. However, the real test came when they fought against their instructor, one-on-one.

At first, they were utterly outmatched. Moody’s spells hit with the force of a storm, his wand a whirlwind of movement. The room’s abilities allowing him to slip through their attacks with unnatural ease. The first few sessions ended quickly, with Daphne, Harry, and Tonks stunned on the floor before they could cast more than a handful of spells.

Slowly, they adapted. Each failure became a lesson. They learned to read Moody’s minuscule tells, the barely perceptible shifts in his stance that preceded his attacks. They honed their reflexes, countering his agility with layered defenses and unexpected spell trajectories. By the end of the month, they were no longer simply reacting—they were actively pressing forward, trying to dictate the pace of battle. It was a work in progress, but the progress was swift indeed. Even Moody was impressed, and that was an incredible feat indeed.

XXXXX

The Room of Requirement had shifted once again, expanding into a vast dueling arena. The walls stretched high, their stone surfaces lined with torches that flickered and cast dancing shadows across the polished marble floor. A faint hum of magic vibrated in the air, as though the room itself was alive, watching and waiting for the spectacle ahead, but they knew it was ready to test them.

Harry and Daphne stood side by side, their wands held at the ready. Across from them, Alastor Moody and Nymphadora Tonks took their positions, each prepared for battle. Moody, ever the battle-hardened veteran, surveyed them with his mismatched eyes—one dark and piercing, the other spinning in its socket, absorbing every detail. His face was as rugged as ever, the deep scars carved into his skin.

Tonks, in contrast, looked almost playful despite her combat stance. Today, her hair was a striking shade of electric purple, as though reflecting the energy she carried within her. She gave them both a cheeky grin before twirling her wand between her fingers.

Moody’s voice came low and gravelly. “Let’s see if you’ve actually learned something.”

Harry met his gaze, unflinching. Daphne gave a small nod, her confidence unwavering.

Tonks rolled her shoulders. “No pulling punches this time. And don’t think we’ll be giving you a break either.”

Without further warning, Moody moved, his wand flicking almost imperceptibly. A jet of violet energy surged toward Harry, fast and vicious as it tore through the air. He knew dodging was not an option because of the complication created by the Room of Requirement which could very well redirect the spell at his back, and thus, he reacted instinctively, his wand whipping through the air as he cast a firm Protego. The shimmering barrier caught the spell, but the force of the impact sent a vibration up his arm. His eyes widened. Moody was certainly not playing around.

He immediately countered, twisting on his heel and firing a silent stunner to test the waters. The spell shot towards him with a much faster pace than what Harry had been capable of casting before, but Moody deflected it with ease, his wand barely moving. He followed up with a trio of curses—Confringo, Expulso, and Diffindo. The spells flew in quick succession, forcing Harry into evasive maneuvers. He pivoted, narrowly avoiding the first, then deflected the second with a hurried Protego. The third spell sliced through his shield, carving a thin line through the fabric of his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Tonks was already in motion, her body a blur of movement. She dived low, sending a precise Disarming Charm at Daphne. The blonde dodged swiftly, his sharp reflexes kicking in. In the same breath, she vanished as she cast a disillusionment charm, blending seamlessly with the air. Tonks’ eyes darted around, searching for her.

From nowhere, a silent Blasting Curse erupted toward her. She barely managed to dodge, rolling across the floor just as the spell exploded behind her, sending shards of marble flying. A sharp crack echoed as Daphne reappeared, her wand moving rapidly to keep the pressure on. A wordless Impedimenta streaked towards the metamorph, but Tonks, quick as ever, flicked her wand and absorbed the spell’s force with an elegant counter-charm.

The waters were being tested, and none of the casters had brought any heavy hitters out yet. However, it seemed the Room of Requirement had gotten bored already and it decided to interfere.

The torches lining the walls suddenly flared bright, and the ground beneath them trembled. From nowhere, metallic chains shot up from the floor, snaking toward the duelists. Daphne leapt backward as one nearly wrapped around her ankle. Harry dodged a second set, using a Banishing Charm to send them recoiling. Moody, unbothered, merely raised his wand, muttered, “Finite,” and the nearest chains vanished into thin air.

Tonks grinned despite herself. “Alright, that’s new.”

There was no time for commentary. Harry retaliated against Moody with a spell he had been working on after reading the basics in both his parents’ journal and a text on Advanced Transfiguration—a silent barrage of conjured iron shards, each no longer than a dagger. They materialized mid-air, gleaming dangerously as they shot toward him. Moody grunted, raising a shimmering blue shield just in time to block them. But Harry had anticipated this; his follow-up was already on its way. With a flick of his wrist, he transformed the very ground beneath Moody into thick, swirling sand.

Moody’s footing gave way slightly, forcing him to compensate. It was a split-second disadvantage, but Harry seized it. His next spell, an overpowered Blasting Curse, struck directly at Moody’s shield. The force of it sent him skidding back, his boots scraping against the marble floor. For the first time, there was a hint of approval in his expression.

Daphne and Tonks were locked in an intense exchange of spells. The younger witch was pushing hard, forcing the metamorph on the defensive. A well-aimed Expelliarmus shot toward her, but she twisted her body unnaturally mid-air, utilizing her metamorphic abilities to their fullest as Daphne looked on in surprise. Tonks landed in a crouch and retaliated with a conjured wave of water, sending it crashing toward Daphne.

Before the blonde could react, the Room of Requirement added another complication—this time, the air turned dense, charged with static. A sudden windstorm ripped through the arena, threatening to throw everyone off balance. The gusts howled, forcing Daphne to brace himself as she tried to vanish the water before it reached her. She managed it in time, but the distraction gave Tonks an opening.

She aimed, flicking her wand in a precise motion, and a bolt of blue light shot toward Daphne—a simple Petrificus Totalus. She barely had time to deflect it, sending the spell crashing into a nearby wall, where it exploded into harmless sparks.

Moody, now free from the shifting sands, stepped up his assault. His wand was a blur, and suddenly the air was filled with more dangerous spells than before. Purple, orange, and green streaks of light shot toward Harry in a relentless barrage. He was forced to dodge and counter simultaneously. A silent Severing charm narrowly missed his cheek, while a Reductor curse shattered the floor where he had just stood.

Harry had no intention of letting Moody dictate the fight. He retaliated with a powerful non-verbal Incarcerous, conjuring thick metal chains that began lashing out at Moody. The grizzled auror blasted them apart effortlessly. Not deterred, he followed up with a rapid succession of hexes—Stunning, Blasting, and a tricky illusion charm that momentarily created three copies of himself.

Moody’s magical eye whirred as he easily identified the real one. “Good trick,” he admitted gruffly before sending a silent spell his way.

Harry felt something tighten around his throat. A choking hex. His vision blurred momentarily, and he staggered. But he was prepared for this too. He wrenched his wand in an arc, sending a burst of counter-magic toward himself, breaking the spell just before it could fully take hold. With a gasp, he regained his breath.

Meanwhile, Daphne had maneuvered Tonks into a vulnerable position. The trainee auror was fast, but she was relentless. With a sharp movement, she feinted left before flicking her wand in a smooth, precise arc. A non-verbal Expelliarmus shot from her wand with deadly accuracy. This time, Tonks couldn’t avoid it. Her wand flew from her grip, spinning through the air before clattering to the floor.

There was a pause as the room settled.

Moody and Harry stood apart, both breathing hard. Daphne exhaled slowly, lowering her wand. Tonks, still sitting on the ground, let out an exasperated laugh before rubbing her shoulder.

Moody gave them both a long, scrutinizing look. Then, with a grunt, he said, “Not bad. You’re getting there.” His voice, while still gruff, carried a rare note of approval.

Tonks smirked. “Alright, alright, you win this round.” She retrieved her wand, shaking her head. “But next time, I’m getting you back for that, Daphne.”

Daphne grinned, wiping sweat from her brow. “Looking forward to it.”

Harry flexed her fingers, rolling his shoulders as he met Moody’s gaze. “Next time, we’ll be even better.”

Moody’s expression was unreadable, but the glint in his magical eye suggested he believed him. “See that you are,” he said gruffly. “Because I won’t be holding back.”

With a groan, Tonks threw her head back and went to staring at the ceiling as Moody walked over, slowly approaching Harry and Daphne who both stared at the man with utmost seriousness, unflinching under his intense and scrutinizing gaze. Finally, Moody sighed and shook his head.

“I should’ve believed Albus,” he muttered, fishing out two wands from the pocked of his coat and holding them out.

As one, Daphne and Harry threw away the two little pieces of stick that they had been holding and reached out to accept their respective wands back.

“The next step is to move on from the instinctive need for a magical focus,” Moody remarked, walking over to his chair, and the couple followed him over. “Your wandless magic is beyond any I’ve ever seen for people your age, and you will only grow. But the notion, the feeling of wanting a magical focus to hold on to while you cast spells is one you should get rid of as soon as you can.”

“It will limit us,” Harry remarked, earning a nod from Moody.

“Your mind limits you more than your lack of abilities, Potter. Always remember that. If you believe in something, there is nothing stopping you from getting it done. You two can leave now.”

Harry nodded, followed by Daphne, and together, the couple walked over to the showers to get ready for the day. All the while, Moody’s keen eyes followed their retreating selves until they vanished behind the doors.

“They’re something, aren’t they?” Tonks asked softly, gazing into the distance.

“They’ve got to be, or there’s no future for them,” Moody grunted. “When this began, I didn’t expect you to fall behind those two, Nymphadora.”

Tonks bristled, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Moody was right and that she had indeed fallen behind them in only a month of rigorous training. She stifled her irritation though, knowing that no matter how much she asked him to, Moody would keep calling her by her name.

“Trust me, I’ve been doing the best I can,” she replied.

“I would’ve bashed you head in if you weren’t,” Moody said bluntly, making Tonks chuckle. The man ignored her amusement, his eyes trained on the floor.

The future was going to be very interesting indeed.

XXXXX

The village of Borskóv lay hidden in the dense Carpathian woods, a modest settlement of wizarding folk who had long sought refuge from the conflicts of the wider magical world. Isolated, quiet, and self-sustaining, the people of Borskóv had been living in peace for decades, never having to worry about intrusions or invasions. Generations had lived in peace, their society unmarred with hardships that ran amok in their neighboring countries.

Thus, it had come as a huge surprise to the village folk when they began receiving news about increasing attacks in their vicinity over the past month. Tales came trickling in from travelers and residents alike, of a force so lethal and unforgiving that none were safe from its brutalities.

It was a relatively hotter night. Winter was giving way to spring and people had started to spend more time outdoors. Thus, no one expected the chilling wind that suddenly swept through the village, rattling wooden shutters and setting the torches lining the cobbled streets flickering. It seemed the air had shifted, earlier smelling of dry earth and pine, but now, it was something else—something musky, rancid, and animalistic. A sound followed, distant but unmistakable: howls, deep and guttural, echoing through the forest.

In the center of the village, Elder Pyotr Markov stood on his porch, a long pipe clenched between his teeth. He was an old man, his beard thick and white, and his face lined with years of hard living. When the first scream tore through the night, he knew at once that something terrible had come. He dropped his pipe and reached for his wand, but before he could even call out a warning, the horror descended upon them.

The most vicious werewolf in Europe, Fenrir Greyback, was the one who led the charge. He was a towering figure even in human form, his ragged clothes hanging off his broad frame, his yellowed teeth bared in a wolfish snarl. The transformation was already beginning—the moonlight catching the coarse hair sprouting along his arms, his fingers elongating into wicked claws. He didn’t even bother with spells. He never did. He was a creature of teeth and talons, relishing in blood and terror.

The first to die was a young mother carrying a child. She had barely stepped toward the entrance of her cottage when Greyback lunged, his claws raking across her throat, cutting off her terrified scream. Blood sprayed across the wooden beams of her home as she collapsed, choking on her own life. The child, no older than two, screamed as Greyback seized him, his fangs sinking into the soft flesh of the boy’s skull. A sickening crunch followed. The screaming stopped. Just like that.

The other werewolves flooded in behind him, their forms shifting, and their hunger insatiable. Doors were kicked in. Windows shattered. The people of Borskóv had lived in peace for so long that they had either forgotten or never known what true fear was. Now, they knew. Now, they remembered.

Anton Belinski, a retired Auror, had barely enough time to grab his wand before one of the beasts crashed through his door. The creature was mid-transformation, its snout elongating, and its eyes burning yellow. Anton shouted a hasty Confringo but him aim was off. The explosion sent wooden splinters flying, and the werewolf barely staggered. It lunged at him, jaws snapping. Anton ducked, firing another curse, but a second beast tackled him from behind. Clawed hands tore at his flesh, and then the teeth found his neck. His gurgled screams faded as blood pooled beneath him.

Across the village, wizards and witches fought back, but their spells did little to stop the relentless pack. Stunners were shrugged off. Binding spells snapped as the beasts tore through them with brute strength. One woman managed to incinerate a werewolf with a powerful Incendio, but she didn’t see the one leaping from the shadows. It took her down, teeth sinking into her skull, crushing it like an eggshell.

Greyback had given his beasts a simple command. Feast. And feast they did. The behemoth of a werewolf moved through the carnage like a specter of death. He was fully transformed now, his hulking, fur-covered body dripping with blood. He enjoyed this. The taste, the sound, the sheer chaos. This was what he lived for. He caught sight of a young boy, no older than ten, clutching a wand too large for his trembling hands. The boy aimed a weak stunning spell at him, the red bolt of light flickering feebly. No doubt he had learned it on his own. Bright child.

Greyback laughed, and it was a guttural, horrible sound, before he pounced. He bit down on the boy’s shoulder, savoring the screams before tossing him aside, letting him crawl, knowing the infection was already coursing through his veins. A new wolf for the pack.

A group of villagers had formed a defensive line near the village square, barricading themselves behind upturned carts and conjured barriers. The acrid scent of burning wood filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Pyotr was among them, his gnarled hands steady despite the chaos unfolding around him.

“Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice raw from shouting. He tightened his grip on his wand, watching the dark shapes prowling at the edge of the torchlight. For a moment, they dared to hope. The barricades were holding, the protective enchantments shimmering faintly. Perhaps—just perhaps—they could outlast the night.

Alas, all the hopes were dashed when Greyback charged.

He hit the barrier with the full force of his monstrous frame, and it felt as if a massive hammer of muscle and matted fur and struck it. To the shock of the villagers, the enchantments shattered like thin glass, their remnants flickering and dying in the cold night air. The wooden carts cracked apart under the impact, tumbling inward as if crushed by an invisible hand.

Seizing the chance, the werewolves poured in relentlessly.

Screams erupted as claws met flesh, as spells flew wildly into the night, illuminating the square with flashes of red and blue. Pyotr barely had time to react before a younger villager beside him was pulled from cover, his scream cut short as fangs tore into his throat. The elder swung his wand in a wide arc, sending a bolt of blue fire into the pack. Five of the beasts howled as they were engulfed, their furs blackening, and their bodies convulsing violently before they crumpled to the ground.

This offense seemed to give the terrified villagers some hope, but it was all dashed in an instant as Greyback pounced upon him.

The werewolf moved with terrifying speed, defying all the odds. A massive and bulky creature such as him couldn’t possibly be so swift, and yet here he was. Pyotr the Elder raised his wand just in time, conjuring a hasty shield that barely absorbed the blow as Greyback’s claws swiped toward his face. The force of the impact sent Pyotr stumbling back, his breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. He stumbled and desperately regained his footing just as Greyback lunged again, his jaws snapping inches from his throat.

Pyotr thrust his wand forward. “Confringo!”

The explosion sent Greyback skidding back, his fur singed, but he did not fall. Instead, he straightened, his yellowed fangs bared in something between a grin and a snarl. The werewolf’s breath came in ragged pants, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained hunger.

“Not bad for an old man,” Greyback growled, his voice guttural, truly inhuman. “But it won’t save you.”

The werewolf sprang again, and this time, Pyotr wasn’t fast enough. Clawed hands struck him, raking across his shoulder, tearing through cloth and skin alike. White-hot pain shot through him, and he barely kept hold of his wand. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his free hand forward, sending a burst of raw magical force into Greyback’s chest. The werewolf staggered but did not fall.

Pyotr tried to step back, to give himself space, but Greyback pressed forward relentlessly. Another swipe of claws, another wound—this time across his ribs. His legs nearly buckled. Bleeding and in unimaginable pain, he raised his wand again, but Greyback’s hand closed around his wrist in an iron grip, crushing the fragile bones beneath his fingers. Pyotr gasped in pain, his wand tumbling from his grasp.

Greyback’s breath was hot against his face, thick with the stench of blood and raw meat. “You fought well, for an old man,” he admitted, his voice a low growl. “But you’re still just meat.”

Pyotr struggled, but it was useless. Greyback’s strength was monstrous, beyond human. The werewolf lifted him effortlessly, his claws digging deep into his flesh. Pyotr tried to summon his magic, but without his wand, the spells fizzled uselessly at his fingertips. He was helpless.

Then the teeth came down.

Pain exploded through his skull as Greyback’s jaws clamped onto his face. The world blurred, filled with agony so intense that it drowned out all thought. He felt the pressure, the unbearable force crushing inwards, bone splintering, flesh tearing, all belonging to him.

And then there was nothing.

The last thing Pyotr saw before darkness claimed him was the cold, indifferent moon, shining down upon the massacre.

A woman’s shrill scream echoed into the bloody night as she witnessed the death of the elder, and that was it. The defense crumbled like a house of cards.

The werewolves tore through the last of the resistance with ease, cutting down the wizards as though they were nothing more than cattle. Bodies lay scattered across the square, some still twitching, their robes stained crimson. Those who had survived—those bitten but not yet dead—lay writhing in agony, the lycanthropy curse taking hold of them. They knew their transformation was inevitable. Their screams filled the night, joining the howls of their soon-to-be brethren.

Greyback stood in the center of the village, his muzzle slick with blood, his breath ragged but satisfied. He wiped his claws against the tattered remains of Pyotr’s robes, a token gesture, before lifting his head to the sky. Around him, his pack howled in triumph, their voices merging into one terrible, victorious cry.

XXXXX

Greyback had a method, one he had perfected over the years. The massacre was only the beginning. Most of the villagers had been slaughtered, their torn bodies left as nothing more than a feast for his pack. But not all had met their end. The ones with strength, the ones who had fought until the last moment, were spared—for now. They were not survivors. Oh no. They were recruits.

Forcing newbies into the pack was never easy. They resisted, clinging to their humanity, cursing him for the horror he had brought upon them. They were angry, desperate, even willing to die rather than become like him. Greyback understood. He had seen it countless times before. It was all part of the process.

The hunt, the bloodshed, the screams—those were only the prologue. The real work came afterward, in the breaking, the reshaping. He did not want mindless followers, not at first. He wanted them to fight. He wanted to see the fire in their eyes as they swore they would never serve him, never become like him. That fire made the breaking all the sweeter.

Pain was his tool, but so was time. He did not rush. Starvation, exhaustion, isolation—these worked just as well as the lash. He stripped away their names, their memories, their pasts, until there was nothing left but the hunger and the rage. Then he gave them a choice: continue suffering or embrace the change. It was never a real choice. Eventually, they all broke. They all gave in.

And when they did, it was not just acceptance—it was devotion. By the time he was finished, they wanted nothing but to serve him, to hunt for him, to kill for him. The ones who had once resisted the hardest became the most loyal. They would throw themselves into battle without hesitation, tear apart their own former kin, and beg for his approval.

This was the part Greyback loved the most. The kill was simple, a moment of pleasure. But breaking someone, turning them into something new, something monstrous—that was true power. It was an art. And he was a master.

Greyback sat atop a mound of bodies, their broken forms stacked into a grotesque throne. His pack moved below him, going about their usual tasks—dragging away corpses, tending to the new recruits, preparing them for what was to come. They knew their roles. They would soften the captives, break them down just enough before he took over. His methods required patience, and his pack understood that well.

But for now, he watched, silent and still. His thoughts were elsewhere.

A few weeks had passed since the news had reached him. It had come only hours after a strange moment he still could not explain. That morning, he had woken up with something wet sliding down his face. A tear. His own.

It made no sense. At first, he had thought it was some lingering dream, something his mind had conjured up in the dead of night. But the feeling had remained, unsettling and foreign. Greyback did not cry. He did not grieve.

But shortly, the message arrived.

His brother was dead.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know who had done it. All he knew was where it had happened: Wizarding Britain. Specifically, at that school—the one ruled by the old fool, Dumbledore.

That was enough.

Greyback clenched his jaw, his claws digging into the flesh beneath him. The bodies shifted slightly under his weight, but he remained still, staring at nothing in particular. He was not one for mourning, but anger—anger, he understood. And right now, it burned deep, a slow, smoldering thing that would not die until he had his vengeance.

For now, his work here was unfinished. These lands would fall to him first. He would turn villages into breeding grounds for his kind, carve his mark into every stretch of land he touched. But once that was done, once his crusade here ended, he would go west. He would find out what had happened.

Whoever had taken his brother’s life would suffer. They would beg for death by the time he was finished with them.

To be continued…