Breakfast time, Great Hall.
Young witches and wizards yawned as they grabbed their food. Some were still half-asleep, others had already latched onto the morning's gossip and wouldn't stop talking to their friends. The whole Hall buzzed with youthful energy, making even the passing professors feel a little younger.
Three weeks into the new term, the late-summer-to-early-autumn rainy season had settled in. Every day brought the steady patter of rain. Classes had fallen into a steady rhythm, and the buzz about the Quadwizard Tournament had pulled most students back into focus, showing a different kind of drive.
Mad-Eye Moody's Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons were by far the most talked-about class—even more popular than Professor Levent's Muggle Studies. The Unforgivable Curses hung over everything like bright red apples on a dark tree: terrifying, yet strangely tempting and thrilling.
"Morning, Professor."
"Morning… I mean, stop looking so lazy and half-asleep! Constant vigilance!"
"Professor, can I turn my homework in two days late?"
"Can you eat two days late?"
"…I suppose that's fair."
"Then your essay gets two extra feet. I'll be checking it personally."
"Nooo, Professor!"
Out in the corridor leading from the marble staircase to the Great Hall, the unlucky student's wail was drowned out by his friends' laughter. The noisy chatter woke up the damp, musty old castle. Mad-Eye Moody, his electric-blue eye spinning, limped toward the staff table with his wooden leg and staff thumping dully on the stone.
Peter could have skipped breakfast entirely—Moody's paranoia about other people's food gave him the perfect excuse—but every morning he still felt uneasy unless he checked in with Professor Levent.
Besides, there was something oddly satisfying about the way the students greeted him with nervous "Good morning, Professor!" even if they were only being polite.
Melvin had morning classes. He'd been woken early by the cool, smooth scales of the young Horned Serpent and had already finished breakfast. As usual, he was flipping through the morning Daily Prophet.
Thump… thump…
Hearing the heavy wooden leg and staff on the floor, Melvin didn't look up. He just tapped the newspaper on the table.
"Since Moody joined the strike team, the werewolf raids have sped up. His results made the front page. Did he say anything to you this morning?"
Because of the Polyjuice Potion's quirks, the real Moody had to stay in regular contact with Peter. McGonagall had removed the anti-Floo charm on the Defense office fireplace so they could pass fresh hair back and forth on schedule.
Peter sat down awkwardly beside him, playing the part of the limping old Auror. He set his staff aside and started scanning the newspaper. The front page featured a wanted poster for a werewolf.
"Werewolf Gang Not Fully Dismantled – Fenrir Greyback Still at Large"
"At 3 a.m. yesterday, a special task force of Aurors and Hit Wizards raided a roaming werewolf pack near the border. The operation, planned by Rufus Scrimgeour of the Auror Office, was launched on the second night after the full moon. Most of the werewolves were in their weakened post-transformation state. No Aurors were injured."
"The pack leader, Fenrir Greyback, is suspected of not suffering the usual post-moon weakness. Upon learning of the raid, he abandoned his followers and fled. Using his heightened senses and animal instincts, he slipped through the cordon. The Ministry has now issued a public wanted notice and is offering rewards for information…"
"Before the raid, the Auror Office had already thoroughly investigated the gang members and gathered solid evidence. Minister Bones stated that no blood-stained werewolf will be spared, but no innocent sufferer forced into desperate circumstances will be wrongly accused either."
"In the coming months, the Ministry will roll out proper support programs. The Mirror Club and St Mungo's are partnering to provide work opportunities and subsidized Wolfsbane Potion for impoverished werewolf patients. Lucius Malfoy has generously contributed funds."
"Reported by our senior correspondent, Rita Skeeter."
Peter read the article quickly, then closed the paper, a complicated feeling in his chest.
The Ministry wasn't the useless bureaucracy it used to be. Fenrir Greyback had been a notorious criminal even before the last war. When Voldemort fell, Greyback had kept operating freely for decades, his pack causing constant headaches.
Yet less than two years after Amelia Bones took office, the troublesome gang had been rounded up.
Even better, the Ministry had attacked the root problem. From now on, even the poorest werewolf patients would have support and wouldn't be driven into Greyback's arms out of desperation.
All of these changes traced back to the Mirror Club… and to the young professor sitting beside him.
"Moody didn't come to Hogwarts this morning. He only stuck half his body into the fireplace flames. Looked pretty pleased with himself."
Peter touched the hip flask at his belt. It contained a fresh batch of Polyjuice—tasted only slightly better than Fizzing Whizzbees.
"The operation plan was made by Lu—Lupin," he corrected himself quickly. "While he was undercover, he used Wolfsbane to turn some werewolves. He gathered all the evidence on the gang members. Once everything was ready, they closed the net. Moody stayed in the background, directing the fight."
Talking about it stirred up a mix of unease and confusion in Peter.
From what he could see, the old master had no real chance of winning. The best outcome was another defeat, leaving behind nothing but a wandering spirit hiding in some remote forest.
Albania was probably off the table. Next time he'd have to flee to the Amazon or the African jungle.
Desperate werewolves could now get proper help, but those who had actually committed crimes would face strict trials. Peter had betrayed his friends, murdered Muggles, framed others, and broken out of Azkaban…
When everything finally ended, even if he earned a little credit, the best he could hope for was a life sentence in Azkaban.
Melvin could sense Peter's turbulent thoughts, but he said nothing. He had always believed in fair exchange, but not everything could be turned into a business deal.
Peter's future was something only he could decide.
"Professor Moody!"
A fourth-year Hufflepuff boy approached. It was Ernie Macmillan. "Justin told me that if you skip a day of meals, you can turn homework in a day late. Is that true?"
The fake Moody looked up. His blue eye stayed still while the real one gleamed with hidden emotion. "How many days do you want?"
"Three… no, two. I didn't bring that many snacks."
"Your essay just got three extra feet."
"Oh no!"
---
Little Hangleton, the Hanging Man pub.
The village itself was a remote, forgotten place far from any city. As the old folks died off and the young people moved away, it had grown quieter and lonelier. For more than a decade there had been almost no news—people still drank to the old Riddle family murder case.
The barman hadn't updated his stale murder stories in decades, but lately a few fresh lines had crept in.
"You haven't heard? The Riddle family ghosts are back. Someone dragged them straight out of the afterlife. That's why old Frank the gardener left—he spotted the signs."
In the Hanging Man, the barman leaned toward the pale middle-aged stranger. Even though the man's face was new, something about him felt strangely familiar, making the barman want to open up.
"Little Hangleton hasn't seen any new faces in years. Last summer a young fellow stopped by, asked about the old Riddle house and Frank. He left for a bit… went off to summon ghosts, I reckon."
"Why do you say that?" "Little Barty" asked with a gentle smile.
The barman wasn't a trained operative or soldier. His Muggle mind had no defenses. One look into those eyes and he spilled everything, even with Melvin's Memory Charm partially in place. Dumbledore could still read the memories easily.
A year earlier, a young man had stayed briefly in Little Hangleton, drunk two pints, and talked the old gardener into leaving.
Dumbledore knew Melvin had been after the Resurrection Stone ring in the Gaunt shack at the time. He was curious about the details, but the barman didn't know much.
"Starting about a month ago, people keep seeing lights on at the old Riddle house. A few tried to check if squatters had moved in, but nothing ever came of it."
The barman glanced around, then lowered his voice mysteriously. "I went over a couple times myself. That place is proper eerie, you know? Every time I tried to walk up and knock, I'd suddenly remember something urgent and hurry back."
Dumbledore took a sip of his drink and smiled. Of course he knew why. He was the one maintaining the Muggle-repelling charms.
After the start of term, both Umbridge and Wormtail had been sent out on undercover missions—one at the Ministry, one at Hogwarts. Voldemort was naturally paranoid and never stayed in one place long. He moved constantly between the Riddle house and the Crouch manor.
The real Little Barty had confirmed this was normal. Even at the height of his power, Voldemort had rarely trusted his Death Eaters with his location. He preferred to operate alone. The night in Godric's Hollow had been the same.
Dumbledore had used his own outside movements to revisit places important to Voldemort and look for more Horcrux clues.
"Why would anyone want to go look at that place?"
"Curiosity, I suppose. I'd like to know how the murder really ended." The barman raised an eyebrow. "If I ran into the Riddle ghosts, maybe I could ask who the killer was. The three of them were actually quite friendly, from what I hear."
"If it's that spooky, better stay well away."
Dumbledore set his empty glass on the bar with a soft clink. The sound made the barman's eyes glaze over for a moment. When he snapped back, he looked vaguely lost, as if a piece of memory had slipped away but he couldn't remember what it was.
Autumn evenings grew dark early. Fog had already begun to rise. A middle-aged wizard's figure flickered through the misty haze and silently approached the old Riddle house.
The house-elf was busy in the kitchen. Winky had become Voldemort's personal nanny, mixing Nagini's venom with unicorn blood to prepare the special formula for the snake-faced infant.
Voldemort sat by the fireplace. This temporary body was still weak; he spent most of each day sleeping. When awake, he read the Daily Prophet and reviewed reports from his two undercover agents while "Little Barty" updated him on the resurrection ritual preparations.
Click…
"Little Barty" pushed open the door and stepped behind the pram. "It's different here than in Albania. The Ministry keeps tight control. Unicorn blood is rare and hard to buy even in Knockturn Alley… Some of the rarer ingredients for the ritual aren't available in Britain. We'll have to smuggle them in."
"If we don't have enough, use more of Nagini's venom. The unicorn blood isn't critical. The curses in it are troublesome anyway. This body has stabilized enough to last until our plan is complete."
The cold, rasping voice filled the room. Even without wind, the fireplace flames flickered.
"We can take our time gathering the ritual ingredients. We have plenty of time to perfect every detail."
"…"
"Little Barty" nodded silently, playing the part of the socially stunted wizard who had been locked away for thirteen years.
"Umbridge sent word. Her blood is tainted with too much Muggle filth. She's stupid and useless. She still hasn't managed to get inside the Department of Mysteries."
Voldemort spoke again, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Wormtail, on the other hand, is doing well. He has successfully integrated into Hogwarts and gotten close to Potter without raising any suspicion."
"…"
"My most loyal Little Barty, there is a more urgent task for you now." Voldemort had spoken too much in a short time. The temperature in the room dropped noticeably and the fireplace flames dimmed.
"I live to serve."
"The papers say Fenrir Greyback is on the run. Bring him back—before the Aurors catch him."
"Greyback?"
"I know those beasts are low-blooded, but we're short on manpower right now. Greyback's claws, fangs, and contagious curse are perfect for spreading fear."
Voldemort hissed softly. Greyback had once been a useful animal, loyal in his own way, hoping only for a Dark Mark and a place among the Death Eaters.
But even after Voldemort's fall, Greyback had remained nothing more than a beast. Most Death Eaters had considered him unworthy of the Dark Lord's mark.
"He once told me about several hidden werewolf dens. Follow those leads, Little Barty. Bring him back."
---
Night had fallen over Newcastle.
Inside a shipping container at the docks, a beast-like wizard tore into frozen meat—whether beef, mutton, or something else hardly mattered. Blood dripped everywhere. Even the frozen knee bone crunched like candy between his sharp teeth.
Fenrir was a massive wizard with matted gray hair and a thick beard. His teeth were pointed, his mouth covered in sores, and his dirty fingernails had been filed into sharp claws. He looked every inch the wild animal.
Age hadn't made him frail. Unlike the wizards who feared and rejected the werewolf curse, Fenrir saw it as a gift and had embraced it completely.
Wizard emotions could affect the soul. Just like an Obscurial mutation, at some point Fenrir's own magic had begun to change, altering his body as well. Even in human form he had fangs and claws, and transforming on the full moon caused him almost no pain.
For decades he had experimented with biting and killing in human shape. Those beastly claws and teeth had become deadlier weapons than any wand.
He ripped off another large chunk of frozen meat, the crunching sound enough to make anyone's skin crawl. Fenrir's eyes burned red with rage as he chewed, as if devouring his enemies' flesh.
"Damn Aurors… damn Ministry… When the next full moon comes, I'll turn your children into werewolves!"
Just then another cargo ship docked. Cranes moved containers into the warehouse. Once the workers locked the doors, a soft cough came from inside one of the containers.
"Cough… cough… Bruno, are we there yet?"
---