"You dare challenge us werewolves in our own forest with just a handful of you?"
"They're begging for death!"
A werewolf crouched in the treetops licked its fangs, scarlet eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
"Stay sharp—don't fall into a trap," the one beside it growled, sniffing the air.
The others scoffed. In the wild woods, werewolves reigned supreme over wizards. Their brute strength and fur's natural magic resistance made them untouchable.
"Not Knockturn Alley scum—these are acolytes!" the pack leader hissed, spotting the distant group. Their crisp robes and synchronized march screamed elite.
Unlike the ragged dark wizards scraping by in the alley, acolytes wielded real power, honed spells, and flawless teamwork—leagues beyond Diagon Alley's rabble.
Flames erupted from the forest's edge. The lead acolyte's gaze locked on their hiding spot, wand slashing forward to unleash a roaring inferno.
Werewolves weren't thinkers; raw beast instinct drowned out any human caution. Exceptions like Lupin were rare.
Provoked, the leader snarled, "Strutting like kings? You're dead meat!" He raked claws across a trunk, gouging deep furrows.
"Lighting up the woods before they even step in? That's no quick skirmish," an older wolf muttered gravely.
The leader smirked. "Easy—let's toy with them first. Fight on our turf? We'll rip 'em limb from limb."
Excitement rippled through the pack. "Boss is spot on! Jungle's our domain—even vampires wouldn't stand a chance!"
"My claws are twitching!"
"They dodged me last time. This round, I'll have 'em howling for their mamas!"
The leader's tactical plans? Forgotten in the frenzy. Instinct took over. They scattered into the canopy, lurking for the acolytes' approach.
...
"Watch your flanks—werewolves are closing in," Abernathy warned, wand at the ready as he led the squad. He scanned the shadows, voice steady to calm the ranks. "If scratched, no panic. Infection's rare without fluid contact."
This mission wasn't a simple purge. Crushing werewolves to defend acolyte honor? Argus could've mobilized hordes for an overwhelming sweep—minimal risk.
No, he handpicked Abernathy's crew for more. The invisibility cloaks—now in production after Lockhart's tech breakthrough—needed field testing. Plus, Abernathy's experience ensured no escapes, safeguarding their aces.
Soon, this edge would shock Dumbledore and Voldemort alike.
These were top-tier acolytes: cool under the forest's gloom, movements precise despite the chaos. Every step followed ironclad protocol.
Rustling exploded from the underbrush. Nearby, birds burst skyward in a frantic flock—spooked by something big.
"Defenses!" Abernathy barked, face hardening.
Wands snapped toward the takeoff point. "Revelio!"
Pale blue waves rippled out, shattering illusions. Ripples danced from the trees.
"Got 'em!"
Spells flew in unison: "Petrificus Totalus!" "Diffindo!" "Bombarda!"
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Explosions tore the air. Exposed werewolves bolted, but too late—one vaporized into bloody chunks. The other two shrugged off glancing hits, fur absorbing the worst.
"Andrew!"
"Rip 'em apart—avenge him!"
Rage over fear propelled them forward, blind to peril.
Avada Kedavra!
Twin green death beams lanced out, dropping them mid-leap. No mercy, no approach.
"Solid work—keep 'em at bay," Abernathy approved, signaling advance.
Then it hit him: too quiet. These three had stalled them forever—where were the rest? Fleeing packs should've rustled birds or snapped branches.
Unless...
"Ambush—now!"
Years fighting beside Grindelwald sharpened his instincts. Those wolves were decoys. The real horde loomed.
Over a dozen shadows plummeted from above, eyes blazing feral.
Fetid drool and musk choked the air, claws extended for the kill.
"Die!"
They banked on shock value—panic the acolytes, sow disorder, claim easy prey.
No such luck. The squad held firm. A few tensed, but fear? Absent. Not one backed off.
"Fools, rushing to your graves. Our hands are clean," one acolyte shot back.
The wolves howled in derision. "That it? Pathetic acolytes!"
Laughter died instantly. At point-blank, no time for incantations—yet shimmering Protego barriers flickered to life around every acolyte.
Claws glanced off harmlessly, hurling wolves back.
"Nonverbal Protego!"
"How—when?!"
The stunned wolf gaped. Silent casting? One or two, maybe. But all twenty-plus?
Were all acolytes this elite? Silent spells as standard?
Even Ministry Aurors reserved that for their best.
---
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