Hogwarts' Golden Glory

Deep within the Morag camp, a wooden cabin clings to the cliff.

This house was quite different from the other werewolves' simple dwellings. Although it looked just as rough, you could feel its coldness as you got closer.

A bone-chilling cold, inhuman. The land around the cabin was barren, devoid of even moss, only covered in grayish-white gravel and cracked earth.

There were no windows inside. The only light came from a few floating green flames on the walls, burning silently and casting distorted, flickering shadows.

In the center of the room, a tall figure stood with his back to the door.

He wore a simple black robe, without any patterns or markings, but simply standing there exuded a suffocating sense of oppression. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, revealing the bluish-purple veins beneath. His fingers were long and slender, with sickly grayish-white nails.

Voldemort—or rather, the form he could currently maintain—slowly turned around.

The face was much clearer than it had been a year ago on the back of Quirrell's head.

The nose has a defined shape, though it is still flat; the eyes are no longer just two thin slits, but have eye sockets and eyelids, though the pupils are still scarlet vertical pupils, like a snake.

But his body remained translucent, with blurred edges, as if it might dissipate at any moment. This was the price he paid for forcibly leaving Quirrell's host and then using dark magic to maintain his existence without a suitable new body.

"Fenrir," Voldemort said, his voice hoarse and low, each syllable trailing off with a cold, hissing tone.

In the shadows of the corner of the cabin, a huge figure moved.

Fenrir Greyback—leader of the werewolf tribe, one of the most ferocious werewolves in the magical world—emerged from the darkness. He stood nearly two meters tall, his muscles bulging, his face covered in old and new scars, the most striking being a claw mark that ran from his left forehead to his right jaw, nearly disfiguring half his face. His eyes were a murky yellow, forever teetering on the edge of the frenzy he displayed before transforming.

But at this moment, besides the usual ferocity, there was also a hint of... fear in those eyes.

"Master." Graybury bowed his head, his voice rough and hoarse like the grinding of gravel. This action was very unnatural for an Alpha werewolf like him who was used to holding his head high, but he did it without hesitation.

"The results of the fifth batch of test subjects," Voldemort said, not inquiring, but commanding.

Greyback's Adam's apple bobbed. "Three dead, one seriously injured, and one... temporarily stable, but mentally unstable, has been dealt with."

"Dispose of them." Voldemort repeated the words, his crimson eyes fixed on Greyback. "I gave you five precious potions, Fenrir. Each one required the blood of a unicorn, the cursed moonlight, and the essence of the souls of at least three Muggle infants. And all you gave me in return was 'dispose of them'?"

The temperature in the room plummeted. The green flames flickered wildly, and frost formed on the walls.

Greyback knelt on one knee—a movement that made his muscles protest, but he forced himself to do it. "Master, the drug is too strong. The werewolf bloodline can't withstand that level of forced reshaping; it will collapse from the inside out. The one who survived—he escaped, and my men are hunting him down."

"He escaped." Voldemort walked toward Greyback, his black robes trailing silently across the ground. "A half-dead experimental subject escaped right under your nose and the noses of your eighty werewolves."

"He knows the terrain well, and..." Graybury gritted his teeth, "and the full moon is coming soon, the brothers are getting restless, and patrols are being neglected."

Voldemort stopped in front of him. A pale hand rose, not touching Greyback, but hovering above his head. Greyback could feel the chill emanating from that hand—not a physical cold, but something more primal, like death itself drawing near.

"An oversight," Voldemort said softly. "Fenrir, do you know why I chose you?"

"...Because I am the strongest," Graybury said, but his voice lacked its usual confidence.

"No." Voldemort's hand fell, gently pressing on Greyback's head. The werewolf leader stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. "It's because you're cruel enough, practical enough, and... desperate enough. You crave recognition, you crave that werewolves are no longer monsters to be slain, but a terrifying force. I've given you that vision."

His fingers tightened. Graybury felt a stinging pain on his scalp, like countless ice needles piercing it.

"But now, I'm beginning to doubt your worth." Voldemort's voice was softer, but every word was like a knife. "Just yesterday, I sensed two powerful magical forces entering this area. One was very familiar—Alastor Moody, that annoying Auror. The other…" He paused, a complex emotion flashing in his crimson eyes, "young, but extremely refined. Like a newly sharpened dagger, still immature, but already capable of drawing blood."

Greyback's heart pounded: "Who is it?"

"Kane Malfoy," Voldemort said, his tone carrying a strange, almost admiring coldness. "Lucius's eldest son. A year ago he exposed my plan to possess Quirrell, and a year later he dealt with the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. Now, he's here."

"A child?" Graybury blurted out, then realized his mistake. "I mean... why did he come?"

"Because he's clever, Fenrir. Much cleverer than you." Voldemort withdrew his hand and turned to walk towards a stone altar in the center of the room. The altar was covered with blood-red runes, and in the center was a crystal bowl filled with a dark red liquid—the blood of the werewolf from the failed experiment.

"Dumbledore united people with love and ideals, I with fear and power." Voldemort stared at the blood bowl, his face distorted in the reflection. "And Kane Malfoy... he used deals and possibilities. He knew what people truly needed, and then offered a price. If he came here, there would only be one purpose—"

"Incorporate the werewolf tribe!" Greyback hissed, fear in his eyes replaced by rage. "He dares!"

“Of course he dares.” Voldemort dipped his finger in blood and drew a complex symbol on the altar. “Because he has leverage. I’ve heard he’s been working on improving the wolfsbane potion and has made a breakthrough. Think about it, Fenrir—if he showed up in your tribe with a potion that could keep werewolves sane during a full moon, how many do you think would remain loyal to you?”

Graybury clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until they bled. He knew the answer—not many. Most people followed him out of fear, because they had no other choice. If there were another way…