Hogwarts' Golden Glory

Outside the window, the moon began to rise. It wasn't a full moon, but it was already quite round.

The air inside the safe house was filled with a strange smell of herbs and metal.

Kane sat cross-legged on the floor, with seven crystal cauldrons floating in mid-air in front of him. Each cauldron contained a silver-blue liquid, with star-like particles of light floating on its surface.

The light from the magic circle surged from the array of runes on the floor, winding around the cauldron like a living river, precisely controlling the temperature, stirring frequency, and rhythm of magic infusion.

Igor stood on the windowsill.

The phoenix was unusually quiet tonight, but its silver eyes remained open, gazing northwards—in the direction of the werewolf camp. Occasionally, its feathers would uncontrollably shimmer with a dark golden light, like ripples on water, spreading out and disappearing in circles.

When Moody pushed open the door, he brought with him a chill of the night. The hem of his cloak was covered in mud and fragments of some kind of silvery leaf—evening primrose, which is only effective when picked at a specific time on the eve of the full moon.

"That's enough." Old Auror tossed a sack of evening primroses onto the tattered table in the corner with a rude motion, but Kane noticed that he placed it in a spot that avoided any possible spillage. "But you won't like what I'm about to say."

Kane didn't look up, the tip of his wand precisely guiding a wisp of silver powder into the third cauldron. The powder hissed as it touched the potion, and the color of the potion in the cauldron changed from silvery-blue to a deeper indigo. "Speak."

“I observed for three hours on the ridge two miles west of the camp.” Moody removed his cloak, revealing worn leather armor and a belt full of small pouches. “Greybork went into that cabin—the black-robed man’s cabin—at sunset. He came out two hours later, and he didn’t look quite right.”

"What's wrong with it?"

"His gait has changed." Moody sat down on the barrel, pulled a flat flask from his pocket, but didn't drink from it, just held it in his hand. "Greybourne usually walks like a bear, swaying his shoulders, deliberately creating an intimidating presence. But tonight when he came out... he was very steady. Too steady. And his eyes—"

Moody paused, his fake eye spinning wildly, while his real eye stared at Kane: "—It's glowing. Not the murky yellow of werewolves, but a dark red, like congealed blood. I can see it clearly through my binoculars."

Kane's fingers paused for a moment. The liquid in the cauldron churned because of this tiny ripple, but Igor emitted a soft chime at the opportune moment, and a warm energy flowed through the magic circle, stabilizing the liquid.

"The characteristics of a vampire," Kane said calmly, but Moody sensed the gravity in his voice. "Voldemort is attempting bloodline grafting. He's forcibly merging the vampire's affinity for moonlight and control over blood into the werewolf's bloodline."

"Can it succeed?"

"Theoretically possible, but extremely risky." Kane finally raised his head, his gray eyes appearing unfathomable in the light of the magic circle. "Vampires and werewolves both belong to the 'Race Under the Moon,' sharing similar sources of magic. However, vampire blood is 'colder,' more inclined towards control and preservation; werewolf blood is 'hotter,' more inclined towards outburst and release. Forcibly fusing them would either create some kind of powerful hybrid, or..."

"Or explode," Moody chimed in, "like the previous experiments."

“But Graybury is an Alpha werewolf, and the strength and stability of his bloodline far surpass that of ordinary werewolves.” Kane stood up, walked to the window, and stood side by side with Igor. “If he succeeds, we will face a completely different enemy on the night of the full moon—one that not only possesses the strength and magic resistance of werewolves, but may also have the speed, regeneration, and… sanity of vampires.”

"Maintaining rationality is the most troublesome thing," Moody muttered. "Ordinary berserk werewolves only attack on instinct, but a sober werewolf leader with tactical thinking..."

"And he will be completely controlled by Voldemort," Kane added. "There's a characteristic of vampire blood—the blood of the First One has a natural suppressive effect on their offspring. If Voldemort uses some kind of vampire relic or ancient ritual to complete the graft, Greyback will never be able to resist him."

A brief silence fell over the safe house. Only the hum of the magic circle and the soft gurgling of the liquid medicine in the cauldron could be heard.

Igor suddenly spread his wings.

It wasn't fully unfolded, just half-open, then suddenly flapped open. There was no wind, but the air seemed to be stirred by some force. At that moment, the phoenix feathers shone brightly—not with their usual gentle, dark golden light, but with a dazzling brilliance like molten gold, illuminating the entire hut as bright as day.

In that light, Kane and Moody both "saw" it.

It's not with the eyes, but with some kind of more direct perception.

Deep in the werewolf camp in the north, at the cliffside cabin, a massive, restless magical core is being forcibly infused with another kind of cold, viscous, ancient dark magic. The two forces clash fiercely, tearing at each other, then slowly and painfully begin to merge. The process emanates intense pain, madness, and… a twisted yearning.

The scene lasted only three seconds.

As the light faded, Igor wearily lowered his head and gently nuzzled Kane's cheek. The phoenix conveyed not only a vision, but also a feeling—the excruciating pain of having one's bloodline forcibly altered, the fear of one's self being eroded, and the deepest struggle of resentment.

"Greybuck is resisting," Kane said softly, his fingers unconsciously tracing Iger's feathers. "He's not entirely acting voluntarily."

"But not decisive enough." Moody stood up, his prosthetic eye turning north. "If he really fought to the death, Voldemort might not be able to control him in his current state. But he hesitated—he wanted the power, yet he was afraid of the consequences."

"Human weaknesses." Kane walked back to the magic circle, tapped his wand lightly, and the seven cauldrons began to slowly converge, the liquids mixing in mid-air and merging into a larger silver-blue sphere of light. "Voldemort was most adept at using this."

Just then, Kane suddenly felt a sharp pain on the back of his left hand.

He looked down. There was a faint silver mark on the back of his hand—the receiver of the two-way connection he had left on Tobias. The mark was now slightly warm, transmitting intermittent fragments of information.

[...Success...warehouse...silver candlestick...two silver cups...almost...the patrol team...escaped...]

Then came Lupin's voice, clearer and more stable:

[Kane, this is Remus. Tobias is safe, and the supplies have been received. But things have changed: Greyback didn't patrol the camp tonight; his second-in-command, Broken Tooth, is leading a meeting and announcing a "great transformation" on the night of tomorrow's full moon. The atmosphere in the camp is tense, and many are talking amongst themselves. I suggest you act now—if you wait until the full moon is fully risen, Greyback may have already completed his transformation, at which point his prestige will be at its peak.]