Hogwarts' Golden Glory

This is a forbidden technique in black magic: "bloodline anchoring".

Adding the alchemist's own blood to a potion creates a natural affinity between the potion and the alchemist, causing the user to subconsciously develop a sense of trust in the alchemist.

The price is that if the potion fails, the backlash will directly affect the soul of the alchemist.

But Kane needed this insurance. Facing Greyback, who might have been controlled by Voldemort, he needed every possible advantage.

The tremor lasted for ten seconds, then subsided. The sphere of light stabilized, its colors breathtakingly beautiful—like moonlight and starlight condensed into liquid.

Kane waved his wand, and the potion split into thirty streams, precisely injecting into thirty crystal test tubes. Each test tube was immediately sealed with a cork, the cork engraved with a small rune that read "Stable".

finished.

Kane let out a long breath, nearly exhausted. Eight hours of high-precision alchemy, even with Igor's assistance, had depleted most of his magic power.

He sat down against the wall, trying to recover as quickly as possible.

Igor landed on his knees and nuzzled his hand with his head, offering a warm comfort.

Outside the window, the moon had already risen. It wasn't a complete disc, still partially obscured by clouds, but the moonlight was bright enough to turn the wasteland into a silvery-gray expanse.

Kane counted the changes in light and darkness.

First time: Clouds drifted by, the moonlight dimmed, then brightened again.

Second time: Thicker clouds, darkness lasted for five seconds.

He gripped his wand tightly. The test tube had been stored in the specially made belt compartment, and Igor flew back onto his shoulder.

Moody hasn't returned yet. But Kane believes old Auror will show up on time.

the third time……

coming.

A crack appeared in the clouds in the east, and moonlight poured down, brighter and purer than the previous two times.

But just as the light reached its peak, a large patch of dark clouds drifted in from the west, like a giant hand covering the moon.

Alternating light and darkness.

Ig spread its wings and let out a clear, melodious cry—it was a signal!

Kane rushed out of the safe house.

Almost simultaneously, Moody emerged from the trees to join him. Old Auror had a fresh bloodstain on his face, but his eyes remained sharp as ever.

"There's a gap in the eastern fence; I've already taken down the guards," Moody said rapidly. "Lupin is waiting for us over there. But be careful—someone's starting to gather in the center of the camp, and I can sense Greyback's magic... something's wrong."

The two walked swiftly, one after the other, at the boundary between moonlight and shadow. Igor flew ahead, like a dark golden arrow, guiding the safest path.

The werewolf camp was just ahead. The outline of the wooden fence was clearly visible in the moonlight, and in the open space in the center of the camp, hundreds of figures were gathered in a dark mass.

On the high platform directly in front of the open space, an exceptionally large figure stood.

Even from a hundred meters away, Kane could sense that it was no longer just the werewolf Fenrir Greyback.

It was something new, dangerous, and reshaped by darkness.

In the open space in the center of the werewolf camp, anxiety spread like a plague.

More than eighty adult werewolves gathered here, most of them shirtless, their muscles twitching involuntarily, and their breathing heavy.

The full moon's gravity pulled at the curse deep within their bloodlines, and that familiar, love-hate impulse was building up—a desire to transform, a desire to tear apart, a desire to unleash their most primal bestiality under the moonlight.

But tonight is different.

There was something extra unsettling in the air. A chilling magical energy emanating from the cliffside cabin deep within the camp coiled around everyone like invisible tentacles. The younger werewolves glanced around nervously, while the older ones bowed their heads in silence, unconsciously scratching the ground with their claws.

Tobias squeezed into the crowd, trying his best to remain inconspicuous.

The wound on his shoulder had mostly healed—the white senna essence Lupin had given him had worked very well. But what was making his heart race at this moment was not the injury, but what was hidden in the bag behind his waist: two heavy silver candlesticks, and the news he had overheard—Greyborough was about to "evolve".

"Quiet!"

A low growl came from the high platform in front of the clearing. The speaker was "Broken Tooth," Graybury's second-in-command, an old werewolf with a hideous laceration on his right cheek and missing three teeth.

He stood at the edge of the platform, his cloudy yellow eyes sweeping across the crowd: "The leader will arrive shortly. Tonight, we will witness the true rise of the werewolf race!"

The crowd responded with sporadic, uncertain howls.

Some were excited, some were afraid, and most were just instinctively echoing the sentiment.

Tobias looked toward the side of the platform. Lupin—"Greymane"—stood there, the three scars on his face standing out in the moonlight.

His expression was calm, but Tobias noticed that Lupin's right hand was always resting on the short knife at his waist, his knuckles white from the force.

Just then, the air suddenly turned cold.

It wasn't the natural coolness of the night, but a bone-chilling cold, carrying the scent of death. The torches around the clearing suddenly lowered their flames, turning an eerie bluish-green. Everyone's breath condensed into white mist in the air.

A figure slowly walked towards the cliffside cabin.

Fenrir Graybock.

But he looks... different.

He seemed taller and broader than I remembered, but that imposing size was no longer just a collection of muscles; it was something more refined and dangerous.

His skin had an unnatural pale hue under the moonlight, not the rough skin of a werewolf, but a marble-like, almost transparent texture.

What was most unsettling were his eyes—his pupils shifting between yellow and dark red, like two unpredictable signal lights.

He didn't run, nor did he display his strength with exaggerated strides as usual. Instead, he walked towards the platform with a steady, composed, and almost elegant gait. Each step was precisely in time with the beat, and the wooden steps made no sound under his feet.

The werewolf pack automatically parted to make way. There was no command, just pure instinct—the oppressive aura of the Alpha werewolf, but this time mixed with something else, a higher-level, awe-inspiring pressure that made one want to kneel in worship.

Greyback climbed onto the platform and turned to face his people.

The moonlight shone from behind him, outlining a silver edge around him, but he himself was like a black hole that absorbed light, radiating a cold darkness.

"Brothers," he began, his voice lower than usual, carrying a strange echo, as if two voices were overlapping. "Sisters. Children."

His gaze swept across the crowd. Tobias felt a chill when that gaze swept over him—it wasn't Graybuck's usual fierce, possessive look, but an appraising, cold, object-like gaze.