Hogwarts' Golden Glory

"For thousands of years, we have been cursed."

Greyback continued, his voice carrying far through the silent camp, “Wizards fear us, Muggles hunt us, and even magical creatures shun us. We can only become beasts on the night of the full moon, lose our minds, hurt our loved ones, and then wake at dawn with blood on our hands and full of regret.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd.

This is the deepest pain in the heart of every werewolf.

“I tried to lead you in the fight.” Graybuck raised a hand, the fingers of which seemed longer than usual, the nails jet black, the tips gleaming coldly. “I tried to use violence to take away the respect we deserve. But what was the result? We are still hiding in the deep forests, still living in the shadows like rats.”

He lowered his hand and took something out of his pocket—a small crystal bottle, its body pitch black, the liquid inside flowing with an eerie dark red luster under the moonlight, like congealed blood or molten obsidian.

"But now, everything will change." Greyback held up the crystal bottle so everyone could see it. "I have met a true leader. A master who understands our pain and is willing to grant us true power."

The door to the wooden cabin opened silently.

A figure in black robes emerged from the shadows.

His steps were light, almost silent, yet each step felt like stepping on everyone's heartbeat. The hood of his black robe covered most of his face, revealing only his pale chin and a pair of eyes that gleamed crimson in the shadows.

He held a simple wooden staff in his hand, its shaft twisted, with a black gemstone set at the top.

Voldemort—or rather, the best form he could currently maintain—walked up to the platform and stood beside Greyback.

The air almost froze.

Even the most restless young werewolves held their breath. They could sense that the black-robed man exuded a darkness that was older, purer, and more despairing than Greyback's.

"My children," Voldemort spoke, his voice hoarse with a serpentine hiss at the end, but each word was terrifyingly clear, "Fenrir is right. You have been treated unfairly. The world owes you too much."

He raised his hand, the one not holding the staff, his pale fingers tracing lines in the air. With his movement, the moonlight seemed to distort, coalescing above the platform into flowing images: the werewolf being chased by wizards, imprisoned in the Ministry of Magic's dungeons, and the painful transformation during the full moon.

"But tonight," Voldemort continued, his crimson eyes sweeping across the crowd, "you will have a choice. No longer prey, but hunters. No longer monsters, but... a new race."

At the opportune moment, Graybury knelt on one knee, held the black crystal bottle in both hands, and raised it above his head: "Please grant me your blessing, Master."

Voldemort took the crystal bottle and used his fingernail to break the seal on the bottle's opening.

A strong, pungent aroma, a mixture of rust and ancient spices, filled the air. The scent made all the werewolves feel dizzy—not uncomfortable, but strangely alluring, like a wild beast starved for three days smelling blood.

"Drink this blood, and you will transcend the boundaries of the mortal realm." Voldemort brought the bottle to Greyback's lips. "You will possess the power of a werewolf, the immortality of a vampire, and... my grace."

Without hesitation, Graybury tilted his head back and drank it all.

His body trembled violently the moment the black liquid flowed into his throat.

It wasn't a painful tremor, but some deeper change.

His skin began to glow—not reflecting moonlight, but radiating a dark red light from within, as if magma were flowing beneath it. His muscles contracted and expanded, and his bones creaked with a teeth-grinding sound.

He began to transform.

But it wasn't the uncontrolled, painful transformation of a typical werewolf. The process looked... almost elegant.

The fur grows from under the skin and is not the gray or brown common to werewolves, but a dark red, like dried blood.

Its size is increasing, but not in a bloated way; rather, it's growing more lean and explosive. Fangs protrude from between its lips, longer and more curved than those of an ordinary werewolf, their tips gleaming coldly.

The fingernails turned into jet-black claws, leaving deep grooves on the wooden floor with a single, gentle scratch.

But the most striking change was in his eyes.

His pupils stabilized at a deep red, like two burning embers. His gaze was clear, sharp, and filled with cold rationality. He surveyed the audience, a smile even tugging at the corners of his mouth—not the baring of a beast's teeth, but a human smile, tinged with calculation and a desire for control.

Transformation complete.

Fenrir Greyback stood in the moonlight, nearly two and a half meters tall. His dark red fur gleamed with a metallic sheen in the moonlight, and his muscles were smooth and powerful.

His breathing was steady, his posture calm, and there was absolutely no sign of him losing control.

"How do you feel, Fenrir?" Voldemort asked, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

Greyback raised a hand, clenched it into a fist, then released it. Claws extended and retracted freely. "Powerful." His voice deepened, resonating with a metallic quality. "Sober. I...can control myself."

He turned to the audience, spreading his arms wide: "Do you see this, brothers? This is the power bestowed by our master! No more madness, no more regret! Only power, clarity, and the rightful rule we deserve!"

The crowd erupted in cheers.

The initial fear was replaced by a fervent hope. The young werewolf's eyes gleamed, while the older werewolf trembled as he pushed forward, trying to see more clearly. Tobias heard someone murmur beside him, "Merlin... he really has remained conscious..."

"That's not all." Voldemort raised his hand, and the crowd fell silent once more. "Tonight, all who pledge their allegiance to me will receive this gift. You will become the first members of a new race—the 'Children of the Blood Moon.' You will possess eternal life, immense power, and... the awe of the wizarding world."

He paused, his crimson eyes sweeping over every face: "But grace requires loyalty in exchange. Kneel, swear allegiance, drink my blood, and you will be reborn."

A brief silence.

Then, the first werewolf knelt down—it was "Broken Tooth," Greyback's second-in-command.

Then came the second, the third... like dominoes, a whole group of people knelt down in front of the platform.

But not everyone.

Tobias stood rooted to the spot, his legs feeling like lead. He could feel the weight of the silverware in the pouch at his waist, and he could recall the warm, soothing peace that the pills Kane had given him.

Greyback's power seemed tempting, but that cold, controlled feeling...

He looked at Lupin.