Hogwarts' Golden Glory

"Do you know what you're doing, Kane?" he finally asked. "You're not just helping werewolves. You're building... a country within a country. A network hidden in the shadows of the wizarding world. If discovered, the Ministry of Magic will see you as a threat, Voldemort as an enemy, and even Dumbledore might..."

"I may disagree," Kane replied calmly. "I know. But Headmaster Dumbledore has his path, and I have mine. His path relies on morality and ideals, while mine relies on contracts and reality. The two paths may intersect at some point, but before that, I need to ensure I have enough strength to prevent either side from easily crushing me."

He paused, then added, "Moreover, if Voldemort really does make a comeback in the future, a clear-headed and controllable force of werewolves might be more useful than a hundred wizards who can only recite textbook spells."

Lupin had no rebuttal.

He had experienced the First Wizarding War and knew the devastation the werewolves had caused under the Dark Lord's control. If those werewolves weren't mad beasts, but rather sane warriors…

"Alright," he finally said, "I'll do it. But Kane... promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Don't forget why you started," Lupin looked him in the eye. "It was to help, not to control. It was to give a way out to those who have no other options, not to build your own power. If you start to confuse the two..."

He didn't finish speaking, but his meaning was clear.

Kane nodded: "I agree."

But what Lupin didn't know was that, deep down, Kane's boundaries between the two might not have been so clear-cut in the first place.

Help and control, survival and power, are sometimes two sides of the same coin.

The important question is, in the end, who will have the coin?

The last werewolf—a severely wounded old woman—was teleported to Misty Valley by Igor.

Kane stood in the center of the empty camp, with only Moody and Lupin around him.

"They've all been safely moved," Moody said, scanning the thoroughly cleared camp with his prosthetic eye. "I've cast Confusion and Oblivion Charms around here, so even if the Ministry of Magic investigates, they'll just assume a group of wandering wizards once lived here and have moved away."

Lupin, carrying a simple bag, said, "I should be going too. My first stop is East London, where there are a dozen or so werewolf brothers. I need to find them before the next full moon."

Kane handed him a specially made communication mirror—not a two-way mirror, but an alchemical artifact that could transmit text messages using Igor's magic. "Keep in touch. If you run into trouble, don't try to tough it out."

"I know." Lupin took the mirror, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Thank you, Kane. For them... and for me."

He turned and disappeared into the morning mist.

Moody stared in the direction Lupin had left, remained silent for a moment, then turned to Kane: "What are you planning to do for the rest of the summer?"

"Back to Malfoy Estate," Kane said. "There are some things I need to talk to my father about."

"A warning about Voldemort?"

"About many things," Kane said, gazing into the distance. "Voldemort said the game has only just begun. He was right. But this time, I won't be passive."

Ig flew back to his shoulder and chirped softly.

Moody patted him on the shoulder—a gesture that was a great show of affection for the old Auror: "You know how to reach out to me when you need help."

"I will," Kane nodded. "But before that, Mr. Moody, you might want to go back to Hogwarts. I heard from Headmaster Dumbledore that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship is still vacant next term."

Moody paused for a moment, then grinned, a smile that looked somewhat sinister on his scarred face: "What, kid, you're even starting to arrange professorships?"

"It's just a suggestion," Kane said. "After all, Hogwarts needs people who actually understand Defense Against the Dark Arts. And the students need to know that there are more spells in the world than just those in textbooks."

He paused, then added, "Besides, it would be easier for us to stay in touch if you were at school."

Moody burst into laughter, his voice carrying far across the vast wilderness. "Alright, alright! I'll think about it! Now, let's go, kid. Your summer vacation isn't over yet."

Kane took one last look at this land that had once been filled with pain and madness, but was now only empty and silent.

Then he raised his wand.

Igor spread his wings, and golden light enveloped him and Moody.

When the light faded, the wasteland was deserted.

Only the morning breeze is still blowing, as if it is telling a story, or as if it is forgetting something.

Meanwhile, thirty miles to the north in the Misty Valley, more than seventy werewolves are learning how to build a new home, how to control their powers, and how... to live like a "human".

This is a beginning.

A small, fragile beginning.

But sometimes, the first step to changing the world begins with such a small beginning.

Kane Malfoy knew that the road ahead was long.

But at least he took the first step.

Moreover, he had many companions.

It includes a phoenix, an old Auror, a werewolf professor, and more than seventy werewolves who want to become "human" again.

The atmosphere in the study of Malfoy Manor was as oppressive as a swamp before a storm.

Lucius Malfoy stood before the fireplace, his fingers unconsciously tracing the handle of his serpent-headed staff. The flames flickered, casting deep shadows on his pale face. He hadn't slept well for three days—since receiving the message from the black-feathered raven.

"Your eldest son is in Morag, with Mad-Eye Moody, trying to take over the werewolf tribe."

The words swirled in his mind like a curse. Kane had gone to Morag? With Mad-Eye? And tried to take the werewolf horde from the Dark Lord?

Foolish. Insane. Suicidal.

Worse still, the manor's protective array sounded an alarm this morning—someone was coming. Not through the main hall, not through the Floo Network, but directly into the woods outside the manor. Lucius recognized the magical energy emanating from it: dark, distorted, with distinct characteristics of Eastern European dark magic.

He was sent by the Dark Lord to "remind" him.

"Lucius, my dear friend."

A sound came from the shadows in the corner of the study, sticky like a snake crawling across rotting leaves.

Lucius didn't turn around. His fingers gripped the staff tightly, his knuckles white. "Nott. Did the master send you?"

Evan Nott—not the old Nott who worked at the Ministry of Magic, but his nephew, young Evan Nott—stepped out of the shadows. He was ten years younger than Lucius, but long years of indulgence and the erosion of dark magic had made him look older. His cheeks were sunken, and he had heavy dark circles under his eyes, but his eyes were unusually bright, gleaming with a morbid excitement.