The Room of Requirement had transformed into something straight out of a nightmare—a vast, open field with enough space to see trouble coming from miles away. The sky above was dark, menacing, the kind of sky that made you question your life choices. The breeze was unsettling, carrying with it the scent of danger.
Susan, ever the practical one, stepped forward with a clipboard. Because of course, she had a clipboard. She was Susan, and Susan always had a clipboard when things were about to get real.
"Alright, listen up!" Susan called out, her voice sharp enough to cut through the tense air. "After that last little show of strength, it's clear we've got some work to do. Fenrir's pack isn't just about raw power. These wolves are smart. They're strategic. And let's just say their teeth are even sharper than yesterday's batch."
Logan, meanwhile, was already pacing like a caged animal. His claws slid out with an ominous snikt, snikt. "Enough talk. Let's get to the point," he grumbled, his voice low and dangerous. "We're gonna be facing something worse than what we just dealt with. I can smell it in the air."
Fred, as always, had his own way of coping with tension. "If it's another forest, I'm officially requesting a beach next time. At least there, sand doesn't bite."
George, not missing a beat, added, "The only thing worse than sand is a werewolf with sand in its fur. Trust me, I've tested both."
Harry, cracking his neck with a satisfied pop, smirked at the banter. His eyes flickered, glowing briefly with that molten gold—Phoenix power alive and well. "We're not here for jokes, guys. Focus. Today, it's about testing reflexes, stamina, and making sure none of us get bit more than once."
Steve, standing tall in the middle of the group, gave a stern nod. "Drills first. Then we'll get into tactical work. No one goes solo unless it's absolutely necessary. We're a team, and that's how we'll stay alive."
Hermione, already calculating everything in her mind, chimed in. "I'll organize the pairs. Ron, you're with me. We'll cover the right flank."
Ron shot her a sideways glance, looking dubious. "Are you sure about this? Last time I got caught by a mutant werewolf and ended up in a tree."
Hermione shot him one of those "Oh, please" looks. "Exactly why you're with me. I'll make sure you don't end up in another tree."
Susan clapped her hands, bringing the group's attention back to the task at hand. "First drill: speed and stealth. The wolves will randomly pop up. You need to stay undetected while closing in for the ambush. No one gets caught in the open. Got it?"
The chorus of "Got it" echoed across the field, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
"Good." Susan's lips quirked into a smile. "One last thing—this is a mental game as much as a physical one. The pack will use fear against us. They'll try to make us second-guess ourselves. But remember one thing…"
She paused, looking each of them in the eye.
"We are not prey."
Steve gave a sharp nod. "Let's show them why."
And then, without any more ceremony, the first wave of werewolves emerged. They popped up like shadows from the tall grass, faster and more coordinated than the last batch. These wolves were out for blood, and they were bringing their A-game.
"Go!" Susan barked.
Logan was gone before anyone could blink, disappearing into the terrain like the phantom predator he was. His claws were already out, flicking at the air like he was born for this. Cedric wasn't far behind, moving with the quiet grace of someone who knew how to blend with the environment.
Hermione and Ron—partners in crime—took their positions to the right. Ron was already muttering incantations under his breath, preparing to ward off any incoming threats. Hermione, as usual, was ahead of the game. Her wand flicked in rapid succession, erecting barriers before the wolves even had time to react.
Jean was hovering in the air, her eyes glowing an ominous shade of red as she surveyed the battlefield with a telekinetic fury. "On your left," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Without waiting for a response, she sent a telekinetic wave smashing into one of the wolves, sending it careening backward through the trees.
Clint and Natasha, always at the ready, took up positions on the far edge of the field. Clint loosed an arrow with practiced precision, taking out one of the Beta wolves with a clean shot to the chest. Natasha, never one to be outdone, followed suit with a crossbow bolt that landed perfectly in another werewolf's eye.
Katie, Alicia, and Angelina had taken to the skies on their brooms, firing off hexes and jinxes that knocked down wolves in rapid succession. The air around them buzzed with energy as their attacks combined to create an almost impenetrable barrier against the oncoming threat.
Fred, ever the comedic genius, kept it cool. "Well, this is where we see who can aim and who blows stuff up for fun."
"Or the ones who explode themselves," George added, throwing a magical explosive charm into the fray just to see what would happen.
"Hey!" Percy called out, his voice crackling with excitement. "Watch out! The wolves are getting smarter. They're coordinating. They're learning!"
Sure enough, the Alpha wolf—massive, scarred, and downright terrifying—stepped forward with a growl. It was making a beeline for Hermione and Ron, its eyes locked onto them like it knew exactly who was going to be the easiest target.
Ron, ever the valiant protector, raised his wand. "Protego!"
But the Alpha wasn't deterred. It growled again, a sound so primal it sent a shiver down the spine of anyone who was still human in this fight.
Hermione, quick as always, slashed her wand through the air, summoning a burst of fiery red glyphs that exploded in the Alpha's face. It howled in pain but didn't stop advancing.
"Come on, Ron!" Hermione yelled, her voice tinged with frustration. "We've got this!"
Logan, hearing the call for backup, launched himself into the fray. He collided with the Alpha mid-air, and it was all claws, teeth, and snarls. But Logan was fast, and he was a pro. He slashed the Alpha's flank with a vicious claw swipe, leaving a deep gash.
"Nice job, kid," Logan grinned, showing off his blood-streaked teeth as the Alpha staggered.
Harry, standing tall in the center of the field, let out a roar that sent a shockwave through the air. The team froze, turning toward him. His golden eyes burned with intensity, his wings unfurling as flames licked the air around him.
"We're done playing," Harry said, his voice a steel blade in a velvet sheath. "Fenrir's pack is going down. Now."
Jean, standing beside him, nodded. "Let's finish this."
And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. The remaining werewolves, sensing the power rising from Harry, hesitated. They weren't sure they wanted any part of the inferno they were about to face.
"Showtime," Harry grinned, fire dancing at his fingertips.
"Team!" Steve shouted, his voice unwavering. "Move out—NOW!"
With that, the werewolves, sensing the unrelenting fury of the team, launched themselves into the fray one last time.
This time, there would be no mercy. Only ashes.
—
The werewolves didn't stand a chance.
The moment Steve Rogers gave the signal—voice crisp, posture pure "America's Ass" military precision—the team surged forward like a pack of Avenger-powered, wand-wielding juggernauts. If this were a movie, the background music would've been a perfect mix of heavy metal and magical chanting.
Logan was the first to charge, a grizzled blur of muscle, claws, and sheer Canadian rage.
"Mutts," he growled, leaping through the grass like a feral missile. "Should've stayed neutered."
If he'd had a cigar in his mouth, it would've self-immolated from sheer testosterone.
"Three on your right!" Clint Barton yelled from a nearby tree, loosing arrows like Legolas on espresso. One arrow nailed a werewolf's shoulder. Another hit its knee.
"Like shooting furry fish in a barrel," he muttered.
Down below, Natasha Romanoff slid beneath a lunging Beta, legs scissoring in a textbook takedown. She flipped onto its back and zapped it with her Widow's Bite.
"Down, boy," she said, eyes already locking on the next one. "Next time, ask for a dance first."
Back-to-back, Ron and Hermione spun in their own brand of chaos. Hermione flicked her wand in a wide arc, conjuring a fiery shield shaped like a blooming lotus.
Ron blinked. "A giant flower? Really?"
"It's metaphorical!" Hermione shouted, spinning and blasting another wolf in the snout.
"Oh good. Let me know when you conjure up a metaphor that bites less!"
Meanwhile, Luna Lovegood was… well, being Luna. She strolled through the battlefield wearing a wolf pelt like a fashion statement and two pairs of Spectrespecs stacked on her nose.
She casually lobbed enchanted Pygmy Puff plushies into enemy ranks. They exploded in glitter and existential dread.
One werewolf froze, eyes wide. "What is the meaning of existence?" it whimpered, before fainting.
"Don't step on the radish rune," Luna advised dreamily, as a chalk-and-sugar rune flared under another wolf's paw. "It makes you think you're a zucchini."
Percy, hurling legal-sounding curses nearby, gawked. "Is she—?"
"She's Luna," Daphne Greengrass replied, not even looking up as she hexed a werewolf's limbs into wet spaghetti. "That is serious."
Above them, broomsticks zoomed in a chaotic but deadly synchronized aerial show. Alicia, Angelina, and Katie dove and twisted like Quidditch had been weaponized.
"Wing formation!" Angelina shouted. "And someone tell George to stop humming the Top Gun theme!"
"Too late!" Alicia yelled. "Fred's harmonizing!"
On the ground, Sirius vaulted over a boulder, transformed mid-air into Padfoot, and tackled a werewolf twice his size. They rolled through the mud like a violent washing machine.
Remus moved beside them like a ghost of elegance and fury, wand slashing in smooth, deadly lines.
"Left flank, Padfoot!"
Sirius growled a reply and headbutted the werewolf so hard it yelped. Back in human form, hair wild and grin wilder, he winked. "Thanks, Moony. You're prettier when you're mad."
"Focus," Remus murmured. "Flirt after the bloodbath."
Dumbledore stood at the field's edge, robes flapping, beard gently swaying like a wise wind chime in a hurricane.
"I do love when young people exceed expectations," he said serenely.
Natasha landed beside him. "Said every teacher right before someone blows up a classroom."
And in the eye of the storm—Harry and Jean.
They weren't fighting.
They were performing.
Harry's wings of fire spread wide, casting golden light and badass energy over the battlefield. Every movement he made looked like it should come with a slow-mo soundtrack and applause.
Jean hovered just above him, red hair blazing like it had its own spotlight. Her telekinetic aura shimmered red-hot around her.
She landed beside Harry, fingers brushing his with a crackle of heat.
"You always this dramatic?" she asked, eyes glittering.
Harry grinned. "Only on days ending in 'Y'."
A werewolf lunged.
Bad move.
Harry spun, wands in both hands. "Stupefy!" he shouted, blasting it into next week. His other wand ignited a firestorm that turned the next three wolves into smoky regrets.
Jean didn't even blink. She lifted a wolf mid-lunge with her mind, twisted it mid-air, and slammed it into the ground like it owed her money.
"Hey gorgeous!" Harry yelled. "Mind tossing me that big one?"
Jean quirked an eyebrow. "What'll it cost you?"
"Dinner, butterbeer, eternal devotion, maybe a foot rub."
"Deal."
She hurled the Alpha straight into Harry's waiting fist.
CRACK.
The thing exploded in golden fire mid-air.
Fred popped out of a bush. "Did he just—"
"—punch a werewolf into fire?" George finished.
"Merlin's pants," Fred breathed. "He's hot."
Jean smirked. "I know."
Steve jogged over, shirt torn, blood-splattered, but still somehow radiating Team Leader Hotness.
"Status?"
"Clear," Remus reported.
"Except…" Cedric tensed.
The grass parted.
Fenrir Greyback stepped forward. Towering. Snarling. Ugly enough to make trolls swipe left.
"I remember you, boy," Fenrir growled.
Harry rolled his shoulders, wings flaring. "That's funny. After tonight, no one will remember you."
Jean floated beside him, eyes burning.
"You've got this?"
"Wanna tag-team?"
She smiled. "Thought you'd never ask."
Fenrir charged.
They did too.
What followed was a symphony of fire, telekinesis, savage one-liners, and painful regrets—for Fenrir.
At one point, Harry yelled, "I've seen scarier fleas!" and uppercut the werewolf so hard it did a backflip. Jean threw Fenrir into a tree with her mind, and Harry immediately lit the whole tree on fire while it was still midair.
In the end, Fenrir lay unconscious, smoldering, and very possibly questioning his life choices.
Harry dusted his hands. "Well, that was cathartic."
Jean stepped close, brushing a stray ember off his cheek. "Still up for that dinner?"
Harry grinned. "Only if you're buying dessert."
—
The simulation room dimmed, flickering from smoldering battlefield to sterile white walls. The scent of charred fur and ozone vanished, replaced by that ever-present "new gear" smell—somewhere between ozone, leather polish, and just a hint of magic-induced adrenaline.
Harry cracked his knuckles. "That went well," he said casually, despite the scorch marks still smoking on his boots.
Remus stepped forward, looking like an exhausted professor who'd just survived a week-long parent-teacher conference. "Well enough," he said. "But now we need to make sure no one ends up as a chew toy."
Sirius, of course, was already perched on top of a weapons crate like a wolfish king on his throne. His hair was tied back, shirt slightly unbuttoned, and he looked like he'd just walked off the set of a vampire action movie.
"All right, children," he called. "Class is in session. Today's lesson: How Not to Die When a Furry With Rabies Tries to Bite Your Face Off."
Logan growled from the corner, lighting a cigar without looking up. "You describing werewolves, or my Tuesday bar fights?"
Sirius pointed dramatically. "Column A, meet Column B."
Remus sighed, muttering, "I'm surrounded by idiots," under his breath in perfect Gandalf voice.
With a flick of his wand, the crates burst open—because of course Sirius insisted on flair—revealing racks of glittering, rune-etched gear, each item screaming Don't worry, we've got this.
Steve stepped forward and picked up his newly upgraded shield. Vibranium at its core, but now with thin rivulets of silver glowing faintly under magical runes. He gave it an appreciative nod.
"This'll hold," he said, turning it in his hand.
"It'll do more than hold," Remus added. "Hit a werewolf with that and it'll bounce back twice as hard. Think magical pinball."
"Sweet," Steve said, testing the weight. "Cap out."
Logan approached a case labeled FOR THE ANGRY CANADIAN. Inside, a pair of gauntlet attachments—sleek, silver-reinforced, clearly made to go over his knuckles and claws.
He snorted. "I don't need upgrades."
Sirius gave him a look. "Right. And I don't need to breathe, but here we are."
Logan grunted but slid them on. "Huh. Not bad."
Natasha lifted a pair of throwing daggers, their hilts etched with Romanov symbols and wards that shimmered faintly under the lights.
"Elegant," she murmured.
Remus nodded. "Blessed by a very grumpy goblin priest. He charged extra for being woken up. Something about 'unholy hour' and 'fanged lunatics.'"
"Money well spent," Clint said, examining his own loadout—silver-tipped arrows, plus a collapsible shortbow made of dragon bone and ash wood.
"Lightweight, silent, deadly—like me," he said.
Sirius slung an arm around Remus. "We're calling this line LycanSlayer. Patent pending."
"There's even a jingle," Remus added drily.
"Don't get mauled, don't get bit—LycanSlayer's got that werewolf kit!" Fred and George shouted from the hallway, waving a banner that might've been one of Ginny's old Quidditch jerseys.
Clint blinked. "Did they just…"
"Always," said Harry, who had already levitated the next crate open and was examining a sword that shimmered with a phoenix feather in its hilt.
Jean walked over, raising an eyebrow. "Is that a magic sword or are you just happy to see me?"
Harry grinned. "Por qué no los dos?"
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "You're impossible."
"And yet somehow, wildly lovable," Harry replied, flipping the sword with a flourish that was equal parts Errol Flynn and pure Gryffindor show-off.
"Oh Merlin," Hermione muttered, watching from behind her book. "He's getting worse."
"Or better," Daphne countered, arms crossed, smirking.
"Depends on how you define 'better,'" Tracey said, sipping her butterbeer.
Natasha flipped one of her daggers expertly. "We just need a full moon and a suicidal death wish."
"Good," Logan growled. "I was getting bored anyway."
Steve turned to Sirius and Remus. "Do we know where we're headed?"
Sirius and Remus exchanged glances.
"As a matter of fact…" Sirius said, a grin forming.
"Greyback's pack will most likely drop by the western border," Remus said, tone suddenly sharp. "They're experimenting. Recruiting. And not for a school musical."
"Time to crash a furry convention," Harry muttered.
Natasha smirked. "You mean another one."
Fred and George popped their heads back in.
"Do we get to come?"
"No!" shouted everyone else at once.
"Worth a shot," George said.
"Shot worth," Fred added, winking.
Ginny facepalmed. "How do we share DNA?"
Neville leaned in toward Luna, who was currently trying to attach silver bells to a helmet shaped like a narwhal. "Uh, is that... battle-ready?"
"It jingles ominously," Luna said solemnly.
And no one could argue with that.
—
A soft pop echoed through the Room of Requirement. Not the loud kind that made you flinch—more like the sound of reality politely clearing its throat. All heads turned as Albus Dumbledore stepped into the room, his robes swirling like he'd just taken a detour through a wind tunnel full of glittering stardust and smug satisfaction.
"Ah," he said, surveying the organized chaos. "It's good to see you all. Fully armed, moderately overcaffeinated, and at least three of you arguing over whether that dagger is ceremonial or decorative."
Sirius grinned, lounging on a crate like it was a throne. "Welcome back, Gandalf the Gay."
Remus facepalmed. "Merlin's beard, Pads."
"I meant happy!" Sirius said innocently. "Colorful robes, twinkly eyes—he practically radiates serotonin."
"Speaking of radiant," Dumbledore said serenely, "I bring news. The Centaurs have agreed to fight alongside us."
Steve—because of course he was polishing his shield—looked up. "Wait, those Centaurs? With the bows, the manes, and the whole 'we're too good for humans' attitude?"
"Technically," Hermione said, pushing her curls out of her face as she glanced up from an open book titled Strategies for Diplomacy with Hostile Magical Beings, "they're half-human, half-equine celestial scholars who use astrology to interpret fate."
"Right," Clint muttered. "Horse horoscopes."
"They were reluctant, as expected," Dumbledore said. "But once I told them Fenrir Greyback and his merry band of bloodthirsty lycanthropes were planning a portkey drop-in inside their forest… well, let's just say Mars aligned with Murder."
Jean folded her arms, leather gloves creaking. "So they'll be lookouts?"
"They'll be much more than that," Dumbledore said with a smile. "They've pledged to fight. Not for us, but with us. There is a difference."
"Tell that to the werewolves," Natasha muttered. "Pretty sure they won't care who's in charge once the biting starts."
"I care," Harry said from the corner, stepping into view. His red and gold armor shimmered faintly, a Gryffindor phoenix emblazoned across the chestplate, a wand sheathed at his wrist, and a sword—Ignis—slung over his back like he had a date with destiny and didn't want to show up underdressed.
Jean's gaze tracked him like gravity had opinions. "Still planning to lead from the front, Potter?"
He smirked. "Wouldn't feel right sending someone else to the front lines when I've got a perfectly good death wish of my own."
She raised a brow. "That's not funny."
"I know," he said, eyes dancing. "But I make it look good."
She stared at him for a beat too long. "Merlin help me, I'm falling for an idiot."
"Join the club," Logan grunted, cracking his knuckles. "Kid's got more balls than brain cells."
"Coming from the guy who jumped off a skyscraper with no parachute because he thought it'd 'build character,'" Harry shot back. "What's your excuse? Lost a bet with physics?"
Fred popped up from behind a pile of enchanted nets. "Ooooh, burn!"
George mimed an explosion with his hands. "Somebody call St. Mungo's! That ego's got third-degree sass damage!"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled like he was watching his favorite sitcom. "Yes, quite. Now, if I may…"
Everyone turned back to him.
"The Centaurs report the werewolves will arrive in three days. They'll portkey into the Forbidden Forest—specifically, Shadowmere Glade."
"That's near Hagrid's old hut," Ginny said, frowning.
Remus nodded grimly. "Which is dangerously close to our outer wards."
"Then we intercept," Steve said, stepping forward. "We take the fight to them before they can regroup."
"Wait," Ron said, hand raised like he was still in class. "Are we sure the Centaurs won't, you know… shoot us by mistake?"
"They've been informed," Dumbledore replied. "They'll recognize our allies."
"Even Sirius?"
"Oi!" Sirius barked. "I am devastatingly handsome. That's different from dangerous."
Katie flipped a dagger, caught it, and gave him a look. "Debatable."
Angelina tightened the straps on her vambrace. "We've got three days to prepare."
"We don't need time," Alicia said, testing the balance on a pair of throwing axes. "We need strategy."
"And a playlist," Luna chimed in dreamily, walking in with a giant flower crown, a toad wearing chainmail, and what looked suspiciously like a bag of sugar bombs. "Music keeps the Nargles distracted."
Tracey blinked. "Was that a toad in armor?"
"Yes," Luna said seriously. "His name is Sir Croaksalot."
Harry nodded approvingly. "Knights of the Round Ribbit. I dig it."
"Of course you do," Jean muttered.
"Come on, Red," Harry said, stepping close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. "You love me."
"Like a fire loves gasoline," she said sweetly. "Explosively and with no survivors."
"That's the dream," he said with a wink.
Clint clapped his hands. "Alright, team! Can we all agree not to die?"
"Define 'die,'" Daphne said, casually sharpening her sword.
"Alright then!" Fred said. "Let's get ready to unleash some magical whoop-ass!"
"Language," Steve muttered.
Harry turned to face them all. "We don't have a prophecy backing us. We don't have fate guaranteeing we'll win. But we've got each other. We've got magic, muscle, brains, arrows, sarcasm, and—thanks to Fred and George—a frankly irresponsible amount of explosives."
George raised a hand. "We call them 'Surprise Party Crackers.'"
Hermione sighed. "They level small buildings."
"Exactly."
Susan stepped beside Harry, brushing her shoulder against his in solidarity. "So who leads the charge?"
Harry looked around the room at warriors, misfits, mutants, and magic.
"I do," he said. "Because I've got silver in my blood, fire in my veins, and a wand that thinks losing is a personal insult."
"And because you're an egomaniac with a martyr complex," Jean added, half-teasing, half-terrified.
"Guilty as charged," Harry said, and drew Ignis in one smooth motion. The blade sang.
Three days. Three days until the werewolves arrived.
And when they did, this room of requirement, of resolve, of ridiculous personalities and reckless courage—would meet them with steel, spellfire, sass, and a symphony of chaos.
Because they weren't just ready.
They were the storm.
—
Somewhere along the British coastline, miles from the nearest muggle tourist trap and several emotional miles from anything resembling dental hygiene, sat a cave that practically had a neon sign reading: Villains Welcome. BYOB: Bring Your Own Blood.
Inside, Fenrir Greyback was pacing like a werewolf auditioning for Magic Mike: Druid Edition. He was shirtless—because of course he was—and every step sent a fresh waft of sweat, testosterone, and pure predatory energy through the cave. If intimidation were a cologne, he'd be bathing in it.
"He said before twilight," Greyback growled. His voice wasn't made for lullabies—it was more the type that came with flashing warning signs and a complimentary rabies shot.
"He's always late," muttered Wren, twitchy as ever, gnawing on his knuckles like they owed him money. "Probably stopped to punch a street mime or kick a puppy or something. Real gentleman, that Yaxley."
Greyback didn't stop pacing. "If he's playing games—"
"He's not," said Skarn, the group's official biceps model and unofficial brain donor. "He's got our ride, right? Magic doodads. Portkeys and junk."
"You don't even know how portkeys work," Wren scoffed.
"I don't need to," Skarn said proudly. "I just smash whoever I land near."
Before anyone could argue the merits of magical transportation versus brute force, there was the familiar pop of Apparition, followed by the unmistakable scent of expensive cologne and ego.
Yaxley appeared at the mouth of the cave, dry as a politician's promise and twice as smug. His cloak swirled behind him, as if it had its own flair for the dramatic. The man looked like he'd walked straight out of an evil perfume ad. If Sinister by Yaxley ever hit stores, it would sell out in Knockturn Alley by noon.
"Evening," Yaxley said smoothly, eyes sweeping the cave like it personally offended him. "You all look exactly how I imagined. Like the Hogwarts detention list mated with a horror movie fan club."
Greyback stopped pacing. His eyes narrowed. "You're late."
Yaxley stepped forward, each footstep a masterclass in dramatic tension.
"I'm fashionably late," he corrected. "It's different. Look it up."
Greyback's muscles tensed like they were considering jumping ship. "I don't like being made to wait."
"Oh no," Yaxley said with mock concern, "has the big scary werewolf been inconvenienced? Should I knit you a sympathy cardigan?"
The growl that escaped Greyback's throat could've melted steel. A lesser man would've flinched, but Yaxley? He just kept walking, cool as a cursed cucumber.
"I've got your toys." He dropped a satchel onto a nearby rock with a thud. Out spilled three objects: one that looked like a goblet lid trying to escape its responsibilities, another that resembled a Frisbee made by a very angry goblin, and finally, something that looked suspiciously like a doorknob trying to grow a heartbeat.
"They're set to activate just after twilight," Yaxley explained. "Fifty meters into the Forbidden Forest. Window's tight. You miss it, and you'll be hiking. And let's be honest—you lot don't exactly scream low profile."
Greyback crouched next to the items, sniffing them like he expected one to bite back. "You're sure they'll work?"
"Nope," Yaxley said, beaming. "But they'll either take you to Hogwarts or somewhere equally scenic. Maybe Albania. I hear the dragons are lovely this time of year."
Greyback stood up slowly, every inch of him radiating barely restrained violence. "You think this is funny?"
"I think you think you're scary," Yaxley replied, stepping in close. "And you are—to most. But I'm not most. You grow fangs once a month. I am a fang, every day. Now, let's play nice before someone ends up as a footnote in Magical Mishaps Monthly."
Wren winced. Even Skarn looked nervous. Greyback, however, didn't blink. He leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched.
"You ever threaten me again," he said, voice low and lethal, "I'll chew your pretty little face off and use your wand for a toothpick."
Yaxley's smile turned razor-sharp. "I'll pencil that in. Right after tea with the Inferi and charming lessons with Umbridge."
Then he turned and walked away, because of course he did. Yaxley didn't exit rooms—he haunted them on the way out.
At the edge of the cave, he paused. It was in his contract: never leave without a final zinger.
"One last thing," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "If anyone starts biting early, or chews on a student not on the list, I'll make sure what's left of you ends up in Hagrid's compost pile. And I won't need a full moon."
Pop. Gone.
Silence fell.
Greyback cracked his knuckles like they owed him money. "I really want to bite that guy."
"Get in line," Wren muttered.
Skarn pointed at the doorknob-thing. "Which one's ours again?"
Wren sighed. "All of them, Skarn. We're splitting up, remember? So we don't all land in a pond or on top of Hagrid's pumpkins."
"Oh. Right." Skarn frowned. "I dibs the glowy one."
"Real specific," Wren groaned.
Greyback crouched near the portkeys again, this time more serious. His eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"Get ready, boys," he growled. "Twilight's coming."
Meanwhile, in the Forbidden Forest, several Centaurs paused mid-trot. Something in the air changed. The kind of change that usually came before thunderstorms, invasions... or really stupid decisions.
"Did you feel that?" one murmured.
Another nodded grimly.
"Humans," he said. "And not the annoying kind. The dangerous, covered-in-fur-and-bad-ideas kind."
They vanished into the trees like ghosts.
Because something wicked was about to portkey its way into Hogwarts.
And this time, the full moon wasn't waiting for an invitation.
---
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