"My king, I have a message for you."
Fenrir Greyback glanced down at the subordinate half-kneeling before him. A wolfish grin curled across his hairy face. He lifted a clawed hand and growled, "Stand and speak, Silverfang."
The young man called Silverfang looked barely twenty, his hair thick and wild, but his features still leaned more human than wolf — unlike Fenrir, who lounged on a rough stone throne, every inch a man-shaped beast.
Silverfang rose, bowing his head gratefully. As he smiled, the sharp glint of a silver upper fang flashed on the right side of his mouth — the mark that had earned him his name.
"My king, you commanded me to track any news about Wolfsbane Potion. Today I found something worth your attention — so I came to you at once."
At the mention of Wolfsbane Potion, Fenrir's grin faded, replaced by a hungry focus. He leaned forward, yellow eyes narrowing. "Speak. What have you learned?"
Silverfang's smile widened. "Last week, The Golden Crucible — the most respected alchemy journal — published a paper on Wolfsbane. The author modified the classic Wolfsbane Potion formula. He replaced the three rarest, most expensive ingredients with cheap, common potions. Together, they work just like the originals — but the overall cost drops by thirty percent!"
"Thirty percent…"Fenrir's claws scraped the arm of his throne. His eyes gleamed with savage delight.
"It's not just the cost," he growled, pacing down from the stone seat. "Those rare ingredients are nearly impossible to find on the black market. That's what makes Wolfsbane so scarce for us. If those can be swapped out — and with simpler ingredients — we can stockpile Wolfsbane at will!"
His voice deepened, half growl, half laugh. "And those rare parts are hell to handle. Even good potion masters slip up. They have to buy double or triple the materials just to brew a single batch. But if it's easier…"
Silverfang nodded quickly. "My king, there's more. They say this paper is only stage one. The author's working on second and third stages. If he finishes all three, the cost drops even more — and brewing Wolfsbane will be so simple even an apprentice can do it."
For a heartbeat, the den fell silent — then Fenrir let out a low, eager snarl. He rose fully to his feet, towering over Silverfang. "I want him. Bring him here. I will mark him myself. With him at our side, Wolfsbane will flow freely. On the full moon, we'll run as true kings of the night!"
Silverfang stiffened, unease flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth — but hesitation caught him. Fenrir caught it too.
"You hesitate?"His voice was soft — dangerously so. "Speak."
Silverfang dropped back to one knee at once. "My king, the author is… difficult to reach. He's just a student at Hogwarts. A third-year. A Slytherin. His name is Sean Bulstrode — of the Bulstrode family."
At that, Fenrir's grin slipped — just a fraction. Hogwarts. The Bulstrode name. Pure-blood ties always brought complications.
Yet a heartbeat later, the beast's lips curled again, teeth bared in a crooked smile. "Bulstrode blood means nothing. Plenty of pure-bloods bear my mark already — they just don't brag about it." He gave a low, guttural laugh. "Hogwarts, though — Hogwarts is the real thorn."
He began to pace, claws tapping stone. For years, Fenrir Greyback had dreamed of a kingdom of werewolves — an empire beneath the full moon. To build it, he needed the young — infants and children turned early, taught to see the wolf as truth, to crave the hunt as family. But Hogwarts… Hogwarts was the fortress that kept such prey from his fangs.
And bright minds like Sean Bulstrode's were rarer still — the very minds he needed. But they were always the hardest to claim.
If Sean could hear him now, he would no doubt spit venom at Fenrir's plan — sneering at the childish dream of an empire of monsters.
Fenrir Greyback's lips peeled back further, a low growl in his throat.
"Bring him to me, Silverfang," he said at last, voice rumbling like distant thunder. "One way or another, I will have him."
Fenrir Greyback studied Silverfang in silence for a moment, yellow eyes glinting like a wolf scenting blood on the wind. Then he gave a low growl of approval.
"Silverfang. Take a few of our best and go to the outskirts of Hogwarts. I remember Hogwarts still allows its brats a Hogsmeade Weekend. They'll sneak out to stuff themselves on sweets and butterbeer. Watch for them. Watch for him. Once you find Sean Bulstrode—approach him. Only approach him. Speak. Nothing more. The bite— Fenrir's grin widened, teeth flashing sharp under the torchlight. "—the bite must come from me."
Silverfang's brows knit slightly. He hesitated, then dared to raise his voice—just a little.
"My king… forgive me, but… if we only want the simplified Wolfsbane, why not just wait? He'll publish the papers anyway. When he does, we can brew it ourselves—or pay the black market brewmasters. Those rats dare swindle anyone but not us. Why risk crossing Hogwarts? Or Dumbledore?"
At the name Dumbledore, Fenrir's lip twitched in a snarl. His claws drummed on the stone throne's arm, slow and deliberate.
"Do you think I want just a potion?" His voice was soft now—deadly soft, each word rolling out like a growl before the pounce. "I want the boy. I want his mind, his hands, his blood—ours. If I bite him myself, if he turns under my fangs, he'll be mine. He'll feel it in his bones. Three years—five, at my side—he'll call me father when he runs on the hunt. He'll brew for us, teach for us. A potion genius from the Bulstrode line, loyal to me. Even if he leaves us one day—he'll still obey when I call. Do you understand now?"
Understanding dawned in Silverfang's eyes—alongside a cold gleam of excitement. He knew exactly how Fenrir's pack was bound together. The blood bite. The sick loyalty of the infected. A twisted brotherhood, father and cub, pack and king.
Silverfang lowered himself again, pressing his forehead to the rough stone beneath Fenrir's foot. He turned his head, baring his silver fang in a smile both wolfish and loyal.
"Yes, my king. I understand. I will bring you news from Hogsmeade."
Fenrir's claws rested lightly on Silverfang's head, a mockery of a blessing.
"Good. Go. Let no prefect or Auror sniff you out. If you fail—there will be no moon strong enough to hide you from me."
Silverfang rose, bowed once more, and padded backwards into the shadows—already imagining how sweet it would be to watch the pure-blood prodigy become their prize cub under the full moon.