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Harry woke to the sound of distant laughter, and for a moment, he thought he was back at Hogwarts—until he remembered he was 21, not 11, and the year was 1976. The realization hit him like a Bludger to the chest, sharp and disorienting. He blinked against the dim light seeping through a grimy window, the room around him swimming into focus. The bed beneath him creaked as he shifted, springs groaning under his weight. It was a narrow thing, shoved against a wall of weathered wooden beams, the kind of furniture that had seen too many travelers and too little care. A faded quilt, patched and fraying at the edges, clung to his legs like a stubborn ghost.
He rubbed his eyes, gritty from a night of fitful sleep, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards chilled his bare feet, sending a shiver up his spine. The Three Broomsticks.
That's where he'd stumbled after the ritual—Hogsmeade, alive and bustling in a way he'd only ever imagined. Outside, the faint hum of morning life filtered through the glass: a cartwheel rattling on cobblestones, a shopkeeper's muffled shout, the trill of laughter again—high and carefree, cutting through the fog of his thoughts. It sounded so bloody normal.
Harry's gaze drifted to the chipped washbasin in the corner, its porcelain stained with rust, then up to a cracked mirror hanging crooked on the wall. He stood, joints popping from the cold, and shuffled over to it. The face staring back wasn't the boy who'd faced Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. This was a man—21 years old, with dark hair fallingmessily over his forehead, hiding the faint lightning scar that still marked him. A smaller scar, a jagged nick above his right eyebrow from some forgotten Auror skirmish, caught the light. His jaw was sharper now, dusted with stubble he hadn't bothered to shave, and his green eyes held a weariness no teenager should carry. Handsome, he supposed, if he cared to think about it—Ginny had said so once, and strangers sometimes lingered on him too long in Diagon Alley. But here, in 1976, that face was a liability. Too old to blend with the students. Too unknown to belong.
Merlin's beard, what am I doing? The thought clawed at him as he gripped the edge of the washbasin, the cold porcelain grounding him. His parents were alive—James and Lily, sixteen and reckless, probably bickering over breakfast in the Great Hall right now, a mile away at Hogwarts. Sirius would be there too, smirking over some prank, Remus rolling his eyes, Peter trailing behind. Alive. Whole. He could see them, hear them, maybe even save them—but not yet. Not like this. To them, he was nobody.
He turned away from the mirror, his reflection too much to bear, and rummaged through the battered rucksack he'd brought through time. His fingers brushed the smooth handle of his wand—holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather, unicorn crystal—and then closed around a crumpled piece of parchment. He unfolded it on the bed, smoothing the creases with a trembling hand. The ink was smudged, scratched in a haste he barely remembered: Stop Voldemort early. Save them. No prophecy this time. Simple words, heavy as iron. Below them, a messy list: Dumbledore—truth? Order—join? Death Eaters—track? Each idea trailed off, half-formed. He'd been too desperate to plan properly when he'd found the ritual in that dusty Black family grimoire, too broken to care about the details.
The laughter outside spiked again, louder now, and Harry's head snapped toward the window. He glimpsed two figures darting past through the warped glass—Hogsmeade locals, maybe, or early risers from the village. Their voices carried, light and teasing: "Oi, reckon she'll hex you for that?" "Not if I hex her first!" It was so achingly familiar—that Harry's throat tightened. He'd had that once with Ron and Hermione. Before the war. Before, the losses piled up like stones on his chest. Now, here he was, chasing a chance to rewrite it all.
You're not a kid anymore, he told himself, shoving the parchment back into the bag. You've fought Dark Lords. You've survived worse than this. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Surviving wasn't the same as living. He'd defeated Voldemort, saved the world, and still woke up every day hollowed out, staring at a life that didn't fit. The ritual had been a gamble—a blood-soaked incantation, a circle of runes carved into Grimmauld Place's floor, a whispered plea to fix what he'd lost. And it had worked. He was here. 1976. A second chance. But standing in this dingy room with no name, no allies, and a face that didn't belong, it felt more like a sentence.
He crossed to the window, pushing it open with a creak. Crisp, woodsmoke-laced air rushed in, tugging at his hair. Hogsmeade stretched out below—rooftops dusted with frost, chimneys puffing lazily, and the distant silhouette of Hogwarts' towers piercing the morning mist. His heart thudded.
No, he thought, jaw tightening. Not yet. I need a way in. A name they'll trust. He was a stranger in a world that didn't know Harry Potter, and that was his biggest obstacle. He couldn't stroll up to the gates and announce himself—not without proof, not without influence. He needed a foothold, something to make them listen when the time came to warn them, to fight. And he didn't have long. Voldemort's rise was already underway, the First War brewing like a storm on the horizon. Every day he wasted was a day closer to the night his parents died, to Peter' betrayal, to all of it.
Harry exhaled, the breath clouding in the cold. He'd figure it out. He had to. This wasn't about happiness anymore—happiness was a dream he'd buried with Fred, with Tonks, with everyone he'd failed to save. This was about redemption. About making sure no one else had to carry what he did. He grabbed his cloak from the bedpost, the fabric worn but familiar, and slung it over his shoulders. The parchment's words burned in his mind: No prophecy this time. No baby to bear the scar. No Chosen One. Just him.
He paused at the door, hand on the knob, and glanced back at the room. It was alien, yes, but it was his now. His starting line. With a grim nod, he stepped out, the creak of the floorboards fading behind him.
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Harry descended the narrow staircase of the Three Broomsticks, the wood creaking under his boots like it was protesting the morning. The air shifted as he reached the bottom—cool and musty upstairs gave way to the warm, yeasty scent of spilled ale and polished oak. The pub was quiet, save for the soft clink of glass and the rustle of a rag on wood. Early sunlight slanted through the diamond-paned windows, catching motes of dust in lazy spirals.
Behind the bar stood Madam Rosmerta, all 23 years of her radiating a kind of effortless glow. Her blonde curls bounced as she wiped down the counter, catching the light like spun gold. She wore a green apron over a simple dress, the fabric hugging her curves in a way that wasn't lost on Harry—not that he was here for that. Her hands moved with practiced ease, the rag leaving a gleaming trail across the wood. She glanced up as he approached, her sharp blue eyes flicking over him—quick, appraising, then warm.
"Morning, stranger," she said, her voice carrying a lilt that was both teasing and welcoming. "Sleep well, or did the bed try to eat you?"
Harry managed a grin, sliding onto a stool at the bar. "Survived it, just about. You run a tight ship here." His tone was easy, practiced—he'd learned charm could open doors when wands couldn't. Up close, she was striking—full lips, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and a wit in her gaze that promised she didn't miss much. Not bad for intel, he thought, leaning an elbow on the counter.
"On the house for new faces," she said, sliding a pint of amber beer his way before he could ask. The glass was cool, condensation already beading on it. "You're not from Hogsmeade, are you? I'd remember a face like that." Her smile quirked.
Harry took the pint, his fingers brushing the damp glass. "Just passing through," he said, keeping it vague. "Family trouble sent me wandering. Needed a change of scenery." The lie rolled off his tongue smooth as butterbeer—he'd had years of dodging questions as an Auror. He lifted the beer in a mock toast. "To new faces, then."
Rosmerta laughed, a bright sound that cut through the stillness. "Cheers to that. Hogsmeade's quiet this early—give it an hour, though, and the students'll swarm in. Hogwarts lot, always up to something." She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the bar, close enough that he caught a whiff of lavender and something spiced—her perfume, maybe. "So, what's your story, wanderer? You've got that look—handsome, sure, but like you've seen a few storms."
Handsome, huh? Harry's lips twitched, a flicker of amusement breaking through the weight in his chest. Ginny used to tease him about that too, said it was the eyes that did it. He shrugged, playing it off. "Storms, yeah, you could say that. Hogsmeade seems peaceful enough, though. Keeps you busy, I bet—ruling over this place like a queen."
She smirked, straightening up to tuck a curl behind her ear. "Queen of chaos, maybe. Between the locals and the students, I'm half barkeep, half Auror some days. You should see the messes I clean up."
Harry sipped his beer, the bitter foam grounding him. "How'd you end up here, then? Running a pub's not exactly a quiet life."
Rosmerta paused, her rag stilling on the bar. "Grew up not far from here—little village up the glen. Mum and Dad were Muggle-born, kept a small shop 'til it got too rough with all the whispers going 'round lately." She shrugged, her smile tightening briefly. "Came to Hogsmeade a few years back, took over this place when old Tom retired. Suits me—keeps me in the thick of it without too much fuss." She flicked her eyes to him, playful again. "What about you? Where's a storm-chaser like you been?"
Harry leaned back, spinning the glass between his fingers. "Oh, all over. I like exploring—seeing how magic works in different places. It's... unique, you know? Every corner's got its own tricks." It wasn't entirely a lie—he'd tracked Dark wizards across Europe after the war and seen spells he'd never dreamed of at Hogwarts. Now, it was a cover he could sell.
"Unique, eh?" Rosmerta's brows lifted, intrigued. She propped a hip against the bar, crossing her arms. "Go on, then. What's so special out there? Don't tell me you've just been dodging dragons in Romania."
Harry chuckled, the sound looser than he felt. "Nah, dragons are overrated. Ever been to Egypt? The wizards there—they've got spells you'd never see here. Practical stuff, too." He set the pint down, fishing his wand from his sleeve with a casual flick. "Here, watch this." He murmured under his breath—"Lumen Sphaera"—and a tiny orb of golden light bloomed at the tip, no bigger than a Galleon. It hovered, then flattened into a shimmering disc, spinning lazily. With a twitch of his wrist, it darted to the bar, scooping up a scattering of crumbs and dust before winking out, leaving the wood spotless.
Rosmerta's eyes widened, her mouth parting in a surprised laugh. "Well, I'll be hexed. What's that supposed to be?"
"Cleaning charm," Harry said, tucking his wand back with a grin. "Egyptian street vendors use it—keeps the stalls tidy without fussing over brooms. Handy when you're in a rush."
"That's brilliant," she said, leaning closer to inspect the now-pristine bar. "No one round here's got anything like that. You could make a fortune selling that trick to the house-elves—or me, next time the jukebox explodes." Her tone was teasing, but her gaze lingered, impressed. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
"Gotta keep things interesting," Harry quipped, his chest easing a fraction.
Then the two heard a sound outside, and Rosmerta let out a groan, looking annoyed.
Harry sipped his beer, the bitter foam grounding him. "I take it students are already coming here? They sneak in here a lot?" He kept his voice casual, but his pulse quickened. Hogwarts was a mile away, and with it, his parents, Sirius—everyone he'd lost. He needed to know more and needed a thread to pull.
"Oh, all the time," Rosmerta said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated exasperation. "Sneaky little devils think I don't notice them slipping in with fake Magical IDs or under cloaks. Most are harmless—buying sweets or snogging in corners—but some..." She paused, shaking her head. "Sirius and James—those two are a menace. Always dragging their mates into some scheme. Last week, they charmed the jukebox to blare 'Godric's Hollow Rock' every time I turned my back. Took me an hour to hex it quiet."
Harry's grip tightened on his glass, the cold biting into his palm. Sirius and James. The names slammed into him like a Stunner, sharp and electric. His father—cocky, brilliant James—and Sirius, wild and loyal, alive and tearing up Hogsmeade like nothing could touch them. He could picture it: James' lopsided grin, Sirius' barking laugh. His chest ached, a hollow thud where his heart should've been, but he forced his face to stay neutral. Years of facing Death Eaters had taught him how to hide a crack. He took a slow sip, letting the beer wash down the lump in his throat, and managed a smirk. "Sounds like they keep you busy."
"Busy's putting it mild," she said, chuckling. "They're charmers, though—half the girls in here swoon when they strut in. Reckon they know it, too." She gave him a sidelong glance, playful. "You've got that charm yourself, you know. Bet you've broken a few hearts on your travels."
Harry snorted, ducking his head to hide the flush creeping up his neck. "Me? Nah, I'm more trouble than I'm worth." If she only knew. He leaned in a fraction, mirroring her ease. "What about you? Ever get tired of running this place, keeping the likes of Sirius and James in line?"
"Sometimes," she admitted, her smile softening. "But it's home. Keeps me sharp." She tapped the bar with her rag, then froze as a shadow darted past the window. An owl swooped in, talons clicking on the sill before it dropped a rolled Daily Prophet onto the counter. Its wings rustled as it took off again, leaving a single feather drifting down. Rosmerta unrolled the paper, her brow furrowing. "Oh, bloody hell," she muttered.
Harry's eyes flicked to the headline, bold and black: "Werewolf Attacks Escalate—Greyback Suspected." A grainy photo twitched below it—a hulking figure, half-man, half-beast, fangs bared in a snarl. His stomach twisted. Greyback. He kept his face blank, but his mind raced. "What's that about?" he asked, nodding at the paper.
Rosmerta sighed, sliding it toward him. "Werewolves. Been tearing through villages the last two months—Highlands mostly, but they're getting bolder. Ministry's got a bounty on this one—Fenrir Greyback. Nasty piece of work. They reckon he's leading a pack, but no one knows why they're so riled up." She shivered, her flirty edge fading. "Folks are scared. Can't blame 'em."
Harry traced the photo with a finger, the snarling face stirring memories—Lupin's quiet pain, the full moons at Grimmauld Place. Greyback's already here, already ruining lives. The werewolf crisis wasn't news to him, not really—he knew the First War had been brutal, knew Voldemort had weaponized creatures like this. But seeing it now, in real time, lit something in him. A spark. A plan. If I take him down... He could stop some of the damage, earn a name, get a foothold. His pulse steadied, purpose cutting through the fog.
"Why Greyback?" he asked, probing deeper, keeping his tone curious rather than urgent. "What's he done to get the Ministry's wand in a twist?"
"He's a savage," Rosmerta said, voice low. "Likes turning kids, they say—building his pack. Ministry's been after him for years, but he's slippery. Now with these attacks..." She shook her head, blonde curls swaying. "Feels like something bigger's brewing."
Voldemort, Harry thought, biting back the name. She wouldn't know it—not yet, not like he did. But Greyback was a thread, a loose end he could pull. He forced a casual nod, leaning back. "Sounds like a mess. Hope they catch him soon." Inside, the gears were turning. Greyback's my way in.
Rosmerta tapped the paper, oblivious to the shift in him. "Aye, me too. Bad for business, all this fear." She glanced up, her smile returning, softer now. "Stick around, wanderer. Might need a handsome face to cheer me up if it gets worse."
Harry chuckled, the sound masking the fire in his chest. "I'll think about it," he said, and took another sip, the beer bitter and cold as his resolve hardened.
Harry set his empty pint glass on the bar with a soft clink, the bitter aftertaste of beer lingering on his tongue. "Got something to sort out," he said, sliding off the stool. "Thanks for the drink."
She paused, rag in hand, and tilted her head with a playful smirk. "Don't go getting into too much trouble, wanderer. Have a good day—and come back if you need another round."
"Will do," Harry replied, tipping his head in a nod before turning for the door. Good lass, he thought, stepping over the threshold. Keeps things simple. The heavy oak swung shut behind him, muffling the pub's warmth as he emerged into Hogsmeade's crisp morning air. The weight of his wand in his cloak pocket pressed against his thigh—a quiet promise. He'd find Greyback, and he'd end him.
The village was waking up, cobblestone streets buzzing with life. Vendors hawked their wares from rickety stalls—apples piled high, cauldrons glinting in the sun—while early shoppers shuffled past, their voices a low hum of haggling and gossip. A witch in a patched shawl called out, "Fresh gillyweed, two Sickles a bunch!" as a gaggle of kids darted by, chasing a bouncing Fanged Frisbee. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth, sharp and alive in a way London never was. Harry pulled his cloak tighter, the worn fabric brushing his stubbled jaw. Greyback was his target now—kill him, and Voldemort's future claws get dulled early. Plus, it'd give him a name in this time, a foothold to change everything.
To track the bastard, he'd use a spell he'd cooked up after the war: Lupus Venator—Wolf Hunter. He'd invented it during a grim stretch hunting rogue werewolves with the Aurors, a way to sniff out their scent and magical residue when Ministry tactics failed. It wasn't fancy—just practical, honed from sleepless nights and Lupin's quiet lessons about his own curse. The spell needed a few things: wolfsbane to zero in on the werewolf signature, phoenix ash for a boost of power, and a silver thread to tie it all together. Simple, but rare—and he'd have to scrounge them up without drawing too much attention.
He wove through the crowd, keeping his head low but his eyes sharp. First stop: Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. The bell above the door jangled as he stepped inside, the air thick with the musty scent of parchment and ink. Shelves towered with rolls of paper, quills twitching in pots like restless birds. A balding wizard behind the counter looked up, peering over half-moon spectacles. "Help you, lad?"
"Just need some parchment," Harry said, voice casual as he plucked a few sheets from a stack. He fished a Galleon from his pocket—old ones, thankfully still good in '76—and slid it across. "Keep the change." The wizard grunted, pocketing it without a word, and Harry slipped out before questions could start. He'd sketch his plan—Highlands, Greyback's last sighting, a rough map. No point rushing in blind.
Next was the apothecary, a cramped shop wedged between Honeydukes and a broom repair stall. The sign creaked overhead: Pestle & Potion. Inside, it was a maze of shelves—jars of shriveled roots, vials of glowing liquid, a pickled newt floating in amber. The air stung with the tang of dried herbs and something faintly sour. A stooped witch with a wart on her chin shuffled from the back, her gaze narrowing as it landed on him. "What's a handsome stranger like you after?" she rasped, her tone more curious than friendly.
Harry flashed a grin. "Bit of this, bit of that. Got any wolfsbane?"
She squinted, hobbling to a shelf. "Pricey stuff. Three Galleons an ounce."
"Done," he said, digging out the coins. "And phoenix ash—any of that lying around?"
Her brows shot up, but she didn't ask. "Lucky day, then. Got a pinch left—five Galleons." She rummaged behind the counter, producing a tiny vial of shimmering ash and a bundle of wolfsbane, its purple flowers wrapped in wax paper. Harry hesitated—silver thread was trickier—but spotted a spool of it glinting on a high shelf, likely for potion binding. "Throw in some of that thread, and I'll make it ten total."
The witch cackled, a dry sound like cracking twigs. "Sharp one, eh? Fine, take it." She tossed the spool into a paper sack with the rest, snatching his Galleons with bony fingers. Harry nodded his thanks and slipped out, the sack tucked under his arm.
Back in his room at the Three Broomsticks, the door clicked shut behind him, muffling Hogsmeade's hum. He dropped the sack on the bed, the faded quilt sagging under its weight, and spread the parchment on the rickety table. His wand tapped the edge—"Inkis Revelio"—and faint lines bloomed: a rough sketch of Scotland, the Highlands circled from Rosmerta's tip. He marked a path, muttering to himself, "Start here, follow the spell..." His voice trailed off as he emptied the sack, the wolfsbane's bitter scent hitting him first.
He crushed the flowers in a chipped mortar he'd nicked from downstairs, grinding them into a fine powder. The phoenix ash followed, a dusting of silver-orange that sparked faintly as it mixed. He unraveled a length of silver thread, wrapping it around his wand tip like a tether. Lupus Venator wasn't Ministry-approved—but it worked. He'd tested it in the Yorkshire moors once, chasing a werewolf who'd gutted a Muggle family. Found the beast in under an hour.
Harry leaned back, the chair creaking, and closed his eyes for a moment. Lupin's face flickered in his mind—those tired grey eyes, the scars crisscrossing his skin. "You'd hate this, mate," he murmured aloud, a wry twist to his lips. "Me hunting wolves like some bloody bounty hunter." But Lupin would get it—Greyback wasn't just a werewolf; he was a plague. Every kid he bit, every life he shattered, was a ripple Harry could stop now. Before Voldemort turned him into a weapon.
He opened his eyes, focusing on the mix. Wand in hand, he traced a circle over the powder, the silver thread glinting as he whispered, "Lupus Venator." The air hummed, a low vibration that prickled his skin. The powder swirled, then ignited into a faint silver glow, pulsing like a heartbeat in his palm. It stretched into a thin, shimmering line, hovering, waiting. Harry's breath caught—it's alive—and a grim satisfaction settled in his chest. This was his spell, his mark. Not Dumbledore's tricks, not Hermione's books—his.
For a second, he wondered what Ron would say if he saw this. "Bloody hell, Harry, you're mental," probably, followed by a grin and a slap on the back. Maybe a crack about spiders next time. The thought tugged a half-smile from him, but it faded fast. Ron wasn't here. No one was. Just him, a wand, and a monster to kill.
Harry stood, the glow coiling around his wrist like a leash. His arm throbbed faintly where he'd gripped the table—old habits from too many fights—but he shook it off. Greyback was out there, lurking in the Highlands, and Harry had the scent. He grabbed his cloak, the sack's remnants shoved into a pocket, and headed for the door. The silver line pulsed brighter, tugging north.
Lupin, this one's for you, he thought, stepping into the hall. The stakes were clear: kill Greyback, save lives, shift the war. He'd lost too much to hesitate now. The door clicked shut, and he was gone, a hunter in a world that didn't know his name—yet.
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Harry stood at the edge of Hogsmeade, the village's chatter fading as he gripped his wand. The silver glow of Lupus Venator coiled around his wrist, restless, tugging north. He took a breath—sharp with pine and frost—then twisted on his heel, Apparating with a crack to the Highlands' fringe. Rosmerta's tip had pinpointed the werewolf attacks here, and he trusted his spell to do the rest. The world snapped back into focus: jagged hills loomed under a sky heavy with slate-grey clouds, wind whistling through heather that scratched at his boots. The air bit at his face, raw and wild, nothing like the tame bustle of Diagon Alley. Perfect place for a monster to hide, he thought, squinting into the expanse.
He raised his wand, the silver line streaking forward like a hound off its leash, cutting through the mist. "Go on, then," he muttered, voice swallowed by the wind. The glow pulsed, darting over rocks and boggy patches, and Harry followed, his cloak snagging on thorns as he moved. Hours bled together—his boots sank into black mud, cold seeping through the soles; a drizzle started, plastering his hair to his forehead. The spell held steady, a thin lifeline in the chaos, pulling him deeper into the wild.
The silver thread veered sharply, dipping toward a shallow valley. Harry slowed, crouching behind a gnarled rowan tree. There, nestled against a hillside, stood a crumbling stone croft—its walls weathered to a dull grey, roof sagging like it might collapse under the next gust. Smoke curled lazily from a makeshift chimney, a thin wisp against the brooding sky. The spell's glow flickered, then dissolved into his wand with a faint hum. Got you, he thought, heart kicking up a notch. He crept closer, boots silent on the damp earth, until he reached a cracked window, its glass spiderwebbed with age.
Peering through, he saw them. Fenrir Greyback dominated the room—hulking, his matted hair a tangle of grey and brown, claws tapping a splintered table like a restless predator. His face was a mess of scars, yellowed fangs glinting as he snarled something low. Three wiry werewolves flanked him, their frames lean but coiled, eyes flashing an eerie yellow in the firelight. One gnawed a bone, another sharpened a crude blade. The air inside reeked of wet fur and blood—Harry could smell it even through the glass, a sour tang that twisted his gut. Four of them, he cataloged, pulse steady despite the odds. Greyback's the head. Cut it off, the rest scatter.
He edged closer, slipping toward the door, when a floorboard creaked under his weight. Greyback's head snapped up, nostrils flaring. "Who's skulking out there?" His voice was a gravelly rasp, cutting through the croft like a blade. The others tensed, claws flexing, eyes darting to the shadows.
Bloody hell, Harry cursed inwardly, grip tightening on his wand. No point hiding now. He straightened, pushing the door open with a slow creak, and stepped inside. The heat hit him first—stifling, laced with the stench of unwashed bodies. He kept his wand loose at his side, posture relaxed but ready, green eyes locked on Greyback. "Just passing through," he said, voice cool, testing the waters.
Greyback's laugh was a guttural bark, his claws scraping the table as he leaned forward. "What's a pretty boy like you want with wolves? Lost your way, pup?" His pack snickered, a low, feral sound that grated on Harry's nerves. The werewolf's bulk was intimidating—broad shoulders, a chest like a barrel—but Harry had faced worse. Voldemort. Dementors. You're nothing, he thought, holding his ground.
"Heard you're the big name out here," Harry said, keeping his tone even, probing. "Wondered who's pulling your strings. Someone like... Voldemort?" The name dropped like a stone, and he watched Greyback's reaction—eyes narrowing, a flicker of surprise.
"How d'you know that name?" Greyback growled, voice dipping dangerously low. His pack shifted, claws twitching, but he waved them down with a meaty hand. "What's some wand-waving runt care about him for?"
Harry ignored the question, tilting his head with a faint smirk. "You're werewolves—supposedly better than wizards and witches, right? Stronger, faster. And yet here you are, relying on a human to help you. Doesn't that chafe?" He let the words hang, sharp and baiting, aimed straight at Greyback's ego.
The room stilled, the fire crackling louder in the silence. Greyback's lip curled, baring more teeth, and his claws gouged the table. "That little wizard's just a helper," he spat, voice thick with venom. "Gives us scraps, points us at prey. We don't kneel to him—we take. I'm the alpha here, boy, and you're meat." His eyes gleamed, predatory, but Harry caught the dodge—Voldemort was in play, early whispers of allegiance forming. Already recruiting, he thought, gut tightening. This ends now.
"Helper, huh?" Harry said, voice dry. "Sounds like a leash to me." He shifted his stance, wand twitching in his fingers. Greyback's arrogance was a crack—he'd exploit it. The werewolf's laugh rumbled again, darker this time, and he shoved the table aside with a crash.
"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Greyback sneered, rising to his full height, claws flexing. "Let's see 'em spill." He lunged a blur of muscle and fury, claws slashing for Harry's throat.
Talk's over, he thought, adrenaline surging. This wasn't about words anymore—it was about blood.
The croft erupted as Greyback charged. The air hissed with the swipe, and Harry twisted aside, years of instinct snapping into place. His wand flicked up—"Expulso!"—and the splintered table between them exploded in a shower of wood and nails, blasting the pack apart. Shards peppered the walls. The three werewolves scattered, snarling, their yellow eyes glinting like feral beacons in the dim firelight. Greyback roared, a guttural bellow that shook the rafters, and Harry's pulse thrummed—here we go.
The wiry trio circled, claws clicking on the stone floor, their breaths rasping in the smoky air. Harry moved fast—"Stupefy!"—a red jet slammed into the nearest one, a lanky brute with matted fur. He crumpled, head cracking against the wall with a dull thud. The second lunged, teeth bared, and Harry whipped his wand—"Incendio!"—a lash of flame coiled out, searing the beast's flank. It shrieked, a high, ragged sound, as fire licked up its side, the stench of burning hair choking the room. Two down, Harry thought, pivoting, his boots scraping the grit-strewn floor.
Greyback hurled a chair, splintered legs tumbling end over end. Harry threw up his wand—"Protego!"—and the shield flared, deflecting it with a crash that showered splinters. The werewolf's scarred face twisted into a snarl, bloodlust in his eyes, and Harry met it with a cold glare. You're mine. He slashed his wand—"Sectumsempra!"—and invisible blades tore through the air. Blood sprayed as gashes ripped across Greyback's chest, dark and wet, staining his ragged shirt. He staggered, a guttural choke escaping his throat, but lunged again, claws gleaming. Tough bastard, Harry thought, adrenaline spiking.
The third werewolf leapt from the shadows. Harry spun, wand arcing—"Confringo!"—and a blazing orange blast slammed into its gut. The creature burst apart in a fiery mess, guts and embers splattering the walls, the wet smack of flesh hitting stone drowned by its dying howl. Harry didn't flinch—one left—but Greyback's claws raked his left arm, tearing through cloak and skin. Pain flared, hot and sharp, blood welling fast, but Harry shoved it down. Not now. He gritted his teeth, focusing through the sting, and raised his wand again.
Time to end this. He'd made a spell after the war—"Ventus Exhalare"—something dark, something his younger self would've balked at. He hissed the words, wand steady, and the air around Greyback shimmered. The werewolf's eyes widened as the breath ripped from his lungs, a violent gust spilling from his gaping mouth. He gasped, a loud, desperate wheeze, clawing at his throat as if he could drag the air back in. Harry didn't hesitate—"Aeris Frigidus et Calor"—and thrust his wand forward. Warm and cold air surged into Greyback's chest, a brutal clash that swelled his lungs like overfilled balloons. A sickening pop echoed—his ribs cracked, lungs burst—and he crumpled, blood bubbling from his mouth, eyes glassy and dead.
The last werewolf, the one he'd stunned, stirred, dazed and twitching. Harry's arm throbbed, blood dripping onto the floor, but he stepped forward, wand steady. No loose ends. "Diffindo," he said, voice low, and a razor-thin slash cut the air. The werewolf's throat opened in a clean, red line, blood pooling fast as it slumped, lifeless. Silence crashed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by Harry's ragged breaths sawing through his chest. The air was thick—smoke, copper, charred flesh—a battlefield stench he knew too well.
He stood there, wand still raised, staring at the carnage. Greyback sprawled in a heap, chest a ruin of gashes and burst lungs, his pack strewn around him like broken toys. Blood slicked the floor, gleaming black in the dying firelight, and Harry's arm pulsed, the torn sleeve sticking to his skin. He wiped his wand on his cloak, the fabric smearing red, and let out a slow breath. One less monster, he thought, the weight of it settling in his bones. One step closer. Greyback was gone—Lupin's tormentor, Voldemort's early pawn—erased before he could sink his claws deeper into this war.
Harry's mind churned as he flexed his injured arm, wincing at the raw pull of torn flesh. This isn't the kid who fumbled through Hogwarts, he thought, a bitter edge to it. Back then, he'd hesitated, doubted—let Dumbledore talk him into sparing lives that didn't deserve it. Not anymore. He'd killed four here, swift and brutal, and it felt... right. Not joy—no, never that—but a grim necessity. For Mum. For Dad. For everyone, Greyback won't touch now.
With a wave of his wand, the bodies started hovering; Harry knew he would need to bring Greyback to the Ministry of Magic; he was wanted there, as for the others who weren't wanted.
Incendio...
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