In the suffocating silence of the Ben Nevis forest, Old Peter could hear his own heartbeat drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. His lungs burned, each breath feeling like he was inhaling shards of broken glass. The Highland mist was thick, smelling of damp earth and the metallic tang of fear.
He had sent the others away. It was a tactical choice, or perhaps a stubborn one. The three youngsters from the Wolf Herb Garden had futures, families, and a chance to live in a world where being a werewolf didn't mean being a pariah. Peter, however, had a debt to pay. He had spent years watching Fenrir Greyback tear families apart, and he wasn't about to let the monster slip back into the shadows.
But as he ducked behind a gnarled pine, he realized he was out of room. Every direction he turned, a pair of glowing, amber eyes met his. The radical werewolves—Greyback's "cubs"—were moving with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency. They weren't just animals; they were hunters who enjoyed the psychological torture of the chase.
A twig snapped to his right. Then another to his left. Peter stopped, his back against a mossy rock, his wand trembling in a hand slick with cold sweat.
The bushes parted. Greyback stepped into the dim light of the dying day. He looked more like a beast than a man, even in his human form. His hair was a matted mane, his fingernails long and yellowed like talons, and his grin was a jagged graveyard of sharp teeth.
"Running is a young man's game, Peter," Greyback rasped, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "And you... you're looking very old tonight. Very tired."
He circled Peter slowly, his pack closing the ring. "The others were smart. They fled like the cowards they are. But you? You stayed. Is it bravery, or are you just too slow to realize you're already dead?"
Greyback stopped, leaning in so close that Peter could smell the raw meat on his breath. "I'll give you a way out. The Wolf Herb Garden... it's a goldmine. You have the Galleons, the potions, the influence. Join me. Turn your 'garden' into a fortress for the pack. Do that, and maybe I won't eat your heart while it's still beating."
Peter spat on the ground at Greyback's feet. "I've seen what you do to 'family,' Fenrir. You don't want a pack; you want a cult of victims. I'd rather die in this dirt than give you a single leaf from my garden."
Greyback's eyes flared with a manic, bloodthirsty light. "Then die you shall. But not quickly. I'm going to savor you. I'll start with the legs, so you can't run. Then the arms. I'll keep you awake for every second of it."
The surrounding werewolves let out a chorus of low, hungry growls. Just as Greyback lunged, the sky above them didn't just darken—it seemed to collapse.
A massive, shadowy weight slammed into the center of the clearing with the force of a falling meteor. The impact sent a shockwave through the mud, knocking half the werewolves off their feet. A thick curtain of dust and steam billowed upward, and through the haze, a towering figure emerged.
"I believe you're overstaying your welcome, Fenrir," a deep, booming voice vibrated through the air.
Peter looked up, his eyes wide. He saw a three-meter-tall giant clad in obsidian scales that shimmered with a dangerous, oily light. Two massive wings were folded across its back like a demon's cloak, and two black horns swept back from its brow.
"Boss?" Peter stammered, his voice weak with relief.
"Sit tight, Peter," the Dragon-Human rumbled, his golden vertical pupils locking onto Greyback. "I've got some new stress-testing to do."
Greyback scrambled back, his primal instincts screaming at him to flee. This wasn't a wizard. It wasn't even a beast he recognized. It was something from a prehistoric nightmare. But his ego, fueled by years of being the alpha, pushed back.
"What are you?" Greyback snarled, his wand appearing in his hand. "Some failed experiment? Some freak from the Department of Mysteries?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His face contorted with rage as he leveled his wand. "Avada Kedavra!"
A bolt of sickly green light streaked through the air, hitting Sebastian squarely in the chest. Peter let out a strangled cry, expecting to see his boss drop dead.
Instead, the green light hit the black scales and shattered. A faint, violet ripple—the Stacked Curse—shimmered briefly around Sebastian's torso, absorbing the impact as if it were a common stinging hex.
Sebastian looked down at his chest, then back at Greyback, his expression one of bored disappointment.
"Is that it?" Sebastian asked, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "I expected more from Britain's most feared werewolf. That didn't even tickle."
The clearing went dead silent. The werewolves, who lived by the rule of the strongest, felt their world-view shattering. The Killing Curse... the ultimate end... had been swatted away like a fly.
"Impossible!" Greyback shrieked, his voice cracking. "Nothing survives that! It's a trick! Everyone—KILL HIM! Use everything you have!"
The pack, driven by a mixture of terror and Greyback's command, unleashed a barrage of curses. Red, purple, and green lights illuminated the forest like a twisted firework display.
Sebastian didn't even raise his wand. He raised his left hand, and with a casual flick, a wall of translucent blue ice erupted from the ground, encasing Peter in a protective dome.
"Stacked Curses are a bit overkill for this crowd," Sebastian muttered.
He reached for the heavy, black iron club hanging at his side. He gripped the handle, and the runes along the shaft flared with a hungry, violet light.
"Let's try the direct approach."
He didn't run; he vanished. To the werewolves, it looked like he had simply ceased to exist, only to reappear a split second later in front of the nearest attacker.
Sebastian swung the club with a casual, one-handed flick.
CRACK.
The werewolf didn't even have time to scream. The impact was so absolute that the body was turned into a localized explosion of red mist and pulverized bone. It was less like a hit and more like the creature had been erased from existence.
Sebastian paused, looking at the bloody mess on the ground. "Too much power," he noted dryly. "I need to work on my 'gentle' touch."
He turned his gaze toward the rest of the pack. The werewolves were no longer hunters. They were prey. One by one, they turned and bolted into the woods, their tails tucked between their legs.