The Werewolf Assistance Committee (WAC) required all werewolves to live openly under sunlight. The so-called New Registration Act functioned as both a "civil registry" and a form of "social security" for werewolves.
Every wizard could sense the contract bound to it, and that sensation itself served as the unique mark of a registered werewolf.
The Act carried an extremely forceful mechanism:
If a registered werewolf harmed another person, the contract would activate instantly and notify the WAC. Conversely, any wizard who killed a registered werewolf would also be marked by the same contract.
Although the WAC's leadership had not yet been formally elected, and no official punishments had been announced for those marked by the contract, the presence of both the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards among its seats was deterrent enough.
As a result, werewolves who refused to sign the New Registration Act—Fenrir Greyback and his followers—had almost nowhere left to hide in the wizarding world.
The reason was simple.
On the one hand, lacking the Registration Mark meant you were unregulated—an outright outcast.
On the other, an anonymous individual had placed bounties throughout the black markets of the British Isles for the capture of unregistered werewolves.
In the face of Galleons, Dark wizards had no scruples.
By now, under pressure from the WAC, the operating space of Greyback's faction had been pushed to its limits. They barely dared to remain active within magical communities.
Uninhabited wilderness was not an option—there was no such environment near Greater London.
Muggle-populated areas were theoretically unsuitable as well. The Ministry of Magic maintained a Magical Incident Detection Network—similar to the Magical Congress's Exposure Risk Clock—based on principles akin to the Trace, detecting magical surges within prepared ritual zones.
London, as England's capital, was under especially tight surveillance.
Unfortunately, the system was controlled by the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Fudge's personal stronghold.
Fortunately, the green-eyed wizard's family had some influence within that department.
He answered Lupin's earlier question.
"Using the incident detection network, we identified several areas with suspicious magical activity over the past two days. Combined with intelligence, we can roughly determine their hideouts…"
As he spoke, he flicked his wand.
At the murmur of a spell, the surrounding mist responded, drawing together to form a floating map before them. Countless lines traced the outline of London, and several points glowed faintly.
Mundungus Fletcher whistled.
"No wonder the great Mr. Weasley cast such a massive Fog Charm—so considerate! Managing meetings and babysitting underqualified subordinates at the same time. Truly exhausting."
Though it sounded like flattery, Phil and the green-eyed wizard both felt unmistakably mocked.
Lupin could only smile awkwardly. Taking a broom, he changed the subject.
"So—which area are we responsible for?"
The green-eyed wizard glanced at Mundungus, then pointed to the northwest corner of the map.
"Watford. A Muggle transport hub. All five werewolf groups chose similar locations—dense populations, convenient transport. Ours is… slightly more special."
Lupin's mind raced.
"Because it's farther from London?"
"Yes. A classic risk-avoidance strategy. We suspect Fenrir Greyback himself may be with this group."
"You can't confirm his whereabouts?"
"No one can. Since the Dark Lord's fall, Aurors hunted him for eleven years without finding a trace."
"So we don't know if he'll take part tonight."
"…No. Though frankly, I hope he does."
Surprisingly, Mundungus agreed.
"Absolutely. Catching him would be a delight. Britain has no older werewolf than Greyback. Rumour says he's even modified himself—fascinating research material. If we capture him alive, Mr. Weasley will be thrilled."
The other three stared straight ahead, pretending they hadn't heard that at all.
"Just the four of us?" Lupin asked.
"Other teams have additional support. Some Aurors on leave will 'happen' to join us. Voluntarily."
"Will Rufus Scrimgeour approve?"
"The respected Head of the Auror Office certainly won't. But these Aurors were invited by Kingsley Shacklebolt to rehearse for Harry Potter's birthday event in two days. Today they merely passed by and witnessed Dark wizards attacking civilians. Acting bravely doesn't violate Auror regulations."
"…You even prepared excuses," Lupin sighed.
Phil shrugged.
"Excuses? It's the truth. Heartwarming, really. We even plan to send the Ministry a thank-you letter afterward."
Even Mundungus laughed, already anticipating Fudge's expression.
To counter Greyback, the WAC had mobilized nearly all available werewolf wizards, dividing them into five teams to apprehend Greyback's splinter groups, aided by "civic-minded" Aurors.
The need for Aurors came down to one thing: firepower.
Without a full moon, Greyback's faction was weakened—but so were registered werewolves.
Under a full moon, twenty of Greyback's lackeys would never stand a chance against the WAC.
Ordinary wizards feared werewolf claws.
WAC werewolves did not.
Still, neither Dumbledore, nor the Wizengamot, nor the International Confederation had any intention of holding the first WAC Assembly on a full moon.
Aside from Vaughan—who had enormous confidence in Wolfsbane Potion—few wizards would dare face a hall full of transformed werewolves, let alone conduct an election.
The Fog Charm was not, as Mundungus sneered, a tool to "drag useless subordinates along."
Its real purpose was to conceal the movements of WAC wizards and Aurors, minimizing Muggle exposure and magical leakage.
And, of course, to blind the enemy.
Watford—a beautiful Muggle town—was now swallowed by thick fog.
Matthew, wrapped in a faded coat, stepped out of a convenience store. Visibility had dropped to almost nothing.
Matthew was a werewolf.
Once, long ago, he had been an ordinary wizard—Gryffindor-born, freshly graduated from Hogwarts, brimming with ambition, convinced he would change the world.
Reality crushed him two weeks into his graduation travels.
In an Irish forest, while observing a tribe of mischievous but kind Leprechauns, he was attacked.
It was a full moon.
He was infected with lycanthropy.
The attacker was Fenrir Greyback.
Matthew would never forget it—broken, bleeding, dragged into a cave amid the Leprechauns' terrified screams, despair consuming him as Greyback finished venting his bloodlust.
Every properly educated wizard knew how terrifying lycanthropy was.
Once infected, your life was essentially over.
Dreams, ambition, grand vows—everything collapsed that night.
He resisted at first.
But against Greyback's overwhelming power, he was helpless.
He even considered suicide.
But in the end… he couldn't do it.
Perhaps some foolish hope remained.
Maybe he wasn't infected.
Maybe even if he was, he could still live as a wizard.
All such thoughts shattered one month later—on his first full moon.
What he remembered was only pain.
Pain sinking into bone and mind until consciousness drowned.
When he awoke, he was no longer in the cave. He was in a Muggle village. In a familiar house.
Two mutilated corpses lay before him.
Greyback laughed beside him.
"You've completed your transformation, my child. You've severed useless human emotions with your own hands. From today, you belong to a greater species…"
Those words still echoed in Matthew's mind decades later.
They destroyed him.
Because the corpses were his parents.
All hope vanished.
So did his sanity.
He fled Ireland in a haze. Why Greyback let him go, he never knew.
He wandered for years, repeatedly contemplating suicide—until vengeance pulled him back.
He tried the Ministry. Hogwarts.
But like he'd learned at Hogwarts, he discovered how impossible life was as a werewolf.
No one believed him.
The Ministry plastered his wanted posters across wizarding towns.
He couldn't find a single wizard willing to hear him speak.
Months later, dying by the Thames, Greyback appeared again.
Smiling, fangs bared, he wiped Matthew's tears away with a claw.
"Hate them. Take revenge. Kill them all. Eat them."
And hatred twisted him.
A cool wind stirred the fog. Matthew snapped back to the present.
The convenience store bell chimed behind him. Two Muggles stepped out.
"What a thick fog."
"London's always like this. Come on—football?"
They left, unconcerned.
Matthew frowned. Summer fog in London was rare.
And the Muggles showed no curiosity at all.
He emptied his mind, extending his senses.
Then his eyes flew open.
"Magic."
A warning screamed through his instincts—fear born from the fog itself, and from the wizard who had created it.
A powerful wizard.
Matthew ran toward his team's hideout.
He didn't even know why they'd come to London. Greyback told them to—so they came.
For years, he'd followed the very object of his hatred like a corpse dragged through mud.
Only one thought sustained him: survive.
Then—
BOOM!
Fire and explosions erupted ahead.
Curses flashed. Screams rang out.
"They found us!"
"And Aurors—!"
A curse detonated near Matthew, blasting him away.
He scrambled up, wand drawn.
A calm, weathered voice spoke.
"There's one left. Expelliarmus."
Matthew reacted instantly.
His Shield Charm flared just as the red light struck—rippling, rebounding like a stone skipping off water.
Another red beam followed.
Adrenaline surged. Time slowed.
Curses flew like fireworks.
Shield and disarming spells collided in rapid succession.
Only the thunderous explosions revealed how deadly the exchange truly was.
At last, the attacker paused.
Matthew seized the moment.
"Stupefy!"
Red light shot forth—but was deflected effortlessly.
Matthew reinforced his Shield Charm.
Survival came first.
That was Hogwarts doctrine.
The fog churned. The two stood in silence.
Then—green light flashed at the edge of his vision.
An Unforgivable Curse.
But no unfamiliar screams followed.
A voice spoke from the fog.
"Strange, isn't it? You only hear voices you recognize."
Then, chillingly:
"You're Matthew. You appeared beside Fenrir Greyback twenty years ago. No surname. No history. Just like all his followers."
Matthew retreated, attempting Apparition—
It failed.
The fog shifted.
A man stood before him, smiling.
"I'm Remus Lupin. A werewolf too. Greyback dragged both of us into the abyss."
Matthew raised his wand. Green light gathered—
Lupin didn't dodge.
"You can't Apparate. None of your companions could either. Because you never moved. You only thought you did."
Cold dread flooded Matthew.
Fog. Everywhere.
Illusions.
Then—more Lupins emerged. Dozens.
"You're the least affected. Hogwarts-trained, I'd guess."
Matthew clutched his head.
The fog darkened.
Lupins became Greyback.
"You need me," the monster whispered. "Without me, you have no reason to live."
Reality returned.
Lupin stood outside the convenience store, eyes glowing pale silver-blue—Legilimency.
Matthew lay curled on the ground.
The battle had never happened.
The Fog Charm cloaked London, dulling Muggle senses and carrying subtle illusions—amplifying buried memories.
With teams like Lupin's, brute force was unnecessary.
When Lupin ended the spell, Matthew collapsed unconscious.
Footsteps approached.
"Er—Remus, you didn't kill him, did you?" Mundungus drawled.
"No."
"Good. Mr. Weasley might squeeze Greyback's location out of his memory."
Phil sighed. "Greyback truly deserves death."
Mundungus snorted.
"Less talking. More bagging."
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