Douglas's gaze pinned to his face. Memory fragments crashed through.
He saw it.
A real Hufflepuff. Four years his senior.
Freckles on his face. Smiled a bit sheepishly.
In the kitchen. Praising Douglas's cooking with genuine surprise.
The scene shifted.
Young Terry joined the Ministry. One night on assignment, ran into fangs under moonlight.
Douglas saw Terry's eyes after the bite. Terror.
Saw colleagues' averted gazes. His supervisor's cold termination notice.
Saw his family's closed door. Friends' drawn curtains.
Saw Terry curled in The Leaky Cauldron's corner. Listening to wizards' gossip... those words "monster," "dangerous"—they shredded that Hufflepuff heart.
Faith eroded bit by bit.
Then Greyback found him.
That monster offered no sympathy. But gave him twisted belonging.
No cure. But a reason to lash out.
"They fear you," Greyback's voice echoed in his ear. "So make them fear more. Power—that's the only thing worth your loyalty."
Loyalty.
The word twisted into something else.
Douglas saw Terry's hesitation. Struggle. Finally, after wizard children threw stones at him again, the light in his eyes died completely.
He gave his loyalty to a new pack.
His tenacity no longer endured—it brutalized.
Douglas saw his first attack. Reluctance in his eyes. Trembling.
Then the second time. Numb.
Third time. Practiced.
Until finally, he laughed maniacally. Led werewolves into a wizard home. Dragged innocents like himself into darkness. His expression matched Greyback's.
He was no longer cursed.
He'd become the curse.
The last trace of warmth vanished from Douglas's eyes.
This man hadn't lied.
He was Hufflepuff once.
And that made it more tragic than any lie.
Valley light dimmed. Like his cold will drained it.
Air filled with burnt-feather ozone smell. Made teeth ache.
He spoke. Voice soft. Yet drowned the valley's whimpering wind.
"Terry Boot."
He pronounced the name. Like closing a finished book.
"You could have chosen."
No mockery in his voice. Only cold statement.
"You could have been like Remus. Bearing the curse, yet holding the line of humanity."
"You could have endured pain. Endured loneliness. But protected what belonged to Hufflepuff in your soul—that yellow and black robe."
"But you didn't."
Douglas's gaze swept the other kneeling werewolves.
"You chose the easiest path. Turned your misfortune into a weapon to hurt others. Used others' rejection as an excuse for evil."
He raised his wand.
"You didn't defile a name."
"You defiled everything you once stood for."
The wand tip pointed not at anyone, but at the darkening sky above.
The werewolves froze one second. Then survival instinct overwhelmed everything.
They scattered like startled rats. Screaming. Fleeing madly.
In that moment—
BOOM!
A dull roar didn't come from the horizon—it exploded directly in everyone's chest!
Black clouds—like boiling ink—rolled from all directions. Instantly swallowed the valley's light.
The world plunged into apocalyptic darkness.
The first lightning bolt tore through darkness!
Not natural electricity. A pure white light spear carrying destruction. Shot precisely from clouds. Hit the fastest-running werewolf dead center.
No screams. No struggle.
That figure—along with a small patch of earth beneath—instantly turned to ash.
Then the second. Third!
Lightning wove into an inescapable death net like divine fury.
They no longer fell straight. They curved. They hunted!
One bolt snaked through dense forest. Curved around three giant trees. Pinned the werewolf hiding behind to the ground.
Another carved a blinding zigzag on rock face. Caught up with that former Hufflepuff senior.
In the last moment before light consumed him, Terry Boot's face flashed not fear—but relief.
The valley became a lightning cage.
The storm came fast. Left fast.
When the thirteenth bolt fell—purified the last figure trying to squeeze into a crevice—the black clouds vanished. Like wiped away by an invisible hand.
Sunlight returned.
In the valley, besides Greyback's corpse, no trace of his accomplices remained.
Only thirteen smoking, charred craters. Like ugly scars branded on earth. Proof they once existed.
Inside the cave, deathly silence.
Ashen Claw members watched. Forgot to breathe.
This chilled them more than the bloody hand-to-hand combat.
Douglas lowered his wand.
Didn't glance at the corpses again.
His gaze swept the entire valley.
Past Marco and those awestruck werewolves. Toward distant rocks blending with environment. Toward high tree canopies seemingly empty.
His lips curved into an extremely faint, barely perceptible arc.
An actor's curtain-call smile.
Lupin stood there. Drenched in blood.
He looked at his hands. Covered in Greyback's blood.
Warm. Sticky.
A nightmare that haunted his entire life—ended by these hands.
He thought he'd feel liberation. Ecstasy.
But after that revenge fire burned out, only boundless cold ash remained.
Massive emptiness flooded his limbs like tide.
"I killed him."
Lupin's voice was hoarse. Like sandpapered wood.
"With my hands."
He wasn't seeking comfort. Not confessing.
Just stating a fact that felt foreign even to himself.
"I thought... I'd feel free." He raised his head. Looked at Douglas. Those gentle eyes filled with bewilderment for the first time. "But I only feel... empty."
"Like the most important part inside me got twisted and shattered along with his neck."
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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