Chapter 92: The Wolf at the Door
Elian Throne hung in the air before the Lovegood house, a figure of impossible power silhouetted against the star-dusted night. The twin mandalas of golden light swirling on his palms cast a stark, ethereal illumination over the snowy clearing. An aura of immense, controlled force radiated from him, thick enough to choke on.
In the deep shadows of the surrounding forest, doubt and fear festered.
"Alpha... what do we do?" a voice hissed from a thicket, trembling beneath a Death Eater mask.
"Flight?" snarled the man they called Alpha, Fenrir Greyback. His voice was a guttural rasp, more animal than man even in human form. His yellowed eyes, sharp with bestial cunning, were wide with disbelief. "That's… that is not a simple charm. Only the Dark Lord himself..."
Fenrir Greyback, leader of Voldemort's werewolf packs, was a monster who took pride in his monstrosity. To him, Voldemort was not just a master, but a promised liberator—a dark king who would carve out a bloody kingdom where wolves like him could feast in the open, not skulk in sewers and forests as hated pariahs. This mission, handed down after Lucius Malfoy's humiliating failure, was his pack's chance. Capture the 'new prophecy,' this Elian Throne, and deliver him to the Dark Lord. Then, surely, they would be granted more than scraps. They would have status.
But this… this floating boy with suns in his hands… this was not the soft, predictable prey he'd envisioned. This felt like a predator greater than any wolf.
His pack members looked to him, their fear a palpable scent in the cold air. You brought us to hunt this? their silent stares screamed.
Greyback's pride warred with a primal, rising dread. He bared his teeth, canines already too long for a human mouth. "It is a trick!" he growled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "A clever illusion! He is just a boy! For the Dark Lord! For our place! Arooooooo!"
The howl tore from his throat, half-man, half-beast. It was the signal.
From the trees and undergrowth, dark shapes erupted. They moved with unnerving, loping speed, not the disciplined advance of wizards, but the frenzied charge of hunters. Seven, eight… ten figures in black robes, their silver masks gleaming dully, wands raised, converging on the floating target.
"A full pack," Elian murmured, his voice carrying a cold amusement. "How… generous."
Inside the shattered doorway, Sirius Black leaned against the frame, his grey eyes gleaming with a mix of alarm and fascination. "Moody… are we really just going to watch?"
Alastor Moody's magical eye whizzed, tracking every movement outside. His gnarled hand gripped his wand so tightly the knuckles were white. "Dumbledore's orders were clear. We are the guard. He…" Moody jerked his head towards Elian, "…is the spear. Let's see if the spear is as sharp as the old man claims."
But a low, terrible growl drew their attention. Remus Lupin was pressed against the doorjamb, his body rigid, his face a mask of such pure, distilled hatred that it was almost unrecognisable. His fingers were clenched around his wand, trembling not with fear, but with a rage so deep it threatened to shatter him.
"Lupin?" Sirius said, his casual tone vanishing.
"It's him," Lupin snarled, the words ripped from a raw throat. His eyes were locked not on Elian, but on a specific patch of deeper shadow at the tree line. "Sirius… it's Greyback. Fenrir Greyback."
The name hit the room like a curse. Sirius's face hardened into something cold and deadly. The man who had bitten a four-year-old Remus, who had condemned his best friend to a life of agony and isolation, was out there.
Lupin made to surge forward, but Sirius's hand shot out, clamping on his arm with bruising force. "Remus, no! Dumbledore said—"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT DUMBLEDORE SAID!" Lupin roared, his control snapping. The man of gentle patience was gone, replaced by the scarred, furious beast within. "I will tear his throat out! I will—"
"STAND DOWN, LUPIN!" Moody barked, his real eye blazing. "That's an order! The boy has the field. You break his line, you risk everything!"
The struggle in Lupin was horrific to witness. His body shook with the effort of holding back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Finally, with a sound of agony, he slumped, his forehead thudding against the wooden frame. "If he falters…" Lupin whispered, venom dripping from every word. "If he shows a moment's weakness… you will not stop me. I will feed Greyback his own heart."
Sirius met his friend's tormented gaze and gave a single, grim nod. His own hatred was a cold fire now. He looked out, his eyes searching the shadows. "Where, Moody? Point him out."
Moody's magical eye rotated, its piercing blue gaze seeming to peel back the layers of darkness. It stopped, fixed on a dense cluster of brambles fifty yards to the left. "There. The coward leads from the rear. Hiding in the thorns."
Both Sirius and Lupin stared at that spot, their wrath a silent, burning promise.
Outside, the charging werewolf-Death Eaters raised their wands as one. They had no finesse, no strategy beyond overwhelming force.
"Stupefy!"
"Crucio!"
"Avada Ked—"
The curses were a ragged chorus of coloured light—scarlet stunners, sickly green Killing Curs, twisting bolts of purple pain—a chaotic web of lethal magic screaming towards the stationary, floating figure.
Elian didn't move to dodge. He simply brought his hands together in front of his chest, the two blazing mandalas merging into one larger, intricately spinning disc of golden light.
The first curses hit the shield.
There was no dramatic explosion. The spells—the Stunners, the Cruciatus curses, even the emerald streaks of the Killing Curse—struck the luminous disc and shattered. They dissipated into harmless sprays of fading light, like waves breaking against an immovable cliff. The shield didn't even shimmer.
The charge faltered. The werewolves skidded to a halt in the snow, staring.
From within the circle of light, Elian's voice rang out, clear and utterly calm. "My turn."
He thrust his shielded hands forward. The golden disc pulsed. A visible wave of concussive force, rippling the very air, shot out from its center in a perfect, expanding ring.
It hit the clustered werewolves like a physical wall.
There was a cacophony of crunches and startled yelps. Bodies were lifted off their feet and hurled backwards into trees, over bushes, tumbling through the snow. Wands flew from numb fingers. Masks cracked.
Silence returned, broken only by moans of pain.
Elian lowered his hands, the shield dissolving into fading motes of light. He drifted forward, his eyes scanning the groaning forms. Then his gaze lifted, piercing the darkness, and fixed directly on the bramble patch Moody had identified.
"Your pack is broken, Alpha," Elian called, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. "Will you hide in the thorns while your wolves bleed? Or will you face the Supreme Mage?"
From the depths of the shadows, a figure slowly, reluctantly, stood up. Fenrir Greyback stepped into the fringe of the moonlight, his mask discarded, his inhuman face twisted in a snarl of fear and fury. The hunt had turned. The predator was now the prey.
(End of Chapter)
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