Chapter 95: The Aftermath and a Heavy Heart
With Lupin's spell cast, Fenrir Greyback's agonized writhing ceased instantly. His body went rigid, his screams cut off, frozen in a final grimace of pain under the full-body bind.
Mad-Eye Moody, having shoved past Sirius, thumped over and looked down at the petrified werewolf. His face was grim. "Lupin… I understand. But this ends here. He will face justice, I swear it. The kind that matters."
Lupin turned away, his shoulders hunched, his face a closed mask of bitter fury. He didn't acknowledge Moody's promise.
Elian watched the exchange with a faint, unreadable smile. In the end, Lupin's rage had been channelled into restraint. The Petrification was a victory for the Order's pragmatism, if not for Lupin's heart.
Sirius placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, only to have it shrugged off. He didn't take offence, his own expression sombre. He then turned and approached Elian, his demeanour shifting into one of careful, respectful formality.
"Elian," Sirius began, his voice quieter than usual. "That was… more than we could have asked for. Taking Greyback alive… it's a significant asset. On behalf of the Order, thank you."
Elian gave a slight shrug. "Professor Dumbledore suggested it was preferable. It was no great trouble." The casualness with which he dismissed single-handedly annihilating a pack of werewolves and capturing their infamous leader was staggering.
Sirius studied him, the aristocratic manners of the House of Black unable to mask his awe and a deep, unsettled curiosity. He'd heard the stories from Harry—the strange magic, the power. But hearing was nothing compared to witnessing. This wasn't a talented student; this was a force of nature. A sixteen-year-old who fought in a way that turned centuries of magical duelling tradition on its head. No wands. No incantations. Just brutal, close-quarters efficiency with weapons of solidified light. What was this system of magic? Where did it come from? The questions burned in him, but the chilling professionalism in Elian's grey eyes warned against prying.
"Nevertheless," Sirius said, dipping his head in a genuine show of respect, "you have our gratitude."
Nearby, Xenophilius Lovegood stood with a protective arm around Luna, his face pale. The editor of The Quibbler, a man who dealt in rumours of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Blibbering Humdingers, was now faced with a reality far stranger and more terrifying than any of his publications. The cheerful guest at his table was a warrior who had just painted his lawn with the blood of twelve attackers. The conceptual distance between 'classmate of my daughter' and 'lethal, anomalous combatant' was too vast to bridge in a single evening.
His mind, usually buzzing with eccentric theories, was now cold and clear with a dreadful understanding. His home was compromised. The Death Eaters knew of it. They had come here for Throne, and they had died here. They, or others, would be back. The quirky, beloved rook-shaped house, filled with memories of his wife and Luna's childhood, was no longer safe. A profound grief settled over him, not just for the imminent loss of his home, but for the violent end of an innocence—the illusion that his world, for all its oddities, was still a place where Christmas dinners could be peaceful.
He looked at the Ministry-oblivious world outside his window and felt a surge of contempt. This was their 'contained threat'? A pack of werewolves attacking a private home on Christmas? And it was left to a teenager and a secret society to deal with it?
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Xenophilius found his voice. It was softer, older-sounding than before. "Elian… everyone," he said, his eyes taking in the Order members. "It is still Christmas. The food… it is growing cold. If it is not too much trouble, and if your business is concluded… perhaps we could finish our meal? And then… I think we must discuss what comes next."
His meaning was clear. There would be a final, surreal Christmas supper amidst the lingering scent of pine, blood, and magic. And then, the Lovegoods would have to vanish. The battle was won, but the war had irrevocably arrived on their doorstep.
(End of Chapter)
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