When you knew that the body that had grown stronger had been strengthened by the enemy's help from the very beginning, would you still feel strong?
When you knew that all the effort you had put in had been paving the way for the enemy's plan, would you still keep going?
Fenrir Greyback's last pillar of support, the hatred that had sustained him as he struggled up from madness and pain, had completely collapsed.
At that moment, all he could feel was fear. His body trembled uncontrollably, like a young beast curled up on an icy rainy night, frozen stiff and desperately searching for some illusory shelter, only to find nothing but dead ends all around him.
Vizet's voice sounded beside his ear. "That's right, Mr. Greyback. Do you know what the next step of ritual magic is?"
"The next step..." Fenrir Greyback murmured unconsciously.
What would be left?
When everything he possessed had been utterly crushed by Vizet and stripped away clean, his thoughts seemed to freeze along with it, turning into a blank void.
If anything at all remained, it was fear born from the unknown, about to crush what little precarious reason he had left.
Fear spread, filling the emptiness.
"No... don't!" A whimper squeezed out of Fenrir Greyback's throat.
The bridge of his nose twitched violently, the muscles on his face spasmed again and again, and two lines of unfamiliar liquid quietly slid from the corners of his eyes.
It was not rain. Rain was cold, but this liquid was warm, carrying the heat of his body.
When the liquid seeped between his lips and teeth, he felt a salty, bitter taste spread through his mouth.
This was the taste of tears.
He could no longer remember how long it had been since he had tasted