Hufflepuff in the Wolf's Den

Around 11 a. m., the sun finally climbed over the eastern hills and shone into this depression in the valley.

The sunlight shone on the half-collapsed stone house and the dry, yellow grass at the base of the wall, but brought little warmth.

A gust of wind blew in from the mouth of the valley, swirling up the dry soil and debris on the ground, and making the broken windows and door frames rattle loudly.

The stench of fish and decay in the air was stirred for a moment, then settled down, sticking to the stone walls and muddy ground, and smearing onto people's faces, refusing to dissipate. The commotion had just caused the Werewolf inside the dilapidated house to come out.

They emerged from behind the collapsed doorway and broken walls, in twos and threes, not crowding this way, but standing in their own patches looking this way. They were all dressed in tattered clothes, some wrapped in blankets whose original color was unrecognizable, some with half their arms bare, their exposed skin covered with hideous scars, their open mouths filled with grayish-yellow teeth.

Dozens of yellowish, cloudy eyes stared at the center of the open space from afar, and no one uttered a sound.

All the Werewolf in the mining village were watching the same thing: their leader, Fenrir Greyback, stood with his tail between his legs in front of a dark-haired cub, too afraid to move.

The young Werewolf, head down, circled around from behind Greyback.

He walked very carefully, testing the ground with his toes before each step, his shoulders hunched, constantly glancing at Greyback's shoulders and hands to see if his claws were about to rise.

Like a vigilant animal, always ready to be hit or to dodge.

Regulus, seeing his expression, understood what was going on.

People can't be born this cowardly. Maybe they've been assimilated, or maybe the environment itself will tame newcomers into this way.

A wild beast that has just joined the pack learns how to walk without getting beaten up in the leader's shadow.

The hierarchy within Werewolf pack doesn't need to be explicitly defined; it's based solely on who has the sharpest teeth and the most ferocious claws. The strongest stands in the middle, and the weakest sticks to the wall. There's no room for logic or reasoning.

The newcomers are naturally the weakest, so they should be trampled on at the bottom and have to be mindful of others' feelings even when walking.

The hierarchy, established purely through violence, is primitive and even more straightforward and direct than that of wizarding societies.

Lucius stood to Regulus's side and slightly behind, his expression already relaxed.

Just moments ago, I was clutching my wand, ready to clean up the mess, afraid that Regulus would take action or that I would botch the job. Now, that Snake-headed Staff was no longer a source of tension, but had returned to being a respectable decorative item.

He didn't know what Regulus was up to, or why he'd summoned a Werewolf, but he knew this mission was a sure thing.

After those few moves, even if Greyback had a hundred times the courage, he wouldn't dare to cause trouble again.

Having figured this out, he raised his chin again, and the Malfoy family's usual reserved demeanor returned, exuding nobility and elegance, even more so than when he arrived.

A Werewolf that had been baring its teeth just moments before was now cowering with its tail between its legs after being intimidated by the person next to it. Standing on the winner's side, it benefited from the victory and naturally straightened its back.

Standing on this Wasteland, even breathing felt easier; it was a good feeling.

Lucius glanced at the Werewolf watching from a distance, his eyes filled with undisguised disgust—a bunch of worthless animals. Greyback saw this and tried to stop them, suppressing a low growl.

He is the leader, his territory is his territory, his wolves are his territory. Any Werewolf who tries to leave without his permission should be slapped back with a claw.

Its upper body was already sticking out, its arms were raised, and its claws were making a half-circle motion in the air.

Then the growl stopped halfway, the arm froze in mid-air, the entire arm slowly lowered, and the claws returned to the sides.

It came to an abrupt stop.

This time, it wasn't his body that made the decisions; it was his mind.

The habitual action had barely begun when reason firmly suppressed it, along with the low growl in his throat.

The deadly aura from before had long since dissipated, and nothing was threatening him anymore, yet he still dared not move.

Without a clear permission from the brat in front of him, he didn't dare to extend a single finger forward.

He could only watch helplessly as the little cub summoned a wolf from his own territory with a mere tilt of its head. He couldn't stop it, nor did he dare to. The chieftainship, the territory, the rule—these things usually sustained him, making him feel like the king of this low-lying area.

But in the face of true power, authority is incredibly fragile.

All that's left is the cleanest bit of food from a wild beast. Whoever is stronger gets to do what they want; if you can't afford to mess with them, you just have to submit.

He's lying there now, unable to even keep an eye on his own wolf.

The two henchmen behind Greyback exchanged a glance.

He was tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and three old claw marks across his face, running diagonally from his forehead to his chin. A small piece was missing from his nose.

The other one was short and stocky, with a neck so thick it was almost nonexistent, shoulders so broad they made the tattered leather vest bulge, and the hair on its arms was so thick it looked like a wild animal hadn't shed its fur.

Neither of them could understand what had just happened; their leader was perfectly fine, so why was he suddenly so listless?

But those chosen by Greyback to be his henchmen, besides being brutal and ruthless, at least had some brains.

They might not understand it, but they did understand one thing: their leader was stunned by the two wizards opposite them.

Whether it's the big one or the small one, I can't afford to mess with them.

They stood there obediently, just like Greyback, not daring to utter a sound or move.

The young Werewolf is approaching.

Regulus glanced up and casually swept his gaze over, his senses following suit.

This Werewolf's Magic Power is different from Greyback's, and also different from those mature Werewolf.

The human and the beast were still entangled, twisting and tearing at each other, neither able to hold the other back.

He was the one who struggled the most fiercely among the group of Werewolf who had recently been transformed when he entered the village.

In other words, the Dark Lord inside is still awake, still fighting against the beast, and hasn't left the scene yet.

The bite won't last long.

Judging from his appearance, he's in his twenties or thirties, and his face shows signs of fatigue.

The corners of his eyes and forehead were covered in wrinkles, his skin was so rough it looked like it had been sanded, and there was an unhealed scratch on his cheekbone covered with a brown scab. His temples were gray, and the lines around his mouth were deep and heavy.

But looking inside, it's actually very young. The Magic Power is the essence of youth, and the energy is still there, but it's trapped by that Lycanthropy, unable to escape. The person is young, but this place has aged him.

It was dressed a little more decently than other Werewolf, though just as tattered, but you could tell it was originally a proper robe, not some rag ripped off a dead person. Its fingernails were also cleaned, unlike the claws of other Werewolf which were covered in black mud.

The fact that such customs are still preserved in this place shows that their origins are different from others.

Although no one cares about this kind of dignity in this Wasteland.

The young Werewolf stopped a few steps away from Regulus, not daring to approach further. He lowered his head, glanced at Regulus briefly, then quickly looked down again. Regulus realized that this Werewolf seemed to truly recognize him.

His face was expressionless as he asked directly, "Do you know me?"

The volume was normal, but the sound didn't travel far. Greyback was four or five meters away and couldn't hear what was being said; he could only see the werewolf's mouth opening and closing. Lucius narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting back and forth between the Werewolf and Regulus, his brow furrowing slightly before relaxing. The young Werewolf froze, a hint of surprise flashing in his yellowish-brown eyes. He hadn't expected that he'd been recognized so easily after just a glance. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and finally, in silence, nodded.

Regulus's mind raced.

He wasn't very old, but he looked like he used to be a proper wizard.

There are only two possibilities for getting to know him.

One possibility is that he had recently graduated and had seen him at Hogwarts.

He wasn't exactly low-key at school; needless to say, he was well-known throughout Slytherin, and many people in the entire school recognized him.

Another type is those who come from families connected to the Pure-blood Circle, and whose names are known or whom they have seen from afar.

Every Pureblood families with any ability knows Regulus Black.

He had originally thought of a third possibility: Pureblood Wizards being bitten and turned into Werewolf, but he suppressed the thought as soon as it came to mind.

It's not uncommon for Pureblood Wizards to be bitten by Werewolf and turn into Werewolf themselves. A lone Werewolf Attacks a passerby, and regardless of whether they are Pure-bloods, Half-bloods, or Muggle-born, they'll just bite them.

However, organized wolf packs like the Greyback, with their leaders and a focus on expanding their population, are less likely to target Pure-bloods.

Biting Pure-bloods is tantamount to directly enraging the entire Pure-blood Circle. News travels fast, and retaliation comes just as quickly. Auror, private soldiers, bounties—it's not worth it. Greyback has now sided with Voldemort, and while he will certainly Attacks Pure-bloods under orders in the future, that's a future strategy, a means of terror, to create panic. But right now, Voldemort hasn't stepped into the limelight yet; he needs the support of Pureblood families.

Werewolf are too dirty and disgusting. At this stage, using them to fight Pure-bloods is like pushing away families that are still observing, and it will attract the attention of the Ministry of Magic, and even Dumbledore.

Therefore, when organized Werewolf leaders expand their packs, they target those with little background who disappear without anyone investigating. The one in front of us is more likely the former type; I've seen him at school before.

Regulus snapped out of his thoughts and asked again, "Just graduated?"

The young Werewolf raised his head this time, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed it back.

Finally, only a very low sigh escaped from his chest, carrying an indescribable weariness.

He nodded, then lowered his head again.

Regulus looked at him, then at the old robe he was wearing, which had been unstitched and then carefully washed.

Even in this state, he's still diligently cleaning his nails. Despite being bullied like this, he shows no hostility. He sighs before uttering a curse. This style is unlike Slytherin, Gryffindor, or even Ravenclaw.

That leaves only one.

Regulus's lips twitched slightly. "Hufflepuff?"

The young Werewolf suddenly raised his head, opened and closed his mouth, mumbled for a long time, but didn't say a word.

The numb weariness on his face cracked, revealing a look of surprise and embarrassment. He probably wanted to argue, why was he categorized into that honest and unremarkable academy at a glance?

Then he realized he couldn't refute it, because he really was Hufflepuff.

His left eye seemed to say, "How did you guess that?", while his right eye seemed to say, "Can you please not be so accurate?"

Finally, he conceded, sighing and nodding, his face filled with helplessness, accepting even this stereotype with a clear conscience. Lucius chuckled beside him.

A Pure-bloods Malfoy, Slytherin for hundreds of years, never gave Hufflepuff a kind look. It was a place for those without talent or ambition, the leftovers from other houses, just to make up the numbers.

Now a Hufflepuff has turned into Werewolf, it's a perfect match, they deserve to end up like this.

Lucius's disdain deepened, his expression utterly contemptuous.

Regulus ignored him.