In Dublin's wealthy district stood a dim basement filled with a rank, animal stench strong enough to make anyone wonder whether they had walked into a stable.
In the dim firelight, figures could be seen sitting or standing. They looked like vagrants, most of them thin and dressed in shabby clothes.
The basement door remained open until a man in a black trench coat walked in. Only then did it finally close, making the basement even darker.
He was a hairy man, his greasy hair slicked back in clumps. Fine hair even covered his face, which, with its heavy jowls, looked coarse and vicious.
The man wore nothing but a black trench coat, its open front exposing his chest hair and muscles.
At his arrival, those sitting in the basement rose to their feet, their eyes filled with awe and fear.
Surveying the room, the man walked to the only chair in the center of the basement and sat down. "I hope what you've brought back will make this evening even more delightful."
His lips spread into a chilling grin.
The "vagrants" wore respectful expressions as they approached him one by one, trembling. Each took coins from their pockets before prostrating themselves on the floor in a posture of abject submission.
The coins were of small denominations, mostly one or two pence, and looked pitifully meager. Yet they only widened the man's smile. "Respected Greyback, I don't understand. Why must we live like this, constantly hiding?"
Amid the unsettling atmosphere, that voice sounded distinctly out of place.
The man in the chair-or rather, Fenrir Greyback, the infamous leader of the Werewolf Legion in the wizarding world-tilted his head to look over.
The speaker was a middle-aged man with sunken eyes and unkempt stubble.
Greyback still remembered how spirited the man