Gerhart's eyes lingered on the emblem for a moment. He had seen that pattern before. There had been an identical stamp in the corner of the contract in the Ministry of Magic's bail area—the parchment that had made him sign his name, press his fingerprint, and draw magical runes. His fingers curled involuntarily.
His gaze shifted from the sign to the street, where pure-blood wizards who would normally never appear here were walking in groups of two and three. He even saw young wizards emerging from the alleys, their parents behind them looking utterly relaxed. Something was wrong with this place. Why were there no bizarre-looking dark wizards gathered around? He turned to look at the neighboring Diagon Alley again. He was no longer sure whether Diagon Alley had expanded, or whether the Ministry of Magic had finally resolved to purge Knockturn Alley.
Perhaps his appearance was too conspicuous. A group of wizards wearing Muggle black top hats approached from across the cobbled street.
There were three of them, walking abreast in neat, synchronized steps. They wore matching dark gray clothes with high collars that covered the lower halves of their faces. Short batons hung at their waists—not wands, but enchanted batons meant for close combat. Their eyes were golden yellow, and their towering builds and undisguised magical auras made Gerhart tense instinctively.
Werewolves. Gerhart's feet froze in place. His fingers clenched at his sides.
"Show your identification. What are you doing here?" The lead werewolf wizard stood nearly two heads taller than Severus Snape. Looking down at the tense Gerhart, he held out a broad palm and demanded proof of identity.
"We are from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes at the Ministry of Magic. He is a specially requisitioned potioneer, responsible for analyzing and researching the anti-petrification