Deep within Knockturn Alley lay an unremarkable underground inn.
At the end of this narrow alley, a wooden door carved with nothing but a wolf's head was the inn's only sign.
This was the place into which Marcus Belby had poured his heart and soul.
Marcus had once been the pride of Hufflepuff House, an outstanding older student known for his kindness and hard work.
Twenty years ago, an adventure in the wilderness, filled with a passion for exploration, had utterly changed the course of his life.
A werewolf's claws had left deep scars across his face, its fangs carving indelible marks into his arm.
He had once huddled in society's dark corners, enduring disdainful looks and contemptuous whispers, his nails digging deep into his palms as he tasted the bitterness of being abandoned by the world.
Yet Hufflepuff's resilience and kindness had not been worn away.
As he came to know other werewolves who shared his fate and witnessed them wandering the streets and struggling in despair, something tender deep within his heart was profoundly moved.
"Why?" he had growled at a cold wall, his voice hoarse. "We were just... just unlucky."
And so, an inn called Howlmoon House quietly opened amid the filth of Knockturn Alley.
The aroma of cheap stew filled the air, occasionally mingling with the scent of herbs-he was trying to treat his injured companions' wounds using the most rudimentary methods.
The inn's wooden floor creaked beneath people's feet. Its walls were plastered with crooked job notices, mostly for poorly paid manual labor, yet these were the only source of income for the werewolves shunned by mainstream society.
The night was deep.
All manner of strange smells filled the air of Knockturn Alley.
Lupin was wrapped in a somewhat worn cloak, his hood pulled low