Below the platform, there was a deathly silence.
That steely resolve, forged by more than thirty people and belonging to werewolves alone.
It became an invisible boulder, pressing down on the chests of everyone in Diagon Alley.
Minister Fudge's smile froze on his face. He instinctively tightened his grip on his green bowler hat, his palms slick with sweat.
On Scrimgeour's face, the two lines running from his nose to his mouth tightened, carving themselves deeper.
As he watched those graduates, for the first time, there was no appraisal in his eyes, only the pure respect of an old soldier for another group of soldiers.
Along with it came a greater measure of seriousness.
If a force like this could not belong to the Ministry of Magic.
Then the danger it posed to the Ministry would be fatal.
"I take back what I said," the French official told his companion in an extremely low voice. "This isn't a graduation ceremony at all."
"This is... a declaration."
Amid that slightly tense atmosphere, Remus Lupin stepped onto the platform.
He was not wearing the moonlight graduation robes the other instructors wore.
He wore a tweed jacket washed pale in places, its cuffs frayed but clean.
He looked somewhat tired, with fine lines at the corners of his eyes and prematurely graying hair.
But he stood perfectly straight.
His gaze did not turn toward the Ministry officials below, nor did he pay any attention to the incessantly flashing cameras.
He simply swept a gentle gaze over every graduate's face.
That gaze was sunlight streaming through a window on a winter afternoon, not scorching, yet able to melt the snow.
He stood at the very front of the platform, facing the magical microphone.
His voice carried a uniquely warm, mellow quality.
It reached every