Werewolves have long been one of the wizarding world's deepest, thorniest problems.
It isn't merely that they can grow their ranks endlessly through infection and the blood bite. Nor is it simply that on the night of the full moon they lose themselves to raw instinct—rending, tearing, killing anything in their path.
The true terror of werewolves lies in their resistance—to magic itself. Their thickened hides and frenzied minds shrug off stunning spells, cutting hexes, even curses that would cripple a human wizard. Add to that an uncanny agility—difficult for the human eye to follow, harder still to strike—and a werewolf on the hunt becomes a nightmare few Aurors dare face head-on.
It is fortunate—fortunate—that the moon binds them. That they are monsters only for one night each cycle. If they could shift at will, it is still an open question whether wizardkind could claim this world at all.
The Ministry of Magic has tried, on parchment at least, to keep the wolves in check. Laws promising "integration" and "support," scraps of so-called kindness tossed to keep the monsters registered and docile. But wizarding Britain is built on old blood, old prejudice. Those who do register—trusting the Ministry's empty promises—often live on the margins, scraping by as half-people, shunned and poor. Those who refuse? They vanish into the forests—into the arms of packs like Greyback's.
Lupin was the first kind—patient, poor, worn thin by the world's contempt. The Greyback clan are the second—hard-eyed, half-mad, reveling in the hunt.
In their panic, the Ministry once struck back with the Werewolf Capture Unit—hand-picked Aurors given license to track, trap, even kill. For a time, it worked. A few packs broken. A few pelts nailed to office doors in London. But the werewolves learned quickly. They turned predator on predator—stalking Aurors in the night, slaughtering their families, dragging whole lines into the woods.
And so the hunters became the hunted. The Werewolf Capture Unit—now a ruin of empty desks and faded files. A few old veterans remain, missing eyes, missing limbs, haunted by memories of hunts that went both ways. No fresh Auror volunteers to wear that cursed badge now.
With the Ministry humiliated and the forests teeming with wild packs, the wolves grew bolder. The Greyback clan most of all—brazen enough now to murder openly, to steal children from their beds, to speak of a kingdom under the full moon.
So emboldened, Fenrir Greyback—so drunk on his dreams of a wolf empire—has sent his agents to the edges of Hogwarts itself. He means to snatch a child prodigy in broad daylight.
And the irony—almost too sharp to taste—is that their prey, Sean Bulstrode, now sits in a warm classroom, quill scratching across parchment, nodding politely at Professor Lupin—himself a werewolf, standing in the light, teaching defense against the dark that still claims him every month.
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After class, Sean and Blaise walked out of the classroom together.
At that moment, Sean saw Harry catching up to him. Seeing Harry's hurried expression, Sean raised an eyebrow and asked, "Harry, what's wrong?"
"Sean, I want to learn the Patronus Charm from Professor Lupin. Hermione said I should ask you first, so…"
Hearing this, Sean immediately understood: Hermione clearly wanted him to help persuade Harry not to ask Lupin for private lessons. Though Hermione could accept Lupin's identity in class, she still didn't dare let her friend spend extra time alone with a werewolf.
But Hermione probably didn't know that before Harry ever thought of this, Sean himself had already learned the Patronus Charm from Lupin—and Lupin had proven to be not only responsible but trustworthy. He would never harm Harry—so long as he took his Wolfsbane Potion and stayed away from the full moon.
"Harry, maybe you don't know yet," Sean said with a slight smile, "but I actually learned the Patronus Charm from Professor Lupin before. He's very responsible—and very capable. If you want to learn it from him, I completely support you."
Harry could easily guess Hermione's feelings about all this—he knew she'd worry. The real reason he'd come to Sean was to see if Sean also thought he shouldn't do it. If Sean agreed with Hermione, then Harry might have backed down.
After all, with Hermione and Sean around, Harry always felt he had two people much smarter than himself to rely on—especially Sean. The principles Sean taught him had proven true more than once, and after all the times Sean had saved him, Harry trusted his judgment completely.
Now that he'd heard Sean say he learned the spell from Lupin himself—and seen how Sean had once used it alone to drive off three Dementors during that Quidditch match—Harry's mind was made up.
"Thanks, Sean! I'll go find Professor Lupin in a bit!"
"Good. I'm sure you'll master it soon. Good luck, Harry."
Watching Harry hurry off, Sean could practically imagine Hermione's shocked face the moment she found out Harry had decided to go to Lupin anyway.
Hermione: "Thank you so much, Sean!"
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Christmas Eve.
Without the Buckbeak incident, everything at Hogwarts was proceeding normally. The preparations for Christmas brought a festive, cheerful air to the castle—Slytherin House included.
Three days before Christmas, when everyone woke up, they were greeted by the sight of an enormous Christmas tree in the Slytherin common room. The dark green tree glittered with all kinds of silver ornaments, and every so often, candies would grow on the branches and drop to the floor when they were "ripe."
Whenever a candy fell, the nearby first- and second-year students would scramble for it. Of course, there were also third-years like Goyle and Crabbe, who didn't hesitate to push their way in—until Sean shot them a glare so fierce that Goyle and Crabbe practically dropped their stolen sweets and scurried away, clutching themselves in alarm. After that, the younger students finally had a chance at the treats growing on the magical Christmas tree.
Together with Blaise, Sean sent off his carefully prepared gifts through the owl post.
There were presents for his parents, his brother, Gideon, and Elena.
As for Aldrich, Sean sent him money directly as a Christmas gift. For Aldrich—currently overwhelmed by the responsibility of looking after all those children—the money solved an urgent problem. In that sense, it was the perfect present.
Even the lessons were filled with laughter and a lighthearted mood thanks to the holiday spirit.
But Sean's Ancient Magic professor, Professor Babbling, was one of the few people at Hogwarts utterly unmoved by Christmas. Her race didn't celebrate Christmas at all—some even rejected it outright.
The stronger the Christmas cheer at Hogwarts grew, the more uncomfortable Professor Babbling seemed. And when Sean cornered her yet again after class—this time preventing her from slipping out the window, and bombarding her with questions for over an hour—Professor Babbling's mood sank to rock bottom.