"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 368: The Hufflepuff Werewolf
Deep in the winding heart of Knockturn Alley, an unremarkable underground inn lay hidden from prying eyes.
At the alley's dead end, a weathered wooden door bore nothing but a single carved wolf's head—no sign, no name, just that silent, lupine sentinel. This was the only mark of the place where Marcus Belby had poured out his entire soul.
Once, Marcus had been the pride of Hufflepuff House—an upperclassman renowned for his kindness and tireless work ethic.
But twenty years ago, one wild, adventurous night had changed everything. A werewolf's claws had left savage scars across his face, and its fangs had carved an indelible mark into his arm.
He'd spent years curled up in the shadows of society, enduring the stares of disgust, the whispered slurs, his nails digging into his palms as he tasted the bitterness of a world that had cast him aside.
Yet the Hufflepuff spirit—resilient and compassionate—had never truly died.
When he met others shackled by the same fate, saw them wandering the streets, desperate and lost, something deep within him was stirred.
"Why?" he'd once growled at the cold stone walls, voice raw and ragged. "Why us? We were just… unlucky."
And so, Howling Moon House had quietly opened its doors amid the grime of Knockturn Alley.
The air inside was thick with the scent of cheap stew, sometimes laced with the sharp tang of herbs—his best attempt at patching up wounded comrades the old-fashioned way.
The wooden floor groaned with every step. The walls were plastered with crooked job notices—mostly hard labor for meager pay, but for these werewolves, outcasts from the wizarding world, it was often the only way to survive.
Night had fallen, deep and heavy.
Knockturn Alley was thick with strange, unsettling smells.
Remus Lupin moved through the gloom, a battered cloak wrapped tight around him, his hood pulled low to hide most of his face.
He slipped expertly into an even narrower side alley.
At the far end, a small door bore a faded wolf's head.
This was the Howling Moon Inn, known only to those with the curse of lycanthropy.
At the threshold, Lupin tapped a rhythm on the wolf's eye—one beat for each syllable in "Marcus Belby".
With a creak, the door swung open, and a blast of hot air—reeking of cheap ale, stale sweat, and a faint trace of blood—hit him full in the face.
Inside, the light was dim. A few guttering candles barely pushed back the shadows.
Two or three figures hunched in battered chairs, nursing mugs of watery ale.
The sound of the door made them look up, eyes wary.
Lupin pulled down his hood.
A hoarse voice called from the shadows behind the bar, "Remus?"
He scanned the room—mostly old faces. He nodded toward the bar. "It's me, Marcus."
A flicker of excitement ran through the figures in the shadows, but there was fear too, as they glanced behind Lupin.
Marcus peered down the alleyway, only relaxing when he saw no one else. He flicked his wand, and the door creaked shut.
Lupin strode to the bar.
From the darkness, a figure slowly emerged. The candlelight danced across a face ravaged by wolf claws, the scars twitching with every movement.
Marcus's rough hands grabbed a glass—clean enough, by local standards—and gave it a quick swipe with a rag. He poured Lupin a mug of Butterbeer, the color a little thin but warm.
His voice was gravelly, like sand scraping wood. "Well, look at you—rosy as ever. So all that in the papers… it's true, then?"
His cloudy eyes flicked over Lupin, then to the weak figures creeping closer from the corners.
Marcus barked, "What're you lot crowding for? The next full moon's a long way off. You in a hurry to meet the Reaper?"
The werewolves halted, awkwardness flickering across their faces.
But their eyes stayed glued to Lupin—a mix of hope and wariness, with a deeper, bone-deep despair that had been years in the making.
Lupin turned, offering his gentle, familiar smile, and nodded to them all.
It was like a rare patch of winter sunlight, warming the chill of the underground den.
"Nightshade. Crescent. Frostclaw. It's been too long."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly to every ear.
After a pause, he turned to Marcus. "Pour them a Butterbeer too, would you? On me."
Here, in this humble place, most werewolves used aliases to protect the ghosts of their pasts.
Nightshade, Crescent, Frostclaw—judging by their frail state, they'd clearly missed out on the Wolfsbane Potion this full moon.
"Remus…" Nightshade, a young-looking werewolf, whispered, voice barely more than a breath, "We… we just wanted to ask…"
Marcus cut him off with a gruff snarl, slamming three mugs of Butterbeer onto the bar—thud, thud, thud—foam sloshing over the rims.
"Ask what? Even if it's true, you got any Galleons jangling in your pockets?"
He glared at them. "Drink up and get some rest! When you've got your strength back, maybe there'll be work for you."
The three shrank under his bark, clutching their mugs—true luxuries for them—and retreated to their corner, sipping in silence.
Lupin watched the gruff, soft-hearted wolf behind the bar. For all his bluster, half the werewolves here owed him rent and meals.
"The Prophet's published it, hasn't it? I wrote you yesterday, explained everything in detail."
Marcus snorted, digging under the greasy bar for a battered, dog-eared copy of The Daily Prophet.
He followed it with a crumpled, grease-stained issue of The Quibbler, the pages marked with mysterious splotches and even a few dried, reddish stains.
You could tell both had been passed from hand to hand, read until they nearly fell apart.
Marcus slapped them on the bar with a heavy thud. "I believed you—mostly. Your name, Remus Lupin, is still worth a few Knuts among us gutter rats."
But then his voice sharpened. He jabbed a finger at the papers, voice rising. "But then the Ministry put out that load of rubbish today, and this rag here—full of nonsense!"
He paused, fixing Lupin with a long, hard look. "If we hadn't known each other for over a decade, I'd think you were in league with those bastards—here to toy with us poor sods."
His words were thick with sarcasm and exhaustion as he read aloud: "Werewolf welfare? A new future?
Last time I heard such sweet talk, it was some big shot wanting us filthy monsters to play cannon fodder against You-Know-Who!"
He slammed the bar so hard the drinks sloshed.
"And what happened? Which of the Ministry's grand policies ever led us anywhere but ruin?"
"Code of Werewolf Conduct? Rubbish! All they want is to lock us up and wipe us out in one go!"
"Werewolf Registry Office? What a joke! Just makes it easier for those self-righteous purebloods to hunt us down, one by one, like animals!"
The more Marcus spoke, the more agitated he became—veins bulging, spittle flying.
In the corner, Nightshade, Crescent, and Frostclaw had set down their mugs, growling low in their throats in agreement.
Their eyes on Lupin shifted—whatever faint hope had flickered there was now clouded over, suspicion and wariness rising to the surface once more.
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