The grand atrium of the Ministry of Magic had rarely been this restless.
Normally, the vast hall thrummed with a measured, almost elegant chaos. Clerks moved in steady currents between gilded fireplaces, their arms full of parchment. Owls cut through the air in disciplined arcs, delivering messages with practiced precision. Conversations filled the space—quiet, controlled, and professional.
Today, that order had fractured.
The noise was sharper, louder, threaded with unease. Conversations broke into whispers, whispers into arguments. Even the enchanted fountain at the center of the atrium seemed subdued, its usual brilliance dimmed beneath the weight of growing tension.
Deep within the Auror Department, behind thick oak doors layered with protective enchantments, a meeting was already underway.
The room was crowded, though no one dared speak out of turn. Aurors stood gathered around a long table cluttered with reports, files, and magically preserved evidence. Some of the parchments shifted faintly on their own, displaying moving photographs and recorded testimonies. The air itself felt tight, suffocating under the pressure of unanswered questions.
At the head of the table stood Rufus Scrimgeour.
His posture was rigid, his expression carved from stone. A single report lay beneath his hand, his fingers tapping against it in a steady, impatient rhythm.
"This," he said, his voice cutting through the room, "is the third time this week."
The tapping stopped.
An Auror across the table cleared his throat, his tone careful, measured.
"We were certain about this one, sir. Witnesses placed him near Hogsmead on the night of the attack."
Scrimgeour's gaze snapped to him, sharp and unyielding.
"And?"
The Auror hesitated, just for a fraction of a second too long.
"…he passed Veritaserum."
Because that fact—simple as it was—had become increasingly impossible to ignore.
Another Auror stepped forward, a witch with dark hair tied back tightly, her expression firm despite the tension.
"We administered three doses, sir," she said. "No resistance. Under Veritaserum, he stated clearly—he is not a werewolf."
A murmur threatened to rise but was quickly suppressed.
"And the tests confirmed it," another Auror added grimly.
Scrimgeour's hand slammed onto the table.
The crack echoed through the room like a gunshot.
"That is impossible!"
The force of his voice sent a ripple through the gathered Aurors. Several of them stiffened instinctively, though none dared respond immediately.
Because everyone present knew the truth.
They had not been arresting suspects.
They had been arresting known werewolves.
Men and women whose condition had been documented for years. People who had lived under Ministry surveillance, whose transformations were recorded, monitored, and regulated.
And now—
They were not werewolves anymore.
One of the younger Aurors shifted uneasily, stepping forward despite the weight of Scrimgeour's anger.
"We thought it was a mistake at first," he admitted. "A misidentification."
Scrimgeour turned toward him slowly.
"And now?"
The young Auror swallowed.
"…it's happening too often."
That was the problem.
Not one case.
Not two.
But a pattern.
A heavy silence settled over the room, pressing down on everyone present.
Every time they arrested someone they believed to be involved in the attacks on the foreign wizards…
The same thing happened.
Magical diagnostics showed no trace of lycanthropy.
Even under the full moon—
Nothing.
No transformation.
One Auror stepped forward, his voice quieter than the others, but no less certain.
"We monitored two of them personally during the last full moon."
Scrimgeour's eyes narrowed.
"And?"
"They slept through it."
For a moment, the words did not seem real.
"They didn't transform," the Auror continued. "There was no reaction at all. No signs of magical instability. Nothing."
Another Auror, older, more experienced, flipped open a report with a flick of his wand.
"And the scars," he said.
Every head turned.
Scrimgeour's voice came low, controlled.
"What about them?"
The Auror angled the parchment so the moving photographs could be seen clearly.
"They're fading."
A beat of silence.
"Fading?" Scrimgeour repeated.
"Yes, sir."
The images shifted—close-ups of jagged scars, once dark and twisted with residual magic. In the next frame, they appeared lighter. Softer. As though time itself were erasing them.
"Werewolf scars carry dark magic residue," the Auror explained. "It's part of the curse. They don't heal. They don't fade."
He looked up, meeting Scrimgeour's gaze.
"But these are disappearing."
Scrimgeour stared at the photographs.
Because he understood exactly what that meant.
Someone was not suppressing lycanthropy.
They were undoing it.
Before he could respond, the office doors opened without ceremony.
The sound alone drew groans from several Aurors.
"Not him again…"
The newcomer stepped inside with the ease of someone entirely unbothered by the tension he had just interrupted.
His robes were immaculate, his posture relaxed but precise. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, and confident.
"I believe my client has been held long enough."
Mr. Tonks.
The name had become synonymous with disruption within the Ministry over the past few weeks.
Scrimgeour's expression darkened immediately.
"This is an active investigation," he said, his tone cold enough to freeze the air.
"And my client is being unlawfully detained," Tonks replied smoothly.
He moved forward, placing a neatly prepared document on the table as though the room belonged to him.
"I formally request a trial."
One of the Aurors scoffed under his breath.
"A trial? Already?"
Tonks didn't so much as glance in his direction.
"By law," he continued calmly, "a detained wizard must be brought before a court within three days."
He folded his hands in front of him, his gaze steady.
"Unless, of course, the Ministry has decided to abandon its own legal standards."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Because he was right.
Again.
Scrimgeour's jaw tightened.
"You're becoming very persistent, Mr. Tonks."
A faint smile touched the lawyer's lips.
"I believe in justice."
Several Aurors exchanged frustrated looks.
Because every time they arrested someone—
Ted Tonks appeared.
Every time—
He demanded a trial.
And every time—
The result was the same.
The accused was cleared.
Outside the Auror Office, the Ministry fared no better.
The whispers had already begun to spread.
Quietly at first, carried between hushed conversations in corridors and over shared cups of tea.
"Did you hear? That werewolves not transforming anymore."
"That's impossible."
"It's true. They tested him."
Rumors became confirmations.
Confirmations became stories.
Then came the moment that shattered any remaining doubt.
Sam Keller.
A name known across the wizarding world.
An activist. A voice for those cursed with lycanthropy. A man who had spent years fighting for rights, for dignity, for recognition.
He had been seen in Diagon Alley during the last full moon.
Not locked away.
But sitting openly in a restaurant.
With Regina seated across from him, smiling just as freely.
That image spread faster than any rumor ever could.
Because everyone knew.
Sam Keller was a werewolf.
Someone was curing lycanthropy.
The whispers grew louder.
"How?"
"Who is doing it?"
"Is it real?"
Letters began flooding into the Ministry.
From France.
From Germany.
From as far as America and the eastern magical territories.
The International Confederation of Wizards responded within days.
Their message was formal.
Direct.
"Provide information regarding the removal of lycanthropy."
Because whether it was considered a curse, a disease, or a condition—
It did not matter.
A cure would change everything.
Back in his office, high above the restless atrium, Scrimgeour stood in silence.
He stared down at the shifting crowds below, his expression darker than it had been all day.
Because for all their authority—
For all their power—
They had nothing.
No suspects.
No leads.
No understanding of what was happening.
And worst of all—
No control.
Behind him, one of the senior Aurors spoke, his voice quiet but steady.
"Sir…"
Scrimgeour did not turn.
"Yes?"
The Auror hesitated before continuing.
"…if someone really is curing werewolves…"
The question lingered in the air.
"What does that make them?"
Scrimgeour remained silent for a long moment.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Dangerous."
Not because curing werewolves was wrong.
But because power like that—
Power that could rewrite the laws of magic itself—
Was never small.
Never contained.
When it revealed itself…
The entire world would come looking for it.
Inside Slytherin Castle, life had begun to transform in ways none of them had ever imagined possible.
The stone walls, once cold and heavy with silence, now carried something unfamiliar—warmth. Voices echoed through the halls. Footsteps no longer rushed with tension but wandered, unhurried.
Harry stood in the great hall, watching.
Watching as people lived.
A month ago, this place had been almost empty.
Now—
It was filled with life.
A child ran past him, chasing another with careless joy. A woman laughed openly near one of the long tables, her voice bright and unrestrained. Two men argued loudly over something trivial, their tones animated rather than guarded.
Normal.
That was the strangest part.
It was normal.
A faint glow flickered before Harry's eyes.
[Skill Update]
Mystic Cleansing – Lv. 10 → Lv. 14
New Efficiency: +35%
Magic Consumption Reduced
Daily Target Limit Increased: 10 → 14
Harry exhaled slowly as the notification faded.
For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the numbers settle into his thoughts.
This was the fastest growth any of his skills had ever experienced.
Not through study.
But through relentless use.
Day after day.
Cleansing after cleansing.
Every time he placed his hand on another cursed soul and forced the darkness out of them—
The skill had grown.
And now—
Every werewolf under his protection had been freed.
The thought still felt unreal.
Harry turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward the courtyard beyond the great hall.
Sunlight spilled across the stone, illuminating a scene that would have been impossible just weeks ago.
People stood together.
Sam stood nearby, leaning lightly against one of the stone pillars. His eyes followed the same scene, but there was something deeper in his gaze—something Harry recognized immediately.
Disbelief.
"They still don't believe it sometimes," Sam said quietly.
Harry allowed a faint smile to form.
"They will."
Sam shook his head slowly.
"No… you don't understand."
There was no bitterness in his voice.
He lifted his hand slightly, pointing toward the far side of the courtyard.
"Look at them."
Harry followed his gaze.
A young couple stood close together, their fingers intertwined as though they were afraid to let go. The woman laughed softly at something the man said, her shoulders relaxed in a way that spoke of complete ease.
"They refused marriage for years," Sam continued. "All of them did."
Harry's expression softened slightly.
Werewolves did not marry easily.
Not because they lacked love.
But because they feared it.
Feared what it would create.
Children born into suffering.
Lives shaped by a curse they never chose.
Sam's voice dropped, quieter now.
"But now…"
Harry nodded slowly.
"They have a future."
Sam let out a long breath, almost as if releasing something he had carried for years.
"Yeah," he said.
"Now they do."
And that future had not waited.
It had begun immediately.
Within the castle alone—
There had been thirteen marriages.
Thirteen.
Harry had been present for every single one.
At the center of each ceremony stood Teozad Umbra.
Grandpa Theo.
Unmoving, like a pillar that had seen centuries pass without change.
And yet—
Here he stood, acting as a priest.
Harry watched as Theo completed another ceremony.
The old man raised his hand, his movements slow but deliberate, his presence commanding without force.
"Two lives bound—not by curse, but by choice."
His voice carried through the hall with quiet authority.
The couple before him smiled—nervous, hopeful, overwhelmed.
Theo lowered his hands, placing them gently above theirs.
"Let this union be untouched by darkness."
A pulse of magic spread outward.
But it was pure.
Harry felt it brush against his senses, like cool water washing away something unseen.
Others felt it too.
The couple closed their eyes for a brief moment, as though basking in something they had never known before.
Then—
Applause.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Laughter followed, bright and unrestrained.
Later, in one of the quieter corridors, Cassandra approached him.
She moved with her usual composure, but there was a faint shift in her posture—something lighter.
"The letters are decreasing," she said.
Harry raised an eyebrow slightly.
"How much?"
She handed him a small stack of parchment.
"Down by nearly seventy percent."
Harry glanced at the reduced pile, then let out a quiet breath.
At its peak—
The flood had been overwhelming.
Letters from noble families.
Foreign officials.
Desperate parents.
Each one offering something.
Gold.
Power.
Ancient artifacts.
Anything—
In exchange for salvation.
But now—
That storm was fading.
Slowly.
Because Lord Blackfire had disappeared.
And without him—
Hope had no direction.
Harry leaned back slightly, folding his arms.
"Good."
Cassandra studied him for a moment.
"You knew this would happen."
Harry nodded.
"Desperation burns fast."
His gaze drifted back toward the courtyard.
"But it doesn't last forever."
For a time—
Everything was peaceful.
Training continued within the castle grounds.
The Serpent Court operated with quiet efficiency, maintaining order without suffocating freedom.
The cleansed werewolves began stepping beyond the castle walls.
Cautiously.
Some returned to their old homes.
Others chose to start anew.
And for the first time—
Harry allowed himself to relax.
Just a little.
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