Noctis, travel-worn, glided down and landed on Sagres's office windowsill with a soft flutter.
The setting sun streamed through the stained-glass window, casting long shadows across the floor.
Sagres stood with his back to the window, holding an ancient book from the Restricted Section, his fingers lightly tracing its thick spine.
"Welcome back," he said without turning around.
"CAW." The raven hopped neatly onto his shoulder, used its beak to unfasten the leather tube from its leg, and placed it gently into Sagres's waiting hand.
He walked to his desk and sat down, untying the tube and pulling out the parchment scroll containing the Bronze Feather members' updates.
But he only gave it a brief glance before slipping it directly into a drawer—he had already seen everything through Noctis's eyes.
Everyone seemed busy; he needed something to occupy himself as well.
At that moment, Lyle Lupin's letter lay on the desk. It not only expressed gratitude but also showed great interest in the magic he had used on Peeves.
Sagres drew a fresh sheet of parchment from deep within the drawer. He picked up a special quill with a gleaming tip, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
The Chaos Tempesta's magic flow pattern and analysis diagram…
Before long, he had meticulously recorded all the details of this spell: the incantation, formula, structure, magic pathways, theoretical deductions, and several key application hypotheses…
When he wrote the final word, Sagres gently blew the ink dry and carefully rolled up the parchment.
"Deliver this here," he said, giving an address, "then return."
And so, Noctis—who hadn't even had a sip of water—helplessly set off once more.
Fortunately, this time the destination wasn't far, somewhere within Britain.
That night, through the raven's eyes, Sagres saw Lyle Lupin's home—a small, ivy-covered cottage in Gwent.
The interior was simple and slightly worn.
On the mantelpiece sat a picture frame, its edges heavily worn but its glass polished bright.
It was a magical photograph: besides a young Lyle Lupin, there was a young witch with a gentle smile and bright eyes, holding a little boy—about two or three years old—with soft brown curls.
The boy was giggling, reaching out to grab his mother's flowing hair.
The three of them radiated a simple, warm happiness.. once Lyle Lupin's entire world: his wife and son.
But clearly, that happiness had been cruelly destroyed.
Sagres's "gaze" shifted to the wall.
Several long-expired issues of The Daily Prophet were pinned to the shaky wooden boards, along with several Ministry of Magic wanted posters.
The topmost one, worn from repeated handling, had curled corners and bore the image of a ferocious-looking man with wild, crazed eyes—Fenrir Greyback.
The wanted poster listed the notorious werewolf leader's crimes: attacking Muggles, creating werewolves, torturing wizards to death…
Below the poster, several small newspaper clippings were pasted, all reporting scattered sightings and attacks committed by Greyback and his pack.
Sagres noticed that the date on one of the clippings came not long after Lyle Lupin resigned from the Ministry of Magic.
In the corner of the desk lay an open notebook, filled with messy handwriting.
A few titles were visible: "Werewolf Potion Material Replacement Hypothesis," "Lunar Phases and Werewolf Aggression Correlation"… Each line overflowed with a desperate intensity for research.
The old man now stood before the wall, his calloused fingers repeatedly brushing over the curled wanted poster.
Sagres's deep eyes showed no ripples, but beneath that calm lay a thread of understanding.
No words were needed; the truth was already clear.
Lyle Lupin—this widowed old man—his shattered family, his grief, and his sudden change in research focus… everything pointed to the same brutal source: Fenrir Greyback.
His wife and child had likely died in a tragedy caused by that mad werewolf or his followers.
Noctis, perched on the window frame, suddenly shifted.
It sharply ruffled its feathers and let out a short, hoarse cry that drew the old man's attention.
Lyle Lupin turned around, puzzled.
The raven tilted its head, fixing him with obsidian-like eyes. Then it lowered its head, retrieved the letter, and gently placed it on the worn wooden table.
"It's you!"
The old man's voice carried a note of surprise.
He quickly stepped forward, picked up the parchment, and began to read, his brows knitting tightly as he focused.
"Ah… I thought of this too, but I couldn't put it into practice…....."
"Remarkably bold....…"
"This is indeed something I've never considered…....."
"What a pity… my research on mischievous spirits has been delayed for too long; these last few years...…"
He muttered to himself as he pored over the parchment. After a while, he finally looked back at the raven.
"I'm terribly sorry, I don't have anything for you to eat," he said with an apologetic smile. "Owls don't come by often, let alone a Raven."
Noctis simply stared at him, its eyes far too knowing for a bird.
Its gaze was so fixed and intense that when Lyle finally sensed something was off, the raven spoke in a stiff, monotone voice: "Fenrir Greyback. Dead."
Lyle Lupin froze.
The wrinkles on his face seemed to harden all at once. His cloudy eyes flared with sudden, disbelieving light, his lips trembling soundlessly, as if trying to confirm something—yet unable to form the words.
Noctis didn't give him the chance.
Its message delivered, its task complete, it added one more line in that same flat, emotionless voice:
"Time of death, two years ago. December."
Then it no longer looked at the old man's stunned, grief-stricken expression.
It spread its wings and slipped into the night outside the window, vanishing as abruptly as it had come.
Lyle Lupin stood alone in the room, his body suddenly losing all strength.
The wanted poster bearing his enemy's savage face drifted silently to the floor.
On the mantelpiece, his wife in the photograph continued to smile gently, and the child in her arms giggled, reaching for her hair. In the fireplace, the last faint spark had died out completely.
Lyle's eyes swept blankly over the fallen wanted poster; he did not bend to retrieve it.
Greyback was dead.
He had died two years ago.
The news struck like a cold stone dropped into stagnant water—not stirring relief, but a suffocating, disorienting emptiness.
The thing that had kept him going all these years—the hatred carved into his bones, the relentless research into werewolf traits, the desperate search for a weakness or a cure—had suddenly lost its target.
He staggered back and fell into the worn armchair with a dull thud.
Outside the window, the deep night pressed in, and silence settled over the ivy-covered cottage.
…
Not long ago, news of Damocles Belby's development of the Wolfsbane Potion had spread through the wizarding world.
Lyle had obtained the formula almost immediately.
But the joy lasted only a moment.
The rare potion ingredients it required were impossibly expensive.
Even a single brewing was enough to drain his already meager savings—let alone long-term, consistent use.
For a wizard living on the edge of poverty, it was an unattainable luxury.
Lyle sat slumped in the chair, his gaze finally drifting back to the open notebook on his desk—its pages filled with frantic, messy research notes on werewolves, lunar phases, and ways to restrain their ferocity.
He had once believed that through this research, he might find a way—if not a cure, then at least something—to ease his son's suffering, or to arm himself with a weapon against Greyback.
But now the enemy was dead.
The pillar of hatred that had upheld his research for years had collapsed.
His son was still out there somewhere, enduring the curse alone—an antidote existing but forever out of reach because of poverty.
That despair weighed far heavier on him than any news of Greyback's death.
The root of Lyle Lupin's pain went far deeper than a dead enemy.
The happiness in that photo frame had long ago been shattered by another curse.
A son abandoned by society.
A father trapped by old age and poverty.
And an "antidote" sitting just beyond reach.
This was the true, lingering darkness inside the ivy-covered cottage.
________
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