"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 374: Lupin's Question
Isabella turned, tilting her head in a silent invitation. "Your much-anticipated Lorenzo Dino should be waiting for you in the International Magical Cooperation Office. Let's hope he hasn't been up all night again, wrestling with Vatican nonsense and looking half-dead."
The three of them pressed on, weaving through the lively throng of wizards. Lupin couldn't help but notice—the wizards here, in both dress and demeanor, were far more exuberant and expressive than their British counterparts. Their conversations were a flurry of hand gestures and animated faces, infusing even the serious Ministry halls with unmistakable Italian flair. Several called out warm greetings to Douglas as he passed.
They soon reached the International Magical Cooperation department.
Isabella lowered her voice, "Lorenzo's office is just ahead. International Magical Cooperation—it sounds glamorous, but really, it's a volcano's edge. Half the trouble comes from other countries' ministries. The other half? Naturally, our dear neighbors."
Douglas chuckled, "Seems like most of your energy goes into keeping the Vatican at bay."
Isabella pulled an exaggerated face, waving her hands in the air, "It's like doing the flamenco with your head strapped to your belt—you never know what ancient doctrine they'll whip out next to accuse us, or which magical artifact they'll want to 'borrow' for purification. That Lorenzo's lasted this long without going mad? Pure talent."
A subtle smirk tugged at Douglas's lips. He remembered his last dealings with Lorenzo—the man had left an impression: someone who could stay sharp and even a little wry under immense pressure, a rare trait in any bureaucracy.
Isabella shrugged, "He's a good man, just exhausted. Last time I saw him, his eye bags were practically down to his chin—he'd been dealing with a batch of 'blessed' olive branches smuggled in from Sicily. Turned out they'd been cursed by dark wizards, meant to sow chaos among Muggle believers. And of course, the Vatican tried to pin it on us for 'lax supervision.'"
They stopped at an unassuming wooden door, a brass nameplate gleaming: "Lorenzo Dino, Deputy Director, International Magical Cooperation" in elegant Italian script.
Isabella didn't bother to knock. She simply pushed the door open.
Inside, a young man was slumped over a mountain of paperwork, his head nearly buried in the mess. At the sound of the door, he jerked upright, revealing a face that was both youthful and utterly exhausted. Dark circles pooled beneath striking blue eyes. His hair was a tousled mess, a few rebellious locks sticking up.
"Isabella," he rasped, his voice rough with fatigue. "And… Douglas, Mr. Lupin. Welcome, welcome."
Lorenzo Dino struggled to his feet, nearly tripping over a stack of files. He fumbled with his glasses and tried to smooth his wrinkled robes, but it did little good.
Douglas grinned, teasing, "Lorenzo, my friend, looking at you, I have to ask—what sort of Vatican crossword has kept you up all night this time?"
With a weary smile, Lorenzo hugged Douglas. "Don't even ask. They're back to studying the 'purification effects' of holy water on Transfiguration Charms. You know, those reports could put a flock of augury birds to sleep."
He let go, turning to Lupin and Isabella, trying to look more alert. "You must be Remus Lupin—the first man to break the curse of lycanthropy. Truly impressive."
Lupin nodded politely. "Director Dino, you're clearly dedicated…"
Lorenzo rubbed his temples, then gestured to a side door. "Let's talk in the conference room. This place… is a disaster zone."
He gave a self-deprecating laugh and led the way.
The small conference room was simply furnished, dominated by an oval obsidian table. Lorenzo took his seat at one end and tapped the tabletop with his wand. Instantly, a steaming cup of coffee appeared before him, and three cups of tea materialized for his guests.
He took a long sip of the scalding brew, color returning to his face. "Still the blend you gave me last time, Douglas. I've been saving it for emergencies."
With another wave of his wand, a huge map of Italy shimmered into being on the wall, dozens of regions marked in shifting points of colored light.
Lorenzo cleared his throat. "Alright, Douglas, let's get straight to it. You're here about the werewolf situation. The truth is… it's even more complicated than what you've heard in Britain."
He flicked his wand again. Some areas of the map glowed red, others dimmed.
"These are the known werewolf enclaves in Italy—mostly in the Apennine Mountains, Sicily, and Sardinia. Ever since that damned Werewolf Segregation Act of 1933, their world's shrunk to almost nothing. The law requires every registered werewolf to report their whereabouts to the Ministry every month—or face imprisonment. Think Azkaban, but without the sea view…"
As Lorenzo spoke, Lupin's polite mask began to crack. His hands, resting on his knees, curled into fists, knuckles whitening with the effort. When Lorenzo mentioned how some enclaves were scornfully called "living curses," scapegoated for society's ills, or how resisters were thrown into Azkaban-like cells, Lupin's breathing grew heavy.
A storm flickered in his eyes—pain, anger, and a humiliation so deep it burned. Each word struck him like a cold needle, piercing old scars. He remembered every agonizing full moon, every look of fear and revulsion, every day spent hiding, nameless and alone.
He fought to keep control, but the tremor in his hands and the sudden sharpness in his gaze betrayed the tempest within. There was a fire in his throat, and for a moment, he nearly growled aloud.
Douglas, by contrast, remained exceptionally calm. He didn't interrupt. His gaze swept the map, then flicked to Lupin, quietly taking in every reaction. It was clear: the new Wolfsbane Potion could purge the body's toxins, but the wounds left by a lifetime of prejudice—those would take something more.
His long fingers tapped out a steady rhythm on the obsidian table—tap, tap, tap—lost in thought. Was he mulling over Lorenzo's words, or already devising a way to heal what the potion could not?
He was no saint.
But he had never lacked compassion for the powerless.
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