"HP: Too Late, System!"Chapter 390: Amateur Hour
The entrance to the abandoned mine yawned like the skeletal jaws of some ancient beast, gnawed down to bone by the centuries, exhaling a cold breath laced with the scent of ore and rot from deep underground.
As Douglas and Lupin crossed the threshold, it felt as if they'd stepped from the noisy world outside into a vacuum-sealed glass dome.
Out in the valley, the air still carried the tang of rain-soaked earth, the acrid stench of burned holy light, and the uncanny sweetness of wolfsbane.
But here, in the main shaft of the mine, there was no trace of blood, no lingering ozone from spent magic, not even the musky tang of a werewolf pack's den.
The air was dead.
No dust, no debris—every bit of moss that should have crept across the rock from years of dampness had been scrubbed away.
This kind of cleanliness was more unsettling than a room full of corpses.
It wasn't natural purity. It was the suffocating blankness that remains when every trace has been forcibly erased.
"This... can't be."
Lupin's voice was barely above a whisper, each syllable swallowed by the oppressive silence.
His brow furrowed. He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring, straining for any scent—any clue—amidst the void.
He found nothing.
No, more precisely, his sense of smell had been forcibly wiped clean by something unseen.
The air was laced with a powder—colorless, odorless, but prickling at his senses like a thousand icy needles. His mind went blank, left only with a ringing in his ears and a nauseating, chalk-dry taste.
Frustration surged, cold and bitter.
A werewolf's greatest point of pride—his tracking instincts—was a joke here.
He shook his head, forcing the feeling down.
His nose was useless, but he still had his eyes.
Drawing his wand, he muttered, "Specialis Revelio."
A faint blue glow swept from his wand tip across the floor—nothing appeared.
"Damn it. Even detection spells are blocked."
Lupin cursed under his breath. The helplessness was worse than facing a pack of Death Eaters.
"Don't bother, Remus."
Douglas's voice echoed lazily through the empty shaft, tinged with mockery.
"This is Silence Dust—an old relic from the Inquisition, designed to target the senses of magical creatures.
It could turn a Crup with a bloodhound's nose into a dumb mutt who can't find a bone. And it'll scramble your nose for a while, too."
He looked around, deep eyes betraying not confusion, but the contempt of an expert watching a clumsy imitation.
"Amateur hour."
He chuckled—a sharp, grating sound in the hush.
"They really thought that wiping out magical traces and tossing around a little dust would turn this place into a blank slate? Naive. They forgot—magic isn't the only law in this world. Physics still matters."
Even as he spoke, Douglas squatted down—not like a powerful wizard, but like a meticulous Scotland Yard detective at a crime scene.
Lupin fought off dizziness, forcing himself to stay calm.
If he couldn't use his nose, he'd use his eyes. He followed Douglas's lead, scanning the ground, but found nothing.
Douglas didn't use a spell. Instead, he pulled a pair of slim dragonhide gloves from his pocket.
With utmost care, he pinched a nearly invisible bit of gray dust from a tiny gap where the wall met the floor.
The dust was so fine, so subtle, that only someone searching for it would ever notice.
He held it out to Lupin. "Take a sniff."
Lupin leaned in—nothing but that dry, chalky tang.
Douglas rolled the powder between his fingers, making a faint, sandy rustle.
"Not Vatican holy silver powder. That stuff burns to the touch."
"And it's not corpse dust, the kind dark wizards love—that reeks of rot you can never wash away."
A cold smile curved his lips.
"This is enchanted volcanic ash powder."
He blew the dust from his fingertips, stood, and dusted off his robes.
"Standard issue for the Italian Ministry of Magic Auror Office. Nothing classified.
It's not a weapon. Its only use is when you cast a Blasting Curse or Fiendfyre—you scatter this over the target area. It stabilizes magical output, lets you control the explosion's power and range, and keeps the damage contained.
So whoever cleaned up here—made it tidier than Dobby ever could—was one of their own."
"Their own..."
Lupin's face darkened, his mind racing.
"Why would Ministry people clean up here? Did they cut some deal with the Vatican, sweeping up after them?"
His voice trembled with cold fury.
It sounded insane, but it explained everything perfectly.
"Cleaning up for them?"
Douglas's eyes grew distant, as if he could see through the stone to the tangled web beyond.
"The Vatican was here, and they were after me. But they're the result, not the cause."
He began to pace the shaft, each step measuring out a conspiracy.
"Let's look at this another way, Remus. The Ashclaw Pack—werewolves barely surviving in Italy—why come to me? A Hogwarts professor all the way in Britain?"
"Because of your new Wolfsbane Potion?" Lupin blurted.
"That's just the perfect excuse—a reason for me to get involved." Douglas shook his head. "But the real answer might be the exact opposite."
He stopped, turning to face Lupin, his words deliberate and cold: "They came to me not because they wanted to fight the Vatican—but because they'd already been attacked by the Italian Ministry of Magic, who then cleverly framed the Vatican."
Lupin's eyes widened in sudden understanding.
"A werewolf pack, driven to the brink, believes the Vatican attacked them—so what do they do? Find someone powerful enough to fight the Vatican, someone who'd never, ever work with them!"
"Exactly."
Douglas snapped his fingers.
"So who would they turn to? The International Confederation of Wizards? Too slow. Bureaucrats would just pass them around forever. They needed real help—someone strong, someone willing."
His eyes shone as he wove the clues together.
"This outside help had to meet a few strict conditions.
First, not Italian Ministry—because they don't trust the Ministry either. Second, strong and smart enough. And third—and most important—an enemy of the Vatican, someone they'd never be able to buy off, someone who'd always question any evidence that pointed at the Vatican."
He spread his hands, a wry smile on his lips.
"Tell me—who fits better than me? The heretic who humiliated the Vatican in Rome and landed on the Congregation's blacklist.
Especially since my not-yet-released Wolfsbane Potion made for the perfect bait."
"Someone used that bait to make sure they found me."
"It's all too neat—like a play. I was never part of the original plan. But my potion turned me from an outsider into... the most important piece on the board."
Lupin was floored by the logic—his tangled thoughts sliced cleanly apart by Douglas's analysis.
A face flashed in his mind—a woman with chestnut hair pulled into a tight, practical ponytail.
"Miss Rossi... Isabella... She's the one who tipped off the Ashclaw Pack..."
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