"... Roar, cough cough."
Lupin cleared his somewhat itchy throat, adjusted the slightly askew golden crown atop his head, and reluctantly tore his gaze away from the werewolves emitting "moonlight" not far away — he always felt he was just a little short of transforming into a werewolf...
But... it seems like even if he changed it wouldn't matter?
Honestly, having lived half his life, the number of times a man transforms into a werewolf is still fewer than in the past two days.
Improved Wolf Poison Potion (strawberry flavor), Homorphus Charm, a single Rune to simulate the full moon environment...
Thinking of this, Lupin looked down at the iron bracelet on his wrist, its curved engravings emitting a faint silver glow — if it weren't for the Magic Pattern, he'd probably have already transformed into a wolf now.
These inventions capable of changing the social status of werewolves continuously challenged Lupin's understanding over the past two days. He even felt that if these inventions were ever publicly released, William, as the holder of the invention patents, would immediately be revered as the Savior by all werewolves...
Yes, although the old Armenian Wizard recovered some memory, he completely forgot the most complex Homorphus Charm, and neither the Ministry of Magic nor the Wizengamot publicly held a trial against Gilderoy Lockhart. Even the Prophet Daily only published Lockhart's imprisonment in a small section.
So, the only Wizard in the world capable of proficiently performing the Homorphus Charm is William alone, not even Dumbledore could succeed a hundred percent.
After all, the Charm requires the magic wand to be pressed against the werewolf's forehead, and dear old Dumbledore didn't find the opportunity to practice...
"Squeal—"
A somewhat anxious cry sounded, bringing Lupin back to his senses. He hurriedly reached out to soothe the Hippogriff named "Silver" beside him. His previous job at the circus was the caretaker of this ill-tempered Hippogriff, and now that it needed to cooperate in a performance, Lupin naturally had to step up —
Even directly taking on the princely role of rescuing the princess from the Evil Dragon.
Lupin, clueless about performing, initially intended to refuse until William clearly stated that failing to act as the prince would result in becoming a werewolf, wearing a grass skirt, and leading the audience in belly dancing... He suddenly felt that learning this small acting matter was entirely doable.
Belly dancing and all that...
Lupin turned his head and silently stared at his colleagues who were recruiting audiences to dance.
...
"..."
After using a blank expression to reject the fourth grass-skirted werewolf who wanted to drag him on stage to dance, Lucius Malfoy finally couldn't endure anymore, raising his hand to rub his slightly sore temples — he suddenly regretted why he had set the meeting place here.
But he vaguely remembered, the old Starry Sky Circus wasn't like this, right?
However...
Lucius lowered his gaze to look at his son beside him, whose face was filled with excitement yet still suppressing his inner impulse. He couldn't help but sigh — after all, he's still a child; perhaps he's been too restrictive on him lately...
"Go ahead."
The man's voice was not distinct in the noisy environment, but Draco immediately looked up. Upon confirming the nod, he finally took the first step he'd been itching to take and followed the werewolf in front onto the stage —
At this moment, the stage was a dance of frenzy, with William's Emotion Magic easily stirring the emotions of most of those present.
"Is it okay?"
Narcissa Malfoy looked worriedly at those werewolves, their claws only a few centimeters from Draco.
"It's okay, his mood's been too suppressed lately."
Seeing the boy laughing joyfully on stage, Lucius also couldn't help but curl his often sarcastic lips.
But soon, he restrained his expression, and along with his wife, they put on their hooded cloaks, holding their staffs, seemingly waiting for something. His gaze swept across the surroundings, and with the twenty-fifth firework exploding overhead, dozens of inconspicuous dark figures stood up in the audience simultaneously...
...
The dim cabin had a faint hint of decay, here in the very bowels of the ship, a place completely devoid of human presence.
Lucius Malfoy used a silk handkerchief to cover his nose, watching as the final Imperturbable Charm flickered on the somewhat rusty cabin door. Twelve bone candles pierced the rotten cod heads, casting a ghostly light on his platinum blond hair.
The sharp knock from his staff on the deck abruptly silenced the hushed whispers — at least for this moment, the master of Malfoy Manor could still maintain a facade of dignity.
"We didn't gather here through owl wings just to listen to tide forecasts."
Little Avery played with a Cursed Dagger recently bought from Knockturn Alley, its blade deliberately tearing Alecto Carrow's cloak, "Some people have been thriving in the Ministry of Magic recently and now think of old friends?"
Lucius' pale knuckles tightened sharply, the emerald serpent eyes atop his staff glowed green, and the floating Prophet Daily suddenly caught fire, the front page belonging to Cornelius Fudge's photo gradually distorted in the flames.
"Perhaps someone has forgotten," his elongated tone hissed like a snake, "that a Ministry's search warrant can precisely appear in Nocte Manor's wine cellar, so naturally it can fall on Knockturn Alley's third subterranean level."
"Speaking of search warrants..." Nocte suddenly used his wand to pick up a rotting cod, the putrid liquid dripped onto the floor, "I heard a batch of Time Turners went missing from the Department of Mysteries lately?" he glanced meaningfully at Avery, "And certain people happened to visit Albania last week..."
Lucius' pupils slightly constricted.
On that night half a year ago, when William Richard appeared in Malfoy Manor, his previously calm life was completely overturned, that young man carried the aura of his master, and knew too many secrets that only Voldemort himself would know... Like that diary...
And his orders... Lucius' mind deepened; he must clarify whether the master still had contact...
"Enough!"
Amycus Carrow suddenly kicked over a barrel, pickled herring juice splashed onto Nocte's carefully groomed beard, "Lucius, you wouldn't really think we wouldn't know your plotting?" The tip of his wand began to blaze red, "Your little schemes in the Ministry of Magic..."
"Dang—"
Suddenly from the depths of the cargo hold came the sound of chains snapping, fresh cod eyes bounced on the deck, and everyone's gaze simultaneously turned toward the darkness.
"Seems a rat has sneaked in."
Avery sneeringly flicked his sleeve towards the sound source, a cold gleam shot out, but the dagger was melted into molten metal in mid-air, and from the depths of the darkness, the rhythm of boot heels striking metal sounded, a presence colder than Dementors crept over everyone's ankles.
As the figure walked out from the shadows, Amycus' wand suddenly self-combusted, a suffocating black smoke rising in this cramped space, "Disappointing welcome ceremony." The muffled voice echoed thrice, and the rotting cod suddenly all stood upright, their hollow sockets staring at the crowd.
Avery's wand fell to the ground, Nocte's back was pressed against the damp cabin wall, Lucius after a brief lapse knelt on one knee, his voice slightly trembling with excitement, "Master... we have always been waiting for your return..."