"Go," Lorenzo murmured.
"Send the news from the Apennines to our friends at The Daily Prophet and Le Sortilège Français in Rome."
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if already watching the storm of public opinion brewing in the international wizarding world. He could picture the British Ministry of Magic scrambling, and that old man at Hogwarts being inexorably dragged into the southern tempest.
Douglas Holmes—what you intend no longer matters.
What matters is that you've become the perfect lever for me to pry up the entire chessboard.
Meanwhile, at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—
Piero stood before his office's floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at Rome, where magic and mundane life mingled in shifting light and shadow.
His expression was as cold and unyielding as ever, like a statue untouched by emotion.
The latest report lay open on his desk—he knew every word by heart.
Werewolves, vampires… forging these marginalized groups—hounded by both the Ministry and the Church—into a new, uncontrollable force.
A plan so bold it bordered on madness.
Piero's lips curled in a scornful sneer.
He had little faith in it. History was littered with magical creature leaders who'd tried to unite, challenging wizard and Church rule. They'd made noise, stirred up trouble, but always ended crushed by greater powers, reduced to a few inconsequential lines in some dusty history book.
They lacked more than power. They lacked cunning.
But this time, their leader was someone named Douglas Holmes.
That changed everything.
Piero didn't care about the fate of these magical creatures. In fact, he rather welcomed their unification into a force too conspicuous to ignore.
Because then, certain people would be forced to act.
His thoughts drifted to the Minister—a man whose relationship with the Vatican was anything but clear.
The Minister had sent Douglas to Italy hoping to find a blade sharp enough to scrape a few bloody scales from the Church, to gain leverage for the bargaining table. He wanted evidence, a bargaining chip for private deals.
But now, instead of scraping scales, this blade was forging its own armor on Italian soil.
Piero could almost taste the Minister's fury.
No doubt the man felt mocked, his authority undermined.
And what of the Ministry's pro-Church faction? They'd descend like sharks scenting blood.
The best way to prove their loyalty would be to personally crush this nascent heretical army.
A grand melee—magical creatures, Douglas, fanatics from the Vatican, and Ministry opportunists all thrown into the fray.
Exactly the chaos Piero wanted.
Let them fight, let them bleed each other dry. He and his pureblood wizard faction would simply watch from the shadows, waiting to pick up the pieces when it was over.
The Italian Ministry of Magic must—and would—belong to Italian purebloods alone.
All Vatican corruption, all naïve schemes like Lorenzo's, would be purged in the coming storm.
Suddenly, the flames in his office's fireplace roared emerald green.
A piece of parchment shot out, hovering in midair.
On it, a single furious, scrawled line:
"Keep that English mad dog under control! I want eyes on him at all times, not a war breaking out!"
No signature, but the familiar, blustering anger was unmistakably the Minister's.
Piero picked up the parchment, watching it crumble to ash between his fingers.
"Of course, Minister," he said softly to the empty room, his voice tinged with a sly amusement. "I'll handle it."
The smoke of war faded quickly on the cold winds of the Apennines.
Ashen Claw returned to its quiet, but it was a quiet utterly unlike the deathly despair of the past.
Now, the air carried a faint, elusive hope.
The tombstone, personally sponsored by Douglas, had become a strange landmark in the valley.
Like a magnet, it drew the eyes of those who lived in the shadows.
At times, lone werewolves appeared ghostlike near the valley. Most were ragged, wary, and numb, bodies marked by long years of slavery and abuse.
They dared not approach, only watching the gravestone from afar—staring at the bold, almost taunting inscription, silent for long stretches.
A small squad of Ashen Claw werewolves, led by Marco, handled contact with these cautious kin.
"The potion… is it real?" one asked hoarsely—a werewolf from a minor Tuscan tribe, his face marred by a savage scar stretching from eye to jaw, a souvenir from resisting his old pack leader.
Marco nodded, producing a small crystal vial filled with pale blue liquid.
"Personally brewed by Professor Holmes. It's a modified version of the Ministry's Class C potion—effective, manageable side effects… though still not as good as the Professor's new lycanthrope suppressant."
He quoted Douglas word for word.
The werewolf stared at the potion, desire and suspicion warring in his eyes.
"And the price?"
"Loyalty," Marco replied simply.
The werewolf fell silent. He looked at the bottomless mine shaft, then at the Ashen Claw members around him—still poor, but with a new light in their eyes.
At last, he shook his head.
"I need to think. The Vatican… the Ministry… they won't just stand by."
He turned and melted into the forest like a startled beast.
Marco watched him go, making no move to stop him.
He understood all too well—these kin, oppressed for so long, had lost the ability to believe in miracles.
They were like prisoners who'd lived too long in darkness; even with the door flung open, they needed time to adjust to the blinding sun.
But the seed had been planted.
Within the cavern, life continued in its own peculiar order.
In a torchlit corner, Remus Lupin had resumed his lessons.
A dozen werewolf children sat around a polished stone slab. Lupin patiently guided them through the basics of the Shield Charm.
The boy who'd once wept while naming his father's killer now stood at the front.
He held a wand crafted by Douglas, his small face intent with focus.
"Protego!" he shouted.
A faint, nearly invisible barrier flickered before him.
"Excellent!" Lupin encouraged gently. "Your pronunciation is much better, but you still need to focus your will. Imagine an unbreakable wall standing between you and danger."
The boy nodded vigorously, his eyes shining.
In that light was a hunger for strength—and a hope for the future.
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