"…So, Mr. Werewolf, would you care to step forward and admit it?" Jon asked with a smile, his gaze sweeping calmly over the two companions beside him, each dressed in a completely different style.
"You've got to be kidding me!" Sandru's expression changed instantly. He smashed the wine glass in his hand onto the floor, shattering it to pieces, and glared furiously at Jon as the muscles across his broad body tensed all at once.
Jon didn't spare him a single glance. Instead, he turned his attention to William Smith on the other side.
Mr. Smith looked utterly miserable. He was struggling desperately, clutching his own throat with his right hand, as though trying to stop himself from saying something he shouldn't.
"Relashio."
Jon drew his wand and flicked it lightly toward him.
The hand gripping Smith's throat instantly fell away.
"I… I'm a werewolf!"
His voice sounded wrong, as if it weren't truly he is as if it didn't belong to him at all.
Smith's top hat slipped crookedly to one side. His face twisted into a feral snarl as he glared at Jon, every trace of his former gentlemanly composure gone.
Then, as if all strength had suddenly drained from his body, he collapsed limply into the chair, twitching weakly.
"This…"
After hearing the brief confession, Sandru froze mid-motion, his hand still hanging in the air from smashing the glass. He stared, completely stunned.
"Veritaserum," Jon explained calmly. "A colorless, odorless liquid. Just three drops are enough to force someone to speak the truth buried in their heart."
As he spoke, Jon picked up his wine glass and took a small sip.
"And paralysis potion as well. One drop is enough to leave an adult man completely paralyzed for about an hour. Though I'm not sure how effective it'll remain once you transform—werewolves tend to have fairly strong resistance to potions."
Turning toward Sandru, who looked utterly shocked, Jon added reassuringly, "Don't worry. The potion was applied to the wine glasses. The wine itself is perfectly safe."
...
A brief silence fell over the inn's private room.
"How… did you… realize…" William Smith asked weakly, his voice barely audible.
"How did I realize? That part was easy," Jon replied casually. "William is one of the most common names in the British Muggle world, and Smith is the most common surname of all. Choosing that alias wasn't clever—it was clumsy. It doesn't sound like a wizard's name in the slightest."
"And you kept insisting you graduated from Slytherin, yet you didn't even know who the Head of House was," Jon continued. "Professor Severus Snape only became Head of Slytherin fourteen years ago. He couldn't possibly have taught you for seven years. If you truly attended Hogwarts, then based on your age, Horace Slughorn should have been your Head of House."
Slumped in his chair, William Smith's teeth began to tremble.
"So you never studied at Hogwarts at all. You most likely grew up in the Muggle world," Jon went on, staring straight into his eyes. "Then why lie to me? To get close to me? And that cultivated, scholarly air of yours—was that all an act too?"
He spoke almost as if thinking aloud.
"A little observation was all it took. Light brown eyes with a faint green sheen, especially noticeable at night. Pale skin. A perpetually exhausted look. And an appearance far older than someone your age should have. These are all classic werewolf traits—though I'll admit, you concealed them quite well."
Jon paused briefly before continuing.
"To be honest, Mr. Smith, your disguise was nearly flawless. Unfortunately for you, I learned quite a bit about werewolves back in my first and second years. I know your kind better than most."
"So after breakfast, I took the opportunity to check something," Jon said with a faint smile. "And it turns out tonight is a full moon. That makes your intentions pretty obvious, doesn't it?"
"Approach me today. Get acquainted. Travel together. Then, once the full moon rises at night, transform while I'm off guard and bite me—turning me into one of your own. Isn't that right, Mr. Smith?"
"That's right," the man replied at once, his eyes going vacant as his voice turned flat and emotionless. "I'd rather have bitten you to death. You arrogant wizards force us to live like rats in the gutter. You're all guilty."
"Very well," Jon said coldly. "What's your real name?"
"Gene… Gene Crewe."
"Alright, Gene." Jon continued. "Why did you try to attack me?"
"It was Fenrir's plan," Gene answered in the same flat tone. "Fenrir believes that we're forced to avoid normal society, to steal for food, and to live without work because of you wizards. He believes that if more wizards become werewolves, our status in the wizarding world will rise."
"So every full moon, when we transform, we try to do this," he went on. "We choose our targets carefully—only lone or weak wizards—to avoid being discovered by the Ministry of Magic."
"A lone foreign underage wizard," Jon said with a self-mocking laugh. "I really do fit your hunting criteria perfectly. Who exactly is this Fenrir?"
"Fenrir Greyback. Leader of the werewolf resistance. He will lead us into a future where we can live under the sun," the werewolf replied.
"Sounds like a grand ideal," Jon commented.
That name was anything but unfamiliar to Jon. In the original story, Fenrir Greyback was one of the most vicious werewolves—and one of the Dark Lord's subordinates, albeit a low-ranking one among the Death Eaters.
"You serve the Dark Lord as well, then?" Jon asked.
"Yes."
"So when you said you were heading to Krujë, that wasn't a lie?"
"That's correct. It was the Dark Lord's order. He commanded me to go to Krujë in order to—"
"Stop," Jon interrupted coldly. "Don't say another word."
He hadn't forgotten that there was still another traveling companion nearby.
Raising his wand, he aimed it directly at the man's head.
"Legilimens!"
...
Several minutes later.
Ignoring the stunned Sandru beside him—and the paralyzed werewolf slumped in place—Jon lowered his head, deep in thought.
At the same time—
The daylight in the sky slowly faded, and from behind the dark clouds, the moon gradually emerged.