At Malfoy Manor, Lucius Malfoy regarded the gathered pure-blood Death Eater representatives with a calm expression.
"Gentlemen, the time has come for us to demonstrate our loyalty," Lucius Malfoy said. "The Master has returned, but he is still weak and requires our help."
"Lucius, the Master's return is still just a rumor circulating among the public. Should we not confirm it? Perhaps wait for his orders?" asked the head of the Crabbe family, Vincent Crabbe's father.
A trace of impatience flickered in Lucius Malfoy's gaze, though he kept it hidden. "Mr. Crabbe, are you afraid, or do you simply not wish to contribute what little strength you have while the situation remains uncertain?"
"Gentlemen, we have already backed down once. The fact that we sit here discussing matters while our fellow Death Eaters rot in prison is proof enough of our betrayal. If we retreat again now, do you think the Master will forgive us?"
Lucius Malfoy smiled faintly. "Oh, no—this is not about us. It's about you. I will take action, no matter what."
The pure-blood patriarchs' faces darkened.
These Death Eaters had been their families' most promising young members eleven years ago. They joined the Dark Lord to become Death Eaters—but no sane person truly devoted themselves to Voldemort. Their families made the choice for them.
They followed because they feared Voldemort's rule, not because they actually wished to serve him.
They were fence-sitters, the typical pure-blood survival strategy.
And all pure-blood families did this—choosing sides based on whichever path best preserved their lineage.
Lucius Malfoy, however, was the king of fence-sitters.
During the Ministry's trial of Death Eaters, he led a group claiming they had been controlled by the Imperius Curse, then used enough Galleons to silence the Ministry and escape imprisonment.
He was the biggest fence-sitter of them all. Yet now this very man had turned hardline—and was pressuring others to declare loyalty with him.
They had come today intending to discuss whether the rumors were true and how to respond. But no one expected this notorious turncoat to suddenly change his behavior.
What had caused it? Could he have received insider information?
The pure-blood family heads exchanged glances, all sensing confusion in each other's eyes. Even the Crabbe and Goyle patriarchs—usually the closest to the Malfoys—looked utterly lost.
This strange reaction gave the others a hint of insight.
Lucius Malfoy's change was likely due to inside information—or even direct orders from the Dark Lord.
After several exchanged looks, the old foxes each formed their own conclusions. Just as one of them prepared to speak, the study door was knocked.
"Master, another group of guests has arrived," came the voice of Dobby, the Malfoy family's house-elf.
Hearing this, the pure-blood patriarchs' expressions shifted again.
"Malfoy, you invited more people?" several patriarchs frowned. "This isn't proper."
They already had several high-status figures present. Who could possibly be arriving now?
"Be patient. They're tools we're all familiar with," Lucius said with a smile. He called toward the door, "Let them in."
The door opened, and several casually dressed figures stepped inside.
Without exception, each of them bore partial signs of wolf transformation—Fenrir's werewolves, unmistakably.
They never suppressed their wolf side. In fact, they indulged it so excessively that their lycanthropic traits seeped into their human forms, strengthening their bodies while making them impulsive and violent.
The pure-blood patriarchs—battle-experienced Death Eaters—recognized these werewolf sorcerers instantly. Their eyes held contempt, but none bothered with ridicule.
As Lucius said, these werewolves were merely tools. Pure-bloods saw no need to waste words on tools.
"Mr. Malfoy, we've arrived as promised. But next time, give us earlier notice. If we're late because of a last-minute summons, that's not on us," the lead werewolf sorcerer said with a toothy grin, sharp fangs fully visible.
"My apologies. My oversight," Lucius replied blandly. "But why only this few?"
"Oh, the others are downstairs waiting. You don't exactly have room for all of us, do you?"
The leader picked an empty stool and sat casually. "Anyway, let's talk payment for our help."
"As I said earlier—what the Dark Lord once promised: the right for you to live openly in the sunlight," Lucius reminded him. "Is that not enough?"
"Of course it's not enough!" the werewolf snarled, baring his fangs. "We betrayed our current leader to help you. Aside from that distant promise, shouldn't you give us something real?"
A pure-blood patriarch snapped, "Allowing you to sit here is already a great favor. How dare you speak so brazenly?"
Immediately, all the werewolf sorcerers turned toward him.
These were Fenrir's most vicious wolves, the type who treated human life as nothing. Their favorite pastime was to seek out sparsely populated areas during the full moon, transform, and infect whoever they found.
In other words—they were the cruelest of the cruel.
And even a proud pure-blood patriarch felt pressure under their gaze.
For before the werewolf curse, all bloodlines were equal. Pure-blood or half-blood, once bitten, you were a werewolf.
Sensing imminent conflict, Lucius stepped in to smooth things over.
"Everyone, calm yourselves. We are all here to serve the Dark Lord. This is a time for unity, not internal conflict."
He turned to the werewolves. "Your price will be met. You simply want some benefit before the operation. Very well—Galleons. Fifty thousand."
Lucius spoke the number casually, but the others were stunned.
"F-Fifty thousand Galleons?" The lead werewolf's breath hitched. He had intended to haggle, but he instantly swallowed whatever number he'd planned to say.
"Deal!"