The werewolf Gegri arched his shoulders, and thick, coarse black hair rapidly sprouted across his face, arms, and legs. His fingers elongated and contorted into jagged claws, each talon gleaming with a sharp edge as he crouched low, slicing through a horde of conjured vipers slithering across the ground.
The poisonous snakes hissed and lunged, fangs glinting as they struck his limbs—but to no avail. Their teeth could not pierce his enchanted hide, and instead, their mouths were shredded by the enchanted bristles of his fur.
The wiry hair of the werewolf bristled with innate magic resistance—so dense and magically reinforced that dozens of spells launched from the chaotic crowd fizzled upon contact or were deflected altogether, barely leaving a mark on his hulking form.
Moriarty was the first to reach the entrance of the Red Lantern Shop. With a flick of his wand, he cast Protego Maxima, forming a golden shield around himself that repelled oncoming curses. Without hesitation, he advanced toward Gegri, casting spell after spell.
"Incendio Maxima! Flamma Ardens! Incendio!"
Moriarty took advantage of the fact that the werewolf lacked wand magic. Waves of fire surged forth from his wand, and soon the once-intimidating shop was engulfed in roaring flames.
Most of the onlookers retreated in shock, watching as the firelight danced across Moriarty's silhouette. There was astonishment in their eyes—this was the Red Lantern Shop, the heart of the largest werewolf enclave in all of France. To burn it was to challenge an entire underground society.
Yet, a few unscrupulous individuals saw the chaos as an opportunity and began looting the Red Lantern, stuffing enchanted trinkets and dark artifacts into their robes.
Gegri roared in rage, leaping through the fire in a blur of fur and fury. He descended upon Moriarty with terrifying force, his ten claws slashing downward like spectral swords aimed to rip him apart.
"Frigus Manus!" Moriarty shouted.
His hands shimmered with an icy glow, transforming into hardened gauntlets of enchanted ice. With his left, he seized the werewolf's wrist mid-swing. With his right, he formed an icy hammer-fist that smashed into Gegri's incoming claws.
The clash echoed like thunder. Cold magic surged into Gegri's arm, spreading rapidly. Ice crawled up his muscles, freezing his veins solid and climbing toward his chest like frost on glass.
To Gegri's horror, their arms were locked together by a sleeve of ice. He felt his strength ebbing, his flesh and blood freezing within his own body. Moriarty, in contrast, remained eerily calm—his enchanted limbs impervious to the frost.
With a violent jerk, Moriarty twisted his arm. A sickening crack echoed.
"Crack!"
Gegri's left hand shattered at the wrist, snapping off like a brittle twig. His detached claw hit the ground and crumbled into glittering shards. The claws on his right hand splintered moments later.
Moriarty stepped forward, unscathed. He pressed his wand to Gegri's chest, and power surged through the air like a storm, his black cloak fluttering as wind coiled around him.
The other two werewolves stood paralyzed. The crowd fell silent—only Gegri's screams pierced the smoky air.
It had all ended too quickly.
Hidden vampires cursed under their breath in frustration. This werewolf had seemed indomitable—his physical power and resistance impressive. But he was no true magical duelist. He could not manipulate his magical core to alter his body at will.
Now, ice magic flowed freely through Gegri's bloodstream, freezing his organs from the inside out.
Sensing his foe's decline, Moriarty invoked Legilimens, delving into the werewolf's thoughts. But Gegri's mind was primitive, primal—he knew only that the vampires were targeting the elves, but not why.
Another dead end.
Frowning, Moriarty raised his hand and slammed it down on Gegri's head. A burst of glacial magic erupted. Gegri's body crystallized instantly, becoming an ornate sculpture of ice, frozen in agony.
The remaining two werewolves howled in fear and vanished into the mob.
Moriarty raised his wand.
"Emerald Meteorites."
Ten emerald-green orbs of condensed magic, shaped like meteors, launched into the air. They arced through the smoke and fire before slamming into the skulls of the fleeing werewolves, erupting in a chorus of final shrieks.
Chaos erupted once again. The crowd screamed and scattered, running in every direction. Thieves continued to plunder, and violent duels broke out across the smoldering square.
Moriarty took advantage of the anarchy. He summoned back the emeralds, tucked his cloak over his head, and vanished into the northwestern alleyways.
Watching from the shadows, the vampires grit their teeth.
"Useless mutts," one snarled. "We'll handle it ourselves. After him! Take the gems—and the girl!"
In the inferno's glow, Meiwa, the young magical girl, was still bound by rope. The flames ate at the fibers until they finally snapped. She landed deftly on her feet, looking around with wide eyes. Screams and fire surrounded her.
Instinctively, she knew her only hope was to stay with the white-haired wizard.
She remembered the way Moriarty had looked at her amidst the crowd—his calm, unreadable eyes had sparked a fragile thread of trust. She took a step forward, her legs trembling, just as dark silhouettes darted toward her.
Blood-red eyes gleamed. Fangs bared.
Meiwa froze.
Suddenly—a streak of scarlet light cut through the smoke.
"Stupefy!" a fierce feminine voice rang out.
A vampire crashed to the ground.
Then came more spells:
"Diffindo!"
"Stupefy!"
"Impedimenta!"
From the blaze emerged a group—an auburn-haired boy, a stocky dwarf, a stern middle-aged man, and at their lead, a towering witch.
"Aurors!" the red-haired boy shouted. "Run while you can!"
The looters panicked and fled. The vampires, realizing the Aurors' arrival and their failed objective, turned and flew toward the northwest in pursuit of Moriarty.
Fleur let out a breath of relief. Her eyes welled up as she recognized the tall figure walking through the fire.
"Madame Maxime!"
"Fleur! My dear, come here. Let me see which fool dares threaten my students!" Madame Maxime called, her boots crunching on scorched planks, firelight glinting off her stern face.
Fleur surged forward, emotion overwhelming her. Maxime embraced her tightly, gently smoothing her singed hair.
"Oh, Merlin's beard, you must have been terrified," Maxime whispered. "It's over now. You're safe."
"Fleur, my darling girl!" cried a tearful voice.
Fleur looked up to see her father standing behind Maxime, face wet with emotion.
"I'm sorry, Papa," she sobbed. "I made you worry."
As the family reunited, Mr. Delacour finally composed himself and turned to a red-haired boy nearby.
"Pardon me, young man, I didn't catch your name…"
The boy grinned. "Charlie Weasley, sir. But we should move quickly. The Aurors will be here any moment, and I doubt they'll be thrilled about this mess."
"You're right, we're leaving now," said Delacour, recalling a previous heated exchange with the Head Auror. His expression soured.
Maxime nodded and called out, "Professor Flitwick?"
"Yes, Madame Maxime?" came the unmistakable voice of Filius Flitwick, currently conjuring fiery dragons to drive off the last retreating vampires.
As the last bloodsucker vanished into the northwest, Flitwick rejoined the group. Maxime leaned toward him.
"Fleur is safe. I suggest we depart immediately. We can't have Charlie seen here—he's Hogwarts' champion in the European Wizarding Tournament!"
Flitwick nodded in agreement. They had traveled to Paris for the tournament, and after receiving word of Fleur's abduction, had joined Maxime in the rescue.
Any association with this dark exchange would reflect poorly on Hogwarts and the Ministry.
They turned to leave when—BOOM!
An explosion rocked the earth from the northwest.
All eyes turned toward the noise, knowing the battle wasn't over yet.
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