Chapter 25

Path Beneath the Moon

The kitchen at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, was more crowded than usual.
Around the table, chairs creaked, whispers faded, and the air tightened with the kind of expectation that precedes important news. The clock showed a little past six, and the room carried that lingering scent of tea and wood smoke that only long afternoons seem to gather.

Bill Weasley was the last to arrive. He closed the door softly, shook the damp from his coat, and took a seat beside his parents.

That was when Moody rose.

Without saying a word at first, he ran a rough hand over his face and rummaged in the inner pocket of his coat.
When he pulled it out, he held it up for a few seconds before letting it drop onto the table with a metallic clink.

It was a ring of darkened silver, spiralled in design, with a ruby set at its centre.

—Kaleg talked —he growled at last—. It took time, but he broke. The pressure of Azkaban finished him.

Everyone’s attention turned to him at once. Only the crackle of the fire accompanied his words.

—The Death Eater imitators are organised —Moody continued—. They’re not just opportunists, as the Auror Department believes. They have leadership. And that leadership is, indeed, Baltasar Greaves.

The weight of that name fell upon the table like a slab of stone, just as it did every time it was mentioned.

—This is how they communicate —Moody went on—. This isn’t just a symbol. It’s a channel. A specific enchantment has to be applied to it, one that changes daily, and then… Greaves makes contact. Not directly, of course. He gives a date and a time. And thanks to Kaleg, we know the location.

A general murmur of agreement followed. McGonagall narrowed her eyes, thoughtful. Arthur frowned. Molly looked worried, as she always did whenever criminal networks were mentioned. Tonks could not take her eyes off the ring in front of her.

—And what we’re going to do —Moody continued— is use it ourselves. Activate it. But not to deliver merchandise. We’re going to see what he can tell us about Room Fourteen.

—Greaves… —Mundungus muttered from a corner, with a smile that never reached his eyes—. I knew it. In the end, he’s always behind anything worth having on the black market. That bloke doesn’t lift a finger unless there’s gold involved.

A dense silence settled in, the kind where no one wants to be the first to speak.

Tonks looked around the room, and in her scrutiny, her gaze eventually settled on Lupin. He was staring off into the distance, but his expression… his expression carried too much weight. As though he knew more than he was willing to share.

Moody, who had noticed it too, intervened:

—Do you know him?

Lupin lifted his gaze, calm. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Or, perhaps, cautiously.

—Not much —he replied—. But I know people who do. Desperate people.

His voice was steady, but there was a sombre note beneath it. Tonks felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She knew perfectly well what kind of “desperate people” he meant. Instinctively, she searched for the moon beyond the windowpanes.

—One day you ask him for a job, a potion, a wand you can’t afford… and the next, you’re caught in his web —Lupin added.

Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts, as if that revelation had not surprised them at all. Tonks frowned, confused. Was she the only one who didn’t know this Greaves fellow? Was he really that important?

—And then, even if you want out, you can’t —Kingsley concluded, his voice deep, without unnecessary drama—. Because he knows things about you that even you would rather forget.

Lupin nodded without looking at anyone, but a sigh escaped him, one that did not go unnoticed by Tonks, a gesture that felt more like personal experience than mere knowledge of the underworld. Like someone carrying distant memories he has no wish to unearth.

Moody slammed his fist onto the table, shattering the silence, and Tonks’s spiralling thoughts, with a single blow.

—We need to negotiate —Moody said at last, as if he were saying it more to himself than to the others.

—Negotiate? Are you saying we track him down, activate an illicit channel, and then look the other way? —Tonks shot back, lifting her head, incredulous.

No one answered.

—We’re talking about Baltasar Greaves. From what little I know, at the very least he is a black-market broker, a facilitator of illegal magic, a systematic extortionist, and the principal operator of an organised criminal network. He’s not a contact. He’s a target.

She looked at her mentor. For the first time, she did not recognise the expression on his face. She had never seen anything resembling resignation in him before.

—I’m saying we can’t fight everything at once, Tonks —the Auror replied, without softening his tone.

—I didn’t come into this war to choose which injustices feel more urgent to me —she said quietly, her fingers clenched against the table—. If we start tolerating people like Greaves, we stop enforcing the law and start administering it.

She knew she was right. But for some reason, she avoided her mentor’s gaze.

Kingsley stepped in, conciliatory as ever:

—Baltasar isn’t with us, but for now he isn’t against us. And in this war, that’s more than we can say for a lot of people.

—In fact —Sirius added from across the table—, it even suits us to have someone like him still at large. Greaves always knows everything about everyone. Who knows, we might end up needing him later on.

Tonks didn’t reply. Not because she agreed, but because she knew they were right.

She could feel it. In Lupin’s resigned tone, in Kingsley’s measured calm, and in Alastor’s silence.

Sometimes, war was also about swallowing what you despised.

Lupin cast her a gentle look. A smile that wasn’t cheerful, but understanding.

Tonks held his gaze for a moment, then lowered her eyes once more to the ring on the table.

The symbol of someone unknown, neither ally nor enemy, whom they had not chosen, but who had crossed their path and who, it seemed, could not be ignored.

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Just as Moody had explained, at the agreed date and time, and in the most squalid place imaginable —a damp, dark alley reeking of rancid grease and cheap tobacco—, a stranger appeared.

He was tall, thin as a shadow, and wrapped in a threadbare cloak.
He made no move to approach.
He was simply there, as if he had been waiting for them for hours.

The only light came from a broken streetlamp that flickered at irregular intervals, casting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.

Tonks noticed at once the ring gleaming on his right little finger: a spiral of tarnished silver, Greaves’s unmistakable seal. She needed no further confirmation. This was a meeting with the devil.

Moody frowned, scrutinising the newcomer as if he could dismantle him with his gaze.

Beside him, Lupin tightened his jaw as he met the emissary’s eyes.

Tonks, disguised as a middle-aged witch with coarse features and thinning hair, swallowed.

She tried to keep her posture straight, even though she could feel her pulse pounding at her temples. But she was not afraid. If anything, she was expectant. She wanted to know who the hell Greaves was.

Besides, she knew Kingsley was patrolling the area, hidden among the shadows as silent backup. Just in case.

—You’re not Kaleg —the man said without preamble. His voice sounded rough, like old leather.

—We’re not Kaleg —Moody replied in his stony tone, displaying the ring he had brought. The ruby set in the spiral glinted briefly under the dying light.

The stranger narrowed his eyes, weighing what was left unsaid. For a second, he seemed torn between vanishing and taking the risk.

—What do you want? —he asked at last, making no effort to hide his irritation.

—Information —said Moody.

The hooded man swept them with his gaze. He seemed to be assessing them the way one examines a bag of Galleons, measuring value, vulnerability, and consequences in a single look.

He lingered a second longer on Lupin, as if recognising him from another life, and finally turned back to Moody.

—Follow me.

He set off without looking back, crossing a barely visible threshold between two flaking houses.

Tonks felt that each step carried them farther from the sane world. The streets they passed through grew ever narrower, as though London itself were trying to hide them. The buildings hunched over them, weeping damp, with dead streetlamps and doors bolted with more than one lock.

For a moment, Tonks thought she heard something moving in the shadows, but she did not look back. Kingsley, she thought.

The man stopped in front of a splintered wooden door, wedged between two walls that looked ready to collapse.

Above it, a rusted sign read in crooked letters: “The Last Drop”.

—Creative —Lupin murmured.

The stranger did not reply.

He drew his wand and murmured something.

The door did not open: the ground did.

A trapdoor slid aside with a wet creak, revealing a descending spiral staircase, where the darkness was so dense it seemed solid.

A shiver ran down Tonks’s spine. It was not fear exactly, but something about that descent reminded her of the burrows of creatures she preferred not to imagine.

—No visible wands below —he warned, before going down.

Moody snorted. He turned to the others.

—Let me do the talking. I’ve negotiated with him before.

—And does that give you an advantage? —Lupin asked, one eyebrow raised.

—No —Moody replied—. But it makes him less repulsive to me.

He looked at Tonks for a moment. She nodded.

And with that, the veteran adjusted his coat, gripped his wand beneath his sleeve, and went down first. Tonks followed him. Lupin was the last.

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The descent was narrow and damp, leading down to an uneven floor of old stone.

At the end of the passage, an iron door awaited them. It opened without anyone touching it.

The room they entered bore no resemblance to anything they had seen so far. Tonks had imagined some kind of dungeon or cellar.

But this did not fit that category.

What was clear was that it was a statement of power.

The walls, clad in dark wood, were lined with shelves that curved as if adapting to a capricious geometry. Upon them stood objects of uncertain origin, each more unusual, dangerous, or illegal than the last.

Vials filled with iridescent fluids, masks carved from bone, talismans from extinct cultures.

To one side, a display case held the embalmed head of a troll, its eyes still damp. In another, a mirror without a reflection returned only darkness, even when light touched it. And on a lower shelf, a metal box throbbed with a dull pulse, as if it were breathing.

Some artefacts vibrated faintly. Others seemed to watch. But they all shared the same traits: a strange, dark, and absurdly expensive appearance.

At the centre of the room stood several deep, timeworn armchairs of black leather, arranged around a low table of onyx, upon which rested a thick glass bottle and glasses with gilded rims. The air carried the scent of nearly extinguished incense, old leather… and something else, metallic. Something that recalled iron and blood.

It was not a place designed to receive visitors.

It was a territory.

And Baltasar Greaves, without a doubt, its absolute master.

He stood beside an imposing fireplace, carved from black marble with reliefs that evoked gods of other ages. The fire crackled behind him with a dim, almost reverential light, as though, rather than disturbing his figure, it sought to enhance it.

His black, straight hair, perfectly slicked back, left his elegant, pallid features fully exposed. His lips were thin, his skin almost translucent. And his eyes, an unmoving ash-grey, did not look at the present: they pierced straight through it, as if seeing through skin, bone, and the very fabric of reality itself.

He wore a cross-cut satin robe, long to the floor, of a black so deep it seemed to absorb the light, with silver embroidery at the cuffs, barely visible filaments, like the veins of an extinct mineral.

He held a dark crystal goblet in one hand, watching the thick liquid inside with an almost mystical concentration, as though answers stirred upon its surface that only he could comprehend.

Tonks could not put it into words, but she finally understood the tense expressions and the weight that always accompanied the utterance of his name.

Everything about his appearance suggested that he no longer belonged entirely to this world.

It was clear that he was no ordinary man.

He radiated a kind of aura that made him, somehow, unreachable.

And at the same time, unsettling.

—Well, Alastor, what a pleasure to see you. I thought you’d send your lackeys —he said without lifting his gaze—. Don’t you ever tire of this theatre?

His voice was soft, velvety, slow in cadence, the voice of someone who is in no hurry. Or rather, of someone for whom time has ceased to matter.

—You are the theatre —Moody replied dryly, folding his arms.

—Ah, the old game of despising one another while needing each other all the same. Such a charming habit you Aurors have.

Moody did not smile. Lupin said nothing. Neither did Tonks.

—Let’s talk about the attacks.

—Which ones? —Greaves asked, finally turning towards them.

Tonks noticed his gaze, which did not seem to settle on anyone in particular, nor on anything at all.

As though whatever he was looking at could offer him no real interest.

The gaze of a man who, after having glimpsed what lies beyond the senses, had ceased to use them, choosing instead to attune himself to echoes, vibrations, or whispers drifting from a horizon that lay beyond the physical and the earthly. Something that existed for him alone.

Perhaps he could no longer even be considered human.

He reminded her vaguely of Professor Trelawney, and a shiver crept up her spine. But she held her ground.

—The false Death Eaters —Moody replied, mustering his patience—. Wizards ransacking houses while pretending to answer to the Mark. We know someone is pulling the strings. And all paths lead to you.

—Ah, that.

Greaves took a sip from his goblet without showing the slightest hint of discomfort, his lips curving into what passed for a polite smile.

—Such creativity, some people have, wouldn’t you say? —Greaves murmured, stroking his chin, his impassive demeanour unchanged.

—We’ve been told you’re behind it —Tonks cut in, firm.

Greaves turned his eyes to her then, drifting away from his mystical horizon to look at her, or rather, to admire her. As if she were a curious, exotic, singular creature. A museum piece. Or merely insignificant.

—And yet you came anyway —he said, a slow smile spreading across his face—. Interesting.

—If you cooperate, this can end here —Moody added, his tone unchanged.

Greaves lowered his goblet with measured slowness, never taking his eyes off Tonks.

—Cooperate? Me? —he repeated, taking a step towards her—. I’d be delighted to cooperate. Though, of course, everything comes at a price.

—And the price is not locking you up? —Tonks snapped, unable to stop herself.

Greaves let out a low laugh before looking at her with feigned pity.

—Lock me up…? Do you really think you can lock me up? Me?

He took another step closer. His voice dropped a register, shedding its softness and condescension, turning almost sickly, finally revealing the venom he had kept hidden behind his apparent indifference.

—And who exactly are you planning to rely on for that? The Head of the Department of Magical Security? —he tilted his head—. The very same woman who has a little ivory figurine on her desk that I had delivered to her three months ago? The Head of Aurors? The one who owes me a favour he’s never quite had the courage to repay? Or perhaps the Minister?

He leaned in slightly towards Tonks, his smile sharpening further, at last displaying his true power.

—Who, as it happens, not only knows me, but owes me the chair he sits on.

The silence that followed was thick, abrasive.

Tonks clenched her fists without realising it. Her heart pounded against her ribs, as if trying to warn her that this man would not be swayed by the usual threats of authority and law.

Greaves straightened slowly, satisfied.

He turned back towards the fireplace and raised his goblet with deliberate languor, as though he were once again alone in the room and nothing could possibly disturb him.

Then Lupin stepped forward.

—We’re not here to stop you. We’re here because we need something you have.

—At last, someone who understands the game —Greaves murmured—. You, always so quiet, aren’t you, Lupin?

He did not even blink.

—Because what you say isn’t always what matters —he replied, with his usual simplicity.

Greaves let out a faint nasal laugh. He did not answer, as though there were no need to.

Tonks narrowed her eyes. She looked at Lupin, trying to read between the lines. But he did not look back at her. Perhaps because he hadn’t seen her. Or perhaps because he had chosen not to.

And then she understood. It wasn’t intuition. It was certainty.

Those two knew each other. And far better than Lupin had admitted during the Order meeting. Why?

She looked back at Greaves.

And once again, she met his gaze. He was watching her too, without any attempt at concealment. As if he had heard her think. Feel. Doubt.

Now, his pupils gleamed with a different light, distilling an interest he had not shown before. One that was almost personal.

—Your disguise is good —he said, examining her with a slow gesture. He pointed towards the polished surface by the wall—. That mirror shows me which of my visitors lies. That is, who presents themselves as they truly are… and who does not.

Tonks, feigning indifference, turned her gaze towards the glass.

There were the reflections of Moody and Lupin, clear and unmistakable. Even Greaves’s own, which seemed more vivid than the fire itself.

But where she should have been… there was only a faceless figure, a dark silhouette cut against the glow.

—As you can see —he added, without taking his eyes off her—, you are not there. Not entirely. That is why I say your disguise is good. It is not Polyjuice Potion, nor a simple charm. So what does that leave us with…?

He paused briefly. Then he cast a fleeting glance at Moody, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

—Dark magic, perhaps?

There was no answer.

Greaves stepped away from the fireplace with feline elegance and began to pace slowly around the room. His steps were soft, deliberate.

Tonks did not take her eyes off him. Moody cleared his throat.

—I don’t think it’s dark magic —Greaves murmured, glancing towards the veteran Auror—. Let me think… something familiar, something unique. Perhaps you are one of the few blessed with the unusual gift of Metamorphmagus magic?

The Auror held his gaze, steady. She did not intend to blink.

—I’ve hit the mark, haven’t I? —Greaves whispered, leaning in just slightly, as if sharing a secret—. There aren’t many of you these days… Do you really think I won’t uncover your identity?

She did not reply. Behind her, Moody cleared his throat again.

—Enough games. Get to the point —Moody growled—. I don’t know what you gain from all this.

—Well, you know, Alastor —Greaves said lightly—. I have nothing to lose.

—What do you want? —Lupin asked, his voice low.

Greaves turned to him, a near-satisfied gleam in his eyes.

—No gold this time. No favours. Just one condition: that my name does not appear. Not in reports. Not in meetings. Not in whispers.

Moody pressed his lips together. Tonks seemed to swallow a retort.

—And in return —Moody said—, you tell us what’s in Room Fourteen.

Greaves smiled, like someone who had been waiting for that question all night.

—Ah, so that’s what you want… I should have guessed —he said, with ceremony.

He turned back to Tonks.

—That may come at an additional price —he added.

Moody folded his arms.

—Name it.

Greaves did not take his eyes off Tonks.

—That you show me your true appearance.

Tonks went pale. Greaves smiled softly.

—Oh, come now… what does it matter? I’m not asking for much. We’re among friends, aren’t we? —he added, this time looking at Lupin—. You are Remus Lupin, a werewolf. Alastor hardly needs an introduction, of course. And I am Baltasar Greaves, as I’m sure you know, and this is my true appearance.

He gave a theatrical bow before drifting a step closer to her, almost as if he were floating.

—Now I want to know who you are.

Moody cleared his throat impatiently.

—Don’t bother —he said disdainfully, turning towards the door—. We’re not that interested.

But Tonks raised a hand, never taking her eyes off Greaves.

—Alastor, wait —she said, firmly.

—Tonks… —Lupin murmured to himself, like a warning, but it was already too late.

The transformation began in silence.

First, the coarse features of the disguise started to refine. The square jaw softened. The cheekbones lifted, and the blunt chin shortened with delicate precision. The fabricated wrinkles were reabsorbed, and the eyebrows, once thick and grey, narrowed until they regained their natural curve.

The thin, brittle hair folded back as if absorbed by the scalp, only to surge forth again with renewed strength into a dense half-length fall that settled softly over her shoulders. It was not pink. It was dark brown, with warm undertones under the flickering light of the underground chamber.

The witch’s small, sunken, lifeless eyes widened, gaining depth and expression. They ignited with a steady spark: Tonks’s eyes, intense, focused, unmistakable.

Her body shifted in proportion in a movement that was subtle yet unmistakable.

She compacted slightly in mass, refining her shoulders, neck, waist. And at the same time, her figure straightened just a little, gaining a couple of centimetres in height with instinctive elegance, as if her spine had suddenly remembered who it was.

When it was over, Tonks remained still, chin lifted, her gaze locked onto Greaves.

The posture was hers again, but there was something different about her.

Her usual smile had been replaced by a serious, impenetrable expression. That of a trained Auror, determined never to bow more than strictly necessary.

The wizard smiled with satisfaction, as if he had been waiting to see this true version from the very first moment.

—Much better this way, I must say.

Tonks raised an eyebrow.

—At another time, in another place —she said, casting a quick glance around before fixing her eyes on Greaves again—, I might accept your compliment. But as it stands, I don’t find it appropriate.

He did not reply. He simply savoured the moment like a fine wine, studying her once more from head to toe.

The air seemed to thicken for a moment before he looked away and began to speak.

—Room Fourteen… —he murmured—. It is not just any place. It is not an unfinished experiment, nor incomprehensible magic lost forever in the depths of the Department of Mysteries. And it certainly —he added, almost with disdain— is not a talking room, as the rumours claim.

With measured slowness, he moved towards a small black box on his desk. His fingers glided over the varnished surface as though caressing an ancient secret.

He seemed to hesitate before opening it.

From within, a soft haze emerged, imperceptible at first, barely disturbing the air.

Inside rested an opaque sphere, like glass veiled by smoke, vibrating faintly with a dull, unstable energy.

He turned his gaze back to them. In his grey eyes there was a strange mixture of admiration and warning.

—Room Fourteen is a sanctuary. A graveyard of possibilities. A place where time bends and destinies are written before we are capable of understanding them.

He opened his eyes wide before delivering his revelation.

—It is the temple of prophecies.

He raised his hands, moving his long, pallid fingers through the air, as if he could see the prophecies orbiting around him, even feel them, touch them.

—Thousands of them. Sealed. Latent. Waiting.

The room seemed to darken by a degree, as though even the fireplace had held its breath.

—Is that all? —Tonks asked, unable to hide her disappointment—. Crystal spheres?

It sounded more like a stray thought than a reply. She immediately regretted not biting her tongue.

Greaves looked at her with a half-smile. As if they were not speaking the same language. Or as if he regretted that she did not understand yet.

Then, with almost ceremonial care, he took the prophecy into his hands.

—Yes… you don’t believe, do you? I didn’t either, at first.

He looked at the sphere. The reflection of the fire trembled across the smoky surface of the glass.

—I thought that room was just another one. Cold. Hermetic. Filled with meaningless magic. But no.

He turned slightly towards Lupin.

—Curious, isn’t it?

Lupin raised an eyebrow, as if unable to conceal his scepticism.
He held his gaze.

Tonks looked at them both, once again noticing that strange silence between them. It seemed to her that Greaves was on the verge of adding something more. Something personal.

Moody cleared his throat sharply, as though beginning to tire of that pointless theatre.

Greaves smiled again. He closed the box with care and slid it to one side of the desk.

—What lies inside those spheres are not scattered words or mad whispers. They are threads. Invisible threads that pull at us. That alter the course of wars, that name the chosen, that announce deaths before bodies ever fall.

He paused.

He looked at them in silence.

The closed box rested on the desk, yet his hand still lay upon it, as though something inside continued to breathe. As though it contained more than a sphere: a secret, a bond, a fate already written.

—And believe me… —he whispered, his eyes fixed on them— someone is already listening. And when he understand enough, he will act.

……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……

They emerged from the trapdoor with the stealth of those who do not wish the world to know where they have been.

Outside, the same streetlamp flickered a few metres away, casting a pale light over the broken puddles on the asphalt.

Moody closed the trapdoor behind them, and the three of them walked on in silence until they reached a main avenue, already in the heart of Muggle London.

The lights were yellowish, wavering, as if they could not quite decide whether they wanted to remain lit.

Across the street, four people walked in a loose formation.

A pair of young people laughed softly together, one with a cigarette in hand; the other two walked with their hands in their pockets, heads bowed, a sign that the evening weighed on them a little. The laughter was light, insignificant. Alien. As if it came from another world, a far more carefree one.

Moody stopped in the middle of the street.

—I’ll call a meeting next week —he murmured in a grave voice, ignoring the looks the Muggles inevitably cast his way—. This… needs to be discussed.

He then turned to them. His eyes—the magical one, alert; the other, more tired than ever—rested first on Lupin, then on Tonks. He nodded.

—Good work, both of you.

Tonks managed a faint smile, her heart still a little tight.

—Girl —Moody added, scratching his beard—. You shouldn’t have shown your face. You never give a bastard like Greaves what he wants.

She raised an eyebrow, that familiar spark of hers that not even the darkness could extinguish.

—Bah… he’d already hit the mark. He said I was a Metamorphmagus. How many Metamorphmagi work with you, Alastor?

Moody grunted under his breath, somewhere between resignation and a laugh. He shrugged.

—You’re right, Auror Tonks. Sometimes you have to know when to win by losing —he said, and walked off down the avenue, turning into an alleyway.

The darkness swallowed him as if it had been waiting.

For a few seconds, Lupin and Tonks remained still.

The distant noise of the city wrapped around them like a heavy blanket. A car passed far off, casting a beam of light across the wet cobblestones. A stray cat slipped between the rusted wheels of a fallen bicycle.

Tonks took a deep breath.

She crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her gaze to the gleaming pavement, betraying her unease.

Lupin watched her in silence.

At last, the Auror spoke:

—Did you believe in that? —she asked, almost in a whisper—. In prophecies.

Lupin shook his head slowly.

—No… —he replied—. But I haven’t exactly lived a predictable life either. So… I don’t rule anything out anymore.

She gave a half-smile, as though she had expected precisely that answer. But the shadow on her face remained.

—Is something worrying you? —Lupin asked.

She looked at him for a moment, then turned her eyes towards the far end of the street.

—We’re going back to Azkaban tomorrow —she said at last—. With Moody. To see Kaleg again.

She paused.

Her voice dropped slightly, as if she were speaking to herself.

—I know Kaleg, you know? From my last year at Hogwarts. He was the Quidditch team captain. A bloke… I don’t know. Cheerful. Friendly. “Normal”. We laughed a lot. Did stupid things. Shared idiotic jokes in class…

Her tone grew weaker.

—I can’t understand it —she added—. How he ended up like this. Working with Greaves. Captured alongside Death Eater imitators. Locked away in Azkaban…

Lupin did not reply at once.

He simply nodded, his lips pressed lightly together.

—I suppose you never truly get to know someone —he murmured after a while.

—No —Tonks echoed, barely audible.

He tilted his head, thoughtful, before adding:

—But people make mistakes too. And sometimes all it takes is a second chance. Perhaps, since he’s cooperated with the authorities, his sentence will be reduced.

Tonks turned her gaze back to him.

She said nothing for a few seconds.

Then she nodded again, this time with more intent.

—Maybe we’ll even manage to get him out of there —she said—. Right.

A faint curve appeared at the corner of her mouth. He stepped a little closer to her.

—He might even be able to start again —Lupin finished.

This time, Tonks did smile. Small. Serious. But real.

She didn’t say anything else.

Lupin knew what else was weighing on her mind: Azkaban.

—Does it frighten you? —he asked gently.

—A little —she admitted—. But I’ve been practising. With Kingsley.

He nodded.

She sighed.

—And what if it doesn’t work… again?

Lupin gave her a calm smile.

—Then it’s all right —he said—. What matters isn’t that you never fail. It’s that you try. That alone says far more about you than the spell itself.

Tonks let out a soft laugh, a blend of relief and resignation.

—Sometimes I think you’re the one who should be teaching at the Ministry.

—Even if I were —Lupin replied—, you’d still skip the lessons.

—Obviously —she said, and they both laughed very quietly, as if afraid of waking the sleeping city.

A gust of wind brushed their hair, as though it wanted to carry their worries away with it.

Tonks tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She wore it loose, still dark brown. Her natural colour, the one she rarely showed. Under the moon’s dim light, that shade took on an unexpected warmth. Something grounded. Real.

As though that simple colour said more about Tonks than any flamboyant metamorphosis ever could.

But it wasn’t just her hair. Lupin looked at her more closely.

Her eyelashes were a little shorter than usual, her nose slightly broader, her lips thinner.

And if one looked carefully, one could see a few freckles scattered across the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, as though hours spent in the sun had left their trace on her skin, marks she might usually erase with magic.

There was also a small whitish scar above her left eyebrow, likely the remnant of some childhood adventure.

Tiny changes, imperceptible to anyone else… except someone who had already looked at her far too many times.

Tonks noticed his scrutiny. And she knew he had seen them. All those small adjustments she now made unconsciously, without thinking. Like putting on make-up.

A shadow of insecurity crossed her face.

Lupin said nothing at first.

He simply lowered his gaze for a second, then raised it again, wearing his faint, almost thoughtful half-smile.

—I find it incredible —he said at last, his voice calm— that, being able to take on any appearance… you always choose to be yourself.

He didn’t say it as a compliment. Nor as a conclusion. It was simply the truth, plain and unadorned.

Tonks raised an eyebrow, taken aback.

—Well, I’m always me… with a few tweaks —she muttered, half defensive, half joking.

Lupin shook his head gently.

—Details —he said, as if he couldn’t understand why such things mattered.

Tonks let out a relieved laugh.

Lupin looked at her again.

There were things that never changed, not even with magic.

Her smile was the same.

And the light in her eyes, too.

The air still smelled of rain.
The moon hung between the buildings, pale, veiled by a thin layer of clouds.

—Shall we head back? —Lupin asked—. I’m sure Sirius is already waiting for us, glasses ready and the Firewhisky poured.

Tonks crossed her arms, still amused, and looked towards the end of the street.

—Shall we take a walk? —she suggested.

—All right —he replied, starting to walk.

And they went down the street together, unhurriedly. As if the city were holding itself in pause for them.

Suddenly, Lupin tilted his chin towards the scar above her eyebrow.

—And that?

Tonks pressed her lips together, bracing herself for the story.

—I fell down the stairs on my fifth birthday. I was trying to mount a broom… inside the house.

—Inside the house?

Tonks rolled her eyes, as though acknowledging there was more to that misadventure.

—And with a cape. And sunglasses. And a cowboy hat. And… possibly roller skates.

Lupin raised his eyebrows, amused.

—Sounds… like a scene someone ought to paint.

She laughed freely.

—My mum tried to erase the scar with healing magic, but it didn’t quite work. Then she wanted to try a foul-smelling potion, but I was scared of it. And apparently I screamed that if she made me drink it, I’d report her to the Ministry for child abuse.

—Well, that is having principles —Lupin said with a hint of dry amusement, as though he didn’t entirely believe the story.

—Always have —Tonks admitted, a spark of pride in her eyes.

For a second, they fell silent. Then Tonks tilted her head, narrowing her gaze.

—And you? —she asked, pointing at one of the scars crossing his temple, oddly similar to her own—. What happened there?

Lupin adopted a theatrical tone, with feigned gravity.

—You see… I’m a werewolf.

Tonks narrowed her eyes.

—Don’t tell me…

He smiled.

—That one, in particular, was… a confrontation. Wolf versus chickens.

—Chickens?

—Yes. Four of them. Very aggressive. With names and everything.

—Seriously? —she asked.

—Muriel, Clementina, Broken Beak and…

He paused dramatically before uttering the name of his final adversary.

—Blackie.

Tonks let out a snort, weighing the truth of the story. Or the precision of that lie.

—I only wanted to see the chicks and… made the mistake of looking at them the wrong way. And sneaking into their coop —he admitted, unable to hide a smile.

Tonks couldn’t help but laugh as she pictured the scene.

—And they won?

—They did. Especially Blackie.

Tonks came to an abrupt halt, still laughing.

—I knew Blackie was the worst.

—She had a look. Cold. Unmerciful.

—A dark soul —she added.

—Sharp beak. Lightning-fast claws —Lupin went on, exaggerating the story more and more as Tonks’s smile widened—. The other three merely followed orders. But she… she was the brains behind the operation.

Tonks looked at him, shaking her head, amused.

—One day, Remus Lupin… you’ll tell me that whole story properly.

—One day —he agreed—. When I stop having nightmares.

They both burst into a shared laugh, subdued by the night around them.

And so they kept walking, between puddles and streetlamps, trading heroic tales, glorious battles, and impossible stories. Half-truths, dubious feats, and lies—many lies—of the kind that don’t need to be believed to be enjoyed.

For a while, the war, the darkness, and everything that lay ahead felt very far away.

As if the world itself, weary too, had granted them a pause.

Just long enough for two worn souls to head home, unhurried, following a path lit by the faint glow of the moon.

A path beneath the moon.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE:

These chapters are taking quite a bit of work—not so much because of the writing itself, but because I need to make sure they fit properly with the future I want to build for this story. I’m trying to avoid ambiguities or contradictions with myself, so, as always, if you notice something that feels off or that I might be missing, I’d really appreciate it if you pointed it out in the comments.

In this chapter, we finally reveal who the mysterious Baltasar Greaves is. I have to admit that, when creating him, I had something like a vampiric version of Vito Corleone in mind. That image crossed my head while I was writing. I have a weakness for this kind of character: figures who don’t need to raise their voice to command respect.

Originally, his name was Salazar Greaves—which I actually like more, to be honest—but since Salazar is already taken by Slytherin, I decided to change it. I don’t like repeating important names within the same universe.

This chapter also takes us deep into a territory that fascinates me on a lore level: ancient magic, the Department of Mysteries… what on earth is that place, really? And the prophecies…how much of them is true? How much should you believe? Can you ignore them? I think these are far more metaphysical questions than the canon initially suggests, but they really draw me in. That atmosphere of mystery, danger, mysticism, and the beyond is exactly what I wanted to convey through Greaves: someone who has seen too much, and for whom the earthly world no longer has anything new to offer.

That said, I’ll admit that my favourite part of the chapter—the one I laughed the most while writing, because you know I love my silliness—is the light-hearted conversation between Tonks and Lupin about their past anecdotes. Just so you know, the inspiration for the four wolf-mauling chickens comes straight from Penguins of Madagascar. As you can see, I don’t invent everything, I shamelessly recycle things I love.

Anyway, I hope the effort has been worth it and that you enjoyed the chapter. Fair warning: this is going to be long. Very long.

But I think—and hope—you’ll enjoy it.

Until next time!

You can see the illustration for this chapter on my social media —feel free to stop by Instagram, Tumblr or TikTok.
You can find all my links here:
https://lagatakafka.com/links/