To still hold a high-ranking position in the Ministry of Magic after Voldemort's fall, Corban Yaxley was not someone to underestimate.
Everyone knew he was a Death Eater. Sure, he'd weaseled his way out of Azkaban at the Wizengamot trials, claiming Voldemort had coerced him with threats of death, but most people saw through the act.
Even so, with the Ministry purging many "pure-blood supremacy" supporters, Yaxley somehow kept his job.
That was more impressive than old Barty Crouch Sr.'s situation. Crouch was merely implicated because his son was a Death Eater. Yaxley? He was the real deal—a card-carrying Death Eater with the Dark Mark on his arm, one of Voldemort's trusted inner circle. Even Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf, didn't have that kind of status.
The reasoning wasn't complicated.
The wizarding world could be brutal, and its core truth was simple: magic is might.
In a world where immense power rested in the hands of a single wizard, someone as strong as Yaxley, steeped in mysterious and formidable magic, couldn't just be pushed too far—not unless you could kill them or lock them up in Azkaban.
Otherwise, who knew what they might do?
Corban Yaxley was exactly that kind of wizard, one whose magical prowess made others wary. Plus, as a member of the Yaxley family—one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families—he wielded significant influence in wizarding society.
Being targeted by a big shot like him made Lockhart's stomach twist.
There was no such thing as baseless hostility in this world. And for his Boggart to describe it as "immense hostility"? That wasn't just a casual grudge.
Could it be…?
Had Voldemort, after escaping from Hogwarts, finally decided to reach out to his so-called "traitors"?
Dumbledore had said Voldemort was too weak to do much right now, but he never said the Dark Lord couldn't issue orders to his still-loyal Death Eaters.
"You all know about that curse…" Yaxley, clearly a key player in the "We're Not Dead Yet" club, was a sly politician who knew how to steer a conversation. He looked around mysteriously. "So, what do you think? Will our Professor Lockhart make it to the end?"
I will! I will! Lockhart shouted in his head. Sure, that blasted Defense Against the Dark Arts curse caused him all sorts of headaches and might prevent him from staying in the role long-term, but he wasn't about to end up like his predecessor, Quirrell, that brain-addled fool who died on the job!
He shot Yaxley a sharp look, then burst into a dazzling laugh. "Of course! Everyone will see me make it all the way, Mr. Yaxley."
He didn't seem fazed by the topic at all, even turning his potential demise into a betting game for the club. His upbeat attitude lifted the mood of the gathering.
Madam Merriweather, clearly pleased with Lockhart's demeanor, rubbed her tree-branch cane and voiced her support. "Gilderoy, when you complete your year of teaching and return, I'll back you."
Other members chimed in with promises of their own.
Yaxley, eager to flex his influence in the group, was the most enthusiastic. He raised his glass and declared, "To Gilderoy Lockhart! Let's toast to his great endeavors! I, too, will support our promising young talent…"
Under everyone's gaze, he turned to Lockhart. "When you finish your year, I'll gift you my family's oak grove in the Białowieża Forest!"
The room gasped.
Eyes turned to Yaxley, some in disbelief. That generous?
One member couldn't help but blurt out, fawning, "The magical oak grove that supplies wand wood to Ollivanders? I've heard it's teeming with magical creatures!"
"Exactly!" another added, staring at Yaxley with burning eyes, swallowing hard. "I've heard that mysterious grove is home to Bowtruckles and even rare Mooncalves!"
Mooncalf dung was a prized magical resource, capable of making magical plants and herbs grow at an astonishing rate.
Yaxley just smiled, basking in the group's admiration.
Such a valuable gift…
Lockhart sneered inwardly. Clearly, Yaxley was certain he wouldn't survive the year.
Wait a second!
A thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. The Białowieża Forest?
Tomorrow, he was set to take the young witches and wizards to the Crabbe family's Diricawl breeding grounds… in the Białowieża Forest.
Coincidence?
Or was the curse at work again?
Or, worse, was this the start of Voldemort's revenge, orchestrated through his loyal follower?
Lockhart's heart raced, a thrilling mix of nerves and excitement flooding his mind. It's coming! It's really coming!
Well, then…
Bring it on!
I'm ready!
…
Lockhart hadn't expected the first person to offer him dark magical creatures would be Lyall Lupin.
After the banquet, he followed Lyall through the fireplace at the Hog's Head to a remote public Floo in central England. From there, under the cover of a Disillusionment Charm and riding broomsticks, they arrived at an abandoned Muggle slaughterhouse in the dead of night.
Honestly, if he didn't know Lyall's character—and with Voldemort's hostility looming—he wouldn't have dared come to such a creepy, isolated place.
As they landed in the courtyard inside the slaughterhouse, a chilling wind howled, and a cold, eerie feeling washed over them. In a filthy sewage pool in the corner, a ghostly white figure wailed and thrashed.
"It's me, Mr. Alvatern. Good evening," Lyall greeted the ghost casually, leading Lockhart into the slaughterhouse. "This ghost gentleman is my hired watchman, keeping Muggles away."
They soon reached a heavy door bound with thick iron chains. With a wave of Lyall's wand, the chains slithered like snakes, and the door creaked open.
Lyall raised his wand, its tip glowing brightly like a lantern, illuminating the interior of the slaughterhouse for Lockhart.
—People!
More precisely—rows of iron cages stretching into the darkness, filled with people!
Men, women, young, old—all of them!
"Merlin's lace-trimmed knickers!" Lockhart gasped, staring in disbelief. The faint smell of blood hit his nose as he looked at the middle-aged man holding the glowing wand.
Suddenly, the shy, scholarly Lyall Lupin didn't seem so harmless. His thin, gaunt figure took on a sinister edge.
Lockhart swallowed hard, taking a cautious step back. "Lyall… what's… what's all this?"
His heart raced. Was the curse about to strike again tonight? Was he walking into a trap?
Lyall didn't turn around, just stared darkly at the people in the cages, his figure shrouded in shadow.
His voice was low, still carrying that honest tone, but it felt… off. "Gilderoy, don't be afraid. These aren't people…"
His words trembled as he spoke. "After all, the Ministry says so, don't they? They're under the jurisdiction of the Beast Division or the Being Division…"
"Of course, we know that's nonsense. Academically speaking, they'd be classified as dark magical creatures, right?"
"Lyall!" Lockhart sighed. "No, you're wrong. They are people. You were the one who passionately invited me to your club to advocate for werewolves, insisting they're human."
Lyall glanced back, surprised. "I was just trying to use your fame as an international author. I didn't think you actually believed that."
Lockhart shrugged. "Clearly, you haven't read my book Wanderings with Werewolves. I helped the people of Wagga Wagga subdue a werewolf using the Homorphus Charm."
"焦糖 Homorphus! It means human form!" he explained. "See? They're human at their core."
Lyall's lips twitched into a faint smile, but he said nothing, leading Lockhart deeper into the slaughterhouse. With a wave of his wand, he lit the wall-mounted torches.
In the flickering firelight, Lockhart saw there were at least a dozen people here.
"How are there so many?" he asked, stunned. Werewolf populations were hard to track, but this many in one place? Impossible, unless…
Lyall scooped water from a bucket with a large iron ladle, pouring it into the troughs inside the cages. He was silent for a moment, then stood, lips tight. "There were only two originally—malicious werewolves who'd attacked other wizards. I managed to save them from Ministry trials and brought them here."
"The others…" He hesitated. "They're heinous Muggle criminals—death row inmates. I… infected them with lycanthropy."
What…
Lockhart stared at Lyall, incredulous. "Do you realize what you're saying? Should I even know this?"
Merlin's beard, was he about to be silenced for good?
Lyall's eyes were filled with sorrow and exhaustion. He shook his head. "I spoke with Dumbledore tonight. He said you're a top expert in dark magical creatures, and completely trustworthy. I…"
He wasn't some mad scientist running evil experiments. Dumbledore, a wizard who'd done so much for his family, had vouched for Lockhart, and Lyall trusted that.
He hadn't even considered the trouble this confession might bring.
Or maybe he just didn't care anymore. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of collapse.
Lockhart knew his story, of course. Lyall's son, Remus Lupin, was a werewolf.
Lockhart sighed, patting Lyall's shoulder in comfort, then glanced at the dazed people in the cages and shook his head. "Honestly, Lyall, I'm starting to regret suggesting werewolves for the students' adventure."
Lyall's eyes widened, and he rushed to explain. "They won't infect the students! I've designed a full set of magical restraints—muzzles, gloves, boots. You know lycanthropy spreads through blood or saliva. This is foolproof."
"No, you've misunderstood," Lockhart said, pointing at the people in the cages with a sigh. "I mean, they're people. Look at them—outside the full moon, they're human. I can't let students treat them like beasts, and I doubt the students would want to either."
"But…" Lyall struggled to respond, but no words came.
Lockhart glanced at the cauldrons and herbs piled in the corner, understanding dawning. "You're trying to find a cure for lycanthropy?"
Lyall slumped, staring at the werewolves with despair. "I may never find one."
All he wanted was to see his son again. His wife wanted to see him too. They missed Remus so much.
He longed to discover a cure for lycanthropy, to write to his son with his wife, overjoyed, saying, Child, come home. You don't have to hide from the world anymore. We miss you so much.
No one knew where lycanthropy originally came from.
If a dark wizard had created it, they must've been truly malevolent. Werewolves lost all reason during the full moon, instinctively attacking those closest to them first.
It was a cruel mechanism, almost designed to spread the curse, turning loved ones into werewolves to bolster their numbers in wizarding society.
For Lyall, it was the greatest curse of all.
His son, Remus Lupin, stayed away to protect them from the harm he might cause.
How long had it been since he and his wife had seen their boy?
Five years?
Ten?
Time had stretched so long it barely held meaning anymore.
Looking at the tearful middle-aged man, Lockhart finally understood why Lyall had brought him here.
He wanted to offer werewolves for Lockhart's research, hoping his expertise could help.
"I'm sorry," Lockhart said. "I'm not really a top expert in dark magical creatures. I just have a bit more information than most. I don't have any leads on curing lycanthropy."
He hesitated, then added, "If you want, I can teach you the Homorphus Charm. It's an incredibly complex spell, though—not easy to master."
The Homorphus Charm was advanced Transfiguration magic, on par with the Patronus Charm in Defense Against the Dark Arts or Occlumency in spellcraft. Some wizards could cast it, but true masters were rare in the wizarding world.
Arguably, it was even harder, as few wizards delved deeply into this field.
Transfiguration had five main branches:
Transformation (altering a single target), Switching (altering two targets), Vanishment (making something disappear), Conjuration (creating something from nothing), and Untransfiguration (reversing transformations).
Untransfiguration, which undid the other four, required deep mastery of Transfiguration and further specialized study for most spells beyond the basics.
It was much harder.
You could say Transfiguration sometimes relied on raw magic and will, but Untransfiguration demanded rigorous academic study.
For example, the Vanishing Spell's Evanesco had an Untransfiguration counterpart, but no known master had bothered researching it.
Or take Hagrid giving Harry's cousin Dudley a pig's tail, or Harry inflating Aunt Marge like a balloon. Transforming was easy; undoing it themselves? Nearly impossible.
The Homorphus Charm was a high-level Untransfiguration spell within the Transformation branch's "human transfiguration" subset—a forceful reversal spell.
It was incredibly versatile, useful against Animagi, Polyjuice transformations, and werewolf transformations.
To break it down…
Lockhart couldn't cast it either!
It was high-level, technical magic. He even suspected Dumbledore couldn't cast it—otherwise, why go through the trouble of setting up the Shrieking Shack for Remus? (Though it was possible Dumbledore avoided mastering it because Grindelwald excelled at human transfiguration, and he instinctively shied away from such a targeted spell.)
But Lockhart's heart softened.
Looking at this desperate, near-broken father who'd tried everything, he couldn't help but feel pity.
Knowing the original story, Lockhart was all too aware that Lyall's son, Remus Lupin, would die in the Battle of Hogwarts years later. He could only imagine the pain this father would endure.
A reunion after years apart, only to be parted forever by death.
Sigh.
Maybe the Homorphus Charm could offer a sliver of hope.
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