As the saying goes, "When three walk together, one can be my teacher."
Watching Draco's situation unfold, Lockhart suddenly found a spark of inspiration to solve his nagging problem.
Yes, right here, perched on the top floor of a small town's clock tower, sipping tea, he gazed down at Draco and the hunters below. He had already shaken off the effects of lycanthropy, reverting to his human form.
For him, this wasn't too difficult. His exceptional willpower, the soul-protecting power of the Patronus Charm, and the Homorphus Charm's physical intervention kept him human—barely. Despite the lingering, bloodthirsty restlessness, he held his form.
But it was a fragile balance.
He knew that if he let his guard down or allowed his Patronus—a silvery horse—to wander off, the moonlight's call would turn him back into a werewolf in an instant.
And that was exactly his problem.
He'd accidentally gained too much control over this. The dark magic of the werewolf could alter his body and stir his emotions and thoughts, but it couldn't touch the deepest part of his soul. His solution to the werewolf condition—"fully embrace the werewolf identity, then fully reject it"—was stuck at the starting line. Every time the dark, toxic power of lycanthropy began to boil and erode his mind, his Patronus horse appeared instinctively, triggering his deepest self-preservation instincts.
How could he fix this?
He'd been out of ideas—until he saw Draco's actions, and a lightbulb went off.
Abandon the Patronus Charm's protection and embrace the dark forces willingly.
"What a fascinating idea," he mused.
Maybe this was one perk of being a professor. By sharing his magical theories openly with his young students, he saw those ideas take root in their vibrant, spirited souls, sprouting unexpected results. Then, he could learn from them, weaving their insights back into his own magical journey.
Following Draco's lead, a plan crystallized.
The Memory Charm!
It was his strongest spell, perfect for solving this.
"Obliviate!" he cast on himself.
Forget everything about being human.
This was an incredibly dangerous move. One misstep, and without someone to reverse the charm, he could lose everything forever. But the beauty of it? He wasn't in the real world. He was in a realm created by the collision of the dark creature "sack cloak"'s phenomenon and their minds. If he left this world—whether by choice or circumstance—the imbalance of forces, free from the creature's influence, would trigger his Patronus Charm again, instinctively restoring his memories.
This was the benefit of deeply understanding every spell's essence—he could manipulate their properties to create opportunities. The Memory Charm he cast was textbook, not a copy or a cut, but true erasure. His memories began to vanish rapidly.
Nearby, his Patronus horse, losing its magical anchor, dissolved into a wisp of silver mist and faded away.
"This will be a grand adventure," he said, feeling his memories slip away like sand. Smiling, he took a final sip of tea, glancing at Draco in the shadowy corner below. "We can walk toward the darkness, as long as we keep a spark of light in our hearts. What's the harm in that?"
He said it to Draco—and to himself.
His human side was fading fast, and animal instincts surged to take its place. Moonlight flooded the scene, and a mystical energy stirred.
His body transformed rapidly. His head throbbed as if a small animal were clawing inside, swelling and twisting. His frame stretched taller, sprouting thick gray wolf fur.
"Awooo!" he howled at the full moon.
"Werewolf! The werewolf's here!" the hunters below shouted. One pulled the trigger, launching a thumb-thick arrow with tremendous force.
It was so fast it was nearly a blur.
Wham! A massive wolf claw caught the arrow mid-air. The enormous wolf head, bristling with fangs, roared—a sound that echoed for miles.
The werewolf flung the arrow aside and kicked a nearby pillar, sending it and chunks of debris crashing toward the hunters. They scattered in panic.
With brute strength, the werewolf tore the massive metal clock face from the tower and hurled it at the archer who'd fired. The seasoned hunter dodged, scrambling and rolling across the ground. It worked—he avoided the clock.
But before he could catch his breath, a giant wolf paw slammed into his chest, nearly shattering his ribs. He screamed, spitting blood.
"Save him!" the other hunters yelled, grabbing weapons and charging the werewolf.
This werewolf was stronger, more dangerous than any they'd faced. Their attacks were useless—arrows swatted away, javelins dodged. A sharp steel blade managed to nick the werewolf, cutting a shallow wound and some fur, but the beast grabbed the attacker's arm, hurling him and his knife into a wall.
In moments, their assault collapsed, and they were routed.
"Run!" someone shouted. They knew if they could escape the werewolf's sight, hide in a house, or even bury themselves under blankets, it wouldn't pursue.
But this werewolf was too fast. Before they could fully flee the clock tower square, one hunter was clawed across the back, deep gashes exposing spine and organs. The werewolf grabbed him, sinking its teeth into his neck.
Then, against the tide of fleeing hunters, a figure charged forward, waving a small wooden stick and shouting, "Repello!"
Boom! The werewolf flew backward as if hit by a speeding cart.
The hunters froze, stunned, staring at the small boy.
This… this was the town's little blacksmith, the kid they thought was an evil witch's target for burning.
And he saved them?
"Get out of here!" Draco snapped at the foolish Muggles, gripping his wand tightly, eyes locked on the werewolf as it rose again.
He didn't know why he saved them. He should've smirked and let them die. But he'd stepped up, facing a werewolf he wasn't sure he could beat.
No point overthinking it. He'd made his choice, so he'd see it through.
The werewolf was fast, roaring as it charged, swatting aside a hunter who tried to block it. At close range, it leaped.
Now!
Draco, recalling Lockhart's lessons on timing in magical duels, cast quickly. "Colloshoo!"
Perfect casting, perfect timing! The spell was unavoidable, tailored to neutralize large, physically powerful creatures.
The problem? His magic wasn't strong enough to pierce the werewolf's resistance. The spell did nothing.
Boom! The werewolf landed where he'd stood.
Luckily, Lockhart's Quidditch-inspired dueling tactics kicked in. Draco had dodged after casting, rolling away. Scrambling, he saw the werewolf lock onto him again and waved his wand at the ground. "Engorgio!"
A stone in the square swelled rapidly, pushing him back and blocking the werewolf's path.
It didn't work.
The werewolf's leap was too powerful. It landed on the other side of the stone, snarling, claws extended, waiting for the rock to deliver its prey.
No time to dodge.
Draco stared at the werewolf, a shadow of darkness flickering in his eyes. He waved his wand swiftly. By abandoning the Patronus Charm for dark magic, he'd regained his casting ability—and felt his aptitude for it grow. A lingering gloom in his heart confirmed it.
He hadn't wanted to use dark magic, planning to consult Lockhart first. But he had no choice now.
"Voodoo Effigio!" he cast, biting his left pinky nail and yanking it off.
The pain was excruciating, nearly knocking him out, but the dark spell worked.
The werewolf lunged, claws tearing toward his shoulder, ripping flesh. But strangely, Draco's shoulder was fine. Instead, identical claw marks burst across the werewolf's shoulder, blood streaming.
"Rooar!" The werewolf howled in pain, kicking Draco away. It stumbled, collapsing.
The Voodoo Doll Curse, an ancient African tribal spell, transferred damage back to the attacker, but the caster felt double the pain. It had two limits: the nail couldn't leave the mouth, or the spell would break—many spat it out from the agony. And it could only withstand seven hits, as casters typically passed out from the multiplied pain after the seventh.
The spell had vanished from African magical society, preserved only in the Malfoy family's records.
Draco struggled to his feet, pale and shaky, gripping his wand and glaring at the werewolf. His dark magic had worked better than expected.
Come on, werewolf! He had more dangerous dark spells up his sleeve, deadly to both enemy and himself.
But the werewolf, sensing the threat, stared with savage eyes, then leaped to a nearby rooftop, vanishing into the darkness.
Draco didn't relax. Lockhart had taught him about the "feigned retreat" tactic—pretending to flee to lower the enemy's guard before striking back.
And he didn't trust these Muggle hunters one bit.
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