In the darkness, the werewolf sprinted on all fours, fleeing the town and racing across the rolling hills of the wilderness. Finally, he plunged into a patch of grass dotted with tiny purple flowers.
The sap from these plants seemed toxic, stinging his wounds with a sharp, burning sensation. Yet, it also stopped the bleeding from his shoulder, leaving only a faint, tingling itch after a while.
Wolfsbane, a poisonous magical plant. Many animals in the forest didn't need to know its properties—they instinctively sought out herbs to heal themselves.
After a moment, the werewolf rose from the grass, leaping onto a large rock. He tilted his head back and howled at the full moon above.
"Awoo~~~~"
Moonlight bathed him, and a mysterious energy surged.
His body twitched slightly. The torn flesh on his shoulder writhed, knitting together as the wound closed in a grotesque tangle.
Panting heavily, the werewolf's long, powerful limbs hung loose, his broad chest heaving rapidly.
He felt… extraordinary.
Yes, extraordinary.
After the blood loss and injury, the wildness within him had been unleashed, clawing its way through every nerve and muscle.
That restless, indescribable agitation finally eased. Bathed in moonlight, he found a rare calm after his werewolf transformation.
This calm seemed to align his spirit and body more closely than ever.
His wolf eyes narrowed, feeling the breeze and moonlight gently ruffle his thick fur.
But then, a strange sluggishness crept over him, a subtle discord in his form.
His head began to collapse inward, shrinking rapidly, as his body dwindled.
"I…"
What the—?!
Lockhart's eyes snapped open in disbelief. He'd slipped out of his werewolf state again. Memories buried deep in his mind bubbled up like boiling water, surfacing in a rush of frothy bursts.
No way!
Other wizards infected with lycanthropy fought tooth and nail to regain control, unable to escape their wolf form. Why couldn't he stay in his deepest werewolf state?
He froze, staring up at the full moon, letting the moonlight and breeze wash over him. Something clicked—a faint understanding.
Mysterious power!
Yes, mysterious power!
It was everywhere, always, but humans rarely sensed it. The more you chased it, the further it slipped away. The more you tried to grasp or analyze it, the more you drifted from its essence.
Especially modern wizards, so disciplined in their magic, had lost touch with nature's pulse.
The earth, the forest, moonlight, lightning, rivers, oceans…
Mystery was everywhere, woven into every spell cast, every potion brewed, every magical artifact crafted, every action taken.
It was just a matter of how much you tapped into it.
This power wasn't rational—it demanded a more instinctive, spiritual connection.
Like Luna Lovegood's ethereal intuition, Newt Scamander's natural affinity, or Professor Trelawney's peculiar foresight. Like Credence Barebone wielding the raw force of an Obscurus.
Lockhart had to admit—he lacked that innate wizarding spirituality. At his core, he was just a Muggle.
So what now?
Once you know the problem, the solution becomes clear.
He sifted through his memories, searching for something that fit the werewolf's nature, and landed on a spell—the Flight Charm.
Yes, Tom Riddle's Flight Charm.
It sounded absurd. Flying and werewolves were completely unrelated.
But that was the beauty of it—their essence meshed perfectly.
This spell, known only to Voldemort and Snape in the modern wizarding world, wasn't complicated. It just required a unique mental state.
A state hard to describe.
Empty, untethered, adrift.
Like a ghost, detached from the world, feeling its pale indifference yet restless, yearning for a splash of color, chasing life's vibrant hues.
And so, without incantations, the wizard would simply fly.
Many spells in the magical world didn't need words—like the Animagus transformation. They just happened naturally.
"I'm really finding the key to mastering Tom Riddle's spell at a moment like this?" Lockhart muttered, his expression bemused.
He always preached, "Step into the fairy tale, and magic will bloom." But werewolves and Tom Riddle? They couldn't be more different.
Oh well.
Solution found, he didn't hesitate to try.
Silvery threads drifted from his mind, weaving into the air, forming a shimmering mist-like liquid that glowed under the moonlight, radiating mystery.
"Awoo~~~"
He threw back his head, chest heaving, and let out a cry.
The sound shifted from human to beastly, and his body transformed back into a werewolf.
Bathed in moonlight, with the breeze teasing his fur, he let the silvery liquid of his memories swirl around him, letting the moon's mysterious power bind his spirit and flesh.
It was subtle, but he finally reached that deepest werewolf state.
The chaotic memories in his mind began to fade, dissolving bit by bit.
But as the werewolf fully absorbed Tom's Flight Charm memory, one hidden memory lingered.
Lockhart felt a stir but let the natural, mysterious change unfold without interference.
The lingering memory was Tom's knowledge of the Killing Curse.
It resonated with the werewolf's savage cruelty, with Tom's insights into the Flight Charm.
"Awoo~~"
He howled at the moon again, this time with a unique, spiritual resonance.
As he howled, flowers bloomed around him, one after another. Gray wolves, forest spirits, stepped out of the moonlight to join him.
He didn't linger. He sprinted through the woods, bounding joyfully, as if celebrating his rebirth.
His movements lost some of the werewolf's wild ferocity, gaining a touch of grace from the Flight Charm and a hint of the Killing Curse's ruthlessness.
Accompanied by the gray wolves, healing flowers bloomed wherever he passed.
This was a beast's journey.
Soon, birds fluttered down, flying alongside him, guiding his path.
Led by the birds, the werewolf arrived at a strange little wooden cabin deep in the forest.
In the clearing before the cabin stood an old witch, adorned with bizarre trinkets. She was stirring a large cauldron with a wooden stick, the pot bubbling with a pungent green brew that released purple smoke when the bubbles burst.
"You're here."
The old witch sighed in relief, eyeing the gray wolves and birds curiously, then the flowers carpeting the ground. Her gaze settled on the werewolf's shoulder wound, and her face paled. "You're hurt?"
The werewolf panted, baring his teeth but not attacking.
"Come here, my poor child."
She scooped a potion from the cauldron into a chipped bowl and handed it to him, then hurried to a shelf inside, grabbing herbs and grinding them into a paste in a small crucible. She smeared it on his wound.
It worked miracles. The wound healed completely, leaving no trace of a scar, as if wiped away.
The werewolf stared at her.
"Drink it. It's good for you," she urged.
He glanced at the bowl, silent, then brought it to his lips.
Just then, the clatter of hooves echoed. The old witch glanced nervously toward the sound, spotting a figure in a red cloak riding closer on horseback. She shoved the werewolf. "Quick, hide inside! You don't want your daughter to see you like this, do you?"
The werewolf nodded, tossed the empty bowl aside, and darted into the cabin, crawling under the bed. His furry ears perked, listening to the conversation outside.
"My poor granddaughter, you're finally back," the old witch said to the girl in the red cloak.
"Yes, Grandma! I escaped that monster's castle. You won't believe what I went through!" The girl sounded thrilled, chattering as she pulled the old witch into the cabin.
The fireplace's flames warmed the room against the snowy chill outside. The girl lowered her red hood, excitedly recounting her adventure.
The castle's furniture moved on its own. A wardrobe gave fashion advice, a teapot spouted philosophical musings, and a grandfather clock acted like a butler.
She mentioned a beautiful flower, frozen in ice, kept by the beast in the castle.
"You found the flower!" the old witch exclaimed, gripping the girl tightly.
The girl nodded. "Grandma, if I get that flower, can I become a witch like you?"
Her grandmother smiled warmly. "Yes, my dear. It's every witch's trial. We must brave hardships to seek the path of magic to truly touch its power."
"Things gained too easily are often taken for granted."
She ran her fingers through the girl's thick, bushy brown hair, gently tidying its travel-worn state, using magic to make it smooth and glossy. "You'll become a remarkable witch, my child."