"Magic isn't hard at all!"
Hermione had once proudly told her parents, curious about her wizarding school experiences, just that.
She picked up spells quickly, understood them at a glance. While her peers struggled with classroom lessons, she was already in the library, breezing through hefty tomes and mastering knowledge far beyond the curriculum.
She was proud.
And she had every right to be.
But that pride was soon shattered.
No one knew the shock she felt watching Ron use a Levitation Charm to knock out a troll with a XXXX danger rating, or seeing Harry cast a Disarming Charm that sent a Quidditch goalpost—seemingly immovable—flying across the pitch.
It wasn't logical!
The books said the Levitation Charm could only lift objects lighter than the caster's body weight and couldn't exert extra force. Even Ministry Aurors couldn't do what Ron did.
The books also said the Disarming Charm was meant to disarm, targeting a wizard's wand—a small stick. Yet Harry effortlessly sent a 15-meter, five-story-high goalpost soaring.
This wasn't about magical strength.
It wasn't scientific! No, wait—it wasn't magical!
But Professor Lockhart had told her, "Child, this is very magical."
Very magical?
Hermione had never thought of magic as an adjective until she saw Luna, barely six months into Hogwarts, effortlessly summon a fully-formed Patronus—a lively rabbit.
The way Luna did it so naturally, as if she was born to, sparked a realization in Hermione.
Yes, this was very magical.
The books said the Patronus Charm was one of the oldest spells, mastered by only a rare few who could summon a corporeal Patronus.
She'd once thought it was because of its immense difficulty.
But it wasn't. Magic wasn't hard at all.
Magic was like a big, round-faced cat that came purring when you called, eager to nuzzle you.
Some people naturally drew animals to them, even unfamiliar ones. Others could show all the kindness in the world, crouching and calling "here, kitty, kitty," only for the cat to stare warily and bolt at the slightest movement.
Fine. She'd figured out magic's nature. Now, how to find a solution?
She didn't know. It was tough. The books had no answers.
Well, some books did, but they were written in the smug tone of pure-blood supremacy, claiming wizardry relied on bloodlines and innate power. Without the right heritage, you'd never amount to anything.
She'd felt despair. Even Professor Lockhart agreed, saying wizardry was a game of talent.
But he also said that talent of the mind was a path they could walk. By aligning with magic and stepping into the romance of a fairy-tale adventure, magic would naturally bloom. That was the key.
On the flip side, pure-blood families, intermarrying to preserve their "purity," often produced offspring with mental flaws or even intellectual disabilities, making it harder for them to tap into that spiritual talent.
Step into the fairy tale, and magic will bloom?
Hermione had been confused. Was her overly rational mind holding her back from being like the whimsical Luna?
But Lockhart used himself as an example. He was rational too, the kind of person who approached Defense Against the Dark Arts by "identifying traits and finding solutions." Yet he could still feel the wonder of magic.
Alright.
Hermione was willing to try.
And something marvelous happened.
In this adventure, she tried to embrace what Lockhart called "the call of adventure." She connected with the grandmother in this story, donned a bright red cloak, mounted a white horse, and set off on her journey.
She felt it.
Even though she still seemed like a Muggle here, unable to cast spells, she felt it.
That subtle, wondrous sensation of magic.
"…I noticed something odd. On the full moon, the Beast seemed in pain, locking himself in his room. That's how I escaped," Hermione told the old witch excitedly, her face glowing with the joy of adventure.
The old witch smiled warmly and nodded. "On the full moon, he loses all his power and becomes a Muggle. He's afraid some terrifying force in the forest will come for him, so he hides."
Hermione froze. "He's human?"
"Yes." The old witch glanced at the bed, where a werewolf lurked, watching them with restless intent. "They chase powerful magic but don't embrace its wonder. They're obsessed with the strength it brings, feeding their ambitions. So they become slaves to that power."
"Their beastly nature is unleashed without restraint, turning their hearts wild, and eventually, their appearance shifts to match—some like wolves, others like snakes or toads."
Her wise eyes met Hermione's. "Humans care about their appearance; it's instinct. When someone stops caring about becoming a beast just to gain power, that's when they're most dangerous."
"The Dark Lord!" Hermione gasped.
The old witch blinked. "Who?"
Hermione shook her head. "A legendary evil wizard. They say he was handsome once, but later his eyes glowed red sometimes, and his face looked like it was burned, waxy and distorted, his features blurred…" (Voldemort's early state, pre-resurrection, when he still had a nose.)
"That sounds dreadful," the old witch said, warning Hermione. "Everyone has a beast inside. Unleashing it grants great power, but that power devours your heart. You must control it, cage it."
"Devoured by the beast within…" Hermione's eyes lit up. "Grandma, you mean the Beast turns human on the full moon because he's not fully consumed by his inner beast. He can still be saved!"
The old witch paused, clearly never having considered this perspective. She blinked. "Yes, perhaps you're right. He might still be saved!"
"How do we save him?" Hermione asked eagerly.
The old witch hesitated, then stood and retrieved a small glass vial. She filled it from the cauldron outside and handed it to Hermione, who had followed. "Have him drink this, and he'll fully return to human form."
Hermione reached for it, but the old witch held it tightly. "Child, this is dangerous. He's one step from losing all humanity. And…" She shook her head, finally handing over the vial, and glanced toward the forest's edge. "Do you think he wants to become a powerless Muggle again?"
"If it were you…"
"Would you give up all your magic to become a Muggle?"
Hermione couldn't answer. She stared at the vial, opened her mouth, but only clutched it tightly.
In the end, she pulled on her red cloak's hood, mounted her white horse, and set off to sneak back to the castle before the full moon ended.
It's always easier to make decisions for others, to say "it's for your own good" and act. But when it's your own choice, it's so much harder.
The old witch watched her go, then turned to the werewolf, who had emerged, panting and poised to attack. She sighed. "You didn't drink the potion I gave you."
The werewolf didn't speak, crouching slightly, its muscular arms twitching, drool dripping from its fanged maw.
"You're going to eat me, aren't you?" the old witch said, her gaze steady.
But the werewolf stepped forward slowly, then looked helplessly at the brightening moon. Its massive frame began to shrink, collapsing into a human form.
Lockhart stared at his hands, frustrated. "I can never stay a werewolf, no matter what I try. Is it because I wasn't truly infected with lycanthropy?"
The old witch smiled and shook her head. "No, that's not it. You don't want to be a werewolf. You don't want magic to consume your heart. You crave magic, yes, but you also cherish your life. Your magic has already built a resistance to the werewolf's curse."
"Then why can't other werewolves do this?" Lockhart asked, exasperated by his repeated failures.
He looked at the old witch and bowed slightly, offering a proper wizard's greeting. "Good evening, Madam Benites."
Doris Benites, known as "MACUSA's most vigilant witch," a powerful figure who preferred the title "Forest Witch."
"Hello, Gilderoy," she replied, gesturing to a tea table made of wooden stumps. She poured him a drink brewed from vibrant mushrooms and glowing plants.
Lockhart eyed the cup warily. "You're not here for revenge, are you?"
Stealing someone's life, even if it wasn't this穿越者's doing, still carried a burden of guilt.
Lockhart reaped the benefits of his predecessor's memory theft, so he bore its consequences.
The Forest Witch shook her head. "Gilderoy, I'm already dead. A green anaconda swallowed my body and set off from an ocean port to return me to the Amazon, where I'll become part of the forest's nourishment."
Death always brought sorrow. Lockhart fell silent.
Smiling, the Forest Witch pulled a book from her burlap satchel—Travels with Trolls, the book his predecessor wrote using her stolen experiences.
"I want to tell you, I really like this book."
She caressed the cover, her eyes full of nostalgia. "I was once obsessed with Muggle cities' glamour, reluctant to speak of my past living wild in the forest. I never imagined my rough history would feel so wondrous and romantic in your words."
"This might be the only mark I've left on the world, even if it's in your name. But it still feels beautiful. I abandoned my past, and you picked it up, showing the world its wonder."
She handed the book to Lockhart.
"You're making me feel guilty," he muttered, taking it. He flipped it open and saw an inscription: "May you walk further down this magical path. —Forest Witch, Doris Benites."