"You are the future!"
That's what the Forest Witch said to Lockhart.
As a witch from a more old-school breed of wizardkind, she'd spent her youth yearning for the bustle of human society, leaving the forest with trolls to live among Muggles in Manhattan for decades. She'd even gone to Hollywood under an alias, playing movie star for a spell. Her deep understanding of modern society was undeniable.
"The great Grindelwald was right," she continued. "Wizards must find a way to coexist with Muggles. That era is already here—no one can escape it."
In her youth, the Forest Witch had been a follower of Grindelwald, one of his Saints. Back then, witches and wizards who admired Muggle life often rallied to his cause. "Dumbledore, that traitor, won't last long. His International Confederation of Wizards hasn't done much good. He hasn't guided wizarding society to understand Muggles, clinging rigidly to the Statute of Secrecy without flexibility. It's driven a wedge between wizards and Muggles, creating a massive rift. Can you believe, in an age where Muggles are launching satellites and building the internet, wizards still hold onto that arrogant disdain for them?"
She shook her head, her face twisted in disgust. "Dumbledore's failed to influence Muggle leaders to bridge that divide. Their elite cooperate with us on the surface but secretly distrust and oppose us, deliberately shaping Muggle society to see wizards as evil or foolish stereotypes."
"Dumbledore's powerful, no question—nobody can challenge his will. But what happens when he's gone?" She gestured for Lockhart to try her mushroom soup, took a sip herself, and went on. "He's the kind of foolish politician who sets up a strawman, herds his opponents toward it, then crushes it with brute force. Can't solve the problem? Just eliminate the person causing it."
She scoffed. "Has he ever considered that the ones raising problems might be the ones to solve them? Grindelwald said pure wizards are the future." She nodded toward the direction Hermione had just left. "You saw her, didn't you? She doesn't seem like a wizard—more like a Muggle, despite her magical talent. Magic's just a tool to her, not the air she breathes. She'll never go far, never become a Dumbledore or Grindelwald. She'll never be a true wizard."
"Gilderoy, you're a true wizard," she said earnestly, locking eyes with him. "And yet, you're full of goodwill toward Muggles, craving harmony between our worlds."
She paused, correcting herself. "No, 'harmony' is the wrong word—that's the kind of post-conflict cooperation politicians love to prattle about. We're all human—wizards and Muggles alike—just different groups of the same kind. The future of wizardkind needs people like you, walking the wizard's path while recognizing Muggles as equals."
Lockhart swallowed the oddly flavored soup, grimacing. "Ms. Benites, you can't do this—leveraging my guilt to push your political agenda."
The Forest Witch froze, a bit embarrassed. "Was it that obvious?"
Lockhart nodded, pointing at her face. "You looked too sincere, like you were giving a speech, not chatting with a friend before a journey."
"Fine," she sighed, chugging her soup in a huff and exhaling dramatically. "Let's make a deal!"
This was more her style—she often bargained with the forest and its creatures. "You're this close to cracking the werewolf problem," she said. "You've tamed the beast within too well, keeping you just outside the threshold of true mysticism. Before I vanish from this world, I can give you one last push." Her eyes lit up like a eager salesperson. "You're missing the raw experience. I can guide you to feel the 'call of the wild.' It'll fling open every door on the path of mystical magic! This isn't just about becoming a werewolf—that's just a bonus."
She smirked, brimming with confidence. "Modern wizarding systems are foolish, treating dark magic's side effects as flaws. But they're not flaws—they're useful in a fight. The trick, like us old-school witches know, is to cage the wildness and unleash it when needed."
True, ancient wizards were fewer, relying on raw talent and sparse traditions, ill-suited to the modern wizarding world's rapid growth and mixed skill levels.
The more she spoke, the deeper Lockhart sank into his chair, frowning. Finally, he interrupted. "This sounds like I'd pay a steep price for it, Ms. Benites. Care to share what this deal actually entails?"
She gave an awkward smile, gesturing a tiny amount with her fingers. "Just a small problem to fix. You know Dumbledore's folly—his enforced peace hides deep divisions. If wizards like her"—she nodded toward Hermione's direction—"dominate, Muggles and wizards will never find true peace."
Lockhart stared at her, serious. "Get to the point."
"Go to Nurmengard and free the great Grindelwald," she said bluntly.
"!!!" Lockhart was floored. "Even if Dumbledore's as foolish as you say, he's still the most powerful wizard alive! You think I can do this and not end up torn apart and flushed down a toilet by an enraged Dumbledore?"
The Forest Witch just grinned, a touch sheepish. "What can I do? Grindelwald saved my life once, and I owe Vinda Rosier a huge favor. I can't die with that debt hanging over me."
Vinda Rosier—France's Black Rose, a fervent Grindelwald follower who could cast a wandless Killing Curse. She was to Grindelwald what McGonagall was to Dumbledore or Bellatrix to Voldemort, though sadly, her devotion was to a man who didn't return it.
Lockhart sighed, exasperated. "So, you didn't have the guts to do this crazy thing while alive, and now you're roping me into it after you're gone?"
The Forest Witch bristled, jabbing a slender finger at the book Walking with Trolls on the table, leaning forward. "Gilderoy Lockhart, you owe me!"
He fell silent. She was right—he'd gained so much from her. Destiny's gifts always come with a hidden price.
No need to say it aloud, but her greatest power was cursing—old-school witch curses that could doom someone to be a werewolf or sleep forever, even affecting their descendants. He had to take her seriously.
"I can't promise I'll succeed, but I'll give it my all," Lockhart said carefully. "If you agree to this deal, know that's as far as I can go."
She smiled, clearly pleased. "If you'd agreed outright, I'd have thought you were just humoring me. Let's do this."
Eagerly, she yanked off her tattered pointed hat, stood, and smoothed her hair back. In an instant, the frail old witch transformed into a radiant, mature beauty. From her robe sleeve, a slender arm emerged, black-polished nails gleaming. She gently cupped Lockhart's face, pressed her forehead to his, and began chanting a complex ancient runic incantation.
Soon, Lockhart's body stretched and swelled into a massive werewolf. Moonlight glistened like dew on his wolf fur, swaying in the forest breeze.
"Haha!" The Forest Witch stepped back, marveling at the werewolf before her. "See? Your soul's been bottling up so much rage and savagery. We shouldn't tame it—just cage it when needed and release it when the time's right."
She tilted her graceful neck toward the moonlight. "Come, tear me apart. Seal our blood pact. I'll embrace death and embark on life's next grand journey."
Lockhart didn't move. Remarkably, his rational mind still held sway over his wild, restless body, keeping him from savaging her like a beast.
"You must complete the blood feast," she urged, pressing a finger to his chest, licking her blood-red lips. "Use death's power to ignite your inner fury, or it'll stay tamed, forever out of reach of true mystical power."
Boom! A haze washed over Lockhart. A blood-red veil clouded his vision, and primal instincts roared to life within him.
He fully became the werewolf—symbol of evil, terror of the night. His claws seized her shoulders, and he tore into her pale neck.
Blood sprayed. Life faded.
"Grandma, I forgot to tell you—I saw Dad…" A frantic voice called from around the corner.
The werewolf's head snapped up, crimson eyes locking onto a younger, tender witch.
"Oh my God, Grandma!" Hermione gasped, covering her mouth, eyes wide with horror.
"Roar!" The werewolf tossed aside the body and bellowed, startling the white horse beneath her. It bolted, carrying her away.
But the werewolf wasn't done. It roared and gave chase.
"Grandma!" Hermione sobbed on horseback, clutching a glass vial at her chest, glaring furiously at the pursuing werewolf. "Faster, horse! I need to find the Beast Master. I'll make a deal with him to kill this monster that murdered Grandma!"
Under the moonlight, snowflakes danced.
Hermione didn't notice her white horse turning silver, galloping faster, wreathed in the silvery mist of a Patronus Charm.
And the werewolf, howling and charging behind her, began to erupt in black flames.