"I was absolutely terrified! The werewolf's teeth were less than an inch from my face!" Ron's voice boomed, his face lit up with excitement. "Thank Merlin Harry showed up just in time and hit that beast with a Levicorpus!"
"Ron, no need to be so modest. We all know you held off a whole pack of werewolves on your own," someone chimed in.
Groups of students huddled together, buzzing with animated chatter.
Over with the older students, the Weasleys were the center of attention. Everyone was raving about George and Fred's brilliant move—using a Stink Pellet to explode and gum up a werewolf's eyes, throwing off their keen sense of smell and leaving them disoriented. It was a genius attack strategy.
"I'm calling it now: the Stink Pellet is the MVP of this fight. We Weasley brothers have cracked the code on werewolf defense!" George declared.
"Get ready, folks, because we're about to upgrade the Stink Pellet!" Fred added, grinning.
George's eyes lit up with a sudden idea. "If Mum finds out we used prank gear to fend off werewolves, do you think she'd let us keep working on our inventions?"
"Brilliant!" Fred's face practically glowed. "She'd be proud of us!"
Cedric, standing nearby, gave them a strange look. "If she finds out you were fighting werewolves and dark wizards, she'd probably just lose her mind worrying."
Among the students, only Draco stood apart, lingering next to Professor Snape, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite get it out.
Fenrir Greyback.
Draco had overheard that name in hushed, secretive conversations between his father and others. The werewolf leader who'd once allied with the Dark Lord. Sure, Voldemort and the Death Eaters didn't think much of him, but no one could deny Greyback's contributions had outshone some of the Death Eaters themselves.
And now, this guy—leading a pack of werewolves and a few dark wizards—had slipped through the Crabbe family's secret Floo Network fireplace into this sealed-off place, armed with magical tools tailored to counter Professor Lockhart's dark creature pets.
It was hard not to think this was Voldemort's doing.
What were they after?
To kill the Chosen One, Harry Potter?
Or maybe to take out Snape, the Death Eater "traitor"?
If the Dark Lord was purging traitors, would his own father—or old Crabbe and Goyle—end up targeted too?
Draco didn't know.
He desperately wanted to ask Snape, but with all the other students around, it wasn't the right place. His anxiety was eating him alive.
Snape didn't say a word. His face was a grim mask as he watched Lockhart fussing over his pets and rummaging through the bodies of the fallen enemies.
Who knew what he'd find?
Snape, proud wizard that he was, probably hadn't spent much time looting corpses.
The dark wizards had brought an arsenal of rare magical tools designed to counter dark creatures—items so valuable and obscure that most wizards couldn't even dream of getting their hands on them. Werewolves, scrappy and familiar with the underbelly of the magical world, always carried their most precious possessions. As Lockhart searched, he uncovered expensive magical materials, herbs, and all sorts of oddities.
And, of course, a hefty pile of Galleons—never too many of those.
Then there was the matter of finishing the job. Most people overlooked it. The young witches and wizards, still reeling from the heat of battle, could hardly be expected to cast cruel offensive spells on corpses or slit their throats. Even a proud wizard like Snape sometimes made the mistake of assuming the fight was over and didn't bother with such "undignified" tasks.
Lockhart? He had no such qualms. Finishing off enemies and looting their bodies was just good habit.
It certainly kept him looking busy.
Snape kept his eyes on Lockhart, but then—poof! The man pulled a red cloak over his shoulders and vanished right before his eyes!
What was this guy up to now?!
Snape was starting to dread the next unpredictable thing Lockhart would pull. Honestly, he was a little scared.
Where'd he go?
How did he just disappear?
Snape glanced around the Crabbe family's abandoned Niffler breeding grounds, a sudden realization hitting him. That red cloak—it was eerily similar to the dark magical creature that had plagued this place for decades, forcing the Crabbes to abandon their precious breeding farm because no one could find the Nifflers.
How to deal with it?
Snape knew the trick, and he bet the students around him did too.
He turned to Draco. "Go join your classmates."
"But, Professor—" Draco started, only to meet Snape's dead-eyed stare. He swallowed hard and walked away.
"*Expecto Patronum!*"
Snape flicked his wand, summoning his doe Patronus. Sure enough, under its glow, he spotted Lockhart again.
The man was crouched over a werewolf's body, one hand pressed against its furry chest, the other gripping a wand, muttering some spell.
Snape hurried closer and caught the words:
"*Avada Kedavra!*"
"Damn it!" Lockhart yelped, jerking back as if he'd been burned, nearly dropping his wand. He started muttering apologies to it. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't think—you don't like me casting dark magic with you."
He patted the wand gently, like he was soothing a pet, then tucked it into his robes. From a ring enchanted with an Extension Charm, he pulled out a handful of wands—obviously taken from the fallen dark wizards and werewolves.
Lockhart rifled through them, picked one, and aimed it at the werewolf again. "Avada—"
"What are you doing?!" Snape finally snapped.
"Holy—!" Lockhart jumped, almost dropping the wand again. Seeing it was Snape, he let out a relieved breath and rolled his eyes. "Your fairy-tale adventure might be over, mate, but mine's still going strong!"
That infuriating line again. Snape fought to keep his temper in check. "What adventure?"
"My old man's orders, remember? I've got to find the key to handling werewolves. And the forest's call—I need to figure out how to cage the beast inside!" Lockhart rambled. "Fairy tales are fairy tales, but reality's different. I lost my Lycanthropy cure in the real world, and the 'taming the beast' trick I worked out in there isn't complete…"
"I'm this close to cracking it. And then these werewolves show up right in front of me? It's fate, mate, practically begging me to wrap up this adventure with a bow!"
"It's simple: Tom's Horcrux method, the old-school wizard trick of 'don't tame the beast, just lock it up,' and a dash of my own knowledge about memory and souls…"
Snape's brow furrowed as he tried to follow the jumbled explanation. He wasn't getting most of it, but one thing stood out: Tom. Horcrux.
Having read the draft of Lockhart's book, The Dark Lord Voldemort: A Pure-Blood Supremacist with a Muggle Dad?, Snape knew exactly what that meant.
Voldemort's Horcrux creation method.
"Gilderoy, what are you doing?!" Snape demanded again, his voice sharp.
Lockhart just shushed him, raising a finger. "Quiet, just one sec. One spell, and I'll know if I'm right."
There was something cruel he didn't mention:
The werewolf in front of him wasn't dead—just unconscious.
But Lockhart didn't care. He had no mercy for creatures that came to kill him and his students.
"*Avada Kedavra!*"
No greater malice could match his current state—treating a life like a toy for his experiments.
A flash of green light, and the werewolf's "corpse" twitched violently. Its muscles visibly relaxed, slumping into death.
Snape caught a glimpse of something profound—a chaotic surge of magical energy erupting from the body. It was the werewolf's soul screaming its final cry, releasing every emotion, desire, and feeling in a dazzling, destructive burst, like fireworks fading into nothing.
And Lockhart was using that energy. It surged through him, wild and raw.
The red cloak on his shoulders seemed to panic, thrashing as if trying to escape.
Lockhart knelt there, head tilted back, arms limp, eyes vacant as if his soul had checked out. His mouth hung open, caught between a silent wail and a manic laugh—an unsettling sight.
Soon, black smoke began pouring from his mouth, then his eyes, nose, and ears. It was as if he were burning, thick smoke rolling off him like dark flames.
From those flames, a vicious, evil-looking werewolf formed, howling at the sky with a gut-wrenching cry.
"This feels amazing~" the smoky werewolf growled, its voice eerily like Lockhart's but alien, dripping with malice. It loomed over Snape. "Severus, you've gotta try this. Emotions are like beasts—you can't lock them in your heart forever, or they'll bark and drive you mad. But you can't let them run wild like untamed horses either…"
Snape's eyes narrowed, his gaze turning cold and dark. Before he could respond, a shout cut through: "Rubbish!"
He whipped around to see a silver mist forming a fiery, spirited horse, glaring up at the smoky werewolf. "Untamed horses? You're the wild one, mate—your whole family's wild!"
The horse turned to Snape. "Don't listen to him, Severus. The good stuff? You keep it close, let it simmer into something rich, like fine wine."
"Pfft!" The werewolf cackled, its red eyes gleaming with spite. "What if it turns into sour apple vinegar? Or poison?"
Snape had had enough.
If only Lockhart were Voldemort—then he could whip out his wand and cast Avada Kedavra without a second thought.
Oh, how peaceful the world would be then.
Please, let me crawl back into my sack and hide from this madness, Snape thought, his heart sinking.
Thankfully, the chaotic scene didn't last long.
A pale, translucent figure rose into the air—almost ghostly, but definitely not a ghost. Snape was certain of it.
No ghost was five meters tall.
The massive figure looked down at them, grabbing the smoky werewolf in one hand and the silver horse in the other, shoving them into its chest.
As it did, it began to take on vibrant, living colors.
Still unsatisfied, the giant turned and snatched the thrashing red cloak. It opened its mouth as if to swallow it but hesitated—maybe because the cloak was wriggling too much, or maybe because Lockhart didn't want to absorb it into his soul.
Instead, the figure shook the cloak, letting it billow and grow before draping it over itself. Then its entire form collapsed, sinking back into Lockhart's kneeling body.
"Ooooh~" Lockhart groaned. "Severus, this feels so good, you—"
A wand jabbed into his face. Snape was trembling, teeth gritted, his voice a low hiss. "You dare say one more word—just one—and I'll end you."
"?!"
Lockhart froze, blinking. "Severus, what's this about? My legs are just numb—thought you might help me up, mate."
Help you up?!
Snape let out a laugh, tears streaming down his face as he collapsed to his knees, sobbing like a lone wolf.
Lockhart stared, genuinely baffled. "You… you alright?"
Snape was not alright. He was utterly broken, clutching at the grass, heedless of the thorns pricking his skin, howling like a werewolf in despair.
Lockhart was stunned.
Who's the werewolf here? Shouldn't it be me?
Then it clicked: the emotional influence of dark magical creatures. Like Dementors draining life's joy or Bowtruckles paralyzing with fear, his Patronus horse and that werewolf carried their own effects—wild joy one moment, bone-chilling loneliness the next. No one could handle that rollercoaster.
And Snape, in his current state, had zero magical resistance to it.
Poor guy was shattered.
Lockhart sighed, plopping down beside Snape.
He knew Snape wasn't exactly a saint. You couldn't erase his dark deeds just because of his deep love or bullied past. But Lockhart wasn't a saint either, and he had no issue befriending his first mate in this strange new world.
Everyone's got their dark side and their light.
That's just life.
It's tough.
Lockhart gestured to his now-tame dark creature sack, letting it expand to shield him and Snape from the students' eyes, giving the professor a bit of dignity.
Cry it out, mate.
Maybe this breakdown was Snape's big win from this adventure.
Pretty great, right?
Lockhart grinned, sitting happily next to the sobbing Snape, sorting through the pile of treasures he'd looted from the bodies.