Lockhart knew exactly where his path led.
Not the scheming, ladder-climbing world of the Ministry of Magic.
Not the frenzied chase for fame and glory, either.
His answer was unshakable, as clear as ever—magic. Nothing but magic.
With the help of his Boggart, he could sense the emotions swirling around him, each person's feelings a tangled mess. He was caught in a dangerous whirlpool, and he knew it.
If he didn't deal with the werewolf—or couldn't—he'd face a backlash from all the fame he'd chased. It'd be massive, and he was certain Corban Yaxley had the means to make it happen.
But what if he did handle the werewolf in front of everyone? Sure, he'd win more fame, more cheers from his fans. But don't forget the Ministry—Fudge, Scrimgeour, and the Aurors. How would they see him?
Oh, so you get the spotlight, and we're just the incompetent villains in your grand story? A bunch of bumbling Ministry employees, right?
Climbing over their reputations and careers to boost himself would earn him a long list of enemies.
So… what to do?
In his past life, a great figure had taught a simple truth: You fight your fight, I'll fight mine.
For Lockhart, the answer was obvious.
Magic.
Simple as that.
Wand in hand, he silently communed with the "Sack Cloak"—the red cloak that had been quietly protecting him and his students during his global book-signing tour. Even here, in the Ministry's grand atrium, it still worked its magic.
That confirmed it could function, at least in this part of the Ministry.
At his call, the red cloak expanded swiftly, enveloping everyone in the atrium—except Corban Yaxley.
Then, drawing on his recent chats with his favorite student, Tom Riddle, Lockhart tapped into the magic of the vicious werewolf, a spell Tom had likened to a dark mirror of the Patronus Charm. Tom had broken down how emotions fueled spellwork, teaching him a few neat tricks.
Like this one.
A shadow of the vicious werewolf silently cloaked the real werewolf, which was currently held aloft by the Aurors' Levitation Charms.
"Everyone, listen up!" Lockhart called, stepping forward. He gently helped an elderly woman to her feet, facing the crowd of fans, reporters, and Ministry officials with a sincere expression. As their expectant gazes locked on him, a bone-chilling roar cut him off.
"ROAR!"
The werewolf's howl echoed through the atrium, its predatory aura sending shivers down everyone's spines. Even seasoned Aurors, who'd faced werewolves before, paled. This was no ordinary beast.
It was stronger. Much stronger.
With the roar, the werewolf's body swelled, its already massive frame stretching taller, muscles bulging grotesquely.
It broke free of the Aurors' Levitation Charms, slamming into the nearest ones and sending them flying. With a mighty leap, it launched itself at the only prey it could see.
Corban Yaxley didn't stand a chance. Tucked away in an unassuming corner, he couldn't fathom why, among all these people, the werewolf singled him out. He didn't even have time to draw his wand from its tailored pocket before the beast tackled him. A scream tore from his throat as the werewolf ripped a chunk of flesh from his shoulder.
It was over.
His face drained of color.
He'd been bitten.
He was going to become a filthy, lowly werewolf!
No—first, he had to survive the beast's jaws to even get to that point.
"Help me!" he wailed.
The Aurors snapped into action, wands flashing as they unleashed spells at the werewolf.
But its magical resistance, amplified by Lockhart's vicious werewolf shadow, was staggering. Standard attack spells barely scratched it.
Chaos erupted. People screamed, scrambling away. Reporters like Rita Skeeter furiously scribbled notes, thrilled by the scoop. Aurors' spells zipped through the crowd, some hitting bystanders, fueling the pandemonium.
"Quick, get behind me!" Lockhart shouted, ushering fans to safety and shielding the young witches and wizards. He aimed his wand at the werewolf.
He waved it swiftly, but the spell was complex, too slow to stop the tragedy unfolding.
The werewolf tore into Yaxley's shoulder, ripping off his entire left arm. Blood sprayed everywhere.
Finally, an Auror's spell took effect—a golden net materialized, ensnaring the beast. Another yanked Yaxley away with a quick charm.
But it only bought a moment. With another roar, the werewolf shredded the net with razor-sharp claws.
"AWOOO!"
Its eyes turned pitch-black, flickering like dark flames. It grew even larger, dragon-like, radiating raw fury.
Despite being unable to see the Aurors, its instincts drove it toward them, crashing through with brute force. Lockhart's cloak didn't fully hide everyone, and the werewolf's rampage sent Aurors flying.
The scene spiraled out of control.
Fudge's face was ashen, like he'd seen his own grave. This was a disaster. His political career was done—no way Dumbledore could save him now.
He stared at the struggling, seemingly useless Aurors, dizzy with dread, unable to imagine the fallout.
How many would turn into werewolves because of this?
He didn't know.
All he knew was, it was over.
Then, terror gripped him as the blind, rampaging werewolf veered toward him.
Panicked, he glanced around for someone to rely on, settling on Scrimgeour, the Auror Office head, who he assumed was the strongest in the room.
Scrimgeour was casting a spell, conjuring a massive floor mirror framed by writhing green snakes. Its base was four twisted serpent heads, biting the ground, with eerie blood-red patterns circling the glass.
Fudge darted behind him, praying the spell would hold.
But Scrimgeour shouted to his team, "Quick, lure the werewolf to me!"
"What?!" Fudge gaped. This wasn't a defensive spell?
The werewolf charged, slamming into the mirror with a thunderous crash. Flashes of light erupted as the beast's body tore open, blood spraying.
Scrimgeour swiftly waved his wand, collecting the blood with a green snake that slithered from the mirror, swallowing it to prevent the highly infectious werewolf venom from spreading.
"Brilliant!" Fudge cheered, but his relief was short-lived. The werewolf roared, its powerful arms slashing through the mirror, shattering it into glowing fragments.
Now Fudge and Scrimgeour were exposed.
Fudge swallowed hard, despair sinking in. He'd be next to catch the werewolf curse.
"ROAR!"
The beast lunged, its fury unstoppable.
They were done for. Fudge's eyes widened, hopelessness washing over him.
But then, a figure darted forward, back to them, facing the towering werewolf with a graceful wand flourish. "Return to human form!"
It was Lockhart.
With a light tap of his wand, the werewolf shuddered, its body collapsing inward. The wolfish head shriveled, fur retracting rapidly.
In an instant, it was no longer a beast but a plain, middle-aged man, crashing to the floor.
Lockhart flicked his wand, and green vines sprouted, binding the man's wrists tightly.
The chaos was over.
Fudge stared at Lockhart, overflowing with gratitude. "Thank you, thank you!" Then, snapping to action, he nudged the ineffective Scrimgeour. "Quick, check for injuries—anyone bitten or scratched needs to be logged!"
Scrimgeour, already on it, gave Fudge an odd look. "Just one. Corban Yaxley."
"Only one?" Fudge's face lit up, though he quickly forced a somber expression. "How tragic. Is Corban… alright?"
Scrimgeour shook his head, sighing. "There's still no cure for lycanthropy."
What a shame.
Fudge stifled a smirk, glancing at Yaxley writhing in pain on the floor. The man who flaunted his "Sacred Twenty-Eight" pure-blood status, looking down on everyone else as trash, would never dare mention "blood" again.
Poor Corban. He'd been stripped of his humanity.