Madam Bones stared at me for several long seconds, as if expecting the answer to rearrange itself into something more sensible if she waited long enough.
"How did you do it?" she finally asked. "Forgive me, Mr Lockhart, but it is exceedingly difficult to believe that a single wizard could subdue this many werewolves alone."
Her gaze flicked past me.
"And is that… Fenrir Greyback?"
I followed her line of sight.
Greyback's body convulsed violently as the last remnants of the Homorphus Charm unraveled. Bones cracked and shifted, his human form twisting grotesquely back into something monstrous. Fur erupted across his skin, his snout forcing its way out as he snarled, restrained only by layered binding spells and the thick ice encasing the rest of his body.
Madam Bones inhaled sharply.
"He was human just moments ago," she said slowly. "Was he not? Or are my eyes deceiving me?"
I smiled, letting my charm do some of the heavy lifting.
"Your eyes are perfectly fine," I replied lightly. "That was the Homorphus Charm. A rather nifty little trick, if I do say so myself. It forces a werewolf back into their human form for a few minutes."
A ripple of shock moved through the assembled Aurors.
I continued calmly, as if explaining a particularly clever parlor trick. "I used the opportunity to ask him a few questions. According to Greyback, he was acting under orders from the Dark Lord."
The reaction was immediate.
"That's impossible!" someone barked from behind Madam Bones.
I turned my head slightly and recognized Rufus Scrimgeour at once, broad-shouldered, lion-maned, and already bristling like he was ready to wrestle reality into submission.
"He's dead," Scrimgeour continued sharply. "You-Know-Who is dead."
I nodded pleasantly. "Supposedly, yes."
The word landed harder than any outright contradiction.
"But," I went on smoothly, "that assumes several things. That there can only ever be one Dark Lord. That no one would dare take up the title. That an impersonator wouldn't find it useful. Or…" I tilted my head thoughtfully, "…that he truly died in the first place."
The plaza went very quiet.
"After all," I added mildly, "his body was never found."
I could practically hear the collective mental scrambling.
Denial warred with logic. Fear crept in through the cracks.
I was careful not to directly say Voldemort is back.
People rejected absolutes when they were terrifying. But doubt? Doubt lingered. It festered. It forced people to prepare, even when they pretended not to believe.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Madam Bones' expression harden into a calculating look.
Good.
Behind her, the Aurors murmured among themselves, casting uneasy glances at Greyback, at the frozen lake, at the ice coffins gleaming under the moonlight. Tonks stood rigid, exhaustion etched into her face, eyes flicking over me as if trying to reconcile what she was seeing with what she knew should be possible.
Greyback snarled again, causing the ice to crack slightly, yellow eyes blazing with hatred.
I simply reinforced the ice and then ignored him.
Internally, I couldn't help but compare this moment to another one, in another lifetime.
Dumbledore, standing in front of the Wizengamot, declaring outright that Voldemort had returned.
Bold. Honest.
And politically disastrous.
For all his wisdom and experience, the old Headmaster was, at his core, still a Gryffindor. Still prone to charging headfirst at the truth, trusting that righteousness alone would carry the day. He had underestimated how deeply Cornelius Fudge preferred to bury his head in the sand like an ostrich when reality threatened his comfort.
I wasn't making that mistake.
You didn't fight fear with proclamations.
You fought it by letting people reach the conclusion themselves, slowly, reluctantly, until denying it became more painful than accepting it.
I met Madam Bones' eyes again and gave her a courteous nod.
"What you do with that information," I said evenly, "is entirely up to the Ministry."
Greyback thrashed once more behind me, moonlight glinting off his fangs.
But the real battle tonight wasn't with monsters.
It was with belief.
And I had just tipped the scales.
…
Just then, hurried footsteps echoed across the plaza.
"Aurora, wait!"
Rosmerta and Aurora burst out of the Three Broomsticks, skirts gathered in their hands as they half-ran, half-skidded over the frost-slick stone. Their eyes went immediately to me, then to the frozen lake, then to the forest of ice coffins rising from it.
Aurora gasped. "Merlin's beard!"
Rosmerta didn't bother finishing the sentence. She rushed straight to me, hands already on my coat, eyes scanning my face with frantic intensity. "Are you hurt? Say something. You were out there alone, are you mad?"
"I'm perfectly sane," I replied smoothly. "Debatable, perhaps, but I'm completely unharmed."
Aurora was less inclined to take my word for it. She grabbed my chin firmly and turned my head to the left, then the right, eyes narrowing as she inspected my neck, jaw, and shoulders.
"No scratches," she muttered. Her hands moved quickly, checking my chest, my arms, my sides. "No blood. No torn fabric."
Rosmerta frowned and leaned closer. "Let me see your back."
"Ladies," I protested lightly, "I assure you…"
Aurora leaned in even closer, peering at my collar and hairline. Then she froze.
"…Your hair," she said flatly.
"Yes?" I prompted.
"It's immaculate."
I smiled smugly. "Exactly my point."
Rosmerta stared at me for a second, then let out a disbelieving laugh, half hysterical, half relieved. "You fight a pack of werewolves and come back looking like you've just stepped out of a magazine."
"Not a single strand out of place," I said proudly, brushing my fingers through it. "They didn't even make me sweat."
Aurora snorted despite herself. "Insufferable."
"But he's alive, and that's what matters," Rosmerta added fondly.
I placed a hand over each of theirs, giving them a reassuring squeeze. "I'm fine. Truly."
Reluctantly, they eased back, though neither of them looked entirely convinced.
"Well," I added, straightening and glancing toward the frozen werewolves and the Aurors waiting nearby, "if you'll excuse me, I should help move these charming guests to their new accommodations at the Ministry."
Moody let out a sharp grunt. "We can handle that."
Madam Bones didn't even look at him.
"We would appreciate your assistance, Mr Lockhart," she said crisply. "Given that you… created the situation."
I inclined my head politely. "Of course."
Rosmerta smiled slowly, then leaned in and kissed my cheek. "Don't take too long," she murmured. "We'll be waiting in bed to celebrate your triumph."
Aurora didn't bother with words. She kissed my other cheek, her lips warm against my skin, eyes gleaming with something decidedly pleased.
Then, without another glance back, the two of them turned and walked toward the Three Broomsticks, hips swaying with deliberate confidence.
I watched them go, utterly transfixed, until they disappeared through the door.
Only then did I remember where I was.
I turned back to Madam Bones, clearing my throat lightly.
"Shall we?" I asked.
She nodded once, and I got to work.
With precise, efficient motions, I conjured thick enchanted chains, binding the werewolves in groups of five, reinforcing each set with layered containment spells. The ice coffins melted just enough to allow transport, the restrained bodies dragged free and secured for portkey transfer.
All the while, I did my very best to ignore the unmistakable sensation of Tonks' glare burning holes into the back of my head.
Some victories, it seemed, came with complications.
…