Draco felt utterly miserable.
He was going to die.
Professor Lockhart had vanished, like some wise figure in a fairy tale who appears to offer guidance and then disappears without a trace.
And of all nights, tonight was a full moon. The terrifying werewolf had struck the town again.
Ron was dead. Hermione had vanished who-knows-where. In this unfamiliar town, Draco suddenly found himself completely alone.
Professor Lockhart, save me!
I can't cast spells right now!
Desperate, Draco had no choice but to run to the Muggle hunters' tavern, hoping they could offer him protection.
He didn't see anything wrong with seeking help from Muggles.
The Malfoy family was known for its flexible principles. Their version of "pure-blood supremacy" wasn't like others'—it extended to both pure-blood wizards and pure-blood Muggles.
Draco's father, Lucius, had once secretly taken him to meet a pure-blood Muggle—the Muggle Queen. As the most influential of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" wizarding families, the Malfoys got along splendidly with the Muggle Queen and her nobles. Their interests aligned perfectly: they all despised anything "mixed" or impure.
Whether it was half-bloods or those so-called Muggle-borns who seemed to pop out of nowhere, as if wizards could just spring from Muggle stock.
In other words, "blood purity" was just another word for "interests."
But despite their aligned interests, Lucius had repeatedly warned Draco to stay wary of Muggles. His words were clear: "Wizards are wizards, and Muggles are Muggles."
Draco was about to learn the truth of that warning.
He burst through the tavern's door, shouting at the hunters still drinking and reveling, "The werewolf's here!"
Pointing at the full moon outside, he urgently tried to warn them, hoping they'd grab their weapons. "It was just chasing me—it could come here any second!"
The hunters were the town's only defense against the werewolf. He didn't want his recklessness to get them killed—they were his only hope.
His words worked.
The noisy tavern fell silent. Whether it was the man standing on a table, pontificating loudly, or the one sneaking glances at the barmaid's figure, or the bartender wiping glasses, it was as if someone had hit a pause button. Every head turned toward Draco.
Relieved, he saw many of them scrambling for their weapons.
A lean, agile-looking hunter rushed to the door, peered outside for a moment, then shut it and turned to Draco. "Kid, you sure a werewolf's after you?"
Draco nodded fervently.
And then, to his shock, the group of armed men lunged at him.
What's going on?
You're supposed to fight the werewolf, not grab me!
By the time he was bruised and battered, his hands tied behind his back and secured to a pillar in the tavern, he was still bewildered. He struggled, shouting angrily, "What, you think I'm lying? Or that I'm the werewolf?"
"Oh, no, not at all," the lean hunter said, smirking as he ran his thumb along the blade of his dagger. "Know why we can handle werewolves?"
Draco shook his head.
"Because werewolves aren't interested in us," the hunter said, tapping Draco's cheek with the flat of his dagger. "They only go after witches. Regular folks like us just lock our doors and windows, and the werewolf won't bother breaking in."
The crowd around Draco, seeing his stunned expression, erupted into laughter, talking over each other.
"Werewolves don't care about us, so it's the evil witches we hunters go after."
"But he looks like a boy."
"Who knows?"
"Look how pale he is—might actually be a witch in disguise. Should we check?"
"You're bold! What if he curses you?"
"…"
Draco's face flushed with humiliation. He suddenly realized his mistake. As a member of the Duelling Club, he'd been helping Professor Lockhart compile information on dark magical creatures.
He knew werewolves preferred attacking wizards over Muggles—something about their scent being different.
But how had he not connected the dots? A simple line in a book had turned into this complicated, dangerous reality.
Who could've seen this coming?
People always pay a price for their stupidity.
The good news? They didn't strip him to "check." The bad news? They tied him to a stake, ready to burn–
He finally understood how the hunters dealt with werewolves.
They set traps, hiding with crossbows and spears, using a wizard—him—as bait.
Then they'd wait patiently for the werewolf to come for its final meal.
What do I do?
What do I do?!
Am I about to become the first wizard in the new century burned alive by Muggles?
No!
He couldn't die!
He carried too much responsibility. Crabbe and Goyle needed urgent help. His parents were constantly under the Dark Lord's threat. He couldn't die!
He had to regain his ability to cast spells—fast!
Magic could solve all his problems!
He'd spent the entire night thinking about what Lockhart had hinted at. He had some ideas, but he wasn't sure if they were right.
He didn't want to take risks. He'd hoped to confirm his thoughts with Lockhart.
That was the cautious, sensible thing to do.
But there was no time for hesitation now.
Maybe, just as Lockhart had said, everyone has their own magical path.
He…
He decided to abandon the Patronus Charm.
Yes, he knew it wasn't for him.
Not that he couldn't cast it—his Patronus was far stronger than Ron's faint wisp. He had plenty of joy and beauty in his heart.
But he resisted using them.
Maybe it was his personality, or the weight of expectations he'd carried since childhood, or the complexity of his mind. He knew his moments of joy and beauty were few, and they might grow even scarcer in the future.
He refused to use them as fuel for magic. He wanted to preserve those rare, precious memories carefully.
Yes, he'd let go of the Patronus Charm.
Instead, he'd embrace the power of dark magic.
He believed he was the only one at school who truly understood Lockhart's lessons on Defense Against the Dark Arts. Because, in truth, many of Lockhart's teachings were subtly guiding him on how to use dark magic.
He had an idea, a method. The only thing missing was certainty that it was the right path.
But now, he couldn't wait for anyone to give him answers.
He had to decide for himself.
Draco closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down, focusing intently on the influence of the dark magical creature on his mind.
While everyone else fought against this dark force, he chose to lean into it.
Soon, as he lowered his defenses, a terrifying loneliness began to spread through his heart. The isolation sparked an urge to hide beneath a hooded cloak, to avoid the chaos of the world.
This loneliness brought a cold, creeping insecurity, like an icy snake slithering across his skin, raising goosebumps.
This was it!
When he'd brushed against this feeling by the fireplace, he'd panicked and rebuilt his mental barriers to block it out.
But now, he let it grow, let it infect his emotions, resonating deeper and deeper.
On the stake, his body trembled, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead.
Suddenly, the ropes binding him felt tighter. His shoes pinched, pressing painfully against–
It was as if he were growing rapidly, his body stretching taller.
He didn't know why this was happening, but he could feel it: his emotions were overwhelming, so intense that he sensed his magic surging again, and the wand he'd been gripping tightly felt alive in his hand.
The familiar sensation nearly brought tears of joy.
Magic!
He could feel the power of magic again!
But he wasn't happy. He sensed a subtle shift in his mindset. He pressed his lips together, lifting his head to glare at the hunters lurking in the shadows.
They were waiting for the werewolf to come for him.
If the werewolf didn't show tonight, they'd likely burn him at dawn. The hunters were cautious, knowing a wizard should be dealt with quickly. Keeping him as werewolf bait too long risked him finding a way to harm them.
Hmph.
I've already found my chance. Just wait for my revenge!
Draco flicked his wand, and the ropes binding his wrists and legs began to unravel, falling away.
He kept casting. "Serpensortia!"
A massive python materialized on the ground in front of the stake, slithering swiftly toward the hunters in the shadows.
The snake was so enormous it drew their attention immediately.
Thud, thud, thud!
Crossbow bolts and spears rained down on the python.
Seizing the moment, Draco cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, blending into the background like a chameleon.
Then he enchanted the ropes to take on his appearance, tied back to the stake, while he bolted toward the nearest shadowy corner.
Soon, he stood behind a hunter licking his lips, gripping a steel knife. Draco raised his wand, aiming at the back of the man's head.
What spell should he use to kill him?
Draco hesitated.
Just then, the world shook violently, as if an earthquake had struck.
Sensing something, he looked up, puzzled, and saw a massive crimson cloak billowing in the sky, vast enough to blot out the heavens.
But something was off.
A distinctive silver glow flickered—a Patronus, a large rat, tearing at the cloak.
Then came a reverse meteor shower.
From some distant place, silver streaks shot through the sky, attacking the crimson cloak above.
He recognized two of the Patronuses—George and Fred's. They'd shown them off in Lockhart's office without a care.
Among the silver lights, the most striking were a stag and a doe.
Draco wasn't sure whose they were.
So, everyone wasn't actually that far away.
He let out a sigh of relief, glancing at the hunter still under his wand. In the end, he didn't cast a curse. He stepped back, blending into the shadows of the alley.
Draco slipped out of the hunters' trap, glancing back at them before turning and walking away.
He wondered how everyone else was doing.
And what was going on with Professor Lockhart.