"Dudley, this is what you call advanced magic?" Hermione asked, eyeing him skeptically. Dudley was lounging in a chair, engrossed in a book—or, more accurately, a novel.
A very familiar novel.
Author: Gilderoy Lockhart.
"Lockhart's stuff counts as advanced magic?" Hermione pressed, her tone dripping with doubt.
It was a shared opinion among the discipline group that Lockhart was utterly useless.
His track record at Hogwarts was a mess—knocked out in a single blow by Neville during a duel, rumors of inappropriate relationships with students. Those stains weren't coming out.
"No, it's not about him writing it," Dudley said, lowering the book with a serious look. "The content's based on real events—just not his own."
The novel's title: Wanderings with Werewolves.
"When the Ministry's Aurors took him away, it was on moral grounds—'a professor involved with a student.' But he overreacted, attacked an Auror, and added another charge to his rap sheet. Normally, someone of his status could've greased a few palms with Galleons and walked away."
Dudley paused. "But the Aurors quickly realized things weren't that simple."
After intense questioning, Lockhart cracked and spilled everything.
He'd stolen other wizards' experiences and used Memory Charms to wipe their minds.
"Lockhart attacked those wizards? Stole their achievements?" Hermione said through gritted teeth. "What an irredeemable jerk."
If there was anything worse than plagiarism, it was stealing someone's work and silencing them forever.
"So he's rotting in Azkaban now," Dudley said, tapping the book's cover with his knuckles. "And he deserves it."
"But the stories in his books? They belong to other wizards. They're not made up."
He pointed to the book. "This one's about a wizard who defeated werewolves—not with Wolfsbane Potion, but with a spell."
Dudley emphasized the word spell.
"Goodness," Hermione gasped, her eyes widening as the realization hit.
So far, the only known way to restore a werewolf's sanity and human form in the wizarding world was Wolfsbane Potion. If Lockhart's account was true, it meant there was a spell that could do the same.
Not all werewolves chose their fate. Most were forcibly turned, often through malicious attacks.
These werewolf wizards couldn't integrate into mainstream wizarding society. Transforming and losing control at least once a month scared most wizards off. Many were driven to join dark wizard factions out of desperation, while a few lingered in the gray, living in isolation until they died alone.
The only remedy, Wolfsbane Potion, was exorbitantly expensive. Its complex brewing process and rare ingredients made it nearly impossible to obtain.
And the kicker? Most werewolf wizards were dirt poor.
No werewolf wizard would shell out a fortune for a single dose of Wolfsbane just to suppress one monthly transformation.
If this spell existed, it could be a game-changer for them.
A boon for the entire wizarding world.
"I think," Dudley said, "it's time I paid a visit to our former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
Azkaban, the wizarding world's maximum-security prison, sat on a desolate island in the frigid North Sea, far from civilization.
It was guarded by Dementors, horrifying creatures that fed on human souls.
Unlike the clear skies of other seas, Azkaban's skies were perpetually shrouded in dark clouds, giving it an eerie, foreboding air.
Dudley arrived at the island by boat.
"Mr. Dursley, this is as far as we go," the nominal prison guard said from the boat, glancing nervously at the island and the black-robed figures gliding through the sky. "That's where Lockhart's held."
Even normal people would lose their minds after too long in Azkaban.
Officially, Azkaban was under Ministry control, but the Dementors weren't subordinates or partners. The Ministry simply dumped prisoners on the island, leaving the Dementors to handle the rest.
Rather than employing the Dementors, it was more like the Ministry was feeding them.
Of course, there was an agreement: Dementors couldn't leave Azkaban without cause or attack Ministry personnel.
"Got it," Dudley said, unfazed by the Dementors circling above. He headed straight for Lockhart's cell.
Soon, he stood before a barred door. Inside, a disheveled, gaunt man slumped in the corner.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
After some time in Azkaban, Lockhart looked dreadful. According to the guards, he was a particular favorite of the Dementors.
Apparently, his abundance of happy memories made him a feast.
"Happy memories are their food," Dudley remarked.
"My dear Professor Lockhart, you're looking rough. Maybe your next book shouldn't be Me and Hogwarts but Me and Azkaban."
"It might be a surprise hit."
Dudley's voice snapped Lockhart's attention. Seeing who it was, he scrambled to the bars, clinging to them like a lifeline.
"Mr. Dursley, help me!" he pleaded.
Clearly, his time in Azkaban had left quite an impression. Look at the poor guy, practically vibrating with desperation.
"I think we should discuss a deal," Dudley said, pulling a few books from his pocket and holding them up.
"I need you to tell me about the wizards whose memories you erased."
Each of Lockhart's books represented a wizard whose life he'd stolen. These wizards had remarkable experiences and skills—exactly what Dudley was after.
Don't expect the Ministry to track down and help those wizards. By the time they got around to it, the trail would be cold.
"I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything!" Lockhart sobbed, tears and snot streaming down his face. "Just get me out of this place!"
He didn't care about his image anymore. All he wanted was to escape this nightmare.
He swore he'd write a whole book about Dementors if he got out.
"Professor Lockhart, you've got it wrong," Dudley said, patting his shoulder. "This isn't a negotiation."
"It's a deal, but I set the terms."
"You don't get to bargain. You can refuse—if you're ready to face the consequences."
"Pain."
Lockhart collapsed, twitching on the floor as if electrocuted.
Dudley had merely stimulated his pain receptors.
"You didn't think I'd be kinder than the Dementors, did you?"