(Tom Riddle)
My knuckles were white long before I reached the end of the second paragraph.
When my eyes first caught the headline, my lips had curled into a slow, satisfied smirk.
[Unprecedented Werewolf Attack on Hogsmeade!]
Good.
Greyback had acted quickly, then. Efficiently. Brutally, as instructed. I had chosen him for a reason. Fenrir Greyback did not hesitate, did not moralize, did not fail when unleashed upon a target meant to die screaming.
For a brief, delicious moment, I imagined Lockhart torn apart beneath the full moon, his ridiculous smile finally wiped from existence.
Then I began to read.
[Last night, the inhabitants of Hogsmeade experienced a nightmare when their village was suddenly drowned in the sound of countless werewolf howls…]
My smirk grew more satisfied.
[It turns out the attackers were a werewolf pack led by none other than the infamous Fenrir Greyback…]
Yes. Just as planned.
[Under the influence of Wolfsbane Potion and the full moon, he was prepared to lead a coordinated attack on the magical village at the outskirts of Hogwarts.]
I frowned.
Wolfsbane ensured control, obedience. It was why I had insisted on it. Greyback was many things, but subtlety was not one of them. This was meant to be swift. Decisive. A massacre with one specific corpse left behind. But how did they know he used Wolfsbane?
[What they did not expect was to meet fierce resistance at the hands of none other than the incredible Gilderoy Lockhart…]
The parchment crumpled slightly beneath my fingers.
No.
I read the line again, slower this time, as if repetition might undo it.
[…who not only managed to thwart their plans, but also managed to capture the entire pack, a full twenty-three werewolves, including Greyback himself.]
Captured.
Alive.
My grip tightened until the paper audibly strained.
That was impossible.
Greyback was not meant to return. He was not meant to be questioned, interrogated, or paraded in front of the Wizengamot. He was meant to die if he failed, preferably taking Lockhart with him.
[According to witnesses, there were originally over thirty werewolves present, but many of them were completely obliterated by our beloved hero.]
Obliterated.
The word burned far more than the fire that followed.
I never finished the article.
The parchment ignited in my hands as my magic surged out of control, flames devouring the words before they could humiliate me further. Ash drifted to the floor, still glowing faintly as it scattered across the stone.
For several seconds, I stood motionless.
The air around me vibrated, thick with suppressed violence. The torches lining the walls flickered wildly, their flames bending toward me as if drawn by the pressure of my fury.
Greyback had failed.
Not merely failed.
He had been captured.
That was unacceptable.
My jaw clenched as realization settled in, sharp and bitter. If Greyback lived long enough to stand trial, then there was a chance, however small, that he might talk. There wasn't much he could reveal, since I had made sure to obliviate him of details, but there might still be hints. Patterns. Connections.
And all because of him.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
A man who should have died like any other loud, foolish obstacle. A man I had dismissed as a fraud once upon a time.
And yet, he had stood against a full pack under the moon.
And not only survived.
But won.
My anger shifted, cooling into something far more unsettling.
This was no longer a simple irritation.
This was a problem.
Lockhart was not simply lucky. Luck did not capture Greyback alive. Luck did not annihilate werewolves powerful enough to tear seasoned Aurors apart.
Something had changed.
And worse, he had done it publicly.
I turned toward the window, staring at my faint reflection in the glass. My eyes were cold now, calculating.
I had sent a monster to kill a man.
But now the monster was in chains and the infuriating man was being celebrated.
That imbalance could not be allowed to stand.
Very well.
If Gilderoy Lockhart wished to interfere with my plans, to survive executions personally ordered by me, then he had crossed a line he did not even know existed.
And next time…
There would be no witnesses.
…
(Gilderoy Lockhart)
As I stepped out of Grindelwald's hidden manor, the heavy stone doors sealing themselves behind me with a dull thud, a shiver ran through my spine that had nothing to do with the cold mountain air. My breath fogged faintly as I exhaled, but my mind was still trapped inside those dim halls, replaying every twisted incantation the old man had drilled into my head.
Honestly, some of those curses were worse than the Cruciatus.
I had endured pain before, inflicted it too when necessary, but Grindelwald's idea of "non-lethal alternatives" bordered on sadistic artistry. He had explained each spell with the tone of a patient teacher, calmly describing muscle spasms, nerve misfires, and long-term psychological trauma as if he were lecturing on potion brewing. I was fairly certain that any wizard subjected to half of those spells would beg for the mercy of the Cruciatus within minutes.
And the Testicular Torsion Curse.
I grimaced just thinking about it.
That one absolutely deserved a place among the Unforgivables. Whoever had invented it had been a monster of the highest order, and Grindelwald teaching it with a pleased little smile did not improve my opinion of him. Still, effectiveness was effectiveness, and I would be lying if I said I had not committed every syllable to memory.
I rubbed my arms, as if that might shake off the lingering unease, and looked up at the sky. The sun was sinking low now, bleeding orange and purple across the horizon. Shadows stretched long over the landscape, and the air carried that unmistakable chill that meant October was nearing its end.
Halloween.
I checked the time and sighed softly. The feast at Hogwarts would be starting soon, the Great Hall filled with floating pumpkins, flickering candles, and the sound of students pretending they were not secretly nervous about what always seemed to happen on that particular night.
Then it hit me.
If my memory served me right, tonight was also the first night Sirius Black would attempt to infiltrate the Gryffindor common room.
I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head.
Of course it was.
Escaped convict, alleged mass murderer and traitor, unrepentant prankster, and an Animagus who thought hiding as a dog made him clever. The man had timing, I would give him that. Nothing said dramatic like a Halloween break-in at Hogwarts.
"Well," I muttered to myself, already feeling my mood improve, "time to catch a stray dog."
With a sharp twist of my wrist and a familiar pull behind my navel, I apparated away, the darkening sky vanishing as my thoughts turned toward Hogwarts, pumpkins, and one very unlucky black dog who had no idea what kind of evening awaited him.
…