HP: Wormwood and Lightning Wood

The wolfsbane potion in the crucible had an eerie bluish-purple hue.

Snape's quill flew across the parchment, the ink still wet, when suddenly a shadow fell over the notes.

"West Somerset!" Snape looked up abruptly. West stood at the table, smiling and staring at him, smelling of butterbeer, clearly having just returned from a bar.

"Severus, Happy Halloween." West opened his hand, revealing a black velvet gift box in his palm. "Want to open it?"

Snape glanced at him sideways, then opened the gift box—inside lay a delicate mithril brooch shaped like a sleeping serpent, its exquisite scales shimmering with a faint blue light and radiating a gentle magical aura.

"What is this?" Snape asked, puzzled.

West picked up the brooch, took Snape's hand, and carefully fastened it to his cuff. "This is a mithril brooch, Severus. I've infused it with magic; it can protect you from three Unforgivable Curses."

He admired Snape's slender wrist. "Do you like it, Severus?"

Snape pressed his lips together. "You think I need these things? You'd be better off giving them to your savior brother."

Westmore ran a hand through the ink stains on Snape's knuckles and cast a cleansing spell. "Bellatrix Lestrange has escaped with a few Death Eaters, Severus."

"I have a feeling Voldemort is about to begin his plan."

Snape's pupils contracted sharply.

The Quidditch tournament starts after Halloween.

On the eve of the match, because Lupin was in a weakened state due to his transformation, Snape had to teach him a lesson on Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Snape looked around the class and said coldly, "Today we will learn—" He turned to the last chapter of the textbook, "—weren't men."

"But Professor, we've only just learned about Grindelwald," Hermione said quickly, "the next lesson we're supposed to learn about Hinkpunk—"

"Quiet, Miss Granger," Snape said calmly, "I feel as if I'm giving a lecture, not you. Now, turn to page 394."

Hermione could only quiet down and obediently open the book. Perhaps Professor Snape had his reasons, Hermione thought.

"Can anyone tell me how to distinguish between a werewolf and a real wolf?"

West's gaze was fixed intently on Snape, and he raised his hand; besides him, only Hermione raised her hand, as she did in every class.

"Who can answer?" Snape said, his gaze falling on West. "West, you answer."

West's answer clearly pleased Snape. "Very good, Slytherin, five points."

The atmosphere in Snape's classes was always somber. Everyone listened attentively and took notes on werewolves, while Snape walked back and forth between the desks, checking the notes they had completed during Lupin's classes.

"...Where are your notes, Mr. West?" Snape stopped in front of West, staring at his blank textbook—he didn't even have any notes.

West blinked innocently. "Professor, I know all of these. Would you like to test me?"

Harry, sitting to the side, quietly lowered his head, inwardly criticizing West while hoping that Professor Snape wouldn't notice him.

Just then, the bell rang, and Snape glared at West, announcing today's homework: "Each of you will write a paper and hand it in to me about methods for identifying and killing werewolves..."

Snape had more classes to attend, and West couldn't be the little tail, so he regretfully stopped.

"West, what does Professor Snape mean?" Hermione couldn't help but ask, "Why are you suddenly learning about werewolves?"

Harry said, "There can't possibly be werewolves at Hogwarts, right? Haha..." He chuckled twice, then, seeing West's expression, he added, "Uh, really..."

"How could that be?! Werewolves would harm students! How could Dumbledore allow werewolves into Hogwarts!" Ron said.

"Don't worry," West had to say. "There is a werewolf, but he won't hurt you—Harry, your priority right now is to prepare for Quidditch."

Harry sighed, "Fighting Slytherin..." Gryffindor won, but Draco was unhappy; Slytherin won, but Gryffindor was unhappy.

The next day, when West and Snape arrived at the stands, thunder rumbled and the wind and rain raged. West had to use his magic to create a barrier to envelop Snape and himself.

The players from Gryffindor and Slytherin entered the field, each one being blown about by the wind.

Harry mounted the Firebolt, attracting a large crowd. Thanks to the waterproof and moisture-proof goggles given to him by West, he could see everything around him clearly in the rain.

His gaze fell on Draco, whose golden hair was already wet, with a few stray strands clinging obediently to his face.

Playing in the wind and rain is no easy task; the players' brooms were blown about in all directions—and worst of all, they were soaked to the bone and almost frozen.

The raindrops were so dense that even Harry had difficulty spotting the Golden Snitch.

The match went on for a long time, until it got dark.

Harry noticed Draco flying in the air, his lips pale.

Anyway, I need to end the game as soon as possible, Harry thought.

"Harry!" Wood's frustrated shout came from the goal, "Behind you!"

Harry turned his head sharply, and a small golden patch shimmered in the drizzling air.

Harry calmed himself down, lay flat on his flying broom, and spun toward the Golden Snitch. Raindrops hit his face, causing a slight sting.

Draco had obviously noticed them too, and flew over. They followed the Golden Snitch higher and higher.

Just as Harry was about to touch the Golden Snitch, a chill ran through him. He suddenly realized that the stands were deathly silent.

"Harry!" Draco's terrified cry came from below. Harry looked down and saw at least a hundred Dementors floating in the stands.

They rushed toward Harry and Draco, their faces hidden beneath hoods.

Harry felt frozen water rising from his chest, chilling his insides. He heard a woman's voice.

"Don't touch Harry! Let him go!"

"Please don't let Harry go! You dare kill me!"

A shrill voice burst into laughter, and the woman let out a piercing scream.

Harry's mind went blank, his consciousness fading—it was his mother, she was about to be killed by Voldemort, and he had to save her—

"Harry! Wake up!" Draco's scream seemed to pierce eardrums, and the sudden shout abruptly pulled Harry back to reality from his daze.

Harry jolted awake as if from a dream, his body jolting violently. He realized he was in a very dangerous situation—he was about to fall off the flying fire bolt!

Draco was desperately pulling him away, his face ashen, and large beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

Draco's wand in his other hand emitted a blinding white light, but it seemed so insignificant in the face of hundreds of menacing Dementors.

Harry closed his eyes and blinked away the raindrops from the corners of his eyes.

He pulled out his wand from his sleeve and aimed it at the hideous monsters.

"...Call upon God for protection."

In the stands, West's guardian angel swam around the entire stadium—without spatial constraints, the Ink Serpent grew even larger.

It roamed the stands with impunity, frightening wave after wave of students. After killing two Dementors in succession, the Dementors finally gave up on the students in the stands and all flew into the sky.

"Harry..." West looked up at the two figures hovering high in the sky, his expression grave.

The scene was tense and uneasy.

Suddenly, a dazzling white light pierced through the thick, dark clouds—a majestic stag stepped out from the light, strolling gracefully across the clouds.

Driven by the immense power, the Dementors scattered and fled.

Meanwhile, Harry was half-embracing the unconscious Draco as he slowly descended from the sky on a Firebolt.

The fire arrow landed shakily on the damp grass. Their bodies, as if losing their support, collapsed limply onto the ground.

Hermione gripped Ron's arm tightly, letting out a cry of relief.