Without the aid of the moonlight, the werewolf restrained by Hermione's Portable Swamp struggled with increasingly little strength, its eyes bloodshot as it panted heavily.
As though trying to make up for the shame of having fled in panic, the adult wizards who had recovered their wits drew their wands. For a moment, lights from spells of every color flashed through the hall, and the werewolf in the swamp howled in pain.
Just then, light suddenly returned to the hall.
"Stop." A voice tinged with urgency rang out first, followed by a clatter of footsteps.
A group of people dressed as Aurors hurried in from the entrance.
Their leader, who had also called out to stop them, was none other than the current Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Wearing a small bowler hat and holding a handkerchief, he raised his hand to wipe the fine sweat from his forehead after rushing here. The little hat sat crookedly on his already sparsely covered head.
It looked as though our Minister for Magic had just extricated himself from a banquet.
Oh, yes, today was Christmas.
Even criminals knew that on this annual occasion, comparable to the Spring Festival, they ought to stay quietly at home, worship Buddha in hopes of a good harvest next year, and pray that those they had accidentally killed would have a good reincarnation.
So Voldemort really had no sense of fair play. Perhaps it was also because he had failed to quietly pray to the Christmas Old Man on this day that Harry killed him the following year.
Just kidding-
"What happened?"
Cornelius's belly, which had been wobbling as he hurried along, came to a stop. He surveyed the hall with an imposing gaze, which settled on the werewolf sunk halfway into the floor. At some point,