"Hey, human wizard, what are you thinking about?" The Werewolf leader's deep voice suddenly boomed, filled with obvious displeasure.
Quirrell's thoughts were instantly pulled back to reality. He had to put lesson preparation aside for now; taking on the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor was making him a little nervous.
The most important thing right now is to survive under those dozen or so pairs of red-glowing vertical pupils.
The magic rope is ineffective against Werewolf, so let's try some more powerful methods.
Quirrell took a deep breath, subtly shifting the wand between his fingers. A layer of dark red light began to gather at the tip of the wand, like blood slowly flowing in a glass tube.
However, before he could raise his arm to cast the spell, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end, and a strong, foul-smelling wind howled from behind him.
While their leader was talking to him, the Werewolf minions had already silently flanked him from the sides and rear.
The three Werewolf, having completed their transformations, leaped into the air almost simultaneously, their claws outstretched and fangs bared, closing in a crescent shape from behind, tearing the air apart with a whooshing sound.
Wolves are pack hunters; for Werewolf, encirclement and flank are in their nature, and there are no outdated rules about "fair duels."
Fortunately, Quirrell had traveled the wizarding world for many years after graduation, encountering various dark wizards and dark creatures, and experiencing many real combat scenarios.
He reacted almost instinctively, flicking his wrist slightly, and the dark red light at the tip of his wand instantly transformed into a soft silver-gray, like an invisible wave of energy spreading outwards.
Just before the three pouncing Werewolf were about to touch him, they were suddenly as if gently pushed aside by an unseen hand, their bodies uncontrollably deviating from their original trajectory, grazing past Quirrell's shoulder and back.
The claws drew several gleaming silver arcs in the air, but they didn't even brush against the hem of his clothes.
Quirrell spun sideways with agile movements, brushing aside the other two Werewolf that pounced on him in the same way.
The heavy wolf bodies crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt and gravel.
However, he did not stop. He pointed his wand downwards, and a gray beam of magic shot into the ground. The patch of soil, only a few meters away from him, instantly made a gurgling sound, and fine ripples appeared on the surface. In the blink of an eye, it turned into a pool of viscous, dark brown swamp.
The Werewolf, who had just landed, hadn't even had time to readjust their positions before their claws sank into the mud.
They struggled frantically, flailing their limbs across the mud, trying to climb out, but the more violently they writhed, the faster they sank.
The rough mud was like a greedy maw, devouring the Werewolf' burly bodies bit by bit, from their knees to their waists, from their chests to their necks. In no time, most of the dozen or so Werewolf had only their heads sticking out, their red pupils filled with panic and anger, and they were letting out muffled growls.
Quirrell stood at the edge of the swamp, looking down at the trapped Werewolf. He glanced down at the hem of his robe, where the Werewolf's claws had just swept across, and the fabric now had a strange, worn look.
The once pristine black fabric now had a grayish-white tinge from countless washes, its edges slightly curled, resembling an old robe worn for over a decade.
"I think I understand." Quirrell raised his head, his gaze calmly meeting the Werewolf leader standing not far away. "What are you talking about, the Werewolf power?"
The Werewolf leader glanced at his trapped subordinates but made no rush to rescue them.
He seemed to have succeeded on the other side of the Gori, and now he felt a sense of composure and amusement. He tilted his menacing wolf head slightly, the moonlight reflecting in his red vertical pupils, and spoke in a low voice, "Is that so? Then tell me, clever wizard."
Quirrell wasn't in a hurry. He held his wand horizontally in front of his chest and slowly analyzed, "After transforming into Werewolf, the reason you couldn't use your wands to cast spells wasn't because you lost your minds. I noticed that you and your core subordinates, even in your fully transformed state, still maintained clear thinking and the ability to speak, indicating that your reason hadn't been completely devoured by your animalistic instincts. The real reason is that all your magic flowed into your bodies."
The Werewolf leader's pupils contracted slightly, but he did not refute.
"So at this moment, you are less like cursed wizards and more like Fantastic Beasts," Quirrell continued.
"The magic is used to strengthen your muscles, bones, and senses, granting you brute strength and speed far exceeding that of a wizard. The excess magic forms a dense magical field on your skin, capable of interfering with the effects of external magic and even inanimate objects it touches. This is why my magical ropes disintegrate and disappear the moment they touch you."
After listening to this analysis, the Werewolf leader remained silent for a moment, then grinned, revealing a mouthful of fangs, and slowly clapped his hands together, producing a dull thud.
"Good analysis." His voice held a hint of genuine appreciation. "You deserve to have your head hung on the living room wall. However—" His tone suddenly lowered, a hoarse whisper as if grinding from the depths of his throat, "You're wrong about one thing. We're not completely unable to control magic... we're just left with only one way to use it."
As soon as he finished speaking, the coarse fur on the Werewolf leader's body began to grow wildly again. Each hair seemed to be pulled by an invisible force, standing upright, its tips faintly flashing with a ghostly blue light, like countless tiny sparks jumping between the fur.
Magic energy continuously gathered, compressed, and solidified on his body, and invisible pressure rippled outwards from him, pushing the pebbles and withered leaves on the ground to the sides.
Quirrell even felt that every breath exhaled by this enormous creature carried a scorching heat wave, as if a Hungarian Horntail was about to unleash its dragon breath and was completing its final charge.
Quirrell's fingers tightened slightly. The wand spun half a circle in his hand, and the dark red light at the tip of the wand shone again, deeper and more concentrated than before, like solidified magma. He secretly estimated the gap between his strength and that of his opponent, mainly because he couldn't fly and fly a kite yet, and he also had to guard the Hogwarts Express behind him.
However, in that tense moment—
A clear and melodious cry suddenly echoed from the distant night sky.
The sound pierced the darkness, like a golden thread cutting through thick clouds, carrying an irresistible sacredness. Immediately afterward, a dazzling golden light burst forth from the direction of the train, like a rising sun leaping over the horizon in the night, illuminating the entire wilderness as bright as day.
The Werewolf leader's expression changed drastically under the light. His previous arrogance, composure, and mockery shattered in an instant, leaving only pure, instinctive fear.
He didn't say another word, nor did he even glance at Quirrell again.
He turned abruptly and strode toward the swamp. His thick arms were like two iron clamps, pulling out the Werewolf minions stuck in the mud one by one, his movements as fast as pulling up radishes.
The Werewolf, pulled from the water, was covered in mud and coughing incessantly, but before it could even catch its breath, the leader grabbed it by the back of the neck and threw it behind him.
"Run!"
The Werewolf leader let out a low growl, his legs slamming into the ground, propelling his entire body like a cannonball into the depths of the forest. The rest of the Werewolf followed closely behind, sprinting on all fours, their speed so great that they left blurry afterimages in the moonlight.