In the long river of wizarding history, Feral Werewolves were basically a species that had been weeded out by natural selection. That was because they had been slowly degenerating for centuries.
Over a thousand years ago, they were originally human—humans who craved explosive power.
They had contracted Lycanthropy to gain that immense strength, capable of transforming into powerful beasts. However, they let their lust for power consume them. They spent so much time intoxicated by their strength in wolf form that, eventually, they lost the ability to revert to human form. They evolved into the first Feral Werewolves.
While these creatures couldn't turn back into humans, they initially retained human thought and speech.
But anyone isolated from human society for too long risks losing their language instincts, let alone dark creatures like these.
As time passed and they hid deeper in the dark forests, their gift of language atrophied, and their bodies became more beast-like.
The current Feral Werewolves were simply dark creatures dominated by instinct, with no connection left to the word "human." They were now just synonyms for bloodshed, obeying no master, driven only by their insatiable hunger for dominance.
---
When Voldemort's snake body slithered into a clearing in the forest, he found exactly what he expected: three werewolves circling a wizard who looked about thirty.
To Voldemort, thirty was practically an infant.
The young wizard was dressed sharply—a shirt, tie, and a tailored suit worn under a simple traveling cloak. It was a fastidious look, suggesting he was a wizard with a decent income.
A bulging sack was strapped to his back, likely filled with whatever rare ingredients he had harvested from this dark forest.
The wizard waved his wand, conjuring a temporary Shield Charm to deflect the charging werewolves.
But the impact was too heavy. The shield held, but the force sent him stumbling backward.
His cloak snagged and tore in half as he rolled to dodge another attack, and his momentum slammed him hard against a rotting tree trunk.
In this lightless forest, the wood was decayed and brittle.
Crash.
The wizard smashed through the dead tree, sending rotten debris raining down. He hit the ground and rolled a fair distance before finally shedding the momentum.
The werewolves didn't go for the kill immediately. Instead, they slowly closed the circle.
The fall had been brutal; the wizard had dropped his wand and took a long moment to crawl back up.
Toying with prey is a hallmark of beasts, especially when the prey has lost the will to fight.
A wand is a wizard's weapon. A wizard without a wand is basically no different from a Muggle.
Fear was written all over the wizard's face. Under the encroaching pressure of the wolf pack, he could only back away until his spine hit a large tree.
---
Any wizard daring enough to enter the dark forests of Albania had to be skilled.
But skill is one thing; guts are another. Regardless of who you are, facing death is terrifying.
Just as despair set in and he didn't know what to do, a voice drifted down from the tree behind him.
"Do you want to live?"
The voice was faint, raspy, and seemed to whisper directly into the wizard's soul.
He immediately looked up. A python—he hadn't noticed it before—was draped over a branch, holding his lost wand in its mouth.
The sight of the snake made him shudder.
A talking snake that had retrieved his lost wand? It was unbelievable.
"Do you want to live?"
The snake hissed again, more urgently this time. The three Feral Werewolves had spotted the intruder hanging from the tree.
A hint of surprise flashed in the werewolves' savage eyes.
They weren't afraid of a fifteen-foot python; they could rush over and tear it in two easily.
While they didn't view the snake as a threat, having another predator encroach on their hunting ground made them furious. With a collective roar, the three werewolves charged.
"Yes! I want to live!" Seeing the wolves charge, terror forced the wizard to scream his answer.
The snake grinned—a grotesque expression on a reptile. It dropped the wand, and the wizard caught it in his right hand.
Simultaneously, the snake's voice rang out again: "Wave your wand. Repeat after me..."
The wizard instinctively followed Voldemort's chant.
Two voices spoke in unison, achieving a strange synchronization.
As the obscure incantation rang out while the wolves charged, the miasma floating in the surrounding forest began to coalesce. It turned into a thick, blinding black fog, instantly blanketing a fifty-meter radius.
Bang!
A loud crash echoed as a werewolf smashed into the tree the wizard had been leaning on, snapping it in half. Furious roars erupted from within the black fog as the wolves vented their rage.
---
The cooked duck had flown away. The mysterious snake had saved the wizard.
The fog was filled with the sounds of the werewolves growling and crashing into things.
At the edge of the mist, the wizard with the sack and the fifteen-foot python burst out one after the other.
"Do you want the power to kill them?"
The moment they escaped the fog, Voldemort, speaking through the snake, stopped the wizard.
The wizard looked conflicted. Feral Werewolves were terrifying; fighting three at once seemed suicidal to him. He was still shaken from the encounter.
"Do you want the power to win?"
Just like before, the snake repeated the question.
To conquer fear and gain power—that was an irresistible temptation for a wizard. In a world defined by magic, power was everything.
It was like money in the modern world; it held endless allure.
This snake had returned his wand and taught him a powerful Obscuring Charm. To the wizard, this snake was now a symbol of strength.
Maybe I can learn even more powerful spells from it, he thought.
He gulped hard, his throat dry.
"Yes."