Xeno Lovegood and The Rotfang Conspiracy

In the Harry Potter series, no one quite embodies the spirit of whimsical lunacy like Xenophilius Lovegood. The man lives in a house shaped like a chess rook, decorates himself with controversial symbols, and publishes articles about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks as if they’re front-page news. Naturally, most wizards think he’s about as reliable as a clock with no hands. But here’s the thing: I’m not so sure old Xeno is as crazy as everyone thinks.

When it came to the Deathly Hallows symbol, it turns out Xeno knew something almost nobody else did. One of the most guarded secrets in wizarding history, right there on his chest like it was no big deal. Makes you wonder—if he was right about that, what else might he be right about?

Once you really, and I mean really, take a good, hard look at some of the most underestimated characters in the series, a pattern starts to emerge. Truth, when it comes from the wrong mouth, gets laughed off. It’s not just a passing theme; I’m convinced it’s literally a genetic archetype. Entire families are branded with this ancient curse of never being taken seriously. You see it in Ron, who somehow manages to make a whole series of correct predictions that get acknowledged by no one. Trelawney does this on a grander scale, doling out prophetic truths constantly once you strip away the dramatics and misdirects. And even Harry has a couple prophetic dreams that are spot-on accurate without any Horcrux influence—always brushed aside because Harry doesn’t consider his own dreams valid unless Voldemort takes over.

Now brace yourself, because here’s the kicker: Xenophilius Lovegood and, yes, even Rita Skeeter fit neatly into this archetype. I know—it’s uncomfortable. But it’s all there if you’re willing to squint at it sideways. These characters are modern day prophets, who always know way more than anyone gives them credit for. It’s almost like the narrator is in on this bias, nudging us to write them off from the start.

So, when Xeno casually drops the truth bomb about the Deathly Hallows, I can’t help but wonder if this is just one of the many secret truths he’s been sitting on. It’s like he’s got a whole arsenal of conspiracy theories that sound completely unhinged until you realize he might actually have a point. And if that’s the case, then why not take a closer look at his most infamous claim—the one that sounds so absurd it practically dares you to ignore it? That’s right, folks, I’m talking about the Rotfang Conspiracy. Buckle up, because I’m diving headfirst into this tangled web of dark magic, gum disease, and who knows what else.

And just in case you’ve somehow forgotten this literary gem, let me refresh your memory: the Rotfang Conspiracy is brought to our attention by none other than Luna Lovegood in Half-Blood Prince. It goes a little something like this.

“I don’t think you should be an Auror, Harry,” said Luna unexpectedly.

Everybody looked at her.

“The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought everyone knew that. They’re working from within to bring down the Ministry of Magic using a combination of Dark magic and gum disease.”

Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started to laugh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna just for this.

A perfect throwaway line, right? Classic Luna. The kind of bizarre, unfiltered statement that makes everyone in the room stop, blink, and then politely carry on as if Luna is not about to offer them unicorn hair dental floss for protection. Because, you know, those crazy Lovegoods will believe anything. Well here’s the thing—somebody pass me a glass of Gurdyroot Infusion, because I want in on this kool-aid party. I’m not about to brush off a potential hidden truth just because it sounds ridiculous. In fact, that’s where the best stuff usually hides.

So let me whip out “old reliable” when it comes to navigating this literary maze: the Law of Conservation of Coincidence. It’s simple—wherever significance overlaps, we have to treat it as a hint. That’s non-negotiable. This is how I crack the Potter series open like a literary sudoku puzzle—no piece is random if it fits somewhere. So, before you go chasing down cavity-ridden dark wizards with your backpack-mounted fluoride cannon, let’s start with the surface-level clues and see where they lead.

Alright, suspend your disbelief for just a second and entertain this idea: what if Rowling actually meant for the Rotfang Conspiracy to be true in some way—a genuine, tooth-decaying dark magic plot simmering just beneath the surface of the wizarding world? I know, it sounds ridiculous. But if we take that leap, one thing becomes immediately, glaringly obvious. You know where I’m going with this, right? Go ahead—drop your jaws nice and wide, because here comes Doctor and Doctor Granger.

Yep, that’s right. We’re doing it. If there’s a hidden backstory here involving gum disease and dark magic, you better believe that Hermione’s dentist parents are tangled up in this somehow. But hang on—if Hermione knew anything about this, she’d never let it slide without at least a foot-long essay outlining the magical-to-dental connection. So, what if the Grangers once had a magical encounter, and learned a bit too much? Something significant enough to warrant a memory wipe? Picture it: two perfectly rational Muggle dentists suddenly thrust into a wizarding plot so bizarre it left them with nothing but a vague, nagging certainty that magic and oral hygiene should never mix.

And let’s not forget—Hermione’s already demonstrated that her parents are vulnerable to this type of magic. Who’s to say that wasn’t just the latest in a long line of adjustments? Honestly, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. So I’m sticking a big, red thumbtack labeled “Mind-Wiped Grangers” right in the middle of this conspiracy board. We’ve got our first lead.

Next up on the suspect list, we’ve got a real gem. Beside the Grangers, I’m pinning a quite unflattering headshot of our guy Tom. No not that Tom. I’m referring to the toothless old barkeep from the Leaky Cauldron. Now, most people just see him as the oddball gatekeeper to Diagon Alley—barely more than set dressing. But not me. Oh no. I’m looking at this guy and seeing something way more sinister. I’m dubbing him Patient Zero of this whole Rotfang plot. You heard me right. Tom is no longer just a quaint, toothless fixture of the wizarding world—this wrinkled old baldy is the clue we’ve been ignoring all along.

Think about it: this man has been pouring butterbeer at the literal crossroads of the magical community for over fifty years. He’s a living piece of infrastructure. Yet despite all the healing magic, potion recipes, and advanced dental charms floating around just past the back wall, Tom remains hopelessly gummy. We’ve seen Malfoy hit Hermione with a spell that makes teeth grow like a botanical experiment gone wrong, but Tom? Still rocking that walnut-faced, toothless grin. It’s almost like something is deliberately preventing him from fixing the problem. A permanent condition, perhaps? You might scoff, but I’m telling you: Tom didn’t just lose those teeth—he’s hiding something. There had to be a backstory for this notable toothlessness.

Next up, let’s take a good, hard look at our prime suspects: the Auror Department. Now, if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll remember that Dumbledore himself didn’t trust all the Aurors. And when Dumbledore doesn’t trust someone, you know it’s worth sticking a red flag on that name. So, consider this our next big clue: there’s something fishy going on in that department, and it’s time to get specific.

I’ve compiled a list of every known Auror from the series, and then I filtered out any who were in the Order of the Phoenix. That leaves us with a handful of untrustworthy, non-Order Aurors who might just be our shadowy conspirators. We’re going to take them one by one, looking for any hint of dark magic, dodgy dental hygiene, or just suspiciously smelly breath.

First up: Rufus Scrimgeour. The lion-like former head of the Auror Office who later gets promoted to Minister for Magic. Now, Xeno Lovegood seems to think Scrimgeour might be a vampire, which, to be fair, is a bold claim. Sure, Scrimgeour walks in daylight—pretty clear strike against the vampire theory. Plus, when it comes to his death, the guy goes down fighting, refusing to reveal Harry’s location. So, vampire? Probably not. But that doesn’t mean we’re done with him.

Maybe he’s got just a hint of vampire genetics—just enough to make him perpetually cranky and mildly allergic to mornings. If we break down his name mythologically, Scrimgeour might hint towards something grim or shadowy lingering in his background. Either way, it more seems likely that Scrimgeour represented some kind of paranoid resistance within the Auror Department—a faction against the darker forces of gingivitis and plaque. But did he fully trust his own team? Probably not.

Next on the list: Dawlish. This guy is the Ministry’s go-to henchman from Order of the Phoenix onward. Whenever there’s an unpopular order to be carried out, Dawlish is your man. And by “your man,” I mean the guy who repeatedly fails spectacularly at every mission he’s given. Whether it’s trying to arrest Dumbledore (nope) or Augusta Longbottom (still nope), Dawlish is nothing if not consistent. He’s loyal to whoever’s in charge and, crucially, incredibly easy to confund. I’m starting to think Dawlish is the ideal foot soldier in this whole operation—too dim to question orders, too spell-addled to know what side he’s on. Perfect for someone who needs a few pawns in their conspiracy.

Then we’ve got Gawain Robards. Now, if you just said, “Who?” I don’t blame you. This guy is basically a footnote in Half-Blood Prince as Scrimgeour’s replacement as head of the Auror Office. But here’s the thing: his timing is suspicious. Voldemort’s on the rise, and that’s when Robards gets promoted? Feels a bit too convenient. And when your name gets tossed casually in the same sentence as Umbridge—that’s already strike two in my book. I’m not saying Robards is pulling the strings, but he’s definitely not off the hook. Just take a look at the Order’s attitude towards the Auror department under his control. In Half Blood Prince, the non-Order Aurors are helping secure hogsmeade and hogwarts, but the next year voldemort is taking over, and when it’s time to retrieve Harry from Privet Drive, the Order of the Phoenix wants nothing to do with them. This basically screams silent takeover under his leadership. 

Next up: Proudfoot and Savage. They’re basically the NPCs of the Auror world—only mentioned once, guarding Hogsmeade in Half-Blood Prince. Tonks casually drops their names alongside Dawlish, and right away, I’m picturing this odd little squad of easily manipulated goons. It’s like Dawlish is the team captain of the “Barely Competent but Very Loyal” squad. And let’s be honest, the name Savage sounds like the kind of guy who’d write ‘excessive force’ on his resume like it’s a special skill. If the Rotfang Conspiracy needs some muscle that’s more brawn than brain, these guys fit the bill.

Finally, we have Williamson. The one thing we know about him? He’s got a ponytail, which is either a bold fashion choice or a tactical liability in a fight. He’s seen Voldemort firsthand when he flees the Department of Mysteries and gets sent with Dawlish to figure out what went down. That’s pretty much it. Which means Williamson might just be the wildcard of the bunch. He’s not prominent enough to draw attention but not invisible enough to be ignored. If someone’s going to be playing both sides or hiding in plain sight, I’m not ruling out the guy with the questionable hair choices.

So, that’s the rundown. Our shortlist of Auror suspects isn’t exactly a lineup of masterminds, but that might be the point. Sometimes the best way to cover up a conspiracy is to stick it in plain sight, slap some official badges on it, and call it law enforcement.

Alright, time to think like a true conspiracy theorist. We’ve gathered the clues, sorted through the suspects, and we’re left with a handful of questions that just keep poking at the back of my brain. Chief among them: What’s the point of the gum disease? I mean, if the grand scheme is to make someone lose their teeth without outright killing them—why? What’s the endgame here?

Let’s look at what we know about patient zero. Tom the barman, despite having the dental profile of a well-aged jack-o’-lantern, still manages to talk just fine. He even asks Hagrid if he wants “the usual”—so it’s not like his lack of teeth stops him from chatting or even potentially casting spells. So what if the gum disease doesn’t silence you—it weakens you? It’s possible the real goal here is to sap someone’s magic. Dumbledore did say that a wizard’s power can fade over time, and that’s something we shouldn’t ignore. Is it too much of a stretch to think that Rotfang Disease could be a magical affliction that drains power, taking teeth and even hair along with it?

This brings me to a separate theory I’ve been sitting on. You might remember that essay I wrote about the symbolism of hair color in the series. Hair serves as a deliberate indicator of a wizard’s character, lineage, and vitality. But what if having no hair at all means something too? What if this disease doesn’t just rot your gums but strips away your magic entirely, leaving you a squib? We never see Tom actually performing any magic—he just runs the Leaky Cauldron, looking progressively more like an ancient walnut every year. If that’s the case, then the disease wouldn’t just be some inconvenient dental issue—it might be a full-blown magical sapper.

Now, every good conspiracy needs a mastermind and a motive. Who do we know with a penchant for underhanded plots and a petty grudge against Tom the barman? Yep. You guessed it: Voldemort. Think about it. The Dark Lord didn’t just despise weakness—he hated competition. And what’s the very first thing Voldemort encounters when he steps into the wizarding world as young Tom Riddle? Another wizard named Tom, acting as the gateway between Muggle London and Diagon Alley. Voldemort’s ego was never going to tolerate sharing a name with some boring wizard barkeeper. Solution? Find a way to whittle Tom the barman down to nothing—a squib stuck pouring drinks, devoid of magic, teeth, and dignity.


I’m going to present my version of the facts in an attempt to explain everything.

The year is around 1977 and Voldemort, for reasons we can only speculate on, finds himself skulking in the shadowy corner of the Leaky Cauldron. Maybe he’s meeting a contact. One thing is certain: for over three decades, something utterly petty has been nagging at him like a splinter in his fragmented soul. Tom the barkeeper. Why even bother being a wizard who’s basically doing the work of a house-elf? It’s undignified. It’s insulting.

And as Voldemort watches Tom the barman shuffle about with his luscious locks and flawless smile, a thought slithers into his mind: This won’t do.

On his way out of the pub, Voldemort spots a trio of rookie Aurors loitering near the entrance—Dawlish, sanding there with trainees Proudfoot and Savage. With a flicker of amusement and barely a thought, he slips Imperius Curses onto all three, setting them on autopilot with a single, oddly specific task: befriend Tom the barman and periodically bring him Blood-Flavored Lollipops. Why? Who knows. Maybe Voldemort thought it would be funny. Maybe he just wanted to subtly inconvenience the one other wizard named Tom. Either way, he leaves, never giving it another thought, because he’s Voldemort and has bigger problems to solve—like immortality and eyeliner.
The Aurors, meanwhile, are left with this low-grade, background-level Imperius Curse buzzing around in the back of their minds. So every time they find themselves in Diagon Alley, they just naturally pop into the Leaky Cauldron with another hexed lollipop for Tom. Over time, the cumulative effect of these tainted sweets sets in—Tom’s teeth begin to rot, and what started as a random whim becomes a dental disaster.

When Voldemort’s body is blown to bits at Godric’s Hollow, the Imperius Curses finally snap, and the three Aurors come out of their weirdly specific background trance. They shake their heads, confused as to why they’ve spent years on this bizarre lollipop delivery loop, and then go about their lives, none the wiser. But for Tom, it’s already too late. The damage has been done—his magic begins to fade, his teeth are falling out like autumn leaves, and his hair’s abandoning ship as well.

Panicked, he tries every remedy known to wizardkind, but nothing works. Even the healers at St. Mungo’s are stumped. Teeth are usually a non-issue—just a flick of a wand and voilà, instant molars. But this? This is a full-blown gum apocalypse. The problem is, since teeth were always so easy to fix, nobody ever bothered to learn much about gums. Fortunately, one of the healers recalls a third cousin—barely remembered and even less talked about—who happens to be a Muggle dentist. Desperate times call for awkward family reunions.

So there Tom is—balding, clutching his remaining teeth like they might just jump ship on their own, and sitting awkwardly in the waiting room of Doctor and Doctor Granger. Mister Doctor Granger calls him in, and it only takes one look before his professional curiosity is piqued. Something is definitely weird here. He calls in his wife—Mrs. Doctor Granger—to consult, and the two of them start whispering in that way doctors do when they don’t want the patient to panic. They clear their schedules, because they know they’ve stumbled onto a medical mystery.

They hit Tom with X-rays, they clean his remaining teeth, but it’s no use—they’re just sliding out like a bad magic trick. As a last-ditch effort, they perform an exploratory surgery, only to find that Tom’s gums are essentially refusing to hold onto anything, teeth or otherwise. Titanium screws, implants—nothing will take. The gums themselves are just too unstable. The Grangers are at a loss. Tom is near toothless. And nobody’s getting any closer to a solution.

At the end of the day, the Grangers—professionally baffled and personally disturbed—couldn’t do much for Tom except offer a sympathetic shrug and a purple toothbrush. As a parting gesture, they also handed him a Polaroid of himself grinning awkwardly in a pair of bulky, oversized sunglasses that he’d assumed were some sort of stylish Muggle accessory. Tom didn’t really get why the picture just sat there, unmoving, but figured maybe it was some kind of Muggle good-luck charm.

So, with a disheartened nod, he shuffled out of the clinic, armed with nothing but dental hygiene advice and a faint sense of existential dread. From that point on, his remaining magic faded away, one molar at a time—leaving him a squib with a gummy smile and a mysteriously cursed past.

As for the Grangers, well, they couldn’t just let a mystery like that go. Clever minds like theirs don’t just shrug off a case of spontaneous gum rebellion. They kept a sample—probably one of Tom’s wayward teeth—and started running every test they could think of. They poured over textbooks, cross-referenced medical journals, and were on the verge of publishing a groundbreaking paper that would have blown the lid off the entire dental anomaly.

But just when they were about to hit “send” on the submission, the Aurors caught wind of it. Maybe someone at St. Mungo’s tipped them off, or maybe one of the Grangers accidentally mentioned it to a patient. Either way, the wizarding world couldn’t risk Muggles getting too close to the truth. So the Aurors intervened. Dawlish was sent to wipe the Grangers’ memories, and reset their lives to “just regular dentists.” No magical conspiracies, no revolutionary dental discoveries—just a perfectly content couple with perfectly mundane ambitions.

So, by 1992, the whole bizarre saga was long over, and the Grangers had completely forgotten about it. They were just living their regular, non-magical lives, blissfully unaware of any gum-based magical disaster. This is when they dropped Hermione off in London to get her school things, and—feeling a bit curious after hearing so much about this magical world—they decided to join her for a peek.

As they approached the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione asked to be let through to the back, and that’s when Tom froze. His gummy smile faltered. He recognized them—his Muggle dentists from years ago. “Don’t I know you?” Tom asked, squinting at them like they might just be a fever dream. But the Grangers didn’t recognize him at all. And really, how could they know him? You don’t just forget a face like Tom’s—especially with that signature lack of teeth. Instinctively, they decided that old Tom probably couldn’t be helped and politely moved on, leaving him standing there, scratching his bald head, wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing.

Tom can’t help but feel a nagging sense of déjà vu creeping up his spine. His mind drifts back to that whole miserable ordeal—the blood pops, gums turning to mush, teeth fleeing the scene one by one, and those weirdly persistent Aurors with their endless supply of cursed sweets. Feeling a bit rattled, he turns back to the customer he’d been serving. It’s none other than Xenophilius Lovegood, who’s just dropped off his daughter to get sorted out with her first wand and decided to slip in for a quick drink.

Tom, in a rare moment of candor, decides to share the story. He tells Xeno how one day it was like he just couldn’t get enough of sweets, and how it spiraled from there—gummy apocalypse, baldness, and the oddest bit of all: the Grangers. He swears those Aurors must’ve been involved somehow, because they’d been regulars during his sweet-tooth phase, and then one day, just stopped coming by. Xeno, naturally, listens with wide-eyed fascination, nodding like he’s just uncovered the secret of the universe. Tom’s not sure whether to feel relieved or even more paranoid.

Despite the fact that the entire story pretty much started and ended with Tom, Xeno took every bizarre detail and spun it into something much bigger. To him, this wasn’t just one unlucky bartender’s dental tragedy—it was a grand conspiracy that confirmed every suspicion he’d ever had about the Ministry. Aurors hexing sweets, toothless wizards, corrupted government officials—it all fit perfectly into his mental tapestry of dark plots and magical cover-ups. From that day on, the Rotfang Conspiracy became another one of Xeno’s semi-truths—right up there with Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and heliopaths. He’d tell the tale to anyone who’d listen, usually in a tone of absolute certainty, never mind that he’d left out half the context and added twice as much imagination.

As for the suspicious Aurors? Well, it’s not like they’ve been sneaking around rotting people’s teeth this whole time. No, that would be far too direct. Instead, it’s more likely that this was just a proof of concept—a twisted little experiment that Voldemort would later refine when he got around to manipulating the Ministry from within. And who better to serve as a useful puppet than Dawlish? Think about it—after Voldemort’s resurrection, Dawlish starts popping up all over the place, usually enforcing the most unpopular orders with all the subtlety of a Bludger to the face. It actually makes sense if Voldemort targeted him right away—imperiused him, set him to work. It would certainly explain why Dawlish would attempt something as spectacularly stupid as trying to arrest Albus Dumbledore. Maybe the poor guy was still running on leftover hexed lollipop fumes.

In the end, I’ve attempted to craft one story that ties together every single clue, while straddling Occam’s razor like I’m auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. This, I believe, is how we must approach every idea that springs from the delightfully unhinged mind of Mr. Lovegood. Just because it’s unlikely doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Or at the very least, ridiculously fun to think about. Just remember to spike your Gurdyroot infusion with one part faith, two parts healthy skepticism, a twist of open-mindedness, and don’t forget to floss.