After purchasing the wand, Lockhart sent Ron back to school.
He insisted Ron use the Floo Network directly from Ollivander’s fireplace, and he even verified with Professor Sprout on the other end that the boy had arrived safely.
Taking a second-year student off-campus without authorization was a headache he didn’t need; if McGonagall found out he’d taken a student into the dark, wizard-riddled depths of Knockturn Alley, she would be less than pleased.
Lockhart purchased a heavy-hooded black robe from Madam Malkin’s and a bizarre, branded mask from a giveaway at the WhizzHard Books anniversary booth before making his way to the Leaky Cauldron.
Tom, the proprietor, provided discreet services for those needing to slip in and out of the shadowier parts of the district.
A subtle nod from Lockhart was all it took for Tom to lead him through the gloomy back corridors to a private room, from which a secret staircase led directly into Knockturn Alley.
As an internationally famous author, Lockhart’s face was widely known.
He didn’t need desperate, down-on-their-luck Dark wizards looking for a payday, nor did he want his identity revealed in such a place.
He kept his hood low, masking his presence among the other skulking figures of the alley.
He soon arrived at Borgin and Burkes.
It was impossible to miss—the largest, most opulent shop in the alley, boasting two bulging bay windows that proudly displayed its treasures to the passing riffraff.
A young, exquisitely dressed noblewoman was just finishing a purchase of antique jewelry—a fanatical devotee who had once mailed Lockhart photos of herself in swimwear.
He caught a glimpse of her and waited patiently by the side, keeping a hand inside his robe to soothe Goldie.
The creature, sensing the nearby treasures, was vibrating with a chaotic, predatory excitement.
Goldie had no fear of the protective hexes Burke placed on his wares, but Lockhart couldn’t afford a scene.
Finally, the woman departed.
Lockhart approached the counter.
As he did, a gilded mummy sarcophagus behind the desk began to tremble violently.
Mr.
Borgin’s face shifted, and he whipped out his wand.
“Stop!
What are you doing?” Lockhart stiffened.
This wasn’t Dumbledore or McGonagall; the denizens of Knockturn Alley were just as likely to lead with a Killing Curse as a greeting.
He was effectively a Muggle with a fancy stick, and a single test hex would expose him instantly.
Don’t panic.
“Pointing a wand at me is hardly polite!” Lockhart sneered, giving his pocket a firm tap to hush Goldie.
“It is I, Mr.
Borgin.” He turned his back to the door, lowered his mask, and allowed Borgin a brief glance before covering up again.
Borgin’s wary expression vanished, replaced by a practiced, oily grin.
He tapped the sarcophagus to silence it and reached for a box on the shelf.
He opened it to reveal a crystal skull with a long, pointed beak—larger than a human cranium.
“What is this?” Lockhart asked.
“You’ve come at a bad time, friend.
The family that manufactures Pensieves is in the middle of a vicious inheritance war—no one is crafting, and the shipments from the Americas are blocked by Aurors.” Borgin flipped the skull over, unhinging the jaw to reveal the hollow interior, making it look like an ancient chalice.
“This one is used, but I’ve had it cleared of all residual memories.
If you don’t mind a second-hand item, it’ll serve just fine.” “The design is… exotic,” Lockhart said, weighing the skull.
It was surprisingly light.
“Occamy skull,” Borgin explained.
“Ancient Egyptian bone-crystal technique.
It’s a masterpiece.
Unfortunately, the trade went sour—the previous owner, who knew the secret command to control the Occamy skull’s size, died.” A convenient ‘accident’, Lockhart thought.
Probably murdered for his stash.
Occamies were fascinating creatures—they could grow to the size of a mountain or shrink to fit into a teapot.
The artisan had clearly used this trait to make a portable, high-end Pensieve.
Without the shrinking spell, it was just a fragile ornament.
Borgin reached under the counter and produced a rough, hand-stitched burlap sack.
With some effort, he shoved the large skull inside, where it vanished into the tiny space.
A bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm.
Lockhart’s eyes narrowed.
These were heavily restricted by the Ministry, and even in the black market, they were rare.
He kept his expression unimpressed, curling his lip in disdain.
“You think this is equivalent to a real Pensieve, Mr.
Borgin?” Borgin tossed the bag onto the table.
“I think it’s close enough.” “How much?” Borgin’s eyes twinkled with the greed of a born merchant.
He rubbed his hands together.
“The last batch of goods you had me move?
We’ll call it even.” Lockhart’s brow furrowed as he searched his memory.
He realized how much he’d been undersold.
“Even?
Mr.
Borgin, that is hardly appropriate!” He slammed his hands onto the counter, looming over the old man.
The intimidation worked; Borgin recoiled, stuttering about the “exquisite craftsmanship” and “high cost of alchemy.” Lockhart let him finish, then cut him cold: “It’s second-hand.” “But it works perfectly!” “The skull has lost its utility without the shrinking command.
It’s a paperweight!” They haggled for a tense moment until Lockhart’s gaze swept the room, landing on a jar on the shelf containing a spinning, swirling eyeball.
He grabbed it and set it next to the burlap sack.
“Add this.
We’re even.” “That?” Borgin shrieked.
“Impossible!” “You’re a greedy shark, Borgin.
I risked my life for that last shipment!” “You’re greedier than I am, you hack writer!” Borgin roared.
“Do you know how rare a magical eye is?
Mad-Eye Moody has one—that’s why he’s a legend!” “Oh, is that so?” Lockhart sneered, crossing his arms.
“I wonder if Moody knows where his came from.
I, for one, don’t know the history of this one.” He leaned in, whispering, “They usually come in pairs.
I wonder if the other one is out there, held by someone who might curse the current owner at their leisure.” Borgin went quiet, staring at him with a chilling, predatory gaze.
“Knowing that, you still want it?” Lockhart smiled and pulled Goldie out of his robe.
Even though the creature remained still, its very presence filled the shop with an aura of existential dread.
Borgin screamed and scrambled backward, pressing his back against the mummy case.
“I dare,” Lockhart said, his voice smooth.
“It’s a toy for my pet.” Borgin, pale and trembling, waved a hand toward the door.
“Take them!
Take them and get out!
And if you bring that monster back, don’t ever set foot in my shop again!” The deal was struck.
Lockhart knew better than to trust a goblin-tier merchant, but he had his reasons.
He wasn’t just acquiring a toy; he was preparing.
He knew exactly what was coming to Hogwarts this year: the Basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets.
With that magical eye, he would have the power to look the serpent in the face.
Danger was coming, and Lockhart intended to be ready.
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