Lockhart’s entire body went rigid.
He was paralyzed.
His eyes darted frantically in their sockets, and the muscles of his face twitched in a grotesque, unnatural rhythm.
The silver threads of memory floating in the air drifted toward him, but just before they could make contact, they abruptly changed course.
They circled the office ceiling, then spiraled down toward the Pensieve, coalescing into a single, shimmering sphere.
The memory could no longer find the master who had cast the spell upon it.
Lockhart felt a surge of pure terror.
The final, powerful wizarding memory remaining in his mind was actively seizing control of his body.
It was brimming with raw magical power, vastly eclipsing his own Muggle identity and soul.
He screamed internally, but his consciousness was swiftly swallowed by darkness.
The office plunged into a deafening, unnatural silence.
“Guji?” Goldie, who had been playing with the magical eye, chirped in confusion.
It didn’t know if this counted as the emergency the master had warned about, but was it time to act?
With a flick of its tiny paw, the eye vanished.
The creature climbed up a coat rack until it was level with Lockhart’s head, peering intently into its master’s eyes.
It saw only a cold, alien light.
“Guji?” It tilted its head, bewildered.
Then, the master finally moved.
“Who am I?” Lockhart—or rather, the figure standing by the Pensieve—walked around the office, looking at his surroundings with deep suspicion.
His gait was entirely different; he moved with the fluid, prowling grace of a witch.
His hand held the wand with a feminine habit, his pinky finger curled elegantly.
Finding his shoes uncomfortable, he kicked them off, standing barefoot on the cold floor, vigilant and tense.
He waved the wand with sharp precision.
A surge of vibrant green light erupted, transforming into a glowing stream that pulsed through the office.
Instantly, the massive oak desk in the center began to sprout.
Buds exploded into tender green leaves, branches thickened into arm-sized limbs in seconds, and the wood writhed upward, pressing against the ceiling before spreading out into a canopy.
It wasn’t just the desk.
Mahogany cabinets, carved chairs, teak shelves—even the red wooden box containing the Boggart—sprouted into branches.
The desk had become a peach tree.
It grew so rapidly that its branches burst through the birdcage containing the Cornish pixies, setting them free.
The pixies screeched, diving about the office to cause chaos.
“Hmph!
Pestilent little things!” the ‘Lockhart’ hissed, voice laced with venom.
“You shall not wreak havoc in my forest!” He flicked his wand.
Fruit in a bowl on the desk cracked open, growing tangled vines and long, grasping tendrils.
In a flash, they lashed out like a massive hand, snare-trapping the pixies in their thorny grasp.
The vines curled back, coiling around the oak branches like vipers, hanging the shrieking pixies like morbid wind chimes.
This was the spirit of one of the dozen wizards Lockhart had hunted: the ‘Forest Witch’ of the Amazon, a woman abandoned as an infant and raised by wolves.
She was the true mastermind behind the “wisdom” found in Travels with Trolls and Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests.
In life, Lockhart had subdued her with ease—using his handsome face, copious amounts of wine, and the allure of intoxication.
He had exploited his appearance just as Dark wizards and creatures like Banshees did to lure their prey.
The witch seemed satisfied with her work.
She tiptoed through the office, hands behind her back, prowling through the ‘forest’ that now provided her a sense of security.
She needed to know where she was—and who she was.
Lacking a full personality, she acted out the patterns etched into the fragment of memory.
As she paced, she encountered a threat: a pair of eyes watching from the dense foliage of the tree.
She prepared to strike, but she was too slow.
Before she could react, a wave of profound, soul-shattering terror flooded her mind.
She was paralyzed, her thoughts coming to a grinding, stagnant halt as if confronted by something truly unspeakable.
She could feel, with chilling clarity, a pair of furry hands prying at her head.
The creature—Goldie—blinked its golden-flecked eyes, obsessed with the cerulean blue orbs in her eye sockets.
Yet, the monster seemed to hesitate.
It wrestled with a decision, then finally moved its paws away from her eyes, gripping her skull and dragging her across the room.
Where was it taking her?
She didn’t know.
The creature’s strength was limited; it labored with all its might to drag her behind a peach tree.
A Boggart huddled in a tree hollow there, shivering and whimpering, “Don’t notice me!
Don’t notice me!” Behind the tree sat the Occamy-skull basin.
The fuzzy monster stuffed her head into the bowl.
Nothing happened.
It chirped in confusion.
Minutes later, it dragged her body back up and submerged her into the cool, viscous silver light of the Pensieve.
The light began to swirl, pulsing as if it were thinking, wrapping around her head as if judging her.
As a fragment of her true identity merged with her mind, the silver light surged into her like a tidal wave.
Was she returning to normal?
Was she remembering?
No.
The world went black, and her consciousness collapsed.
Ten minutes passed.
“Haaa…” Lockhart let out a long, shuddering breath, his legs turning to jelly as he collapsed onto a thick, slanted branch.
He gasped for air like a man who had narrowly escaped the grave.
“Guji~” Goldie jumped into his lap, chirping excitedly, recognizing its master.
“Good boy,” Lockhart murmured, scratching its head with trembling hands.
He moved his neck and hissed in pain; Goldie had clawed him deeply while dragging his body across the room.
It was nothing critical, though.
He lifted his wand toward the branches above, murmuring a spell from the Forest Witch’s repertoire: “Heart-flower, heal my wounds!” A purple flower blossomed on the branch, vibrant and sweet-smelling.
Its stamen dripped with thick nectar that fell directly into his open mouth.
Instantly, his wounds began to knit together, the deep gouges fading to shallow scratches.
Lockhart stared at the flower, a smile spreading across his face.
“See?
It wasn’t a total loss, was it?” Though he hadn’t yet mastered the spell’s full potential, he had finally, truly, released magic.
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