Lockhart raised his wand.
“Deep in the forest, the grey wolves roam!” Mist swirled through the indoor thicket, coalescing into the translucent, silver-grey phantom of a wolf—the size of an adult animal, though its movements were sluggish.
It trotted a few paces between the trunks before dissolving back into a harmless haze.
This was one of the only two spells Lockhart could manage after digesting the witch’s memory.
Like the flower-healing charm, it was functionally mediocre—yet Lockhart was ecstatic.
Going from total magical impotence to being able to cast something was a quantum leap.
He was beaming, and unlike his practiced, artificial “perfect” smile, this one radiated from the heart, infectious and genuine.
The balmy evening breeze drifted into the office, fluttering the curtains and brushing against the vines that now coiled around the window frame like giant pythons.
A few birds, lured by the lush, unexpected greenery, fluttered inside to inspect the “forest” for potential nesting spots.
Lockhart reclined against a tree trunk, gazing out the window.
The sunset had set the sky ablaze with crimson, and the faint, distant cheers of students at the Quidditch pitch drifted on the wind.
He rested his hands behind his head, letting his mind drift.
Curled up on his stomach, Goldie clutched its eyeball toy, its fuzzy head bobbing in sleepy rhythm with Lockhart’s breathing.
It was a rare moment of tranquility.
His mind, usually a chaotic storm of fragmented memories, was finally silent.
In the wizarding world, the study of memory was the most profound of disciplines—entwined with time, soul, and destiny.
Very few wizards possessed the expertise to touch it.
Likely, only the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries—the brain specialists—had any inkling of how to navigate these waters.
Lockhart, for all his supposed connections, had no way to access such state-level secrets.
Wait, he thought.
If my memories serve me right…
In the original lore, Harry once went to the Department of Mysteries to wreak havoc.
If he, as a concerned professor, followed his “Savior” student into the heart of the Ministry, surely no one would hold him accountable for a little “unauthorized research,” would they?
It might be the only way to gain access to such a guarded institution!
Lockhart’s eyes lit up.
Of course, that was a long way off—not until Harry’s fifth year.
It seemed he couldn’t afford to lose touch with the boy, even if he left his Hogwarts post in a year.
“HA—RRY—POTTER!” The shout from outside shattered the peace, followed by the cacophony of multiple voices.
Lockhart blinked, remembering he had summoned Draco Malfoy and the Golden Trio for a “training session.” Putting these two camps together was a recipe for disaster.
Ron and Draco’s fathers were famous for their public brawls, and Harry and Hermione despised the Malfoy heir with a burning passion.
Perhaps…
Lockhart mused, feeling the competing memories in his head achieve a tenuous, experienced balance, I should invite Crabbe and Goyle, too.
A bit of balance is always necessary.
The noise outside grew.
Young Master Malfoy, naturally, wasn’t letting the trio’s numerical advantage dampen his spirits.
His sharp tongue was in peak form, relentlessly mocking Ron—who, thanks to his new wand, was becoming just sycophantic enough to care—and baiting the others with vicious arrogance.
He paid for it quickly.
“Professor McGonagall,” the students chimed in unison, their voices suddenly respectful.
The stinging reprimand that followed silenced Malfoy’s sharp tongue instantly.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Pardon me, Professor Lockhart,” McGonagall’s voice came from the hall, impeccably polite.
“Is this a bad time?” “Not at all!
Just a moment, please.” As the bickering echoed through the door, Lockhart scrambled to his feet.
He frantically packed away the Pensieve—the evidence of his memory-theft was not something to be left out!—and stuffed the bulky artifact into a tiny, magically expanded pouch.
He fumbled slightly; the original Lockhart’s lack of experience with such utilitarian magic made him clumsy.
He tucked away the Felix Felicis as well.
Outside, the voices continued.
“I do hope this doesn’t interfere with Professor Lockhart’s research…” McGonagall murmured.
“He asked us to come for a lecture, so it should be fine,” the students chattered.
Lockhart finally finished clearing the evidence, only to realize he wasn’t wearing his shoes.
He hopped onto the tree trunk, tugging them on as he sat.
Goldie, sensing his frantic energy, began to mimic his movements with unnerving intelligence.
Well, mostly intelligent.
Instead of helping with the door, the creature pointed a tiny claw at a hollow in the peach tree—the one that had burst from the fireplace—and chirped, “Guji!” The tree hole was deathly silent.
“Guji~~?” The silence broke.
A frantic, swirling mass of black smoke poured out of the hole, tumbling over itself until it solidified into a hunched figure in tattered robes.
It was a Boggart—one that had spent enough time in wizarding homes to know the shape of a stereotypical Dark wizard.
Upon surfacing, it instinctively locked its gaze on the nearest living soul.
“GUJI!!!” Goldie’s tone was furious.
The Boggart shuddered, shrinking away in terror.
The creature stood on the trunk, hands on its hips, and pointed a third, tiny claw toward the office door with authoritative menace.
The Boggart felt insulted.
Truly insulted!
Goldie leaped from the tree, scampered up the Boggart’s robe, and smacked it across the face.
The Boggart finally complied.
With the small monster clinging to its head, it hobbled toward the door in the exaggerated, limping gait of a spooky phantom—only to receive another sharp slap from Goldie.
It immediately straightened up, moving with the agility of a track star, and threw the door open.
“Professor Lockhart, I do hope we aren’t interrupting—oh!
Merlin’s beard!” McGonagall gasped.
The person who had opened the door was a shadowy, sinister-looking figure, its face obscured by a deep hood.
Fortunately, the experienced Transfiguration professor realized it was a Boggart instantly.
But while a Boggart was manageable, the dark creature perched on its head was another matter.
She moved to shield the students, but before she could speak, a large hand shoved the Boggart aside.
Lockhart stood there, beaming with a brilliant, sunny smile.
“Apologies!
Do come in, come in!” The curious students behind her only caught a glimpse of black smoke vanishing back into the tree and a golden flash disappearing into the foliage.
Wait?
Trees?
“Merlin’s beard!” McGonagall stared at the transformed office, stunned.
“Professor Lockhart, this is…” Lockhart laughed heartily, gesturing for them to enter, improvising on the spot.
“A special setup for our upcoming romantic fairy-tale simulation!
You know how it is—we professors must rehearse every detail and movement ourselves to ensure everything goes perfectly.
Adventures in the forest—the most classic fairy-tale setting, wouldn’t you agree?” (The truth, of course, was that he had absolutely no idea how to turn the “forest” back.) “You truly are a responsible professor!” McGonagall looked at the grove, picturing Lockhart laboring away at his lesson plan while everyone else was enjoying their weekend.
She felt a surge of genuine admiration, her gaze softening with newfound respect.
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