Lockhart felt a flicker of embarrassment as he looked at his office, now a miniature, overgrown forest.
Per his agreement with Dumbledore, his tenure as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was a one-year stint.
He was merely a temporary occupant of this space, yet he had absolutely no idea how to reverse the botanical infestation.
It wasn’t his property to ruin.
Fortunately, Professor McGonagall didn’t seem to mind.
She had business to discuss, but after a glance at the four young wizards present, she hesitated.
“Perhaps I could speak with you after your lesson, Professor?” She didn’t want to interfere with the children’s education.
Lockhart nodded.
“A moment of your time will suffice.
This is a practical session; I don’t need to lecture for long.” He clapped his hands, drawing the curious students’ attention.
“Today we continue with the Disarming Charm.
Oh, Harry, what is that look?
Pride is not a virtue.” He turned his gaze to Draco as well.
“Don’t you two think that because your charms, counters, and reflexes are improving that I am satisfied.
Next lesson, I will require both of you to perform agile combat maneuvers while mounted on your broomsticks.
Your current level is far from sufficient!” In truth, their talent was enough to make Lockhart secretly envious.
He had to be harsh to keep their egos in check and maintain his professorial authority.
Cultivating two dueling prodigies would be the perfect centerpiece for his year at Hogwarts—a reputation builder he could leverage for the rest of his life.
He turned to Ron and Hermione.
“You two need to start from the basics, but do not worry about falling behind.
You are only in your second year; you have plenty of time to refine yourselves.” Lockhart had a method to his teaching: identify the elite, train them first, and then have them lead the rest—a “senior-mentors-junior” approach that made his life much easier.
“Pair up,” he commanded.
“Harry, you teach Ron.
Draco, you teach Hermione.” Draco looked ready to explode.
“Why with her?!” If not for the professor’s presence, the epithet “Mudblood” would have certainly escaped his lips.
Lockhart gazed at Draco with an unreadable expression.
“A truly shrewd Slytherin does not make enemies of everyone, Draco.
You must learn to cooperate even with those whose opinions differ from your own.” Draco pursed his lips, silent.
After a long moment, he gave a slow, solemn nod.
Hermione looked equally miserable, though she was far better at respecting the rules set by her idol.
She gripped her wand tightly and remained silent.
“Excellent,” Lockhart smiled.
“Now, questions.” Hermione was the first to raise her hand.
When permitted, she pointed excitedly at the trees.
“Professor, how did you do this?” Lockhart looked at the trees—some had grown thick and gnarled as if they had stood for decades—and smiled.
“You will never be able to do this.” The students stared, stunned.
Even McGonagall, observing from the sidelines, hesitated, wondering if she should intervene.
Lockhart softened his tone.
“The principle is simple: Activation Charms from alchemy, growth and enlargement charms from herbology—all foundational magic.
It is like Transfiguration; the core principles are few, but truly deepening one’s craft requires a lifetime of immersion.” He raised an eyebrow.
“I do not mean you spend your life studying the charms…
I mean it requires your life, your thoughts, your experiences, and everything in your existence to serve as the nourishment for your magic.” The “Forest Witch” of the Amazon had been abandoned as an infant, raised by wolves, and lived most of her life in the wild before following a troll to Manhattan.
Even in the big city, when forced to fight, she never used the trendy, modern spells of the wizarding world.
She clung to her original habits, warping the environment around her.
She called it “returning to nature,” but Lockhart preferred to describe it as a “combat domain.” “Everyone has their own magical path,” he tapped the massive tree trunk, his eyes thoughtful.
“Sometimes we are moved by the magic we see in others, but remember: that is their magic, their life, their soul—not yours.
We can never be anyone else; we can only be ourselves.” These were profound lessons, likely too heavy for second-years to fully grasp.
But McGonagall, standing to the side, felt the weight of those words deeply.
As a world-renowned master of Transfiguration, she taught year after year, yet truly great masters were rare.
Decades ago, she had seen promise—Potter, Black, and their peers had mastered advanced transfiguration like Animagi while still in school—but the war had cut those paths short.
Lockhart remained silent, stroking the tree.
The words he had just spoken didn’t really apply to him.
He had digested a fragment of the Forest Witch; he wasn’t sure if he would fully consume her entire life’s experience, but he certainly intended to try.
If the original Lockhart was a “memory thief,” he would go further: he would be a “life thief.” He would not be a saint, nor would he let the memories of powerful wizards go to waste.
He had not crossed into this magical world to remain a Muggle.
“Enough talk.
Begin your practice.” He observed their training.
Whether it was the mentors Harry and Draco, or the students Ron and Hermione, he could see exactly where they stood.
He understood the Disarming Charm at a level that bordered on instinct.
His expertise in the three pillars of defense—facing Dark wizards, Dark creatures, and duels—was sharp, even if he couldn’t personally execute every spell.
Instead of hovering, he invited McGonagall to sit at the desk behind the trees.
“It is this,” McGonagall said, pulling a letter from her robes.
“A bizarre incident has occurred at the Urquhart family castle.
After their pleas to the Ministry went unanswered, they wrote to me asking for help.” She sighed.
“It has been confirmed as a magical phenomenon, but no one can resolve it.” She looked at him with rare, genuine praise.
“Professor Lockhart, you are the most insightful person I have seen in this field.
Perhaps you have a solution.” The Urquharts?
Lockhart’s brow arched.
He scoured his stolen memories and found the answer: the family of McGonagall’s late husband, Elphinstone Urquhart.
They were traditionally Durmstrang-educated, pure-blood, and influential throughout European Ministries.
If they couldn’t handle it, it was trouble.
He took the letter.
The sender addressed McGonagall as “Aunt Minerva,” buttering her up before describing the nightmare: blood-stained walls, an infestation of spiders and vipers, the mysterious deaths of house-elves, and a haunting female voice singing at night.
After ruling out curses, it was clearly a magical entity.
Most would label the castle a lost cause.
But Lockhart found the answer in his mind.
Not just one—but two.
He handed the letter back to McGonagall and pondered for a moment.
“It is likely one of two things: a ‘Cellar Rot’ or a ‘Vengeful Nymph’.” McGonagall froze.
She had expected nothing, reaching out only as a desperate, last-ditch effort.
To actually receive a diagnosis left her momentarily speechless.
— Don’t forget to send Spirit Stones for more chapters.
Extra chapter when we reach 100 Spirit Stones Can’t wait for the daily uploads?
“@” with the letter “a”.
For every person who joins,
With a thank you note with your username on the chapter.
Make sure to message or like which story you came from so I can make sure I add the bonus chapters on the right story.