“Cellar Rot” and “Vengeful Nymphs”—such Dark magical creatures were rarely seen nowadays.
In fact, by 1992, the prevalence of Muggle technology and culture, coupled with the encroachment on natural habitats, had rendered many such creatures scarce.
The discipline of “Care of Magical Creatures” had largely replaced the old, more rugged “Defense Against Magical Creatures” curriculum.
Even dragons, once apex threats, now relied on preserves to survive.
Lockhart mused that, at this rate, Dark Creature Defense might eventually become “Dark Creature Conservation.” While Cellar Rot was still occasionally rumored to haunt “cursed houses,” the Vengeful Nymph hadn’t been sighted in nearly forty years.
They seem similar, but their essence is fundamentally different, Lockhart thought.
An idea blossomed: perhaps, like his “mentor” Newt Scamander, he could write a definitive guide to Dark magical creatures.
This wasn’t for the royalties—he was quite content with the fortune the original Lockhart had swindled—but for the sake of honing his own power.
He had discovered a simple truth: a wizard must operate in an environment suited to their talent.
For him, that environment was the defense against Dark entities.
He had been fortunate; after a lifetime in his previous world, he now knew exactly where his talent lay.
He decided to put the book aside for now; the Urquhart castle situation was a far more practical opportunity.
With McGonagall and the Urquharts’ support, he could handle this safely.
McGonagall, unaware of his ulterior motive of power-gathering, was deeply touched by his willingness to help.
“Cellar Rot, also known as ‘Black Fuzz,’ is characterized by the presence of hair-like black strands in the blood and gore it leaves behind,” Lockhart explained, suppressing a shudder.
The memories he was digesting made his skin crawl.
“It shares the typical traits of ‘dark corner’ creatures: a faint, putrid stench, sometimes with a sickly-sweet undertone.
That smell attracts vermin—snakes, leeches, spiders.
If you were to lick the residue, your tongue would feel a light, electric tingling.” McGonagall quietly took a step back.
“Its magic is one of decay,” Lockhart continued.
“You can hear a mournful lament for the passage of time in the sounds it creates.
The Vengeful Nymph, or ‘Witch on the Pyre,’ is easier to identify—look for the translucent, pale figure of a witch tied to a stake.
These legends date back to the witch-hunt era.
Many weren’t witches at all; it was persecution.
The land itself mourns their deaths, causing insects to gather and the ground to ‘sing’ with blood.
People took that as proof they had caught an evil witch, hence the name.” It was a grim, dark irony.
“If you listen closely to the Vengeful Nymph’s song, you can hear the earth’s cry: ‘Stop the fire, bury her in the earth to rot, and she shall be reborn.’ The easiest identification, though, is the sound of birds chirping—puchiu-puchiu.
Cellar Rot, by contrast, sounds like blood bubbling—pu-pu-pu—with a unique, hollow echo.” Lockhart couldn’t quite mimic the sounds, so he handed a decorative crystal ball from his shelf to McGonagall.
“I will demonstrate.
Record this, and give it to Mr.
Urquhart.
We must identify the entity before we plan our response.” McGonagall was moved.
“Professor Lockhart, I don’t know how to thank you—” “Teaching at Hogwarts, your support has been more than I could ask for,” Lockhart replied with a smile.
He turned to his “class.” Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco had been eavesdropping.
When they saw McGonagall approaching, they quickly struck practiced poses, gripping their wands.
McGonagall frowned at their lax attitude.
“You have no idea how rare it is to receive private instruction from a professor.
You should seize it.” Most professors, unlike the networking-obsessed Slughorn, had no energy for private tutoring outside their mandatory duties.
Usually, such specialized training was reserved for N.E.W.T.-level students.
Lockhart didn’t mind the students’ immaturity, but he didn’t argue with McGonagall.
He walked to the peach tree by the fireplace and tapped on the hollow.
Goldie, a streak of golden lightning, bolted from across the room and landed on his shoulder, staring down the hole.
The Boggart, fearing the creature that controlled fear itself, reluctantly emerged, transforming into the figure of a ragged wizard.
The students looked on, terrified.
McGonagall, however, was wary of the “cute” little monkey on Lockhart’s shoulder, sensing an apex predator’s danger beneath its fur.
Lockhart, meanwhile, was delighted.
He placed his hands on the Boggart’s hood, forcing it to look at him.
“Come, be good.
Feel my fear.” The Boggart, realizing its precarious position under Goldie’s gaze, chose to comply.
Feel fear?
it thought.
You asked for this!
BANG.
In an instant, the office transformed.
Blood began to seep from every corner, bubbling with that sickening pu-pu-pu sound.
Poisonous snakes and spiders skittered across the floor, and a hollow, ghostly female voice began to keen from the depths of the “forest.” Harry and the others screamed, scrambling behind McGonagall.
Lockhart ignored them, focusing on maintaining his internal state of dread.
“Listen closely,” he said to McGonagall.
“This is the signature of the Cellar Rot.” McGonagall, her face set in a grim line, recorded the scene into the crystal ball.
“Now,” Lockhart said, shifting his focus, “let’s simulate the Vengeful Nymph.” The Boggart was bewildered—why did this human’s fear change?
More importantly, why did that golden monster keep helping this wizard instead of tearing him apart while his mind was vulnerable?
The Boggart didn’t understand, but it followed orders.
The blood turned clear, the snakes were replaced by birds singing in the trees, and the atmosphere shifted from pure horror to a melancholic, ethereal sorrow.
Even so, it was still terrifying to the students.
Lockhart kept shifting his internal fear, forcing the Boggart to cycle between the two entities.
He wanted to make sure Harry and his classmates never forgot this lesson.
Hermione felt like she was on the verge of a breakdown, hyper-aware of Goldie’s golden eyes tracking her every move.
She stayed put only because she refused to look weak in front of Draco.
When Lockhart finally dispelled the magic, the office returned to normal.
The four students slumped in relief.
McGonagall nodded, a mix of amusement and professional shock on her face.
“Perfect, Professor.
Simply…
perfect.” She finally understood why the Urquharts were so terrified.
And as for Lockhart?
Using a Boggart as a real-time magical simulator?
She had never heard of such a feat.
His mastery of Dark creatures was, she now realized, truly profound.
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