Saturday morning arrived, and Harry set off with the professors, much to Hermione’s visible envy.
Lockhart had checked with the students during breakfast; if Harry or Draco had wanted to back out, he would have chosen replacements.
But Draco, ever the proud Malfoy, hadn’t even considered the possibility.
The group—Lockhart, McGonagall, Snape, Harry, and Draco—arrived via the Floo Network at a small orchard cottage near the Urquhart estate.
Their host, the younger Urquhart, was a tall, lean middle-aged wizard in tactical Auror-style robes.
He carried the distinct air of a seasoned official, currently serving as a liaison director for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
When he saw Snape, Urquhart’s smile froze for a fraction of a second before he glanced nervously at his aunt, McGonagall.
Lockhart understood the tension immediately.
The First Wizarding War had been about pure-blood pride, and families like the Urquharts—even if not explicitly aligned with Voldemort—had likely hedged their bets in the shadows.
And Snape, the Death Eater who had once received Voldemort’s personal magical tutelage, was a reminder of those messy, divided loyalties.
But the war had passed, and the Urquharts were not the type to cling to a lost cause.
McGonagall, a veteran of the Order of the Phoenix, clearly wasn’t holding a grudge, and the group moved toward the castle with polite decorum.
As they exited the orchard, the Urquhart castle came into view.
Even from a distance, a chilling sense of dread radiated from it.
It was gloomy, oppressive, and heavy with sorrow—the unmistakable atmospheric signature of a Dark magical creature.
Everyone instinctively slowed their pace, feeling as though they were stepping into a cold, evil cavern despite the bright summer sun.
Lockhart, however, did not.
Clutching a small pot of vibrant green saplings in one hand and his wand in the other, he strode ahead, quickly distancing himself from the others.
He understood this fear.
He knew it intimately.
Stopping at the castle gates, he knelt in a corner to inspect the seam where the stone wall met the earth.
“Professor Lockhart, is there a problem?” Urquhart asked, stepping forward nervously after exchanging a bewildered look with McGonagall.
“Look at these flowers,” Lockhart said, pointing to tiny weeds, smaller than a pinky fingernail.
Urquhart blinked, confused.
“In ancient wizarding traditions of nature worship, the cycle of life and death is tied to the soil,” Lockhart instructed, motioning for Harry and Draco to lean in.
“When dealing with creatures of that realm, you must observe the state of the earth.
It reveals the creature’s temperament.” Lockhart felt a flicker of irony.
He had noticed these weeds growing rapidly in the stone seams of Hogwarts, too—the castle’s tireless house-elves just cleared them away daily.
Through this lens, it was easy to deduce that the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets was likely already active in the pipes.
Most wizards were blind to this; the Defense Against the Dark Arts curse had driven away the true masters, leaving Hogwarts intellectually barren in this specific domain.
In the original timeline, even Dumbledore and McGonagall had been helpless against the Basilisk’s impact, leading to Hagrid’s imprisonment and Dumbledore’s removal.
How lucky Hogwarts is, Lockhart thought, to have someone like me—someone who actually knows how to use this knowledge.
“Look at this.” Lockhart dug into the wall seam and pulled out a root, handing it to Snape.
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
He squeezed the root, catching the sap, and sniffed it.
“This has reached the threshold for high-grade potion ingredients,” he muttered.
“Precisely,” Lockhart smiled.
“In fairy tales, evil witches use these stems to control queens.
They are saturated with vitality.
Dark creatures are fundamentally manifestations—they alter their environment, and the environment sprouts these associated plants.
It’s a field that hasn’t been properly explored by academic herbology or potioneering.” He stood up, dusting off his hands.
“Based on these stems, the ‘Vengeful Nymph’ inside is not in a heightened state of rage.
We might be able to communicate with it.” Raising his pot of saplings, he waved his wand.
A grey wolf, translucent and ghostly, emerged from a swirl of mist.
It wagged its tail at Lockhart before trotting confidently into the castle.
“Let’s go,” Lockhart called out, striding through the gates.
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