Professor Sprout would never know exactly how Lockhart had handled the screeching Mandrakes.
She was left with a stellar impression of him, glancing meaningfully at Professor Snape.
“Professor Lockhart clearly possesses remarkable expertise.” Truth be told, as a Potions Master, Snape himself had decades of experience with such herbs, but even he hadn’t known how to stop over a hundred Mandrakes from screaming so effortlessly.
And so, whether it was due to Lockhart’s infectious enthusiasm or his genuine, respectful deference toward the professor who had taught him years ago, Snape found himself roped into helping finish the job.
The three of them worked quickly, finally wrapping things up before the sun dipped below the horizon.
After the grime was washed away, they headed off to freshen up for the school’s opening feast.
Lockhart, ever the salesman, enthusiastically shoved a bottle of his luxury brand shampoo into Snape’s hands.
“Hey, this stuff is leagues better than the Potter family’s swill.” He pressed the bottle into Snape’s chest.
“Made from Occamy eggshells.
You know how expensive those are—believe me, once you use it, you’ll never want to go back.” Lockhart tossed his own silky, luminous curls and arched an eyebrow.
“Everyone who’s tried it raves about it!” Professor Snape, a man with the means to afford luxury shampoo and a head of notoriously greasy, unkempt hair, was a client of immense potential.
Got to keep the boy looking sharp, Lockhart thought.
He winked at Snape and walked away, leaving the man staring at him with a look of utter bewilderment.
Lockhart didn’t notice that Snape remained silent, watching his back, before glancing down at the shampoo bottle—perhaps the only gift he had received in the last decade.
…
Pop!
Fireworks bloomed in the air.
The new school year had begun.
This year, of course, there was none of the classic “Hannah Abbott Hat-Head” sorting drama, as Harry Potter was already in his second year.
Only…
Lockhart scanned the hall, but he couldn’t spot Harry Potter anywhere.
Of course, the real-world Harry probably didn’t look like the movie version.
After all, he himself was nothing like the cinematic portrayal either.
“Professor Snape.” Lockhart turned to his colleague.
“Where is our Savior?” Snape’s brow furrowed.
He scanned the hall, then shifted his gaze toward Dumbledore at the high table.
After the Dark Lord’s presence in Hogwarts had been confirmed the previous year, a disappearance like this was no trivial matter.
Yes—Harry Potter was missing!
In the brief window between leaving the safety of his aunt and uncle’s house—where he enjoyed the protection of blood magic—and arriving at the safer-still Hogwarts, he had vanished.
There was nothing more concerning than that.
Lockhart could see the tendons in Snape’s neck pulsing beneath his usual dead-eyed mask, and Professor McGonagall, sitting nearby, looked thoroughly uneasy.
Tsk, what a high-maintenance child, Lockhart mused.
Soon, a prefect hurried to the dais to whisper a report to McGonagall, the Head of Gryffindor: Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had not arrived on the train as expected.
McGonagall nodded, told him to return to his seat, and sat there, lips pressed into a thin, tight line.
Dumbledore, however, remained calm.
He nodded to Snape and then stepped up to the podium, which was carved in the shape of an owl, to deliver his opening address.
Oh.
Lockhart suddenly remembered.
His memories were a mess, and the plot details from the books he’d read in his past life were buried deep, but they finally surfaced.
After all, Ron had disappeared along with him.
During the summer break before their second year, Harry had been staying at the Weasley family’s home, “The Burrow.” On the day of the feast, Dobby, a house-elf loyal to the Malfoys, had sealed the barrier at Platform 9¾, preventing Harry and Ron from boarding the train.
Consequently, the two brave—or perhaps reckless—lads had decided to “borrow” Mr.
Weasley’s flying car and embark on an adventure.
Lockhart could only imagine how distraught the Weasleys must have been when they returned to the station to find their children gone.
Dumbledore was likely waiting for word from them or from other Order of the Phoenix members operating in the shadows.
Dumbledore didn’t have to wait long.
But it wasn’t a message from the Order.
It was…
“Merlin’s braids!
Look!” A young wizard shouted, pointing toward the windows of the Great Hall.
A vehicle completely out of place in the magical world appeared in the sky—a Muggle car!
And a flying one at that.
Spitting smoke and flickering with flame, it grazed the castle walls with heart-stopping precision, soared over the greenhouses and vegetable gardens, skimmed across the lawn, and barreled toward the Forbidden Forest.
Inside, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were screaming at the top of their lungs.
Lockhart clearly saw Professor Snape let out a sigh of relief, followed by a mocking curl of his lips, as if he were sneering at Harry’s clumsy arrival.
Professor McGonagall’s expression relaxed, a smile returning to her face as she went back to managing the Sorting ceremony.
Dumbledore’s expression was unreadable; he simply sat there, quiet and still.
Soon, the professors on the dais could see two bedraggled kids—tiptoeing, hunched over, and looking like thieves—as they carried their luggage toward the hall, peeking in through the windows.
Professor Snape scoffed, pushed back his chair, and marched out of the room.
Lockhart sat there gnawing on a chicken drumstick, enjoying the show.
He wanted to say, Oh, my dear Senior, those are Gryffindors.
You’re the Head of Slytherin.
If anyone should be scolding them, it’s McGonagall.
Hehehe…
They say that all attachment brings suffering, and that life’s troubles stem from caring too much.
Lockhart had his own troubles.
To cover up his inability to cast spells, he had to cling to the aura that his fame provided, but that meant he had to pay the price…
The screaming of his fangirls and fanboys.
“Ahhhhh!” The chorus of voices was deafening.
The younger students’ voices were sharp and piercing—hardly any more pleasant than the screaming of the Mandrakes.
This situation, obviously, couldn’t be fixed by “fertilizing.” The crowd surged.
Hermione Granger seemed the most excited of the lot, fighting her way through the throng, clutching a copy of Magical Me adorned with heart-shaped stickers, desperate for an autograph.
Not bad, he thought.
This feels pretty nice.
If only these screams didn’t keep rattling the chaotic mess of memories in his brain, it would be perfect.
Lockhart maintained a perfectly charming smile, signing autographs one by one and offering hollow but encouraging words.
Looking up, he saw the crowd of young students growing larger by the second.
Soon, a student with a magical camera ran over, and Lockhart became a social media hotspot, posing for photo after photo.
The scene was so popular that several professors who hadn’t yet left the hall couldn’t help but look on with a tinge of envy.