Pushing open the heavy door to his office and private quarters, both Lockhart and Hermione were greeted by an owl perched on the windowsill, standing guard over a large crate.
It was perhaps the largest owl Hermione had ever seen—even bigger than a golden eagle.
It spared them a single, dismissive glance before continuing to peck at the exquisite, complimentary food provided for post-office workers on the sill.
Lockhart walked over and lifted the crate.
A letter was attached to the top, addressed to: Congratulations to Gilderoy Lockhart on becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The sender was listed as: The Hibiscus Ravenclaw Alumni Association.
“Ravenclaw Alumni Association?” Hermione asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
She stood on her tiptoes to peek at the package, but as soon as Lockhart reached to break the seal, she tactfully looked away.
“It’s a club organized by Ravenclaw graduates.
I asked them to help me source some Dark magical creatures as teaching materials for the term.” Seeing the package, the memory finally clicked into place in Lockhart’s mind.
He opened the letter, his brow rising as he spotted a familiar name: Alastor Moody.
Mad-Eye Moody.
A retired Auror—it was rumored that half the current inhabitants of Azkaban were put there by his hand.
The contents of this box had been prepared by him.
Moody was a Gryffindor, but his late wife had been a Ravenclaw—the founder and first president of the “Hibiscus Ravenclaw Alumni Association.” It was said that beneath the rough, paranoid exterior of the old warrior lay a profound gentleness for his wife.
He had spent decades helping her at the club, working tirelessly without complaint.
Even now, years after her death, Moody remained devoted to the organization she had poured her heart into.
Lockhart pried open the crate.
Occupying two-thirds of the space was a large birdcage filled with iron-blue, sprite-like creatures.
Cornish Pixies.
Lockhart’s expression grew peculiar.
Having read the original stories, he was well aware of the chaos these pixies caused and the catastrophic damage they dealt to his predecessor’s reputation.
To think that Mad-Eye Moody had personally prepared them for him!
Lockhart, whose past life could essentially be classified as that of a Dark wizard, and Moody, the old, hardened Auror who hated evil with a burning passion?
It was quite an intriguing connection.
Lockhart sat at his desk, pulled out a gilded quill and a sheet of fine parchment, and began to draft a reply.
Naturally, he started by thanking the old man.
But the crux of his letter was an inquiry into the curriculum scope for the fifth-year O.W.L.s and seventh-year N.E.W.T.s.
Both were overseen by the Ministry’s Wizarding Examinations Authority, and perhaps Moody could help him get the inside track.
Driven by a sense of responsibility—and a cold, hard assessment of his own current limitations—Lockhart felt the best thing he could do for the students of Hogwarts was not to ruin their futures.
Consolidating knowledge and running targeted practice sessions to help them excel in their exams was something he was actually quite capable of doing.
I can do quite a bit, can’t I?
he thought.
At the very least, outside of the true heavy hitters of the world, there were few wizards more knowledgeable than he was—whether drawing on the original Lockhart’s magical world expertise or his own life as a transmigrator from the Muggle world.
After finishing the letter, Lockhart turned back to the crate.
There were only three items inside.
Besides the cage of pixies, the second item was an antique red vanity case.
It looked worn, the paint chipped away to reveal the wood beneath.
Knock, knock, knock.
Something tapped on the lid from the inside.
A voice whispered, small and cautious, “Is someone out there?
Help me, please?
I’m trapped inside.” Hermione, who had been peering over, gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“A Boggart,” Lockhart said, glancing at the label pasted on the box.
“I read about those in books,” Hermione whispered, her voice tight with fear, as if afraid to alert the monster inside.
“But I didn’t know they could speak.” Lockhart didn’t seem bothered.
He set the case aside and explained to the curious girl, “Boggarts are arguably the most common monster in the wizarding world.
Some that take up residence in wizarding homes learn to mimic human speech or pace around in tattered robes at night.
If you’re brave enough, you can even chat with one to pass the time when you’re lonely.” Hermione recoiled.
“I wouldn’t want to chat with it!
Who would be so bored that they’d talk to a monster?” Plenty of people, Lockhart thought.
Including the man currently standing in front of you.
The original Lockhart had once spent a whole night talking to a Boggart.
It wasn’t because he found it fun; it was because a young man alone in the magical world, having left behind his family, often felt profoundly lonely despite his surface-level fame.
He had confided things to the monster he dared not tell a soul, because people, he had learned, were far more terrifying than monsters.
Hermione didn’t share that sentiment.
Especially not when Lockhart pulled out the final item from the crate: a small jar painted with garish, child-like patterns.
The moment he revealed it, Hermione stiffened as if a cat had just been startled, her skin crawling with gooseflesh.
An indescribable, suffocating dread surged from the depths of her soul, lodging in her throat.
She wanted to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t open.
She wanted to bolt, but her legs were rooted to the floor like stone.
“Blast, the lid wasn’t tight!” Lockhart’s voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance, distorted and drawn out.
She heard him scrambling, presumably searching for his wand, as she hadn’t seen one in his hand.
Hurry, please, just hurry.
Hermione felt like crying.
She could feel it—a tiny, furry hand grabbing her trouser leg and climbing upward.
Then another hand.
Then a third.
She didn’t know what it was, but her mind was consumed by a primitive, paralyzing terror.
She tried to fight it, but the “deer in the headlights” instinct—that human inability to move in the face of absolute threat—held her fast.
She couldn’t even shiver.
The monster moved with terrifying speed.
It rummaged through her pockets, grabbed her robes, and scaled her body until it reached her face.
Hermione’s eyes were wide, fixed in an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.
Finally, she saw a pair of pitch-black eyes.
They blinked.
Looking closer, she saw intricate, dark golden patterns within the pupils, like a pair of beautiful, lethal gemstones.
Oh no, she thought, confused by the strange sensation that the monster was looking into her eyes just as intensely.
The creature’s tiny, furry hands reached out, cupping her face.
One hand moved to her cheek, then the other to her eye socket, and gave a gentle tug.
Pop!
It sounded like a cork pulled from a wine bottle.
Her vision went surreal; her left eye remained fixed in its socket, but her right eye now drifted left and right, controlled by the creature’s tiny grip.
!!!!
It ripped my eye out!
No!
She wanted to scream, but remained trapped in her body.
Just as she was on the verge of total collapse, a large, warm hand appeared in her vision.
The palm was flat, holding a pile of obsidian buttons—some still clinging to threads of fabric, ripped forcefully from a garment.
“Hey now,” Lockhart’s voice cut through the haze.
“Maybe you’d prefer these?
Obsidian buttons are much prettier than eyeballs, don’t you think?” “Goo-jee…” the creature made a soft, longing sound.
Lockhart gestured with the buttons.
“Come on, take them.
Don’t be shy.
But you have to give her eye back, alright?” The creature hesitated, then nodded.
It reached up and carefully popped the eyeball back into Hermione’s socket.
Her vision snapped back into place.
It took several minutes for the crushing weight of the fear to evaporate.
Hermione shuddered, gasping for air, and looked around to see Lockhart pinching the back of the creature’s neck—a tiny, golden-furred monkey with three hands—and stuffing it back into the jar.
It was tiny—curled up, it was smaller than a football.
If not for the horrific ordeal, she might have clapped her hands and called it adorable.
But now, she never wanted to go near it again.
Clack.
The lid was screwed on tight.
As the last remnants of the fear bled out of her, Hermione took a deep, shaky breath, sobbing for oxygen.
“I’m terribly sorry.
I didn’t realize the lid was loose.” Lockhart apologized, scurrying to a wardrobe to retrieve a bar of chocolate.
He unwrapped it and handed her a piece.
“Eat this, it will help.” “What…
what was that?” she whispered, nibbling the chocolate.
“A Three-Handed Monkey.
Not a common Dark magical creature.
It feeds on the fear it fills people with, rendering them immobile, which makes it easier to scavenge for the gemstones it loves.
If you aren’t wearing any, it simply takes your eyes as a trophy.” Lockhart placed the jar carefully on a high shelf.
“Dark magical creature specialists at St.
Mungo’s keep them so they can harvest eyes or other organs for medicinal potions.
And, of course, a knowledgeable Dark wizard would use them to craft some rather unpleasant magical artifacts.” Hermione swallowed hard, suddenly seeing the magnificent, shimmering magical world in a completely new light.
Beyond the beauty, it was a place filled with dark, twisted, and terrifying things.