After acquiring the Pensieve, Lockhart ventured further into the darkest depths of Knockturn Alley.
He was about to meet a dangerous man: A wizarding goods dealer named Mundungus Fletcher.
This dangerous individual was completely different from Mr.
Borgin.
Mundungus had no moral compass whatsoever.
He could practically be described as a rat lurking in the filthiest sewer.
While Mr.
Borgin maintained some pride as one of the ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’ and cared about preserving his influence among Dark Wizards, preventing him from going too far, Mundungus, this scum who crawled around the bottom layers of society, truly had no limits at all.
There was even a famous little joke told among Dark Wizards during afternoon tea: Someone once went to Mundungus to buy stolen goods.
During the transaction, Mundungus stole the buyer’s belongings and sold them to someone else.
As the saying goes: “Dragons have dragon paths, rats have rat paths, and snakes have snake paths.” Mundungus had his own survival wisdom.
He was a deep-cover information broker within the lowest layers of the Wizarding World, frequently handling high-end contraband.
For example, the Felix Felicis that Lockhart couldn’t obtain from Borgin, Mundungus could get his hands on it.
Brewing Felix Felicis itself wasn’t especially difficult.
Though the process was complicated, requiring six months to complete, any potioneer with strong fundamental skills could technically brew it.
The only real requirement was this: The brewer also had to be lucky.
Without even considering the mystical nature of luck itself, simply managing to avoid any accidents during six entire months of potion brewing was already extraordinarily fortunate.
Which was why Felix Felicis was so rare.
And so expensive.
Under the malicious and openly hostile gazes lining the streets, accompanied by strange grins from suspicious figures, Lockhart finally arrived at Mundungus’s temporary hideout.
He climbed a narrow staircase piled high with rubbish and reeking of foul fertilizer.
Pushing open a creaking wooden door, the tall Lockhart had to bend over to squeeze through the low entrance.
Clang!
He accidentally stepped on an empty bottle and nearly fell flat on his face.
Stumbling several steps, he grabbed an iron cage for support.
Inside the cluttered cage, which was stacked with junk overhead, a pair of purple eyes suddenly opened.
“!!!” Lockhart blinked in surprise before identifying the creature.
A dragon.
It was bound in chains and fitted with a metal muzzle.
It was a Hebridean Black dragon, apparently still juvenile.
At that moment, it was trembling in fear as the Golden Retriever poked its head out of Lockhart’s robe pocket and stared excitedly at the dragon’s purple eyes.
“Gilderoy Lockhart!” A hoarse voice dragged out his name lazily, thick with the rasp of a hangover and dripping with mockery.
“My old classmate, you’ve finally arrived.” Lockhart turned towards the source of the voice.
In the corner, slumped on a tattered single sofa full of cracks and tears, sat a short, fat man with messy stubble.
Seeing Lockhart look over, the man raised the bottle of liquor in his hand in greeting before guzzling more alcohol noisily.
“I disguised myself this thoroughly, yet you still recognized me?” Lockhart inwardly cursed the man’s rat-like eyes for being so sharp.
He removed his mask and lowered his hood respectfully, revealing his signature flawless smile.
“Heh, long time no see, Mundungus Fletcher.” Mundungus stood up, scratched his messy hair, and pulled a cigar case from the pocket of his filthy bathrobe.
Pulling out a cigar, he gestured towards Lockhart.
“Want one?” Lockhart shook his head and laughed lightly.
“I’d rather not wake up naked in a Knockturn Alley sewer after smoking one of your cigars.” “Oh, please!
You piece of trash, you have no right to say that to me.
At least I only steal money,” Mundungus mocked.
Lockhart narrowed his eyes slightly, realizing that the man might have sensed something unusual about him.
Still, he pretended not to understand.
Watching Mundungus subconsciously rub his lower back while fumbling around for a lighter, Lockhart chuckled.
“I heard Moody beat you up again?” Mundungus snorted coldly.
With the cigar hanging from his mouth, he repeatedly tried to light it with the lighter before finally succeeding.
He took a deep drag and immediately started coughing violently.
“Premium Dragonfire Dreamleaf Cigars from the American Wizarding Cigar Association really hit hard!” After sighing in satisfaction, he suddenly looked angry and cursed loudly.
“Mad-Eye Moody!
That bastard has always hated me!” Lockhart glanced around the dim room but failed to find a clean place to sit.
Instead, he crossed his arms and leaned against the dragon cage.
“I heard you were selling prohibited goods at the alumni gathering again.
That’s why Moody delivered justice with his fists.” Mundungus looked deeply irritated.
“That damned Gryffindor never should’ve been allowed into our Ravenclaw Society!” “Oh, give it a rest.
Without Moody, our Hibiscus Ravenclaw Society would have collapsed ages ago.” Lockhart replied indifferently, casually examining the objects piled nearby.
They looked like the kind of things you’d find looted from a luxurious manor: delicate enamel plates and matching cabinets, all crafted in the same artistic style.
Who knew where they had really come from?
Mundungus clearly didn’t want to discuss Moody any further.
Telling Lockhart to wait, he began rummaging through the chaotic piles of goods scattered around the room.
In truth, the relationship between this sewer rat called Mundungus Fletcher and Auror legend Alastor Moody went far beyond their shared membership in the Hibiscus Ravenclaw Society.
They were also both original members of the Order of the Phoenix under Albus Dumbledore.
That’s right.
Mundungus was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and he was absolutely loyal to Dumbledore.
But loyal only to Dumbledore.
In the original story, after Sirius died, Mundungus shamelessly stole all the valuable items from his house, including the locket Horcrux that Sirius’s brother, Regulus, had risked his life to obtain from Voldemort.
Lockhart suspected that, in the original storyline, Dumbledore had discovered that he was a memory thief because Mundungus had reported something.
Under the dim lighting, Lockhart’s gaze darkened slightly.
He slipped his hand into his robe pocket and gently stroked the Golden Retriever’s fluffy little head, silently staring at Mundungus’s back.
“If you’re planning to smash me in the back of the head, I’d advise waiting until I’m drunk first.” Mundungus turned around, a cigar hanging from his mouth, and staggered over before shoving a small glass bottle into Lockhart’s hand.
Lockhart rolled his eyes.
“You always assume the worst about people.
I live in the light, thank you very much.
I don’t do things like that.” “Yeah, yeah.” Mundungus exhaled thick smoke.
Behind the haze, his sharp eyes gleamed strangely.
“You’re a professor at Hogwarts now.
Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if you became a high-ranking official in the Ministry someday.” Ignoring the strangely meaningful comment, Lockhart carefully examined the Felix Felicis in his hand.
Felix Felicis was usually stored in small, inverted, teardrop-shaped glass bottles.
This wasn’t just for show, the unique shape allowed potion masters to better observe the potion’s condition.
He raised the bottle towards the dim yellow light hanging from the ceiling and observed the twisted, shimmering liquid inside.
Then he drew his wand, lightly pressing it against the bottle and sensing the magical rhythm extending through it.
Finally, he nodded.
“No problems with it?” Mundungus stared directly at him through the cigar smoke.
“I paid a huge price to get that stuff!” “Oh, spare me,” Lockhart complained.
“Who knows where you casually ‘picked it up’ while acquiring goods.
This potion is expensive enough as it is.
Don’t try to artificially increase its value.” Felix Felicis had more or less a recognised ‘market price’ among Dark Wizards.
Demand for the potion was especially high among Dark Wizards lacking formal academic backgrounds, or who had performed poorly at school.
Whenever they brewed important potions or crafted Dark Magic artefacts, they often liked to drink some Felix Felicis beforehand.
After enough transactions, a customary price naturally emerged.
Lockhart pulled out a heavy pouch of Galleons and tossed it over.
“Count it.” Mundungus weighed the bag in his hand before casually stuffing it into his bathrobe pocket.
“The amount’s correct.” Since he was already there, Lockhart decided to place another order.
“Keep an eye out for Dark Creatures for me.” “Oh no!” Mundungus nearly choked in fright, coughing violently for a long while before frowning deeply.
“You could ask me to steal Minister Fudge’s underwear, and I’d probably find a way to do it, but Dark Creatures?
I don’t want anything to do with those horrifying things!” Dark Creatures were less like living organisms and more like phenomena.
And phenomena weren’t truly alive.
They neither died nor vanished.
Without specialised knowledge, even the strongest wizard held no real advantage against them.
Common Dark Creatures weren’t too bad… things like Boggarts, the mischievous poltergeist Peeves at Hogwarts, or the Dementors guarding Azkaban.
However, once one ventured even slightly deeper into that field, the entities encountered became unimaginably terrifying.
In fact, if the academic factions hadn’t included Boggarts in the mandatory educational curriculum, wizards in the Wizarding World would probably be utterly helpless against such creatures.
“I want information,” Lockhart said impatiently while looking at him.
“Information about Dark Creatures.
I’m not expecting you to drag one back here for me.” “Oh, information?
That’s fine.
That’s actually my specialty.” Mundungus visibly relaxed before grumbling.
“You’re already a bestselling author with an easy life, not to mention a respected professor with a bright, spacious office.
Why go poking around terrifying things like this?
That’s just asking for trouble.” “Has it ever occurred to you…” Lockhart shrugged.
“…that my field of writing and teaching happens to be dark creatures?
Mundungus, maybe you should read more books.
You did graduate from Ravenclaw, after all.” Mundungus grinned.
“Ravenclaw?
Ravenclaw produces trash, too, old friend.” As unpleasant as it sounded, the idea that Ravenclaw produced all kinds of specialists who wandered into strange and questionable fields had practically become common public perception.
Much like how Slytherin supposedly produced Dark Wizards and schemers, while Gryffindor produced Aurors and reckless warriors.
It was nothing more then pure stereotypes everywhere.