The wind howled, as if the whole world was spinning and tumbling. Everything in sight twisted and warped.
A powerful repulsive force surged, stretching the world around them. Every step Lockhart and Snape took forward felt like wading through molasses.
But it was exactly this struggle that made them realize—the potion might actually be working.
They didn't know how long they trudged on, but suddenly, the repelling force intensified. The roaring wind and dizziness vanished in an instant, and their vision darkened.
Looking around, everything was shrouded in shadow, barely discernible.
The window shutters creaked, their grinding echoes filling the deathly silent office. Faintly, from the corridor beyond the door, came a tap-tap-tap—a sound that sent an eerie panic crawling through their hearts.
Was this…?
The power of a malevolent werewolf?
Lockhart snapped to attention, turning to Snape. "What is this potion of yours…?"
Before he could finish, he realized there was no one beside him.
"!!!"
His nose twitched, catching a faint, foul stench.
Looking around, he noticed the fruit bowl on the desk rapidly rotting, sprouting colorful patches of fluffy mold.
All signs of life seemed to be wilting away.
His wand-holding hand visibly paled, the skin wrinkling as if he'd aged decades in moments.
His jaw itched. Reaching up with his other hand, he found a long beard had sprouted, and when he tugged at it, he saw strands already turning white.
"Ha!"
"Fascinating!"
Lockhart chuckled, his eyes gleaming as he savored the unique magical surges accompanying each change. "Is this the power of time?" he murmured, awestruck.
He pressed forward eagerly, though it was tough. His lower back began to ache, his legs grew weak, trembling as if they might give out any second.
But that wouldn't stop him.
He closed his eyes, held his breath, and ignored the cold creeping through his body and the eerie clamor in the silence. He focused entirely on the magic within him.
That magic was vibrant, pulsing with the essence of sky, clouds, moonlight, forests, and earth—surging with thunder and flame. It was the complete opposite of his decaying body, brimming with life.
"This is real!"
Lockhart whispered, gently waving his wand. A silvery glow radiated from him, carrying him forward.
He walked on, for what felt like crossing mountain after mountain, until he finally emerged from the gloom. Warm sunlight bathed his face again.
Opening his eyes, he found himself back in the real office, just a meter from the bubbling, magical cauldron.
Sunlight streamed through the window, warming his youthful, healthy skin. Only the moldy, rotten fruit in the bowl on the desk confirmed that what he'd just experienced wasn't some mere illusion.
If he hadn't made it through, he would've aged into an old man on that endless journey, losing who-knows-how-many years.
"This potion's got some kick!" Lockhart said with a grin.
Suddenly, the cauldron began spewing thick mist, the potion inside bubbling and flashing with colorful sparks.
For a moment, he felt like he was the cauldron, with countless vibrant hues bursting from his heart.
It was ecstasy—ecstasy from crossing into this world.
It was uncertainty—uncertainty from loneliness.
It was joy—joy from finding companionship.
It was delight—delight from understanding his own path.
It was anger and doubt—anger from being entangled in Voldemort's web of enmity, doubt from the tangled threads of his life.
It was everything in his heart—sweet, bitter, sour, salty—all swirling together.
Each step toward this inner journey felt like a question to his soul: Hey, mate, you sure you want to keep going?
Did that even need asking?
He soon reached the cauldron and glanced back. Snape, gripping his wand tightly, was struggling toward it, his face set with reluctance.
Lockhart didn't say anything, just smiled at his old friend, waiting for him to catch up.
He knew.
He understood.
Snape was a man driven by unrelenting discontent, his heart always churning with frustration. He wasn't someone who settled for the status quo.
All he needed was a little push.
Sometimes, being pushed forward passively or forced outward by pressure was still just a push.
And this proud guy, letting himself be pushed aside? Ha, fat chance!
The human heart is funny like that, isn't it? Passive or active—it's often the same mindset. Actions don't always reflect the heart's choices; sometimes, they're just shaped by the world around you.
Lockhart waited quietly, peering curiously at the potion in the cauldron, writhing like a living thing.
An out-of-control life?
A root piercing through existence, touching the realm of time?
How extraordinary.
He could feel it—three times, the potion had tested his heart, allowing him to approach only after each grueling trial. One misstep could've led to his vitality crumbling, his spirit tearing apart, or his sense of self collapsing.
"Severus, you've really cooked up something incredible here," he said, marveling.
"It is remarkable," Snape replied, finally reaching the cauldron. He stared at it silently, his face pale, clearly having wrestled with his own inner trials. The struggle had left its mark.
Lockhart wasn't about to tease him or act superior. His own heart was whole, driven by a steadfast pursuit of magic and a life less scarred by pain.
Snape, bound by unrequited love and unattainable desires, carried a flawed heart—but that was part of what made his life so rich.
No one could say it was a bad thing.
Life needs experiences—dark or bright—to paint its canvas, leaving traces of the journey.
"What's next?" Lockhart asked, curious.
"We wait," Snape said, eyeing the cauldron warily. "The magical shifts and emotional energy we poured in on that journey are feeding the potion. It needs time to transform."
Lockhart let out a "Wow!" He hadn't expected potion-making to involve such fascinating twists.
Oh, right—Snape's earlier "mischievous brain juice" potion had required traces of Lockhart's life experiences as an ingredient. This seemed to follow the same logic.
They didn't wait long.
The potion suddenly vaporized, rising as a strange, viscous substance that swirled in the air. It expanded chaotically, as if filling the entire office, then collapsed into a small, pulsing mass, accompanied by eerie, whispering sounds.
Finally, the potion stabilized, condensing into a thick, inky black—so dark it seemed to lack color entirely.
Boom!
It exploded into a vertical, two-meter-high swirling vortex.
Lockhart reached out, brushing the vortex. His fingers passed through it, feeling no liquid or texture.
"Keep going," Snape said decisively. His robes billowed as he strode into the vortex, vanishing instantly.
Lockhart didn't hesitate, following right behind.
Gurgle!
The black vortex shuddered, shifting colors as they entered. On the desk, the moldy fruit split open, a vibrant green sprout shooting up, stretching its leaves and blooming with flowers.
"I was going to ask earlier…" Lockhart said, trailing Snape through what seemed like an endless void of darkness. "Is this potion really a Regret Potion?"
Snape paused. "What do you mean?"
"I sensed its magical properties through my wand," Lockhart said, his steps uneven, like walking on a giant gummy candy. "I don't know much about time magic, but I do know magical properties."
"It's targeting the mind, the body, the bloodline, society, the environment…"
He shook his head. "They're all different. A Regret Potion, if it's meant to change something, should target 'society'—or, say, the material reality shaped by collective will."
"But I can feel it. This potion's focused solely on the mind. Mate, something's off."
"Is it just… tricking you into resolving your regrets?"
He wasn't an expert in potions or time, but magical properties? From his "forest darling" days to the wand-choosing moment with Professor Kettleburn, guided by the dragon burrow rabbit, to his deep dive into bloodline magic—he had a knack for this.
Snape's brow furrowed deeply. "I've studied Regret Potions for over a decade, and I've never truly succeeded. I finally saw a breakthrough, passed the trials, and now you're telling me it's useless?"
Lockhart shrugged. "Fate can be a bit of a jerk sometimes. Pretty normal."
Snape's gaze darkened, his lips pressed into a thin line. He stared at the faint glimmer at the end of the dark tunnel—the only light in the void.
"You can leave," he said, his voice low. "I don't know what this potion will do. But I can't give up even the slightest chance. I have to keep going."
A bitter smile crossed his face. "Like you said, adventure isn't a scripted play. It doesn't guarantee a happy ending. But only with unwavering will, stepping boldly into the journey, can you hope for magic to bloom."
"I…"
His expression hardened. "I'm ready to pay any price, even if I gain nothing—even if I lose everything."
All for that tiny, unknown sliver of hope.
He didn't hesitate, striding toward the fleeting glimmer.