They say the requirements to work at the Ministry of Magic are sky-high, but even those pale in comparison to the standards for becoming a professor at a wizarding school.
Hogwarts is where the wizarding world's brightest minds gather.
Every professor here is ridiculously impressive.
Well, except for Lockhart, who's basically a Muggle-level weakling in comparison.
Shivering in his boots.
But everyone's got their strengths, right?
Lockhart suddenly realized he might have a knack for teaching.
Not just for kids, but for dark creatures too.
Under his guidance, the little golden-haired creature (let's call it a juvenile Basilisk for now) had learned to control its effect on the world around it. It was like a Basilisk going from "stare and you're dead" to choosing whether its gaze was lethal—a huge leap.
Then there was the Boggart from the same period, which, unbelievably, had started shapeshifting based on its own desires.
Normally, Boggarts need a template—someone's deepest fear—to transform. This was a big deal.
But the real showstopper was the Wailing Wraith.
Compared to the other two dark creatures, she was far older, already stable and mature. Yet, under Lockhart's careful guidance, she'd started showing new abilities—or rather, untapped potential.
She was beginning to control the power of the earth itself!
"Give it a try," Lockhart encouraged.
The Wailing Wraith glanced at him hesitantly, but seeing his expectant smile, she gathered her courage and floated toward the oak tree. Her pale, translucent hand reached out cautiously.
The tree had been wrecked by that 15-meter Quidditch goalpost that crashed through the window. It'd been a messy eyesore for days.
Lockhart wasn't some "Forest Witch" who could coax it back to life, so he'd taken an axe and saw to trim it down. Now it stood bald and awkward.
But as the Wraith's pale hand brushed it, green sprouts suddenly burst from the broken stumps. Leaves unfurled rapidly, branches stretching upward in the breeze from the window.
"Yes, yes, just like that—perfect!"
Lockhart gasped, pulling out his wand and tapping his temple to extract a silvery strand of memory. "Here, guide it to grow thicker branches, like in my vision. Weave them into a little treehouse. You can live there!"
Nearby, the Dementor-like creature hanging upside down on the tree twitched its nose, its eyes glinting as it fixated on the memory drifting from Lockhart's wand toward the Wraith.
Then its view was blocked by a pair of piercing, golden eyes.
The juvenile Basilisk's glare was a clear warning.
The Dementor-like creature shrank back, curling into a ball and swaying on the branch.
Baby's asleep, baby knows nothing, please don't hurt baby!
It'd been traumatized by the Basilisk lately. Any hint of interest in Lockhart—or even the thought of acting on it—froze its mind with terror, locking its body in place.
Once or twice was bad enough, but day after day of this? It was terrified.
Now, just seeing Lockhart made it instinctively avoid any rebellious thoughts. It didn't even dare to think them.
Sometimes, when Lockhart covered its eyes to "help it sleep," it didn't want to, but it played along, too scared to resist.
What else could it do? Living among these dark creatures was rough—too rough.
This time, it finally got it.
In this room, the kindest one was the wizard who fed it memories. The others? They weren't even human!
Well, technically, none of them were.
But it soon realized it had misjudged.
As the Wailing Wraith tapped into the earth's power, she started feeling a kinship with her summoned guardian, the Dementor-like creature, and began caring for its needs.
That caught Lockhart off guard.
Beyond the treehouse he'd envisioned, a branch extended under the eaves, forming a hanging chair like a bird's nest—a little lantern-like home for the Dementor-like creature.
And that wasn't all. The Wraith coaxed a large knot to form on the apple tree's trunk. As the inside blackened and hollowed out, it became a cozy niche, perfectly sized for the juvenile Basilisk.
Delicate, broken branches draped over it like an elegant curtain.
The peach tree's hollow had a similar curtain, where the Boggart was sobbing with gratitude.
"Is this okay?"
The Wraith floated closer, hands clasped shyly behind her back, looking up at Lockhart with nervous anticipation.
"Brilliant!"
Lockhart didn't hold back his praise. "Absolutely perfect!"
Having some autonomy, unique creativity, and the potential for surprises—that's what made taming dark creatures so fascinating.
He waved his wand, dotting their little homes with purple flowers, filling the office with a sweet fragrance.
Knock, knock, knock.
The door sounded.
The dark creatures scurried into their new homes, ending their cheerful moment for now.
It was Professor Snape.
He'd finally perfected the "Mischievous Mind Pulp" potion. What was once pages of notes had been condensed into a single sheet in his hands.
Lockhart took it, scanning it with curiosity, and let out a "Wow!"
The steps outlined had a clear, logical flow, giving a crisp, clean impression. He could actually follow the potion's brewing process!
"This is incredible!"
He couldn't help but gush.
Snape's lips twitched into a faint smirk before flattening again. He pointed calmly at the ingredient list at the top.
"I've got most of these in my stores, and I've written to suppliers for the rarer ones. They should arrive soon."
"But these three," he said, "you'd better prepare yourself. They're key to the potion's final effect."
Three ingredients were circled in red ink:
A vial of dew, a sprig of root, and a container for the potion.
They sounded simple, but each had its quirks.
Snape explained patiently, pulling out a flat, oval glass vial the size of a cigarette case. "Dew can only be collected one drop at a time. You need to walk from the noisiest place to the quietest to gather it. A month should do."
Lockhart took it, puzzled by the odd condition and wondering how to pull it off.
Snape had an answer. "Walk from your office to the Forbidden Forest, passing the school, the owlery, the greenhouses, the Black Lake, and the Quidditch pitch. That'll meet the requirements."
To him, potions were an art form. He spoke almost poetically about the process. "Life has no meaning until our paths give it reality."
"Paired with a Sproutwhistle root, my biggest tweak to this potion, it'll keep you from losing yourself after taking it."
He handed over a bag of seeds.
Sproutwhistle seeds were common—little wizards loved them as "pets." Planted in a pot and watered, they'd sprout quickly, mimicking sounds like parrots, hence the name.
Snape gestured at the seeds. "These are specially cultivated. Plant them, and they'll grow overnight. Carry them with you, let them hear people call your name or title—thousands of times, ideally. Ten thousand would be perfect."
Lockhart nodded. For a crowd-pleaser like him, that'd be a breeze.
"Lastly, the container for the 'Mischievous Mind Pulp' potion. You should craft it yourself—it'll sync better with the potion's magic."
He handed over a book, flipping to a bookmarked page. "The best container is a Pensieve. Pick the simplest design here and make one."
Lockhart raised an eyebrow, skimming the page.
He'd been studying Pensieve craftsmanship lately, so this was right up his alley.
But the designs listed were absurdly basic—barely functional, stripped-down versions of a real Pensieve.
What was the point? Temporary memory storage?
He slid the bookmark back and checked the cover.
The book was called Cauldrons and Pensiveves.
"It's a study on mind-related potions," Snape said. "Master potioneer Erika Maxwell explored how to align cauldron-brewed potions with the mind using Pensieve techniques. It's a rare work—my personal copy, not the school's. It's yours now. Hope it helps."
Lockhart was genuinely touched.
Snape might seem cold and prickly, but he was surprisingly warm once you got to know him.
Feeling a bit sheepish, Lockhart pulled out his own recent work to share.
Truth be told, he'd been swamped preparing lesson plans for the N.E.W.T.-level students, leaving little time to polish Snape's manuscript.
The curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post had left those students with massive gaps in their education, and fixing that was exhausting.
"This much?"
Snape was stunned by the thick stack of parchment Lockhart handed him—thicker than Cauldrons and Pensiveves.
His own manuscript was barely a draft!
How had Lockhart added so much?
And yet, Lockhart looked dissatisfied.
"It's just a first draft," Lockhart said, flipping through the pages. "It's not good enough."
"Here's the thing… my knowledge of Potions is pretty shallow. Some of my elaborations might mislead readers. You'll need to mark those spots, and I'll revise again."
Snape, still dazed, took the hefty manuscript and started reading.
He frowned at first.
The writing was too wordy—pages before the first real point, far from concise.
But then he got sucked in.
His eyes lit up, his expression animated.
The words had a magical pull, painting a vivid world for the reader.
Knowledge bloomed subtly, woven into the narrative like a charm.
"Balancing fun and expertise is key to a bestseller," Lockhart said, pointing at a section. "See here? Your original note about using improperly dried leaves causing an explosion—it's so dry, no one would notice."
"I added a story about a young wizard botching the potion, getting his face blackened by the blast. Bam—it's memorable. Some readers will never forget it."
It was a fun afternoon.
One condensed a thick manuscript into a single page of pure essence. The other spun a few pages of essence into a hefty, engaging draft. They swapped ideas, lost in their craft.
At some point, they'd settled into chairs, each absorbed in the wisdom they craved.
The Wailing Wraith peeked timidly, then floated over with two cups of blood-like spring water.
The juvenile Basilisk, not to be outdone, plucked a few peaches from the tree, arranging them on a crystal dish for the table.
Time seemed to freeze in that moment.
The only sound was the crisp crunch of the Basilisk sneaking a peach, nibbling away.