Not every pure-blood family earns the title of "Sacred Twenty-Eight." The Dumbledore family doesn't make the cut, nor does the LeMaitre family, despite producing Nicolas Flamel, or the Grindelwald family, despite Gellert Grindelwald.
The origins of the Sacred Twenty-Eight's prestigious label are murky, lost to time, but Lockhart could hazard a guess.
These families likely control—or outright monopolize—resources or skills critical to wizarding society.
Take the Ollivanders, for instance. They dominate wand-making.
Or the Blacks, whose name pops up in the family trees of nearly every powerful clan.
So what about the Weasleys?
Lockhart's theory: magical artifacts.
The Burrow may look ramshackle, but it's packed with magical items that are top-tier treasures in the wizarding world.
Like that clock with hands bearing the faces of each Weasley family member, showing their status in real-time.
What blew Lockhart's mind was this: the clock only tracks Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and their seven kids.
That means it was likely custom-made!
At the very least, it's clear the clock existed before Ginny was born, and Arthur added a new hand for her afterward.
Lockhart didn't know enough about other families to piece together the full picture.
But one thing was certain—
The magical car in front of him, tangled in spider webs and struggling to break free, was something Arthur Weasley no longer wanted!
This was straight out of the books.
Ron and Harry had "borrowed" Arthur's enchanted car, flying it through Muggle skies and spectacularly breaking the Statute of Secrecy.
At a time when Arthur was itching to humiliate Lucius Malfoy, Malfoy would surely pull every string he had to hit back hard, targeting Arthur's job.
You're the one policing wizards who enchant Muggle objects, and here you are, doing it yourself—and making a mess of it!
Muggle newspapers had even reported a flying car in the sky.
Talk about getting caught red-handed.
Mrs. Weasley was so furious she sent Ron a Howler.
So, just like Lucius Malfoy ditching a troublesome family heirloom, Arthur's magical car had become a cherished but dangerous possession he couldn't bring home.
Poor Arthur. He'd crafted this incredible car but, between his job at the Ministry and his wife's iron grip, never got to fly it himself.
"I love this car!"
Lockhart tilted his head back, grinning brightly.
If he planned to stay a Hogwarts professor forever, a car might not matter much.
But if he was going to swipe Voldemort's childhood memories and hit the road, living a life on the run, this car was perfect timing.
Nice!
"Mr. Car!" Lockhart called out cheerfully. "Can I help you?"
The car didn't respond, just thrashed harder against the webs.
"…"
Lockhart shot a puzzled glance at the banshee floating nearby. "It seems a bit upset, doesn't it?"
The banshee covered her mouth, giggling. "It's a lady."
"???" Lockhart blinked, exchanging baffled looks with the rabbits around him.
Wait, what? A Ford Anglia—a vintage car—was a lady?
He hesitated, then looked up again. "Car… Ford Anglia Lady, would you let me help you?"
Note: The car model is a Ford Anglia 105E.
The car finally calmed down, its headlights flicking on as it honked twice.
Good.
It was settling down.
The rabbits turned to Lockhart, their little faces full of gratitude.
But this wasn't over. Whatever had trapped a flying magical car in these webs wasn't ordinary.
Lockhart picked up a stick and poked at the strands. They felt like steel cables, not the flimsy spider silk that would snap under pressure.
And they were insanely sticky—the stick wouldn't come loose.
Just then, a dull rumble of thunder echoed overhead. The earthy scent of the forest rose, signaling an approaching storm.
The car lady started thrashing again, her engine roaring through the Forbidden Forest.
"Whoa!"
Lockhart jumped, raising his hands to calm her. "Easy, easy, Lady! Struggling like that won't help."
The car stopped, though her engine still growled, low and tense, filling the air with unease.
"Let me think of something."
"Oh, right!"
Lockhart dug into his robe pocket and pulled out his Snidget. "Hey, buddy, I know you're awake. How about chewing through these webs?"
A Snidget's teeth could slice through dragon scales. Whatever these webs were, they'd be no match.
But the Snidget peeked out, took one look, and shrank back into Lockhart's palm.
Lockhart blinked, turning to the banshee. "What's its deal?"
She frowned. "It's scared it'll get stuck if it flies up there. Those webs are tough to escape."
Well…
Lockhart couldn't force it. He knew it would obey if he insisted, but that wouldn't solve anything.
In the end, the Boggart came through.
Since it had no fixed form, it couldn't be physically trapped.
To make it more effective, Lockhart quickly sifted through his mind for the perfect fear to channel. "Alright, Boggart, feel my fear."
Their time together had built some trust.
The Boggart didn't need the Snidget's threats to cooperate anymore.
It morphed into black smoke, swirling in the air before slamming into the ground. Dust rose, and a massive humanoid figure stood tall.
It was built like Hagrid—huge and burly—wrapped in bloodstained burlap. A tattered, blood-soaked sack covered its head, and it hefted a giant, exaggerated cross-shaped axe taller than itself.
The "Hanged God Corpse," a "deformed faith" dark creature, often took the form of a "butcher" type. These were common in chaotic, makeshift rituals gone wrong.
They were relatively easy to handle for dark creatures—big, strong zombie-types that a decent Incendio could burn to ash.
Ancient dark creature experts called them "laborers."
And laborers get to work!
Lockhart waved grandly, directing the Boggart to hack at the webs.
It worked well. One swing of the axe snapped several strands.
Sure, the axe got stuck in other webs, but it was a Boggart, not a real Hanged God Corpse. It just conjured a new axe and kept going.
Progress was slow but steady.
Boom!
Thunder rumbled again, and the rabbits grew restless.
A bolt of lightning struck nearby, illuminating the dark forest. The rabbits squealed and bolted for their burrows.
One particularly sturdy rabbit ran to Lockhart, tugging at his trouser leg, trying to drag him toward the burrow.
"I'm working on it," Lockhart said, flashing a dazzling smile. "Trust me, I've got this. Go hide from the rain."
But the rabbit kept pulling.
Suddenly, the banshee whipped her head toward a shadowy corner of the forest. "Something dangerous is coming—watch out!"
Lockhart's eyes narrowed. He glanced at the Snidget on his shoulder, drew his wand, and waved it toward the shadows.
Mist swirled through the trees, and three gray wolves emerged, sprinting toward the danger.
Mid-run, a shadow dropped from above.
Thud!
A massive, scythe-like leg, bristling with sharp spines, slammed down, piercing a wolf and pinning it to the ground.
The wolf dissolved into mist.
Lockhart finally saw the attacker—a spider as big as the car!
Acromantulas!
Descendants of Hagrid's pet, Aragog. But Aragog was old now, barely able to control his sprawling brood.
Adult Acromantulas could grow as big as elephants, with legs spanning nearly fifteen feet. These ones weren't fully grown yet.
Still, it was hard to imagine how Harry and Ron survived running through their nest in the books.
Lockhart studied them curiously for a moment, then turned back to check the Boggart's progress.
He was eager to free the car lady and have a proper chat.
Maybe he could offer maintenance in exchange for her services?
Or did magical cars need fuel or something?
He knew next to nothing about magical artifacts.
The Acromantulas emerged fully from the darkness, surrounding the area.
Then…
A wave of fear and despair swept through the forest's edge.
Every glossy black eye on the spiders dulled at once, their bodies freezing like statues.
One, still descending on a web, twitched, curled into a ball, and fell when its silk snapped, rolling far across the ground.
"Car Lady…"
Lockhart looked up, choosing his words carefully. "Can we talk? You know, once you're free?"
Beep beep!
The car lady, seeing the spiders' state, seemed thrilled, her horn blaring with delight.
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