The Acromantula colony was far larger than Lockhart had imagined.
These creatures, with adult bodies the size of elephants and legs that sprawled out like small mountains, required vast swathes of territory as their population grew through constant breeding.
Deep in the heart of the Forbidden Forest, where the trees grew thick and lush, the spider caves stretched endlessly into the distance.
Perched on a tree trunk, Lockhart gazed out, his eyes catching shadowy, hulking shapes moving through the forest under the cover of night.
Not a bad scene, he thought.
His gaze darted to every corner. The forest was bathed in a hazy glow of moonlight, not unlike the dim, dank atmosphere of the Slytherin Chamber's sewers. The network of cave entrances, seemingly interconnected, made the perfect backdrop for a chapter in his imagined story, The Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts.
As he scanned his surroundings, a massive Acromantula descended slowly from above, dangling from a thread of silk. Its monstrous pincers twitched menacingly.
But then, Lockhart's form began to fade, losing its vibrant color until he was a ghostly figure in shades of black and white.
The Acromantula lunged, only to pass right through him, shuddering as the ghostly chill—a sensation of lifeless decay—overwhelmed its senses.
Lockhart glanced back at it, then floated lightly upward, eager to explore and gather more material for his tales.
His ghostly state let him glide effortlessly through the forest's obstacles. The Acromantula's burrows weren't long, weaving in and out of small hills to form a dense, sprawling network.
This setup needed some tweaks, he noted. Acromantulas preferred dense, wooded jungles over gloomy caves, which they only used for sleeping or guarding their young.
Drifting along.
Floating here and there.
Suddenly, Lockhart felt an odd, indescribable unease.
It didn't hinder his movements, but it was deeply uncomfortable, like an itch he couldn't scratch.
He paused, hovering in place, and closed his eyes to focus on the state of his magic.
It took some effort. In his ghostly form, his connection to his magic felt distant, as if separated by a thin veil. Even his thoughts seemed sluggish.
Finally, he sensed it.
The Patronus Charm!
It was clashing with his ghostly state.
Mastering magic wasn't just about learning a spell for attack or defense.
His approach to magic, inspired by his predecessor's mastery of the Memory Charm, was unique. His greatest takeaway from absorbing that adventurous, fairy-tale life wasn't just gaining a top-tier Memory Charm—it was understanding how a wizard could push magic to its absolute limits.
If the Memory Charm could be mastered that way, why not other spells?
The Memory Charm was his predecessor's life, experiences, and beliefs. But Lockhart had his own life, his own experiences, his own beliefs. Why couldn't he follow the same path to master another spell—or even countless spells?
He wasn't here to become his predecessor or live their life. He was here to digest, to carve out his own path.
Magic chose the wizard!
And the wizard drew closer to magic!
When the two aligned, magic and the wizard's life and experiences fused in a wondrous harmony.
Now, his connection to the Patronus Charm was being tested.
In his ghostly state, he was straying from the charm's essence.
The reason was simple.
Being a ghost felt… detached. As if the world no longer had any hold on him. His heart felt hollow, devoid of desire or spark. Everything he saw was drained of color, reduced to a bleak, monochromatic haze.
It was a strange emptiness—knowing he should feel something, think something, but coming up blank.
Perhaps, as Snape once said, "Life has no meaning on its own. It becomes real through the paths we walk."
Without the ability to truly touch the world, all meaning slipped away.
The Patronus Charm, though, was the opposite.
It was a celebration of life's beauty, a love for existence itself, transformed into magical power to shield the soul.
In the wizarding world, death wasn't the end. Dumbledore famously said, "Death is but the next great adventure," a journey where life continued in a different form.
But ghosts? They were the opposite of that journey. They were the result of clinging to the world, refusing to move on—a life cut short, frozen in place.
"Magic always comes with choices," Lockhart mused with a sigh.
And he made his.
He craved a real, vibrant, passionate life. Whether the Patronus Charm would aid him or not, whether the ghostly state was useful or not, his decision was unwavering.
Color flooded back into his form. In the Forbidden Forest, he became real again—flesh and blood.
His magic sang with joy.
He could feel his wand humming, the magic flowing freely, alive with energy.
He could feel his breath mingling with the forest air, perfectly in sync.
He could feel the presence of his companions nearby, warm and familiar.
He could feel everything.
This choice didn't mean he could never use the ghostly state again—it would remain a last-ditch escape from death, a trump card for survival.
But the Patronus Charm, stirring in his spirit, began to shift.
Looking at his wand, he could almost see silvery wisps of the Patronus Charm swirling around him, rippling outward like delicate gauze or gentle waves.
What did it do?
He wasn't entirely sure.
But it was fascinating.
It was wonderfully mysterious, as if his soul were draped in a shimmering, silver veil, swaying gently.
"Expecto Patron—"
He waved his wand, ready to cast the spell and see its effect, when the little golden creature in his robe pocket suddenly scrambled out, climbing onto his shoulder and glaring warily at the surroundings.
At the same time, a Nearly Headless Nick-like ghost emerged from his body, hovering behind him.
The Boggart, transformed into a towering "Hanged God Corpse," and the Thestral spread its wings, circling overhead.
This heightened alertness…
Lockhart looked up. From every cave entrance in the Acromantula colony, massive spiders were crawling out. The dense forest was filled with shadowy, towering figures, surrounding him in layers.
"The smell of human~" one adult Acromantula rasped, its eyes gleaming with greed. It twisted its body, as if savoring a deep breath, its massive pincers clicking excitedly—clack, clack.
And it wasn't just this one. Every Acromantula around him looked ravenous.
The sound of their pincers echoed through the quiet forest, chillingly intense.
"Let's do this," Lockhart said calmly, glancing down at his wand, still focused on the subtle shifts in his magic.
He wanted to capture every nuance, to build experience for mastering other spells in the future.
This was the path to greatness. He was certain that by following this road, his magical achievements would one day rival those of Dumbledore, Nicolas Flamel, or Grindelwald.
He had that confidence!
But soon, the Acromantulas demanded his attention again.
The golden creature on his shoulder let out furious "guji guji" squeaks, clearly displeased that its fear-inducing magic had only affected about half the spiders.
That surprised it.
It surprised Lockhart, too.
He scanned the scene. The Boggart, Thestral, and ghost were all fighting back against the Acromantulas unaffected by the golden creature's despair-inducing magic.
"How is this possible?" Lockhart muttered, puzzled.
If this were Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, he wouldn't question it—phoenixes had powerful magical resistance. But these were Acromantulas.
They were on a different level.
In the books, during the Triwizard Tournament, Hogwarts used an Acromantula as a minor boss in one of the tasks, confident that skilled young wizards could handle it.
If they'd put a phoenix in there instead, Harry and Cedric, even working together, wouldn't have stood a chance.
Lockhart frowned, recalling a hint from the forest moments ago: "Caw~ The devil's minions~ Caw~ The devil's minions~"
The devil?
He quickly sifted through his memories—web novels, the original Harry Potter books, movies, short videos—searching for any clue, but came up empty.
In Harry's second year, where did a "devil" come from?
That didn't add up.
His thoughts raced, and then it hit him.
Could it be…
His presence had caused a ripple effect, a "butterfly effect"?
Had Tom Riddle, trapped in the Horcrux diary, sought help elsewhere because Lockhart had taught Ginny to resist dark magic?
His guess was soon confirmed.
As the chaos of battle erupted in the heart of the Acromantula colony, it clearly disturbed the tribe's leader—Hagrid's old pet, Aragog.
Aragog was even larger than the average adult Acromantula, but it looked frail and aged. Its movements lacked the agility of its offspring, and large patches of its black bristles had fallen out, revealing wrinkled, tumor-like skin.
The biggest difference, though, was its eyes.
According to the books, Aragog was blind, likely from cataracts. Unlike the glossy black eyes of other Acromantulas, its eyes were a dull, murky gray-white.
This frailty seemed to have eroded the principles it had upheld for a lifetime. It no longer restrained its offspring, allowing them to attack humans.
Honestly, Lockhart didn't get it. Adult Acromantulas had intelligence comparable to centaurs or humans. How could Aragog not see that lifting this restriction would doom its colony?
This was Hogwarts, with Dumbledore!
Heck, even without Dumbledore, any of the professors—each a top-tier wizard—could wipe them out.
But now, Lockhart might have found the answer.
He watched as the massive spider leader crawled slowly from its cave, his brow twitching.
This thing wasn't blind. It wasn't cataracts.
He might not know much about magical creatures' biology, but he knew magic all too well.
Aragog's state…
It was the same as Ginny's when she was under the influence of Tom Riddle's Horcrux diary, like a Imperius Curse effect.
"Well, well, Tom," Lockhart said with a smirk, eyeing Aragog as it lumbered closer, trying to intimidate him with its sheer size. "You've been busy, haven't you?"
He flicked his wand lightly. "*Obliviate!*"
In an instant, a silver glow bloomed above Aragog's head, silvery threads drifting outward.
But Lockhart's expression shifted.
He sensed something—a powerful resistance. He threw all his will into the spell, feeling a massive counterforce pushing back.
Buzz, buzz, buzz~
A piercing, high-pitched whine filled his ears, grating and unbearable.
A surge of air roared between his wand and Aragog, whipping outward in all directions. Then, faint sparks of electricity crackled in the torn air.
Finally, a terrifying arc of plasma formed between the tip of his wand and Aragog.
The plasma surged, the air thick with a deadly magical aura.
No!
Lockhart's mind screamed.
No!
This wasn't Tom Riddle. He knew Tom's situation well—thanks to his interference, Tom's influence over Ginny was under control. There was no way Tom could wield this kind of power.
This was…
Through the blinding glare of the magical plasma, Lockhart saw it: a grotesque human face emerging from a tumor on Aragog's head.
It resembled Tom, but older, more mature.
And most striking—it had no nose!
"Holy—!" Lockhart blurted out in his native tongue, stunned. "Voldemort?!"
The face seemed to stir, as if roused from sleep. Its eyes opened slowly, revealing eerie, snake-like vertical pupils.
Those pupils, weary and weak, carried an indescribable coldness and indifference.
They fixed on him. "Gilderoy Lockhart!"