Lockhart called his little group together for a trip.
Vincent Crabbe's visit was to fulfill his father's promise: to transfer ownership of the Crabbe family's Pufferfish Farm to Lockhart.
They had two tasks ahead.
First, they needed to register the transfer at the Ministry of Magic's records department. The Ministry might not mean much to the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families, but they couldn't ignore the authority of the Wizengamot's court. Registration would ensure the asset was legally protected.
Second, there was the private handover—a magical transfer of the protections around the Pufferfish Farm, akin to those safeguarding a safe house. Crabbe, however, couldn't manage this part. His family was down to just a few loyal house-elves; no other relatives remained.
All he could do was hand over the dragon statue Portkey from the family manor and the unique Floo Powder recipe for the farm's secret fireplace entrance.
On top of that, he wanted to entrust some family heirlooms to Lockhart's care.
He'd kept this secret even from Draco Malfoy, the friend he was supposed to swear loyalty to.
This orphaned boy was visibly growing up. Though he still had his bumbling demeanor, he was starting to think for himself. "The Crabbe family actually has a branch in Italy," he said. "They were disowned for insisting on marrying a Muggle."
In the flying car on the way to the Ministry, Crabbe stared out at the cotton-candy clouds for a long moment before continuing. "If I end up like my parents—killed by the Dark Lord's followers—I want you to pass these family heirlooms to them, so they can carry on the Crabbe family's legacy."
Lockhart chuckled. "Aren't you worried I might just keep them for myself?"
Crabbe shook his head with a goofy grin. "Professor, I might be slow, but I'm not stupid. You're a great professor. I can tell you actually care about me and Goyle. Everyone else just thinks we're idiots."
As Snape and old man Malfoy had once told the trio, there probably wasn't another professor out there who still had hope for Crabbe and Goyle.
He wasn't stupid, not really.
With even old man Malfoy at risk of being purged by Voldemort, this helpless boy was searching for someone to rely on. He knew a kid like him could never hope for protection from the greatest wizard of the age, Dumbledore. But Lockhart? Lockhart was real, tangible, right there in front of him.
It was a primal instinct. He didn't need to overthink it to know what to do.
People, Lockhart thought, were such fascinating creatures.
Crabbe's growth seemed to happen in an instant.
Lockhart sighed and patted the boy's shoulder. "When you grow up and get married, if you're still safe and sound, I'll return every single heirloom you've entrusted to me."
Crabbe opened his mouth, hesitating as if shy about discussing such grown-up matters of trade and profit. But he mustered his courage. "You can keep half. As part of the deal."
He knew full well that if he died, with no one to inherit, the Ministry—or worse, the Malfoys—would seize everything. Passing it to the disowned Italian branch would be impossible.
Being struck from a family tree was serious business for ancient wizarding families. Even the Ministry wouldn't recognize disowned descendants as rightful heirs.
Take the Gaunt family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and direct descendants of Slytherin. Most believed Voldemort was their last blood relative. But that wasn't true.
The Gaunt bloodline had significant influence in American wizarding society. Isolt Sayre, a Gaunt who married a Muggle, founded Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Over generations of teaching and thriving, her descendants became integral to American wizarding culture.
Still, neither the Gaunts nor the British Ministry recognized that American branch as part of the family.
Lockhart and Crabbe quickly completed the paperwork, securing the dragon statue's Portkey tooth and the unique Floo Powder recipe.
"There are two recipes," Crabbe explained. "The main entrance leads to the Pufferfish Farm—the one you took everyone through before. The other is a warehouse entrance, used back when the farm was open for trade."
"That warehouse fireplace was once connected to the Ministry's Floo Network. With our family's special Floo Powder, you could travel there from any fireplace."
He shook his head. "But since the farm shut down, that fireplace was disconnected from the network. Reconnecting it would take some influential friends."
Lockhart nodded, marveling at the parchment detailing the intricate Floo Network design. This was the legacy of an ancient pure-blood family.
They say a lean camel is still bigger than a horse. Even at their lowest, these families had treasures most wizards could only dream of acquiring in a lifetime.
Take Tom Riddle's mother, Merope Gaunt. Despised by her father and brother, at her lowest she still wore Slytherin's locket around her neck.
The Crabbe family's vault was deep in Gringotts' bowels. The goblin escort led them through countless doors in the grand hall, then onto a rickety cart that plunged along tracks through magical waterfalls and anti-theft mists. After a long journey, they reached the vault.
Guarding it was a 5X-rated Chimaera—a dangerous magical creature with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a dragon's tail.
As they approached, the Chimaera roared, rattling its chains. The goblins hurriedly tossed it a pungent meatball to calm it down.
"There's only one recorded case of a wizard killing a Chimaera," the goblin guide boasted. "And even he died from exhaustion, falling off his winged horse afterward. This place is as safe as it gets!"
Indeed, barring the outrageous abilities of wizards like Dumbledore or Voldemort, Gringotts' vaults were likely the safest place in the wizarding world.
The goblin pressed its palm to the vault door. Serpent-like scales glowed across its surface, slithering into the wall. The door vanished, revealing the vault.
Golden light spilled out, dazzling the eyes. Everywhere Lockhart looked, gold artifacts gleamed.
The goblins stayed outside, waiting patiently as Crabbe and Lockhart stepped in.
"My mum said…" Crabbe stared at the vault's riches, his voice soft. "She said it's okay that I'm not the brightest, as long as I don't do bad things or try to be some big hero. Just live my life. The family's wealth would keep me and generations after me comfortable."
He swallowed hard, rubbing his chubby belly as if imagining a feast. Then his face fell, eyes glistening with grief, likely thinking of his mother.
He stood there a moment before continuing. "Mum always yelled at Dad. Called him awful names for following the Malfoys, for chasing the family's glory with his greed."
"Professor, was she right?"
Lockhart didn't give a straight answer—because there wasn't one. "It depends, Vincent. Every Crabbe has their own path to walk."
Crabbe blinked up at him, clearly not grasping the nuance.
"Ask your heart," Lockhart said, patting his shoulder. "No one can answer this for you. You've got to find it yourself."
"If you don't know yet, just focus on being a student. Live simply. Time will show you the way."
Crabbe nodded, still a bit lost, and started muttering Lockhart's words to himself, as if memorizing a lesson.
This kid really was slow.
But Lockhart saw something in him—a peculiar wizarding quality, perhaps best called authenticity. It wasn't purity, nor good or evil, nor tied to status.
If Crabbe chose to follow Malfoy and throw his lot in with Voldemort, risking everything for the family's future glory, that would honor the Crabbe name in its own way.
If he chose to lie low, live quietly, and avoid the pure-blood versus Muggle-born conflicts, that was valid too. A dim-witted kid like him would only be cannon fodder in such struggles, even if Malfoy tried to pull him up.
Lockhart didn't have all the answers about the future either.
No one could say whether Dumbledore's victory would lead his faction to integrate with the broader wizarding world, only to turn against Muggles, becoming the new "pure-bloods." Or whether Muggle-born ideas and the shrinking magical world—squeezed by Muggle technology's rapid advance—would erode wizarding society entirely, leaving it like the Chimaera at Gringotts' gates: powerful, but no match for most wizards.
Who could predict the future?
The Harry Potter books only covered seven years, but Lockhart had to live in this magical world for a lifetime—maybe a very long one.
Crabbe needed an answer.
So did Lockhart.
He didn't dwell on it with Crabbe, instead asking to see the heirlooms Crabbe wanted him to safeguard.
The glittering gold around them wasn't it. They walked to the vault's deepest corner, stopping before an unremarkable oak coffin.
It was a plain, traditional European-style wooden box, nothing special.
Inside was a humanoid figure woven from magical creature feathers, colorful materials, and gemstones.
"I don't know what it's for," Crabbe said casually. "Probably not that valuable."
He glanced back to ensure the greedy goblins hadn't followed, then asked Lockhart to help prop the coffin lid against the wall.
Drawing his wand, Crabbe pointed at the lid. "Alohomora!"
Nothing happened.
A classic underachiever moment—he hadn't even mastered this basic spell.
"Let me," Lockhart said, stepping forward. He flicked his wand lightly, murmuring the incantation.
Lockhart had fully absorbed his predecessor's memories and skills. While he might not rival the best at spells like Obliviate, he could handle charms like Alohomora, Apparition, basic healing, or repair spells with ease.
"Alohomora!"
The unremarkable lid, devoid of any magical aura, suddenly glowed with platinum lines.
The lines wove together, forming an ornate door with a brass handle.
Crabbe grabbed the handle and opened it. Inside was a dim room, lined with elegant shelves. At its center, on a small pedestal, a scepter encrusted with precious gems and jewels glowed faintly, illuminating the space.
Beneath it was inscribed: The Crabbe family's glory rises from the flames.