In the Crabbe family's secret coffin chamber, the most striking object was a scepter.
Much like how modern Pensieves evolved from crude skulls to crystal skulls, wizards didn't always wield oversized chopsticks as wands. Early magic relied on materials like animal parts or plants, sparking a long-standing feud between the "Animal Faction" and "Plant Faction" over the true path to spellcasting. Later, alchemists revolutionized the field, vastly expanding the scope and depth of magical conduits. The scepter was the hallmark of that alchemical era.
"It holds the soul of a Norwegian Ridgeback," Crabbe said, gesturing to a wizard's robe displayed on a rack behind the scepter. "This robe is made from its dragonhide and giant nerves. It's got incredible magical resistance."
Curious, Lockhart stepped closer and noticed a plaque beneath the robe: Beware—13 Crabbes have already fallen to this dragon's curse!
"When I was a kid, the adults warned me never to touch the robe or scepter," Crabbe continued. "A witch who visited our home once said the Crabbes are blessed by fire but doomed by it—a family cursed by flames."
Indeed.
Lockhart could feel it.
A restless, seething anger pulsed from the robe and scepter, like a volcano on the verge of eruption, heavy and stifling.
He could almost smell the acrid sulfur and feel the scorching heat, his own emotions growing restless.
Strangely, Crabbe seemed to thrive under the influence of these artifacts. His usually dull, goofy face took on a spark of clarity, as if his soul had snapped into place, shedding some of the sluggishness Lockhart associated with him.
It was bizarre. Here, Crabbe expressed himself more clearly, his thoughts more organized.
It was like a fish finding the open sea, finally able to breathe freely.
Yet even so, Crabbe still seemed wary of the robe and scepter, pointing Lockhart to a portrait on the wall behind them.
A moving one, naturally.
In it, a middle-aged wizard clad in the same robe and gripping the scepter was casting a spell. Terrifying flames swirled around him, and from the fire emerged dragon-shaped apparitions resembling Norwegian Ridgebacks.
"That's our ancestor casting Fiendfyre," Crabbe said.
Fiendfyre, one of the most dangerous dark spells, was infamous for its cursed flames that could harm souls—even those protected by Horcruxes. Its unique trait was its growth: starting as a mere spark or flicker, it could swell into a blaze capable of razing a city. What's more, the flames could morph into monstrous shapes, like beasts prowling the inferno.
One thing to note: the spell Gellert Grindelwald used in Paris wasn't Fiendfyre but a defensive "Protego Diabolica," a fire-based shield. Clearly, that master wizard had cracked the principles of Fiendfyre and adapted them to other spells.
Lockhart stared in awe at the portrait. The Crabbe ancestor's Fiendfyre produced only Norwegian Ridgeback-shaped flames—a testament to extraordinary control.
"That ancestor was the first to be consumed by the flames," Crabbe said, his tone carrying an odd absurdity. "He was burned alive by the countless Ridgeback flames he summoned. From then on, the Crabbes realized we were under the Norwegian Ridgeback's curse."
So…
This portrait wasn't meant to glorify the Crabbes' power—it was a warning to their descendants?
Lockhart's expression turned peculiar.
"When I was little, my mum laughed about it," Crabbe said, glancing away from the portrait. "She wasn't surprised. She said she'd heard as a kid that wizards' powers come from deals with devils, and their souls get claimed in the end. The Crabbes' souls, she said, were taken by a dragon."
Erm…
Classic wizarding fairy tale.
Lockhart didn't know what to say.
"You can take the robe and scepter," Crab "'You can take the robe and scepter," Crabbe said, his face flushing as he brought up the deal again.
Lockhart smiled but didn't respond, instead following Crabbe as they continued exploring the modestly sized room.
Most of the family's collection was a mystery to Crabbe. As a second-year student, he hadn't received much instruction before his parents' untimely deaths. The collection was split into three categories.
First, magical texts and books—though not many, just two shelves. One was entirely dedicated to Fiendfyre; the other was a chaotic mix of scrolls, parchments, books, bronze tablets, and even a chipped stone slab.
Second, rare magical materials, carefully preserved and mostly fire-related. Lockhart spotted a large glass jar filled with what looked like ash, labeled: Ashes from a phoenix's rebirth, usable in resurrection rituals.
Lastly, an assortment of magical artifacts, a dazzling array of odds and ends.
Among them was a stone carving of a Niffler holding a slate. After confirming it had no protective spells, Lockhart touched it. Platinum lines began tracing across the slate.
Whoa—similar to the magic on the coffin lid.
The lines quickly formed "Gilderoy Lockhart" and branched upward, linking to two names, then more, until the slate was crowded with names.
"It's a Bloodline Book," Crabbe said, rummaging in a corner. He glanced up, puzzled. "Mum showed it to me and said I should have my kids touch it someday… I don't know why."
Lockhart chuckled, clearly understanding but deeming it inappropriate to explain to a kid.
His amusement faded.
His gaze locked onto the slate's corner, where characters suddenly appeared.
The characters split into two platinum lines, with two more names forming rapidly.
His hand trembled. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and released the slate, letting the names vanish.
Ugh…
In his past life, he was an orphan, haunted by a desire to know his parents' identities.
He never imagined that a question unanswered in his old life would find an answer here.
But now…
He didn't want to know anymore.
Opening his eyes, Lockhart stared quietly at the now-ordinary slate, lost in thought. Finally, he smiled at Crabbe. "You've got to keep living, kid. Get married, have kids, carry on the Crabbe line."
Crabbe, just a second-year, wasn't thinking that far ahead. He held up a silver locket box, looking confused. "I don't even know if I'll make it that far," he said. Under the influence of the robe and scepter's magic, his mind seemed sharper, capable of such a remark.
They soon left the coffin chamber. As they closed the door, the coffin lid reverted to plain wood, showing no trace of magic.
Without knowing to use Alohomora, no one would ever find the Crabbe family's true treasures.
Outside, Crabbe eyed the Gringotts goblins guarding the vault warily—clearly, pure-blood families taught their kids to distrust those greedy creatures.
He opened the locket box, revealing neatly folded material resembling plastic but made of some strange leather. As he unfurled it, it became a massive two-by-three-meter sheet.
Lockhart helped spread it on the ground, placing the coffin lid on it. They folded the material back up, miraculously fitting it into the tiny locket box.
It wasn't an Extension Charm—there was no trace of wizarding magic, just pure enchantment.
Crabbe solemnly handed the locket to Lockhart, hesitating before whispering, "Don't let Draco know."
Lockhart nodded gravely. "Of course."
Child or not, Crabbe had entrusted him with the family's most precious possessions. Lockhart wouldn't betray that trust—he had that sense of duty.
"It's just for safekeeping, kid," he said, lightening the mood so it didn't feel like the Crabbes were on the brink of extinction. "You've got to grow up strong. Your parents are watching."
Crabbe scratched his head, looking troubled. "But I've always been slow."
Lockhart shrugged. "Does a wizard's strength really depend on being quick or clever?"
Well, it kind of does.
In modern wizarding society, the best wizards—Dumbledore, Percy, Cedric, the Weasley twins, Hermione—are all sharp. But ancient wizards? Historical records paint them as eccentric, even unhinged. Think Newt Scamander or Sybill Trelawney.
"Can I really do it?" Crabbe asked, still unsure.
Lockhart ruffled his hair. "Absolutely, I'm sure of it!"
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