Lockhart had to face a harsh truth: Tom wasn't always as useful as he'd hoped.
Beyond conjuring magic rooted in extreme love or beauty, Tom's talents were almost entirely in dark magic—especially spells tied to life itself.
Death: the Killing Curse.
Eternity: Horcruxes.
Life: Resurrection rituals.
Throw any high-level dark magic at Tom, and he'd not only master it but sometimes innovate new spells. He was a natural.
Or rather, it was his destined magical path.
On this path, Tom chased extremes. Even his Flight Charm wasn't just flying—it was hypersonic flight. Lockhart recalled a post from his past life where someone calculated Voldemort's flight speed based on the books: 3,800 kilometers per hour.
Yes, 3,800 kilometers per hour!
That was Tom's flight magic!
In an era where most wizards couldn't even cast a proper Shield Charm, the top-tier wizards operated on an absurdly different level.
But Tom's pursuit of extremes didn't suit Lockhart's goals of exploring "counter-spell casting" or "self-tension to channel willpower." Those areas were a struggle for Tom.
He just couldn't do it.
Spells Lockhart could cast effortlessly came out haltingly for Tom, progress painfully slow.
Thankfully, Tom had the near-indestructible Basilisk to assist him.
But assistance was all it was. Tom was still just a fledgling Voldemort, not yet the full-fledged Dark Lord.
Lockhart decisively sidelined Tom.
He decided to tackle it himself, realizing this might be his magical path—one no one else could walk for him.
He dove back into Dumbledore's Controlling Lightning notes and the Crabbe family's magical records, immersing himself in their depths.
Of course, he also kept writing: The Dark Lord Voldemort: A Pureblood Supremacist with a Muggle Father?, Tales I Had to Tell with the Chosen One: My Time as a Hogwarts Professor, and editing Snape's Severus's Potions Classroom.
After the Christmas holidays, the weather grew colder, and the rainy season lingered over Hogwarts.
Lockhart finally received a new wizarding robe from an American brand. Unlike Europe's traditional, stuffy styles, American wizarding fashion embraced Muggle designs—more to his taste.
He no longer needed to mimic his predecessor's persona or follow their magical path. He was exploring the exciting boundaries of his own magical life.
And so, time slipped by.
In the blink of an eye, it was mid-February. Saturday, noon.
Lockhart, stretching lazily, stepped out of his fairy tale book back into his office. He'd been up since yesterday afternoon, consumed by a sudden idea, and was about to catch up on sleep when he heard an urgent hiss outside his door.
Parseltongue.
"Professor Lockhart, where are you? Are you there?"
It was Harry Potter.
Puzzled why Harry would use Parseltongue, Lockhart waved his hand, opening the office door.
"Thank Merlin, Professor, I found you!" Harry rushed in, anxiously glancing back at the door. He gently closed it, careful not to make a sound.
Once the door was shut, he hurried to Lockhart, whispering, "Professor, Crabbe's dead!"
"What?" Lockhart blinked, stunned. "Who?"
"Crabbe, Malfoy's lackey, Vincent Crabbe!" Harry's face held no satisfaction, only grim urgency. "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened again. Crabbe was attacked, and everyone says it was a dark creature."
He handed over a photo, blurry from being taken in haste. Crabbe lay sprawled on the floor, and on the wall, in vivid red letters…
The Chamber of Secrets has been reopened! All who defy me will die!
"Someone found him last night. The Ministry's here now, confirming it was a dark creature attack, and…" Harry trailed off.
"And…" Lockhart raised an eyebrow, eyeing the photo. "And since no one could find me, they think I did it?"
"I know it wasn't you!" Harry's voice spiked, then he clapped a hand over his mouth, glancing nervously at the door. "Professor, what do we do? Where were you last night?"
"I was running a magical experiment and didn't want interruptions," Lockhart said casually, swiftly gathering his papers, fairy tale book, and anything he didn't want found, stashing them in his ring. He slipped the ring to his Golden-Haired Friend behind Harry's back.
With a wave, he summoned his red cloak, shrinking it and tying it to Golden-Haired Friend, making them invisible.
"Don't panic. Dumbledore's here; he won't let me be framed. What's he said?" Lockhart's tone was breezy, but he was already packing up everything, including minor contraband items per Ministry rules, handing them to Golden-Haired Friend to hide.
"Professor Dumbledore's not at Hogwarts! No one knows where he is!" Harry said frantically behind him. "Professor, maybe you should—"
Bang!
A violent crash interrupted as the office door slammed open, shaking the small grove inside.
"Run?" Scrimgeour, head of the Auror Office, strode in, his hawkish nose and dead-fish eyes locked on Lockhart. He flicked his wand. "*Expelliarmus!*"
Lockhart's wand shot out of his hand with immense force.
But the Disarming Charm didn't fully take.
With elegant precision, Lockhart caught the flying wand midair.
Counter-Disarming technique!
Harry gaped at the fluid motion. Even after Lockhart had taught him and Draco the technique, they couldn't match the professor's skill.
Only those who'd practiced it would understand the mastery involved—the deep understanding of the Disarming Charm and magical flow.
Scrimgeour didn't have time to marvel like Harry. His face darkened, gripping his wand tightly as a squad of Aurors poured in, surrounding Lockhart.
"You—"
Before he could speak, Lockhart flashed a mild smile. "Sorry, reflex. As Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I'm a bit too good at handling Disarming Charms."
He shrugged, casually handing his wand to a conflicted-looking Kingsley nearby. Arms crossed, he leaned against his desk, eyeing the Aurors. "Look, I'll cooperate, but you lot need to do the same. Why are you storming my office like I'm some criminal?"
An Auror moved to cast a Binding Charm, but Scrimgeour grabbed his arm, stopping him.
No joke—Merlin knows how many dark creatures Lockhart had in here. A fight could end badly for them.
Scrimgeour didn't want his Aurors to become a laughingstock again.
He studied the relaxed Lockhart warily, signaling Kingsley to watch for potential dark creature attacks. "Gilderoy Lockhart, you're a suspect in multiple school murders. Come with us for questioning."
"Is that so?" Lockhart chuckled, mockingly scanning the tense Aurors. "Funny, since when do Aurors move this fast?"
It was a stereotype. Aurors were often the clean-up crew, sweeping floors, fixing spell-damaged buildings, or Obliviating Muggle witnesses.
Alright, maybe that was unfair.
Barring Dumbledore's ilk and top magical school professors, the wizarding world's most formidable force was the trained Auror corps.
Scrimgeour bristled at the jab, his face darkening. "Someone submitted a suspicion report about you. We've been reviewing your file."
He stepped closer, scrutinizing Lockhart's every expression and movement. "Your file notes that days ago, you and Vincent Crabbe were at Gringotts' Crabbe family vault. And you were present when the Crabbe parents died. We can't help but see a connection."
Impressive.
Who'd pieced this together so neatly?
Lockhart knew the answer.
Corban Yaxley!
That Death Eater who'd shown open hostility at their first meeting.
He had to admit, he'd underestimated Yaxley. His view of Death Eaters, shaped by the books, was of deranged lunatics relying on brute magic—swapping Disarming Charms for Killing Curses.
Yaxley was different.
A Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood and a seasoned Ministry bureaucrat, he knew how to wield influence over raw power.
A suspicion report…
Clearly, Yaxley had been quietly pulling strings with the Aurors long before this incident.
As for the report's basis, Lockhart could guess.
No secret stays buried. His predecessor wrote a dozen bestsellers in nine years post-graduation—hardly time for all those adventures, and the displayed skill far exceeded his early abilities.
It was the gap between Crabbe and Snape.
Even without knowing about the Memory Charms stealing others' lives, suspicions would arise.
An old fox like Yaxley could seize on this, plant a few accusations, and give the Aurors reason to investigate. Whatever they found would suit Yaxley's goals.
A chain of traps.
Back when everyone played nice, suspicions stayed quiet to avoid making enemies, letting Lockhart bask in superficial glory.
Now, standing firmly against Voldemort, the reckoning had come. No escaping it.
So unmagical.
Really, Voldemort? Can't take me down yourself, so you let your lackey play these games?
Lockhart scoffed. "Just suspicion, and you're ready to arrest me at Hogwarts, in front of my colleagues and students?"
His voice dropped, menacing. "Do you know the damage this'll do to my reputation?"
Scrimgeour replied coldly, "If you're innocent—"
"If I'm innocent, my reputation's still ruined!" Lockhart's voice carried a terrifying fury, a palpable rage that seemed to ripple with magic, swirling through the office. One Auror, less resilient, began trembling under the storm of anger.
Then, chaotic footsteps echoed from the corridor.
The school's professors arrived. McGonagall, face taut, snapped, "Scrimgeour, this is Hogwarts. You can't take anyone from my school!"
As her words rang out, an Auror in the corner stumbled and fell, drawing all eyes.
His face flushed red—he hadn't meant to. He'd been bracing against that suffocating fury when it suddenly vanished, throwing him off balance.
Another voice stole the attention, saving him from looking like a fool.
Corban Yaxley.
He pushed through, brandishing a document. "Official arrest warrant signed by the Minister. Gilderoy Lockhart must come to the Ministry for questioning!"
"It's just suspicion!" McGonagall trembled with anger.
"Sorry, Professor McGonagall," Yaxley said gravely, taking a report from a colleague in the Injury Assessment Office. "We've confirmed Vincent Crabbe died from a dark creature attack. In this school, only Lockhart recklessly keeps dark creatures. It's a reasonable suspicion. A student's death demands his cooperation."
McGonagall hesitated, lips pursed, glancing at Lockhart.
"I want to see Crabbe," Lockhart said. Dark creature attacks didn't always mean true death—he needed to know more.
"No!" Scrimgeour was adamant. "You're coming with us now!"
"Gilderoy Lockhart…" Yaxley drawled, his gaze cruel and gleeful, though his words dripped with righteous authority. "Don't try any tricks to escape. We've seen it all."
Well, what could Lockhart do?
His mind couldn't conjure a proper response.
Because…
He was just a Boggart right now.
He glanced out the window, seeing the castle's lower corridors where a Thestral was casting a mist of Memory Charms, affecting everyone. In the mist, his master, led by Harry Potter, was off to find Crabbe.
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