Terror clamped around Lockhart's heart like an invisible fist.
He had no idea who this man was, but every instinct screamed that the figure before him was unimaginably dangerous.
"W-Who are you…?"
Lockhart reflexively reached for his wand—only to remember, in despair, that he had snapped it himself.
He opened his mouth to shout for help.
But the cloaked stranger merely lifted a hand and pointed a single finger at Lockhart's chest.
A stabbing pain exploded through him. Lockhart lowered his head with difficulty and saw a hole punched straight through his chest, blackened blood—mixed with venom—pouring out along with his fading strength.
With a dull thud, Lockhart collapsed.
Voldemort stared at the corpse, cold eyes tinged with faint disappointment.
Seriously? After writing so many books and boasting so many heroic exploits… this is all he amounted to?
Someone like this can become Defence Against the Dark Arts professor? Then why was I denied?
The more Voldemort thought, the more furious he became.
Dipping a finger into Lockhart's darkened blood, he scrawled a line across the wall:
"This position is cursed.
Any who dare take it shall meet no good end."
Satisfied, he glanced at his stand-in.
Just like the Shadow Soldiers, this entity—called a "substitute"—had appeared along with his awakening. Voldemort attributed it to some ingenious dark magic his original self must have invented.
"Though I don't know why it has arachnid limbs instead of serpentine ones… they're wonderfully useful. Sharp, invisible to others, and laced with deadly poison."
Voldemort smiled faintly and vanished into black smoke, leaving the cooling corpse behind.
Inside the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, the metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air.
Who knew how long it would take before someone discovered Lockhart's body…
---
The next morning.
"Strange. Why isn't Lockhart here yet?"
In the classroom, Blaise Zabini yawned beside Louis.
"What? Do you actually like his lectures?" Louis asked absent-mindedly while fiddling with a magic trick.
"It's not that I like them. They're just entertaining—you basically get to watch a stage play."
Blaise grinned. "I'm just wondering what kind of questions he'll put on the exam. Surely not things like 'What's my favourite colour,' 'What are my dreams,' or 'What are my ambitions' again?"
"That wouldn't be bad. If they repeat the same questions, at least we won't get them wrong," Louis replied.
Honestly, Louis was quite pleased Lockhart wasn't here. It meant no one was jumping around performing dramatic reenactments today.
Since yesterday, Louis had been pondering how to combine magic with stage magic.
He had always believed that sleight-of-hand illusions were fake, fundamentally incompatible with real magic, which made integration very difficult.
Magic's brilliance simply overwhelmed everything—like pouring two glasses of sugar water together, where one is so sweet the other's flavor disappears completely.
He had smoked through an entire pipe the night before without figuring anything out. Clearly, with his current knowledge, he lacked the clues needed to reach an answer.
He needed external assistance—for example, from his father.
Louis was just thinking about how to phrase a letter to Mr. Wilson when Professor McGonagall burst into the room.
The once-noisy classroom fell instantly silent.
Every student stared at her, petrified.
McGonagall's expression was terrifyingly grim. The fear in the air suffocated the entire room.
Especially the Gryffindor students—
they knew their Head of House valued discipline above all, and punishment for her own house was never lighter than for others.
But unexpectedly, Professor McGonagall didn't punish anyone.
She swept her gaze across the room, confirmed that no students were missing, and finally exhaled in relief.
"This period is self-study."
With that single sentence, she hurried out of the classroom.
For a moment, the classroom remained silent.
Then—like an explosion—the entire room erupted into frantic discussion.
"Louis, what do you think happened?" Blaise Zabini asked. "To make Professor McGonagall look that terrified… it has to be serious."
"If I had to guess, it probably has something to do with Lockhart." Louis replied.
Honestly, he was curious too. In a school as safe as Hogwarts, what kind of idiocy had Lockhart committed this time to make himself unable to even show up for class?
Everyone wondered what had happened.
Countless rumors spread like wildfire through the room:
Someone said Lockhart tried to show off in the Forbidden Forest and got bitten by a werewolf.
Someone else claimed Lockhart angered Snape and Snape killed him.
Another rumor said Lockhart blew himself up while repairing his wand.
…
Speculation sprouted like mushrooms after rain—
and not a single one suggested anything good for Lockhart.
Every rumor implied only one thing: Lockhart had suffered an accident and couldn't teach.
But even after class ended, no one came to explain anything.
So the students went everywhere searching for news, yet none of them knew what was going on.
Some even questioned the portraits and the castle ghosts, but without exception, all of them remained evasive—refusing to say a single word.
Which only made everyone realize how unusual this situation was.
Even Slytherin's Crabbe and Goyle could tell this was serious.
Lockhart had probably met with an accident—perhaps even died.
Some students claimed they saw what looked like Aurors when the professors were sending everyone back to their common rooms.
Death was still a distant, unfamiliar concept for Hogwarts students.
Even though no one particularly liked Lockhart now, the idea that a living person could suddenly be gone shocked them all.
Louis felt the same—
except unlike everyone else, he had a very good guess about who did it.
"What a lunatic… running into Hogwarts in the middle of the night just to kill the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Trying to show off how impressive his curse is?"
Louis muttered quietly to himself while writing a letter.
The dormitory was empty; all his roommates had gone to the common room for entertainment.
Because someone had died, the school was now under lockdown.
Classes were suspended, and students were ordered to remain in their dormitories.
Naturally, Louis didn't bother going to the Room of Requirement—he was only writing a letter home, and he hadn't scheduled any research on Dark Aura magic for today.
Beside him, Fafnir watched eagerly as Louis wrote.
This would be its first time delivering a letter since evolving.
It wasn't like that dumb cat—who could do nothing but train uselessly and still thought it was powerful.
Fafnir shot a disdainful glance at Hastur, who was curled up pretending to sleep but actually cultivating.
Let that stupid cat witness what REAL speed is, Fafnir thought smugly.
Hastur felt Fafnir staring at it.
It opened its eyes, confused.
Why did it feel like… it was being looked down upon?
---
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