The Dark Lord's curse didn't throw any real curveballs into Lockhart's school life.
Outside of regular classes, he kept a low profile to avoid triggering any unwanted events. After lessons, he either holed up in the library or his office with a book or hung out with the students from the "N.E.W.T. Prep Class" or the "Dueling Club"—kids who, frankly, were way more talented than he was.
That's just how he rolled. Always had.
This afternoon, though, his office was packed to the brim—probably the busiest it had ever been.
The entire Prep Class and Dueling Club were there.
The older students didn't have schedules as jam-packed as the younger ones, so they had plenty of time to swing by for extra training. As for the Dueling Club kids, well, that was thanks to Madam Hooch. Word was she'd botched another Flying lesson, and aside from the one student who took the brunt of it, everyone else got a free afternoon.
Harry and his crew wouldn't normally spend their rare free time cooped up in a professor's office serving detention. But when they saw Draco and his posse march straight over without a second thought—well, no way were they getting shown up.
So, just like that, over forty young witches and wizards crammed into the office.
Surprisingly, it was dead quiet.
Harry and his friends were in a silent competition, rifling through books and scribbling notes. The N.E.W.T. students were hunched over last year's exam questions Lockhart had pulled from Ministry contacts.
The Ordinary Wizarding Level exams were make-or-break for these kids' futures.
No exaggeration—those scores were everything.
The Ministry's departments had brutally high grade requirements, and other wizarding organizations only wanted the cream of the crop. Take St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries: their healers needed at least five subjects with "Exceeds Expectations" or better.
That's Auror-level tough!
Even "special talent" paths like Quidditch weren't a walk in the park. You needed raw skill and a killer track record before graduation—like making it onto a national team. In the books, Viktor Krum from Durmstrang was already leading Bulgaria to the Quidditch World Cup finals as a Seeker before the Triwizard Tournament.
The wizarding world didn't have a ton of "respectable" jobs, and private sector gigs were scarce. Unless you had the Weasley twins' knack for invention or Hannah Abbott's family pub to inherit, you were out of luck.
That was the harsh reality staring these older students in the face.
Flunk one subject, and you could kiss a decent career goodbye—unless you had a fancy family name like Draco or Pansy, or were someone like Newt Scamander, who could drop out and still waltz into a Ministry job.
This was why Voldemort's pure-blood supremacy shtick got so much traction. The wizarding world's resources were painfully limited, and people fought tooth and nail for them.
Most wizards were stuck scraping by at the bottom.
The ones who didn't care about status—like Snape's mum, who married a Muggle furniture salesman and walked away from wizarding society when things went south—were fine with it. Lockhart's own mother had done the same.
The real problem was the middle-of-the-pack types. Desperate for a leg up, they'd dabble in dark magic—simple to learn, devastatingly effective. That's why there were so many dark wizards, and why the Ministry turned a blind eye to places like Knockturn Alley. Every country did.
Otherwise, some ambitious nutcase shouting "Dark Magic Rules!" could spark another war, rallying followers like shadows to a flame.
In this kind of cutthroat world, Lockhart's success was remarkable. A mixed-blood wizard from humble roots, he'd clawed his way into the wizarding elite by writing bestsellers. His personal brand was pure gold.
To the wizarding world's underdogs, Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel were legends—too distant, too untouchable. But Lockhart? He was their idol, someone they could almost reach, a dream they could chase.
And that was the secret sauce behind his six-year streak atop the bestseller charts.
His books spoke to the masses—the everyday witches and wizards at the bottom. The knowledge he included was practical, tailored for them, not some stuffy reference for professors or Aurors.
Sure, his fans weren't exactly rolling in Galleons, but as a global author, the sheer number of readers made it easy to dominate the charts.
"No surprise there," Lockhart muttered, tossing aside a congratulatory card from his old schoolmate Rita Skeeter. He wasn't fazed by the achievement.
See, he wasn't bragging—he just knew exactly why he'd made it big. To everyone else, though, he probably looked like he was gloating.
After scheduling an interview with Rita and sending the reply via owl, he turned back to his book: Potions of Power, a banned text. Every potion in it was outlawed by the Ministry—no brewing, no trading, no using.
The potions all had one thing in common: taking something from someone else.
Polyjuice Potion, for instance, stole another person's appearance.
The one he was reading about now, "Mischievous Mind Muck," was no different. It extracted brain matter laced with soul fragments from a corpse's skull. Brew it into a potion, drink it, and you'd hear the deceased's final words—hence its nickname, "Last Words Elixir."
Oh, and you might inherit a little something extra, like their bloodline abilities.
Harry Potter would know all about that. The soul fragment in his head gave him Parseltongue without breaking a sweat.
The book even included a grim little story: a witch screaming, "You don't even know what I want!" Her lover, in anguish, whipped out his wand: "I'll figure it out, I swear—Avada Kedavra!" He brewed the potion, drank it, learned she loved him deeply, and followed her into death.
The author's point? You didn't need a corpse to start with—just make one.
Lockhart tsked, shaking his head, and flipped to the detailed brewing instructions.
Then… disaster. He realized he couldn't make heads or tails of it.
Potions weren't his thing. The real Lockhart was a bit of a dunce, and while his memories included a few powerful wizards who dabbled in brewing, most used unconventional methods—village hags with cauldrons, tribal healers feeding herbs to magical creatures. Weird, folksy stuff.
There was one half-baked academic in his memories, but that guy's "expertise" was diluting cheap Love Potions to sell as perfume. Hardly legit.
For the first time, Lockhart felt the limits of his "borrowed" memories.
No, no, he couldn't think like that.
He stood, gathering his things. Professionals handled professional problems. Just like McGonagall, brilliant as she was, came to him for dark magic defense, he needed to find Snape.
Glancing around at the students, all diligently working, he didn't disturb them. Instead, he called to the Wailing Wraith and Little Goldie, perched on a branch in the leafy canopy above.
They'd agreed last night: from now on, they'd tag along wherever he went.
The Wraith leapt down, her pink tendrils extending like a glowing jellyfish before sinking into his body. She still couldn't fully control her powers, so hiding inside him was her best bet.
Goldie, far more at ease, hopped onto his shoulder. With a wave of its paw, a puff of black smoke zipped out of the peach tree hollow by the fireplace, circled the treetops, and dove into Lockhart's sleeve.
The Demiguise was already tucked in his robe's pocket.
This was Lockhart's full arsenal now. Compared to his nearly useless wand, these magical creatures gave him a real sense of security.
Out he went.
As he neared Snape's office, the familiar scent of seafood hotpot hit him. That potion Snape had been simmering since the term started still wasn't done.
The office door was open. Inside, Snape was hunched over a long table, scribbling furiously.
Lockhart knocked, flashing a bright smile. "Senior Snape!"
No response. Snape was completely engrossed.
Lockhart hesitated, then strolled in. The table was littered with papers, the top sheet formatted like a book cover: Severus' Potions Classroom by Severus Snape.
Well, well! "Senior, didn't you say you weren't interested in publishing?" Lockhart chuckled.
Next to the papers was a stack of his own books, bristling with bookmarks and folded pages:
Breaking with Banshees
Traveling with Ghouls
Holidays with Hags
Strolling with Trolls
Voyages with Vampires
All his works.
"What should I write next…" Snape muttered, frowning at his draft, quill in hand.
Lockhart leaned over, scanning the page. "Add a short story about the potion's use in action. Makes it fun to read and helps people grasp its effects."
Snape's eyes lit up, and he started writing.
Then… he froze.
Slowly, as if his neck weighed a ton, he turned, dreading who he'd see.
"Hi!" Lockhart beamed. "Good afternoon!"
Whoosh! A wandless Incendio engulfed the table. Snape drew his wand in a flash, aiming at Lockhart. "Obliviate!"
Too bad for him—it was a Memory Charm.
If it had been any other spell, maybe. But Lockhart knew Obliviate better than anyone. He dodged before Snape even finished the wand movement.
"Obliviate!"
"Obliviate!"
"Obliviate!"
Three shots, all misses.
"Hey, Senior Snape, chill, chill! Writing a book's no big deal—calm down!" Lockhart yelped, dodging curses left and right.