The Carrow siblings placed the blood-soaked bundle on the chair, stepping back to kneel in reverence. They mumbled apologies for fleeing at the end of the First Wizarding War, begging for their master's punishment.
From the bundle came an eerie, chilling voice. "Rise. I need you now."
"That's it!" Lockhart exclaimed, pointing at a painting on the wall in the background of the vision.
But as he spoke, the smoke pouring from his mouth faltered, and the vision dissolved completely.
Clearly, this spell's effect wasn't great.
Dumbledore had once crafted an alchemical device for Gellert Grindelwald with a similar effect, but mimicking it with just a spell came with limitations.
"That painting is the key!"
Lockhart looked urgently at Dumbledore, urging him to try again.
Dumbledore nodded and waved his wand once more.
This time, Lockhart didn't rush to release the smoke. Instead, he stepped forward, pressed the tip of his wand to Amycus Carrow's forehead, and closed his eyes, diving deep into memory retrieval.
After a long moment, he snapped his eyes open, turned, and exhaled a long stream of smoke.
The smoke flickered with scenes, showing every memory Amycus had of that painting, from infancy to adulthood.
Following the river of time, everyone could see Amycus aging from a child to a middle-aged man.
They also witnessed the Carrow family manor shift from bustling prosperity to desolate ruin over a few short decades.
This was a common fate for many pure-blood families. To preserve the magical traits in their bloodlines—like the Gaunts' Parseltongue or the Dumbledores' phoenix connection—they married within their own circles. This often led to gifted children who died young, cursed by fate, or others born with severe mental deficiencies, hard to raise. Their numbers dwindled.
Sometimes, bad luck struck, and an entire generation or branch turned out defective, leading to the family's decline or extinction.
Maintaining pure-blood glory grew harder, and it wasn't the fault of Muggles. The real issue was the shrinking pure-blood population.
The Weasleys, thriving with a brood of near-genius children, were a rare exception in the wizarding world. Yet even they, a textbook pure-blood family, embraced Muggle-borns and half-bloods to avoid the fate of other families that had died out.
But that wasn't the focus now.
Dumbledore and the others fixed their attention on the scenes.
Suddenly, a cloud of black smoke burst from Lockhart's robe pocket, crashing to the ground and splitting into a tattered-robed, faceless figure—a Boggart. Its hood spoke, gesturing at the visions. "This painting was Amycus's mother's favorite treasure. As a child, Amycus and his sister dirtied it while playing, breaking their mother's heart."
"Their father sent it for restoration, but she died of illness before it returned, leaving it as her final regret."
"From then on, Amycus couldn't bear to face that painting."
"Look, from this point, the painting's details in his memories grow blurry, impossible to make out."
"Normally, when we enter a memory, we see the environment of that moment, but some details are missing because the person instinctively blocks them out."
"You could call it an unconscious self-editing of memory."
"But look here—at the memory of the Carrows bringing Voldemort back to their manor, the painting suddenly becomes clear again."
"So, I believe…"
"This memory was tampered with, and it was done by a wizard who had no attachment to the painting."
Poof!
The Boggart dissolved back into smoke and returned to Lockhart's pocket.
Lockhart waited as they studied the abrupt shift in the memory, then waved his wand, guiding the floating fragments of Amycus's memories back into his body.
While Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall scrutinized the visions, Lockhart subtly extracted another piece of Amycus's memory.
This time, it was everything about his sister, Alecto, and their master, Voldemort.
Since he was inevitably pitted against them, he'd do everything to increase his odds of victory.
Know your enemy, know yourself, and you'll win every battle—he lived by that.
Especially with Alecto, no one knew her better than her brother, Amycus. Her habits, combat instincts, preferred spells, instinctive reactions—all of it.
This memory was invaluable.
As for Amycus losing all recollection of his sister and Voldemort? Pfft, Lockhart couldn't care less.
Soon, Dumbledore waved his wand, dispersing the smoke, frowning in thought.
Snape stood nearby, fists clenched in his sleeves, looking like he wanted to speak but holding back.
McGonagall rubbed her hands, glanced at everyone, and shook her head at Dumbledore. "It's a trap!"
Even knowing it was a trap, it was their only lead on Voldemort's movements.
Maybe investigating would uncover vital clues.
Magic's power wasn't limited to dueling. In a ring, ten Voldemorts wouldn't stand a chance against Dumbledore.
But this was the real world. Voldemort knew too many obscure, sinister spells, and even someone as great as Dumbledore struggled to pinpoint his hiding place.
A figure so terrifying he stopped children's cries, whose name most dared not speak even after his supposed death, only whispering "You-Know-Who."
His power wasn't just in combat.
Did they really dare risk it, knowing it was a trap?
McGonagall urged caution, rejecting the idea. "Don't get lost in flattery about being 'the greatest wizard alive.' You think you're invincible? Don't be foolish—everyone dies."
Snape's face twisted with resentment and inner conflict.
Lockhart stayed silent, standing in the corner, discreetly rubbing his wand behind his back.
His wand glowed faintly, silver light rising from its tip and dissipating into the air.
He was sorting Amycus's memories, ignoring the dark magic parts for now and focusing on those about Alecto and Voldemort.
Lockhart had no interest in keeping these memories cluttering his mind. After organizing them into usable information, he'd strip and discard the originals.
He had to grow. Stagnating at the original Lockhart's mastery of the Memory Charm wouldn't help him avoid becoming a fool. He needed to push deeper.
Tom Riddle's manipulations of Ginny had taught him much, and Kettleburn's insights about wands had opened a new world of memory manipulation.
"I have to go see for myself," Dumbledore finally decided.
His gaze met McGonagall's, resolute, signaling his decision was final.
Then he shook his head at Snape's hopeful look.
Snape's eyes darkened. He knew he had a greater role to play. Joining now would openly pit him against Voldemort, ruining his chance to act as a spy later.
"Let me come along!" Lockhart suddenly offered.
As all eyes turned to him, he flashed his signature perfect smile—a blend of the original Lockhart's traits: unshakable confidence, vast knowledge, and a fearless grin in the face of danger.
"I object!" McGonagall snapped, frowning at this young man who'd never known the horrors of the last war. "You have no idea how dangerous he is!"
Lockhart smiled faintly, gesturing at Amycus in the chair. "What's coming will come, right?"
"Sometimes, dodging danger only invites more. I choose to face it."
Was he scared?
Of course he was.
But compared to dying from a sudden curse from Voldemort or Alecto ambushing him out of nowhere, he'd rather take this chance to investigate alongside Dumbledore, the world's greatest duelist.
He might not add much in a fight—Dumbledore didn't need help there.
But in other ways, his knowledge of Amycus, Alecto, and the Carrow manor could offer Dumbledore invaluable support.
No one understood them better than he did.
In truth, he was more useful to Dumbledore than McGonagall or Snape.
His role in this adventure? Be Dumbledore's wingman.
This wasn't reckless—it was self-preservation.
His reasoning quickly convinced Dumbledore.
Before setting out, Dumbledore returned to his office to prepare.
Unlike Lockhart, who carried everything on him, Dumbledore kept many important items in his office.
So that, upon his death, they'd become Hogwarts' assets.
Watching Dumbledore rummage busily, Lockhart hesitated, then said solemnly, "Professor Dumbledore, I need to be honest with you about something."
Dumbledore paused, turning with a slight smile. "Some things are better left unsaid, don't you think?"
"Oh, no, not that," Lockhart said awkwardly, knowing what Dumbledore meant.
He chose his words carefully. "I was injured while handling a dark creature, and it's caused issues with certain spells, like Apparition."
Old man, I'm helping you out here—you'd better have my back!
Dumbledore looked surprised, studying him for a moment. Then he grabbed a small teapot from his desk, tapped it with his wand. "I've turned it into a Portkey. If needed, it'll take you back to Hogwarts."
Lockhart's eyes lit up. He carefully tucked the teapot into his robe's inner pocket—a lifesaver!
A Portkey, a magical object that whisks you from one place to another.
Far more reliable than Apparition for cross-continental travel.
The Ministry tightly controlled Portkeys, requiring registration and destruction after use.
But Dumbledore didn't care for such rules. He'd do it right in front of the Ministry, and no one dared utter a peep.
Lockhart preferred to call it a "Recall Scroll"—and a reusable treasure at that.
Time to go!
Into the fairy tale, to explore the villain's lair, to hunt for the Dark Lord's traces, to take down his evil minions!
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