Gilderoy Lockhart had no clue how the others were faring, but he was pretty sure he was in the worst spot of all.
When he opened his eyes, he was staring at cold iron bars.
Yep, he was a prisoner in a cell.
He grabbed the bars and gave them a shake to test their strength, only to be met with a sudden burst of electric sparks that nearly had him tap-dancing from the shock.
Thud!
After the jolt, he collapsed to the floor, twitching uncontrollably, foam bubbling at his mouth.
"You filthy thief, thinking you can escape?" a towering, burly figure loomed over him, its fancy collar framing a wolf's head uglier than any werewolf Lockhart had ever seen.
"You'll rot in this cell for the rest of your life, repenting forever!"
Lockhart didn't respond, still sprawled on the ground, jerking as the powerful current zapped through his nerves, leaving him completely incapacitated.
Finally, the wolf-headed brute lumbered off, and the cell fell silent. It was impossible to tell how much time passed before Lockhart regained his senses.
Struggling to his feet, he muttered thoughtfully, "Is this my worst fear coming to life? Or some kind of mockery of my existence?"
He quickly sifted through his memories, searching for anything that matched the influence of a dark magical creature.
The prior knowledge of a "magical cloak" narrowed things down significantly.
Still, it wasn't enough for a precise answer.
He needed to observe and analyze further.
For now, though, he had to figure out how to get out of here.
It was at that moment he realized—being an Animagus would've been the perfect jailbreak trick.
But forget Animagus; his body felt oddly foreign, like something extra had been tacked on.
Puzzled, he examined his hands, flexing his fingers and shoulders, but nothing felt particularly unusual.
Yet, his magic felt… different, unfamiliar. His connection to his dark magical creature allies was gone.
Strangely, though, he felt a stronger bond with the forest, an inexplicable sense of closeness to it.
What was going on?
He couldn't quite figure it out.
Thankfully, this wasn't really happening to his physical body. Everything was just part of the "phenomenon" created by a dark magical creature—a trick of the mind.
"This won't stop me!" Lockhart declared.
He hadn't always had magic. As a former Muggle, he'd experienced every step of magic awakening in his body, so he knew exactly how to adapt.
It'd just take a little time.
But time wasn't something he had in abundance—not when the students he'd brought along were in who-knows-what kind of trouble.
He scanned the cell. It was bare as could be, save for a foul-smelling toilet. No bed, not even a scrap of straw.
But there, high on the back wall, was a small ventilation window.
His eyes lit up. He stretched, took two quick steps, and leaped, grabbing the window's edge and pulling himself up to peer outside.
In an instant, another surge of electricity crackled from the window, coursing through him.
Thud!
He crashed to the ground, twitching like he was having a seizure.
Even as he convulsed, he couldn't help but laugh.
Perfect!
Outside the window stretched an endless forest!
The second shock was even stronger than the first, and it took ages for him to recover.
Calming himself, he stared out the window.
"Forest, forest, help me out!" he called, invoking his bond as a friend of the woods.
The forest answered swiftly.
A massive eagle soared across the sky, clutching a venomous green snake in its talons. As it passed the window, the snake lunged, biting the eagle, which screeched and flung the snake right into the cell.
The snake slithered across the floor, coiling itself and hissing at Lockhart.
"Hiss hiss hiss—You can't ask for my help again when you haven't repaid me for the last time."
Lockhart froze, then remembered. Back in the Acromantula nest, when he'd faced Voldemort, he'd called on the forest for help, and it sent the enchanted car to break him free from a magical standoff.
Before he could respond, the snake hissed again, forcing him to listen closely. His Parseltongue skills, picked up from studying with Harry and the others, weren't perfect, so he had to focus to understand.
"Hiss hiss hiss—Now it's your turn to repay me."
What?!
He'd called for help, and somehow got this instead?
Lockhart nearly lost it. "I'm stuck in a cell, and now you want to cash in?"
But what choice did he have? Refusing would mean the forest would never answer his call again.
"Fine," he sighed. "What do you need me to do?"
"Hiss hiss hiss—This forest is cursed. You must find a way to break it."
Blimey!
Lockhart could only shake his head. A cursed forest joining his fairy-tale adventure? Really?
Was this supposed to be fun?
He looked at the snake, exasperated. "I'll try, but you've got to see my situation here. This is just a dark creature's illusion—it's not real!"
"Hiss hiss hiss—And how do you know what's real and what's not?"
Fair enough. Arguing with a forest was pointless.
Lockhart sighed and nodded. "Alright, fine. But you see the mess I'm in. I'm not asking for help, but a hint would be nice."
The snake went quiet for a moment before raising its head and hissing again.
"Hiss hiss hiss—Wait for the full moon. You'll have greater power then."
With that, the snake's raised head flopped to the ground, dead as a doornail—its head half-torn off by the eagle's claws.
"The full moon?" Lockhart muttered, blinking. That timing was all too familiar.
"Werewolf?"
He gasped, looking at his hands. "Lycanthropy? I've been infected?"
No, wait!
He suddenly realized something.
For a Muggle like him, desperate to be a true wizard, being infected with lycanthropy was a cruel curse—a one-way ticket to being stripped of wizard status.
But knowing this was just a mental illusion, and as a time-traveler who didn't entirely reject werewolves, he wasn't about to despair.
"Interesting," he said, a grin creeping onto his face.
He'd figured it out. This dark creature was a Boggart Cloak, known in modern Defense Against the Dark Arts as a shapeless, oversized magical cloak.
The name came from an old, eerie fairy tale about a reclusive farmer too shy to face people. He'd cut holes in a sack, wear it like a cloak, and hide inside whenever anyone approached, pretending to be an ordinary sack.
One day, a thief stole the sack with the farmer inside. The thief was eaten by wolves, the sack was tossed onto a bumpy carriage, and the farmer overheard a scandalous affair. Later, a rebellion led to the carriage owner's death, and the farmer was freed, mistaken for a count, and lived happily ever after with the count's lover.
…Yeah, weird story.
But knowing the creature's identity gave Lockhart a clear plan.
The simplest way to defeat a Boggart Cloak was with a bright red, hooded robe—its vivid presence would terrify the cloak, making it flee.
And there it was: a brilliant red robe.
Worn by a girl.
Her skin, peeking out from under the hood, was as pale as snow.
She seemed to have no magic at all, her voice trembling but resolute as she faced the hulking werewolf. "Let my father go. I'll take his place!"
The werewolf snarled, "He's a thief! He stole my precious treasures. Don't think I can't tell—that red robe you're wearing is mine!"
The girl stepped back, teeth gritted. "But my grandmother said if I wear this red robe, you have to grant my request!"
"Yes, yes!" the werewolf growled, pacing and swishing its thick tail. "That wretched old hag—she'd know!"
Finally, it relented, yanking the cell door open and glaring at Lockhart. "Get out, you filthy thief. You're lucky to have a good daughter!"
Lockhart blinked, staring at the girl in disbelief. "Hermione?"
It was Hermione, but… slightly older, as if she'd aged a few years overnight.
"Dad…" she started, then looked up, stunned. "Professor Lockhart?"