Time, like a quiet current, flowed steadily onward. In the days that followed, Hogwarts returned to its usual, uneventful rhythm—a common state of affairs for a magical school, despite the inherent dangers of magic. The professors, being powerful masters of the craft, were quite adept at handling any and all troubles and calamities conjured by their students.
Before anyone quite realised it, the last day of May arrived. This particular day felt like a clear dividing line, separating the young wizards' school lives. The joyful laughter lessened, replaced by a noticeable hum of bustling activity.
The House Cup Quidditch tournament had concluded. The House Cup's individual, small-team, and inter-House fairy tale adventures were also over. The adventure grounds, established at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, had even been sealed off by Professor McGonagall with powerful magic, preventing any further student excursions.
June was upon them, bringing the Ordinary Wizarding Level (OWL) examinations for the Fifth-Year students. These crucial tests would determine whether they advanced to Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test (NEWT) Level classes or regular courses, and would also influence their subject choices for their Sixth Year.
The Seventh-Year students, too, were poised to face their NEWT examinations. Their results would dictate their prospects for securing various positions in the wider wizarding world, truly shaping their futures. And for all other years, who were not taking these two significant exams, the final term examinations were also approaching. The first week of June would be for exams, and results would be posted on the evening before the students departed for the summer break.
Whether it was Harry Potter, who believed adventure was everything, or the Weasley twins, who were convinced invention was the future, all were compelled to rein in their restless spirits and throw themselves into these crucial examinations. Hogwarts, it must be said, always maintained exceptionally high standards for its curriculum. Magical essays were assigned from First Year all the way through Seventh, with theoretical and practical lessons running in parallel, continually unearthing every potential talent within the students. Seven years of instruction were ample time for gifted young wizards to embark on their own magical paths, and equally, enough time for those of more modest abilities to recognise their limitations and begin considering their future lives.
The extensive use of mind-power—drawing upon emotions, desires, willpower, and other inner strengths—made these young wizards remarkably mature compared to Muggle children their age. Many Sixth and Seventh Years had already settled upon their future life partners by this stage. Yes, at merely sixteen or seventeen, a notion almost unimaginable to most Muggles.
Lockhart, having little else to do these days, had been sifting through the manuscripts he'd accumulated since becoming a professor at Hogwarts. He discovered a book project that had been set aside: "Stories I Have to Tell with the Boy Who Lived: My Time as a Professor at Hogwarts." This book had become somewhat superfluous after he successfully developed the "Thunderstorm Mountain Fire" spell, which had instantly solidified his reputation as a master wizard. The life path his predecessor had charted was beginning to diverge from his own. Or, perhaps, it was simply that he no longer needed to ride on the coattails of the Boy Who Lived to ascend, nor did he necessarily need to participate in Harry Potter's own fantastical adventures. He was no longer the fledgling he had been upon arrival, a mere celebrity who wielded his wand as if it were a chopstick.
He now had his own magical adventures.
Thus, the book's title was once again changed to: "My Time as a Professor at Hogwarts." He haphazardly organised some notes, which included his observations on the differences between young wizards and Muggle children of the same age, using this perspective to ponder the distinctions between wizards and Muggles themselves. He wasn't in a rush to publish, merely maintaining his writing habit, recording things as they came. Perhaps a book would emerge in the future, or perhaps these notes would remain scattered, forgotten fragments of a manuscript.
Lockhart had to admit, he was quietly slipping into a new phase of life. Even though he hadn't yet relinquished his professorship. Since he no longer needed to coach the young wizards at the Duelling Club in the evenings, and the NEWT-level classes had concluded, he found himself returning to his new home in Hogsmeade Village almost every night.
The curious, magically grown trees in his school office had finally been dispelled from their accelerated transformation, allowing the office to revert to its original appearance. Severus Snape, upon seeing this transformation during a visit, harboured a flicker of reluctance in his eyes. To find such a rare friend in life, only to realise that one day soon, he too would depart the school.
"Life is still quite long, isn't it?" Lockhart remarked, completely unconcerned. "I plan to live for several centuries; there's plenty of time ahead."
"And you, my friend, if you simply stop dwelling on the past, your life has truly only just begun."
Having been at Hogwarts for nearly a year, Lockhart was now twenty-eight. Severus, standing before him, was merely thirty-two. This, clearly, was another significant difference between Muggles and wizards. Wizards matured earlier, and the capable ones could live far longer. Such internal dynamics within the wizarding community were sometimes difficult to explain using Muggle sociological theories.
Snape clearly disliked this topic. He instinctively clutched the small glass vial hanging from the cord around his neck—his own draught of regret. Perhaps, once he found his own redemption and gained the power to defeat Voldemort and enact his revenge, he would drink that draught, return to the days when he was accompanied by his Patronus doe, and never move forward again.
But then again...
Having found his own salvation, would he truly still choose self-destruction?
Lockhart simply smiled, offering no judgment.
Life is still long, my friend.
Next, all the professors entered their busiest period. Professor Kettleburn, from Care of Magical Creatures, could no longer serve as Lockhart's assistant, and the older students were equally unable to help, as every single Defence Against the Dark Arts examination during exam season required his personal attention. Theoretical exams, grading, practical exams, grading. Every day, he worked late into the night.
However, amidst this flurry of activity, on a certain busy day, before the exams had even concluded, Lockhart found himself walking back to his Hogsmeade cottage under the moonlight. Before he even reached his doorstep, he saw a light shining from within the house.
"!!!"
Lockhart's expression hardened. He slowly drew his wand, then inverted it, tucking it back into the wide sleeve of his wizarding robes. He exchanged a knowing glance with the Banshee, who was chatting idly beside him, and gestured for her to conceal herself within his crimson magical cloak. Only then did he continue towards the cottage.
The wind howled, and Hogsmeade Village was eerily silent in the deep of night.
As he reached the cottage, he saw the front door was wide open. A figure draped in a black wizard's robe, with a voluminous hood, sat gracefully on his sofa, casually perusing his copy of "Where Are the Dark Magical Creatures?", which he had left on the coffee table.
"Gilderoy Lockhart..."
The figure seemed to sense his presence. Its voice, muffled yet accompanied by an incredibly strange, sharp hiss, gently placed the book on the small round table beside it. It then looked up at him, standing in the doorway, and raised a hand bound in bandages, like a mummy's, elegantly gesturing towards the sofa. "Sit."
Within the deep confines of the hood, a similarly bandaged, mummy-like, eerie face was revealed, with only a pair of deep-set eyes, faintly glowing red, visible within the hollow sockets.
"Tom..." Lockhart's expression grew solemn.
"Tom?" The figure murmured the name softly, as if in contemplation. "It has been a long time since anyone called me that."
"I still prefer to be addressed as—Voldemort."
Lockhart rolled his eyes. "Oh, come off it. You cursed your own name; how do you expect anyone to address you?"
Voldemort let out a chilling, sinister laugh. "Those who dare not speak my name, what right have they to address me directly?"
Hmm...
There was a certain logic to that, Lockhart conceded. He raised an eyebrow, casually closed the front door to block out the biting wind and snow, then strolled lightly forward, settling elegantly onto the sofa himself. His elegance, however, was quite unlike Voldemort's. The Dark Lord seemed like a slumbering tiger, a hibernating viper—elegant yet utterly perilous. Lockhart's elegance, by contrast, lay in his freedom of spirit, exuding an air of languid ease and lightness, like a bird perched atop a towering tree.
"My apologies, it's been a busy day, and I don't have a house-elf here, so I can't offer you tea," Lockhart said casually, looking at his guest. "I wonder what..."
"I feel you have done something to me," Voldemort's voice was deep and low. "Something I am unaware of, yet I can feel the changes within myself."
Lockhart feigned astonishment. "Have I? You must be mistaken. I hardly possess such ability. Perhaps it was Professor Dumbledore?"
"I can feel it!" Voldemort's gaze was icy, fixed intently on Lockhart. "You need not offer excuses. My statement is the definitive explanation. You merely need to tell me what you have done."
No sooner had he posed the question than he suddenly grunted, unable to suppress a pained gasp, clutching his head as his form began to swell uncontrollably. He gasped for air, his body shrinking back to its emaciated state.
How truly fascinating. He, currently in a wraith-like state, sealed by Dumbledore within the body of the werewolf Fenrir Greyback, somehow possessed the ability to transform this sentient body into his own likeness.
But even more intriguing...
"Legilimency?" Lockhart inquired, a hint of playful mockery in his tone, desperately resisting the urge to immediately draw his wand and attack.
"Damn it!" Voldemort snarled, looking at Lockhart with utter disgust. "What on earth have you crammed into your mind? Do you use it as a rubbish bin?"
"Actually, it's not so bad. At first, the voices in my head would keep me awake, and sometimes when I chatted with people, my brain would get a bit muddled trying to process the auditory information..." Lockhart spread his hands. "But I overcame it later."
The disgust was genuine. Lord Voldemort, a wizard of immense pride, truly could not bear the thought of someone stuffing other people's memories into their own mind. In his eyes, no one's thoughts were worthy of entering his brain without his own prior consideration. Rubbish, all of it.
But his disdain for such practices did not mean he would lower his guard. He was currently alarmingly weak, and the strength of the wizard before him undoubtedly posed a significant threat. Fear, however, was not the issue. The worst that could happen was that Fenrir Greyback, this body, would be destroyed, which would, ironically, free him from Dumbledore's seal. Yet, there were still things he needed to accomplish, and he had no desire to reveal his weakness to anyone, thus his heightened vigilance.
He naturally had ways of accessing memories of Lockhart casting "Thunderstorm Mountain Fire." To his eyes, the flashy spectacle lacked true magical power, but it had to be admitted, it was no longer weaker than many Death Eaters or members of the Order of the Phoenix.
"Tell me the answer!" He cut to the chase, "We are both walking the path of master wizards; you must know that we cannot abandon the pursuit of answers we crave. You absolutely do not want to endure certain things only to have to tell me in the end anyway. I believe that communication between intelligent individuals need not be so convoluted. Let us skip these meaningless pleasantries."
Lockhart was silent for a moment, then nodded.
"Corban Yaxley, you see, he fell into my hands. While I was attempting to deal with him, he somehow transported me back to a period in the past."
"That wretched 'Time Seeker.' Such a frustratingly debilitating magical power truly is sickening."
He sighed with a touch of helplessness. "I made a friend there, but thankfully, I came to my senses just in time and broke off our acquaintance."
Voldemort's eyes flickered, his body rapidly twisting and shifting. The voluminous black wizard's robes rippled and writhed eerily. In the end, he said nothing more, merely letting out a scornful chuckle.
Lockhart didn't know what he was laughing at, nor did he care to guess. "I've given you your answer. May I ask you to leave? I have to wake up very early tomorrow to examine the young wizards at Hogwarts, and you know how busy that can be."
"I wish to strike a bargain with you," Voldemort said, his voice low.
"A bargain?" Lockhart was taken aback.
"Corban Yaxley!" He slowly rose to his feet. "My followers risked entering the Department of Mysteries and couldn't find him, so I knew you must have hidden him away."
It wasn't unusual for the Dark Lord to rescue his subordinates; after his resurrection, he even orchestrated a massive breakout from Azkaban.
The only peculiar thing was...
A bargain?
Well, that truly was strange.
Lockhart couldn't help but recall that rather chaotic adventure through time. Clearly, some things had truly changed, and perhaps Dumbledore's actions with the Horcrux during the full moon had played a part in this as well.
But regardless, Voldemort had changed!
read more inpatreon
ilham20