The weeks following the destruction of the diary were a period of deceptive tranquility. With the Basilisk dead and the Chamber's mystery solved (at least to the satisfaction of the Ministry), a sense of profound relief settled over Hogwarts. The final exams were approaching, and the castle was filled with the familiar, frantic energy of last-minute revision.
Ariana and Hermione were, as usual, ahead of their studies, spending their time in the library exploring the more esoteric corners of magical theory. The mundane rhythm of school life was a welcome change, but Ariana's mind was never truly at rest. She observed. She analyzed. She watched for the next deviation from the expected narrative.
She never expected it to come from such a mundane and pathetic source.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, just after the last class of the day. Ariana and Hermione were walking back from the greenhouses when Ariana noticed a Slytherin girl pacing frantically near the entrance to the dungeons. The girl was wringing her hands, her face a mask of pale, escalating panic. Ariana recognized her as Tracey Davis, one of the quieter girls from their year.
Tracey kept looking up the grand staircase, then back towards the dungeons, her anxiety palpable. Most students, particularly Gryffindors, would have ignored a distressed Slytherin. But to Ariana's analytical mind, the girl's panic was a data point that didn't fit the normal pattern of school life. It was an anomaly, and anomalies required investigation.
"Are you alright?" Ariana asked, her voice calm and even as she and Hermione approached. Tracey jumped, startled. Her eyes, wide and fearful, darted from Ariana to Hermione. The ingrained house rivalry was evident in her hesitation. "It's… it's nothing," she mumbled, looking away.
"You are clearly distressed," Ariana stated, not unkindly. "Your cortisol levels are likely elevated, and your repetitive motion suggests a state of high anxiety. It is more efficient to articulate the problem than to continue pacing. Perhaps we can help."
The clinical, detached assessment seemed to break through Tracey's panic. She looked at Ariana, then at Hermione's concerned face, and her resolve crumbled.
"It's Daphne," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Daphne Greengrass. She… she had to ask Professor Lockhart a question after the Defence lesson. He told her to come to his office. That was over an hour ago. She hasn't come back, and… and he's not in his classroom. I went to his office door, and I could hear him talking, but she didn't answer when I called."
A cold, sharp alarm went off in Ariana's mind. Lockhart. A man whose entire persona was built on a fraudulent, predatory charm. A private meeting with a young, pretty, pure-blood student. A student who was now missing. The variables combined into a deeply disturbing and highly probable conclusion.
"Memory Charms," she breathed. "He writes about them constantly. It's how he steals other wizards' stories. If he can do that, then he can do more."
The implication was sickening. Lockhart wasn't just a fraud; he was a predator who used memory manipulation as his primary tool.
Ariana's demeanor shifted instantly. The calm, academic observer vanished, replaced by a cold, decisive commander. "Tracey," she said, her voice sharp and clear, leaving no room for argument.
"Go to the Transfiguration classroom. Find Professor McGonagall. If she is not there, go to the dungeons and find Professor Snape. Do not take no for an answer. Tell them that I have reason to believe a student is in imminent danger in Professor Lockhart's office and that their immediate presence is required. Do you understand?"
Tracey, galvanized by Ariana's authority, nodded numbly and sprinted off towards the
Transfiguration corridor. Ariana then turned to Hermione. "We are not waiting."
The two girls ran, their footsteps echoing in the stone corridors. They didn't stop for anything, their minds focused on a single objective. They reached Lockhart's office, a flamboyant door adorned with a golden knocker shaped like Lockhart's own face. Faintly, from within, they could hear his smooth, cloying voice.
Ariana didn't bother to knock. She didn't try the handle. She raised her Elder wand.
"Bombarda," she stated, her voice flat and cold.
The spell was not a shout, but a focused, percussive pulse of raw power. The heavy oak door didn't just unlock; it imploded, blasted off its hinges in a shower of splintered wood and twisted metal, crashing into the far wall of the office.
They stepped through the ruined doorway into a scene that confirmed their worst fears. The office was a chaotic shrine to Lockhart's vanity. But in the center of the room, Gilderoy Lockhart had his wand pointed directly at a terrified Daphne Greengrass. Daphne was backed against a desk, her robes askew, her usually immaculate blonde hair disheveled. Tears were streaming down her pale face.
"Now, now, my dear," Lockhart was saying, a sickly sweet smile on his face that didn't reach his panicked eyes. "Just a little confusion. A simple Memory Charm and you won't remember a thing about our little misunderstanding…"
He had clearly made an unwanted advance, been rebuffed, and was now resorting to his usual method of covering his tracks.
He whirled around as the door exploded, his face turning from predatory confidence to sheer, abject terror as he saw Ariana and Hermione standing there, wands raised.
"What is the meaning of this?!" he blustered, trying to regain his composure.
Ariana didn't give him the chance. Her mind was a crucible of cold, controlled fury. This man was not just an incompetent teacher; he was a predator who used his position of power to prey on his students. He was a variable that needed to be permanently neutralized.
"Stupefy Maximus."
The spell left her wand without a sound. It was not the simple red jet of a standard Stunning Spell.
It was a bolt of brilliant, blinding white light, a concentrated manifestation of her will to
incapacitate. It moved so fast that Lockhart, his reflexes dulled by a life of pampered fraudulence, didn't even have time to raise a shield.
The spell hit him square in the chest. He was lifted off his feet and thrown backwards, his body slamming into a large, ostentatious portrait of himself. The portrait shattered, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious before he even hit the ground, a thin line of smoke rising from his garish robes. He would not be waking up any time soon.
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by Daphne's ragged sobs.
"Hermione," Ariana said, her voice still cold and steady. "Keep your wand on him. If he so much as twitches, stun him again."
Hermione, her face pale but her expression resolute, nodded and moved to cover the unconscious form of Lockhart, her wand held in a firm, unwavering grip.
Ariana holstered her own wand and walked over to Daphne. She knelt before the terrified girl, her entire demeanor softening from a wrathful judge into a gentle, reassuring presence.
"Daphne," she said softly. "It's over. You are safe now."
She reached out and gently straightened the girl's robes, a simple, grounding gesture.
She then placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You were very brave," she whispered. Daphne looked up, her blue eyes swimming with tears and a dawning, immense gratitude. She stared at the two Gryffindor girls—the ones her house was supposed to hate. They hadn't hesitated. They had kicked down the door and taken down a professor to save her.
Just then, Professors McGonagall and Snape burst into the room, Tracey Davis trailing fearfully behind them. They took in the scene at a glance: the blasted door, the unconscious Lockhart, a resolute Hermione standing guard, and Ariana calmly comforting a sobbing Daphne Greengrass.
McGonagall's face was a mask of cold fury. Snape's black eyes narrowed, sweeping over the scene with a chilling intensity. He looked at the state of Daphne, at the position of Lockhart, and for once, his usual sneer was absent, replaced by a look of utter, murderous contempt for the unconscious man on the floor.
"Miss Dumbledore," McGonagall said, her voice shaking with controlled rage. "Report."
Ariana stood up, her composure absolute. "Professor Lockhart detained a student against her will and was preparing to perform a powerful, unauthorized Memory Charm on her to conceal his inappropriate conduct," she stated, her voice clear and precise. "We deemed it a critical situation requiring immediate intervention."
Her words, and the scene before them, painted a picture so damning and unambiguous there was no room for doubt. The hero of the wizarding world was nothing more than a common predator.