For example, in the corner, a huge, aggressive vine-like plant called a Venomous Tentacula secreted toxic tendrils that would grab any passing living creature, inject a lethal poison, and then drag the prey back to its main trunk to tear apart the corpse with sharp teeth.
Lockhart had not the slightest desire to test just how terrifying this thing was.
Even though his memories clearly told him that a single leaf of this plant fetched a high price of ten gold Galleons.
When reading web novels in his past life, many people would jokingly refer to Hagrid as the richest hidden billionaire at Hogwarts, but in truth, every single professor had the ability to easily earn wealth that ordinary wizards could not save up in a lifetime.
As he squatted quietly in front of more than a hundred Mandrake seedlings, he suddenly had the illusion that the hurried, post-transmigration life had suddenly grown peaceful.
Gazing at the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the unrepaired gap in the ceiling, his thoughts seemed to flutter along with them.
He was actually quite grateful for this transmigration.
This was not because of how much fame and fortune the original Lockhart had accumulated, but out of gratitude for finally feeling the vividness of life once again.
He did not want to dig out and chew over the details of his past life's final chapters, but having spent the last five years of his life lying motionlessly on a hospital bed every single day, anyone who had experienced that sensation would cherish the vividness of life just as dearly as he did.
Only...
It was far too vivid.
He frowned slightly, feeling the memories in his mind churning and boiling continuously. As those memories were sorted and pieced together, the emotions and feelings contained within them were also pieced together, as if about to reconstruct a whole personality all over again.
And more than a dozen of them, at that.
How to solve this?
Lockhart thought of Dumbledore's Pensieve. It was said that that thing could extract the memories from one's head and store them inside; perhaps that was a way out.
Of course, borrowing the Pensieve from Dumbledore was out of the question. He would have to use the network of connections he had previously cultivated to ask around and see where he could acquire such a magical artifact—it wasn't particularly rare.
The only problem was that he was currently extremely reliant on these memories, and taking them out would also increase the risk of exposing the original's secrets.
Take it slowly.
There is no rush.
He told himself this.
Those memories could not construct a true soul; they were merely memories that were far too vivid, at most affecting him to the point where he could not cast magic—nothing more.
Professor Sprout had been gone for a little too long.
Lockhart could see the pillar of light shot by the sun through the hole in the ceiling gradually shifting.
Then...
It shone right upon the stems and roots of a few Mandrake seedlings.
This ray of light was like a switch, directly awakening those roots that looked like withered babies. Flailing their root-like arms and legs, they let out loud, screaming cries.
"Aah, aah, aah, aah, aah..."
Hiss—
Lockhart only had time to draw in a breath of cold air before his head started buzzing loudly.
Then he saw that the screams of these few Mandrake plants seemed to awaken all the other Mandrakes, and over a hundred of them simultaneously let out weeping, piercing shrieks.
"Aah, aah, aah, aah, aah..."
Lockhart grabbed his head in agony and fell to his knees, feeling as though a terrifying tearing sensation was clawing at his mind—the compounded pain of over a hundred tears at once.
It felt as though his very soul was being ripped apart.
Fortunately, he did not pass out from it.
Unfortunately, the chaotic memories in his head were almost churned into porridge by these screams, and countless voices from his memories echoed and clashed wildly in his mind.
Think of something!
Think of something fast!
Lockhart quickly thought of a solution.
Yes, the wisdom in his memories was so vast, so abundant that it even included methods for handling Mandrakes.
Especially these seedlings that looked like little babies.
As everyone knows, when little babies howl and cry incessantly, there are most likely only two possibilities—either they pooped and soiled their diapers, or they were hungry.
The "little babies" before him clearly hadn't soiled themselves.
That meant they were hungry.
Therefore, the wisdom brought by a certain powerful witch who routinely lived in the jungle was—feed the little Mandrake seedlings something to eat, preferably nutritious food.
The most rustic, down-to-earth method was—sprinkle a little urine into the howling mouths of the Mandrake seedlings.
In professional terms, this was called fertilization.
Look, how simple, yet Lockhart could guarantee that the vast majority of wizards would never know this secret.
Struggling to his feet, enduring the agony in his mind, he tremblingly reached down to untie his belt.
...
"Merlin's beard!"
Professor Sprout, who was being buttonholed by Professor Snape about how thoroughly irritating Lockhart was, turned startled at a sound, looking toward the greenhouse not far away where the piercing shrieks of Mandrakes carried from afar.
"It's my fault, I shouldn't have delayed so long talking with you..."
She quickly whipped out her wand and broke into a run toward the direction of the stairs. "The Lockhart boy is still inside the greenhouse!"
Professor Snape frowned slightly, hesitating in place for a moment before drawing his wand and charging after her.
His speed was much faster than the increasingly aging Professor Sprout—he knew the Flight spell.
The Dark Lord had taught him; the two of them were the only ones in the entire magical world who knew it.
Leaping directly down from the castle corridor, he flew to the ground and sprinted rapidly toward the greenhouse.
Yet a strange scene unfolded.
The countless howling and screaming sounds ceased one after another in rapid succession. Before they even reached the outside of the greenhouse, the noise had completely vanished.
Had Lockhart killed all of Professor Sprout's precious Mandrakes?—Professor Snape guessed with no small amount of malice.
He halted his steps, waited for Professor Sprout to catch up, and then walked inside together with an expression of shock and suspicion.
Professor Sprout cared about those Mandrakes, but she cared about Lockhart's safety even more; she wasn't entertaining the same thoughts as Snape.
She rushed quickly into the greenhouse, raising her wand high as she rapidly surveyed the situation, hoping to pinpoint Lockhart's location so she could immediately begin treatment.
Instead, she saw Lockhart holding the nutrient solution of dragon dung she had prepared, spraying it over the Mandrake seedlings.
"You..."
"You're alright?"
Lockhart turned his head to look at them, flashing a grin that revealed his standard, perfectly charming smile. "Of course, this could never stump me."
Sprout would never know how Lockhart had handled that room full of screaming Mandrakes.
She formed a glowing impression of Lockhart and cast a meaningful glance at Professor Snape. "Professor Lockhart clearly possesses extraordinary insight."
Oh, to be fair, Snape, as a Potions Master, also had a wealth of experience in handling these herbs, yet he truly had no idea how to make over a hundred Mandrakes stop screaming quite so effortlessly.
And just like that, whether swayed by Lockhart's enthusiastic greeting or simply harboring deep respect for the Sprout who had once taught him, Snape found himself being roped in by Lockhart to help deal with the Mandrakes.
The three of them worked quickly, finally finishing up before the sun went down.
Coated in dirt, the three of them went back to wash up separately, getting ready for the school's opening feast.
Lockhart very enthusiastically shoved a bottle of shampoo from the luxury brand he was running into Snape's hands. "Hey, this stuff works a hundred times better than the Potter family's shampoo."
He thrust the shampoo straight into Snape's arms. "Made from the eggshells of Occamys—you know how expensive this is. Trust me, once you use it, you'll never want to go back."
Lockhart tossed his silky, glowing curls and raised an eyebrow. "Everyone who uses it says it's great!"
Professor Snape, who had the means to afford luxury shampoo and possessed a head of greasy, unkempt long hair, was absolute prime material for a potential customer.
Got to be a refined and polished gentleman, oh~
Lockhart winked his left eye and departed amidst a bizarre expression on Snape's face.
He didn't notice that Snape stood in silence, watching his retreating back before looking down at the bottle of shampoo in his hand—this might well be the only gift he had received in the last ten years.
...
Bang!
Fireworks burst into bloom.
The new batch of young wizards had arrived at school.
Naturally, this year didn't feature the classic scene of Hannah Abbott being sorted by the Iron Hat, because Harry Potter was already a second-year student.
Only...
Lockhart glanced left and right, failing to spot Harry Potter. Of course, perhaps that was because the real-world Harry Potter looked different from the movie character.
After all, he himself bore no resemblance whatsoever to his film counterpart.
"Professor Snape," Lockhart turned to look at Snape in the seat beside him, "where is our Savior?"
Snape's brow was furrowed tightly as he scanned the room, then looked up at Dumbledore in the headmaster's seat.
After the Dark Lord's reappearance at Hogwarts last term confirmed that he was still alive, the disappearance of someone like Harry Potter boded ill.
Yes, Harry Potter was missing!
During the brief window between leaving the Dursleys—who provided him with blood-tie magical protection—and arriving at the much safer Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had vanished!
Nothing could be more worrisome than this.
Lockhart could clearly see that beneath Snape's seemingly placid, dead-man's facade, the veins on his neck were throbbing. Professor McGonagall in a nearby seat also wore an unsettled expression.
Tsk, what a universally doted-upon child.
Soon, a prefect hurried up to the stage to quietly report to Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had not arrived at the school as scheduled.
McGonagall nodded, told him to return and continue maintaining order in the House, and sat stiff-lipped at the side.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, remained calm, turning to nod at Snape before stepping up to the owl-embossed podium to deliver his speech.
Oh.
Lockhart remembered.
His memories were far too chaotic; the web novels he had read in his past life mixed into his already jumbled memories had seemed insignificant, but he finally recalled it.
After all, Ron had gone missing right along with him.
During the summer before second year, Harry Potter should have been staying at the Weasley family's Burrow.
On the day of departure for school, the Malfoy family house-elf Dobby, loyal to Harry Potter, used magic to seal the barrier at platform nine and three-quarters at King's Cross Station, leaving Harry and Ron with no way to catch the train to school on time.
And so, these two remarkably gutsy lads fired up Mr. Weasley's enchanted flying car and set off on a wild adventure.
Lockhart could imagine how frantic Mr. and Mrs. Weasley must have been when they finally made it back to the station side after being blocked, only to find the two boys gone.
So old Dumbledore was likely waiting for news from the Weasleys or other members of the Order of the Phoenix who might have gone into action behind the scenes.
And Dumbledore soon got his news.
Though not from the members of the Order of the Phoenix.
Instead...
"Merlin's knickers! Look at that!" a young wizard yelled, pointing at the sky outside the Great Hall's windows.
There, appearing on the horizon, was something completely out of step with the aesthetic of the magical world—a Muggle car!
And a flying Muggle car, at that.
Billowing thick smoke and flashing occasional bursts of flame, it skimmed perilously close to the castle walls, flew past the greenhouse and vegetable patches, zoomed straight over the school lawn, and plunged onward toward the Forbidden Forest.
Inside the car, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were screaming at the top of their lungs.
Lockhart clearly saw Professor Snape let out a sigh of relief, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a mocking sneer, as if laughing at Harry's clumsy entrance.
Professor McGonagall's expression relaxed, smiles returning to her face as she resumed directing the new students up to the stage for sorting.
Dumbledore's expression was unreadable; he simply sat there quietly.
Before long, the professors sitting at the dais could see two unfortunate blighted children standing on tiptoe, hunched over like thieves, sneaking toward the Great Hall with their luggage, clutching the window ledge to peer inside with just the tops of their heads showing.
Professor Snape let out a cold snort, shoved his chair back, and marched straight outside.
Lockhart sat to one side gnawing on a chicken leg and enjoying the show, very much tempted to call out: *Oh my dear senior colleague, those two kids belong to Gryffindor House, and you're the Head of Slytherin; if anyone's going to deal with them, it should be Professor McGonagall.*
Hehehe...
They say all attachments bring suffering, and most of life's troubles stem from caring too much.
Lockhart had his own troubles. To cover up his awkward inability to cast magic, he cared deeply about the prestige brought by his reputation, and with that fame came...
The piercing shrieks of adoring fans.
"Aah, aah, aah..."
Countless voices blended together, some of the young wizards' tones so shrill that they sounded no easier on the ears than the shrieking of Mandrakes.
This situation clearly couldn't be resolved with fertilizer.
A sea of bobbing heads.
Chief among them in excitement was Hermione Granger.
She was shoving frantically through the crowd, clutching a copy of *Magical Me* adorned with heart-shaped stickers, desperate for his autograph.
Truth be told, the feeling was rather nice.
If only these screams wouldn't once again stir up the chaotic mess of memories in his head.
Lockhart barely maintained his perfectly charming smile, amiably signing autographs one by one and tossing out free words of encouragement. Looking up, he saw the surrounding young wizards pressing in closer and closer.
Before long, a young wizard holding a magical camera ran over, and Lockhart, playing the part of a viral photo-op hotspot, posed for pictures with one young fan after another.
The popularity of the scene was enough to turn the stomachs of a few professors who hadn't yet finished eating and left the hall.
...
The young superfan Hermione Granger had far too many questions.
Walking from the castle Great Hall up to the professors' offices, she had a barrage of questions the entire way.
Lockhart patiently answered them. In truth, his mood at that moment could hardly be described as pleasant; riding the moving staircase and smiling and nodding at young wizards bowing and greeting him from afar, he felt rather conflicted.
He had intended to coast through this year.
Yet truly facing these young wizards whose faces brimmed with adoration and a thirst for knowledge made it hard not to give birth to a single thought—was he really going to waste a whole year of these children's precious school time?
"My blasted sense of responsibility."
He cursed himself inwardly, gazing at the ancient and solemn school castle with a sudden, heavy feeling in his chest.
"Professor Lockhart, I've actually always had a huge doubt." Hermione's speaking pace was rapid, syllable following syllable as if someone were chasing her. "What is the essence of magic?"
"It's... hmm?"
Lockhart gestured for her to step off the staircase, freezing for a second just as he was about to answer offhandedly. "That's an answer that takes a lifetime to explore; asking it now is probably a bit too early for you."
"You seem like a remarkably bright young witch, and I sense the pride inherent in high achievers from you. I imagine you excel far beyond your peers—why would you have a question like this?"
Smart though this young witch before him was, she was, after all, only a child starting her second year.
Hearing this, Hermione sighed, clutching Lockhart's book *Magical Me* tightly against her chest. Lacking the maturity to mask her emotions, she looked somewhat defeated.
"I might never find the answer. I'm not actually smart; I just work harder than everyone else."
Oh, well aren't these wonders never-ending—the proud Miss Granger was draped in total dejection.
Lockhart smiled and asked, "Have you sought the answer from other professors?"
Hermione nodded. "I asked Professor McGonagall, but she just comforted me not to rush, saying I'd understand better when I grew up."
"Do you agree with that answer?" Lockhart continued.
Hermione shook her head. "I don't know. I mean... I'm not sure."
Her little face was deadly serious, pulled taut in a way that momentarily made Lockhart feel as though he were looking at a miniature McGonagall.
"I can always easily make magic produce the effects it's supposed to, and easily win the approval of the professors. But whenever I try to make the magic manifest with more power, it never seems to work."
She was so perplexed. "The same magic, in the hands of the professors, has completely different results—more power, more flexibility, more versatility. I don't know how to break through those limits."
Classic Gryffindor—Lockhart arrived at this stereotypical conclusion as he rapidly searched his memories—Gryffindors always cast spells by the book, lacking a certain spiritual fluidity and ease when it came to magic.
Of course, that was a stereotype, though history proved that in combat arenas, Gryffindors often managed to demonstrate that spiritual fluidity and ease with magic much more readily than others.
"I've read your autobiography, and you also grew up in Muggle society. Perhaps your thoughts on magic will be more inspiring to me."
Hermione looked at him with such anticipation. "Can you give me the answer?"
"Of course, nothing can stump me; no one understands magic better than I do." Lockhart flashed a flawless smile as he led her onward.
"I might be able to give you the answer. This used to be my secret, and because of it, I easily defeated many powerful wizards."
Hermione's eyes lit up.
Yet Professor Lockhart did not answer directly, instead offering guidance step by step. "If you check past historical records, you'll find that wizards who lived through major magical upheavals were always stronger than those from other eras."
"Take the four founders who established the school, for instance; they were living through the wizarding world's most terrifying witch-hunts."
"Or take the reforms surrounding the Statute of Secrecy fifty years ago—that era also produced many powerful wizards: Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Grindelwald, Newt, Queenie, Credence..."
Hermione let out a gasp of realization, feeling as though she had grasped the answer. "You mean one needs to experience the tempering of combat?"
"No, or rather, not only that." Lockhart shook his head. "Many wizards and new-generation Aurors today also live lives of high-intensity combat, yet they haven't grown stronger because of it."
Aurors could be said to be the backbone of wizarding society, and their magical capabilities in combat could already be considered the strongest group outside of the masters themselves.