No choice, then. I'll have to go find Professor Sprout, the head of Hufflepuff House; she should be in the greenhouses right about now.
Having already given Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall no end of trouble with his busywork lately, Lockhart had no desire to bother either of those very busy people over such a trivial matter.
As he walked out through the castle's side door and passed the Quidditch pitch, a sudden burst of shouts rang out in the distance. Startled, he turned his head to look, only to see the crowd suddenly parting. Right in the middle, Ron let out a loud retch straight ahead.
A huge, slimy slug came flying out of his mouth.
*Ew~~~*
Lockhart instinctively pulled his head back with the classic "metro-subway-cellphone" expression.
*Magic damage!*
He recognized it instantly.
The Slug-Vomiting Charm—the standard counter-jinx for this particular hex, and a widely applicable one at that. His mind instantly conjured seven or eight different upgraded variations of the counter-charm.
The crucial problem was—he couldn't cast a single one of them!
*Time to slip away!*
Lockhart made his decision in a flash, adopting the look of someone deeply absorbed in solving some difficult problem and completely oblivious to the outside world, ready to sneak off to the side.
"Professor Lockhart!" a young wizard spotted him and shouted excitedly, "Oh, thank goodness! Professor Lockhart is here!"
Hermione was by far the loudest and most excited of the lot.
***
### Chapter 015: Ollivanders
"Children, what's going on here?"
Hesitating for a second, Lockhart walked over anyway, flashing a warm, genial smile at the young wizards to see who could give him an answer.
Draco Malfoy was also present, looking rather pleased with himself. When he saw Lockhart approaching, his expression shifted for a moment, and he pressed his lips together in silence.
For some time now, Harry and Malfoy had been coming to Professor Lockhart's office at irregular intervals to study and practice countermeasures and counter-jinxes against the Disarming Charm. The proud young Master Malfoy had slowly begun to develop a sense of identification and respect for this professor, and seeing Lockhart catch him red-handed actually made him drop his gaze and shrink away in sudden silence.
"Professor, Draco Malfoy called Hermione a Mudblood!" an angry George Weasley shouted, shoving aside a classmate who was trying to keep him from starting a fight.
"That's right! It's just plain vicious!" Fred Weasley looked as though he wanted to tear Draco to pieces.
Racial discrimination—especially in a Western society, and even more so in a wizarding world fundamentally rooted in bloodline status—was a massive political incorrectness.
Lockhart looked at Draco and shook his head. "That is quite unacceptable. Slytherin House will lose twenty points for this, and I shall inform Professor Snape of your Head of House so that he may discipline you accordingly..."
Even as he spoke, Ron let out another retch, and a second slimy slug slid out of his mouth, drawing gasps of dismay from the onlookers.
Lockhart was forced to turn his attention to Ron. "The Slug-Vomiting Charm? Who attacked him?"
"He did it to himself!" Draco blurted out, seizing what he felt was an opportunity. "He tried to cast a hex on me, but it completely backfired on him."
Lockhart couldn't help raising an eyebrow in mild surprise.
Naturally, it wasn't because of the spell rebounding—he had already recalled the events of the original book and knew all about this. At the start of the term, flying his father's prized enchanted car on a wild ride into danger, they'd crashed into the school's Whomping Willow, snapping Ron's wand in half. In the original story, Lockhart had been the one to grab Ron's broken wand to cast a Memory Charm, only for it to backfire on him; he knew that much.
It was just that he had never really thought about a particular question before: Ron hadn't known a single proper spell before coming to Hogwarts, yet here he was, at the very start of his second year, successfully casting a dark hex the school hadn't even taught yet?
That was even more surprising than Draco Malfoy knowing how to conjure a snake.
The Slug-Vomiting Charm was by no means a simple hex; huge slugs blocking the throat could, at best, prevent spells from being properly incanted, and at worst, cause someone to suffocate and die. It was a fiercely practical combat spell!
Ron was nowhere near as weak or foolish as he had seemed in the memories. Evidently, he was someone who worked quite hard in private to better himself.
"Professor Lockhart, is he going to be all right?" Harry and Hermione asked anxiously.
"It's not a major problem. Usually, most wizards just have to wait until all the slugs are vomited out, using the opportunity to de-worm and purge any toxins from their stomachs," Lockhart said, observing Ron with the air of an experienced expert. "At his level, it'll pretty much be over by noon. It won't interfere with lunch."
"Still, nothing is too difficult for me to handle. He's a lucky boy."
Lockhart turned to the surrounding young wizards, clapped his hands together, and seized the moment to deliver an impromptu lesson. "I'm sure the upper-years have all learned the counter-charm for the Slug-Vomiting Charm, but I imagine very few of you can cast it fluently. After all, it's not part of the standard curriculum for Ordinary Wizarding Levels or Newt-level exams."
In fact, many adult wizards hadn't mastered it either; the ones who deliberately trained in this spell and its counter-charm tended to be Dark wizards, simply because the hex was so terribly useful and frequently encountered in duels. Just imagine what it felt like to have a powerful wizard hit you with a Slug-Vomiting Charm, only for the slug to be too massive to vomit out, getting stuck fast in your throat so that you could only claw at your own neck while slowly waiting to suffocate—that would give you a pretty clear idea of just how terrifying the spell truly was.
"So, how do we solve it?"
"The answer is to eat a bit of salt, or some dirt from the ground. That exploits the slug's natural vulnerabilities to break the magical continuity."
Lockhart bent down and scooped up a handful of earth from the ground. "Of course, this doesn't mean the magic has failed inside your body; it's merely interrupted, preventing any further immediate effects. This is strictly an emergency measure to buy yourself time to cast the proper counter-charm. And you must remain vigilant against anyone casting an Enlarge Charm or the like on the slug-vortex that is still lingering in your system."
With that, he shoved the handful of dirt straight into Ron's mouth.
At that moment, Ron was spinning dizzily from the constant vomiting. Suddenly feeling his mouth stuffed with dirt, he spat and hacked frantically until every last bit of it was out.
Having cleared the dirt from his mouth, he blinked in a daze, felt his stomach, touched his throat, and blinked again. "I'm... I'm cured?"
"Whoa—!" gasps of amazement rose from the surrounding young wizards, and many began to clap in sheer admiration.
Everyone was cheering.
"Calm down, basic operation, nothing special," Lockhart said with his standard, flawless smile, pressing his hands down to tell everyone not to get too worked up—though that did nothing to stem the youngsters' wild excitement and fanatical adoration.
*Fanatic follower +1*
*Fanatic follower +1*
*Fanatic follower +1*
...
Alright, truth be told, Lockhart was secretly wiping away a cold sweat. Running into this sudden emergency had been rotten luck; having been spotted passing by, he'd had no choice but to step in and handle it, and he was only saved by knowing that crude folk remedy.
Otherwise? What, pull out his wand and try to cast a proper counter-charm on Ron?
He figured knocking Ron out cold with the stick in his hand would probably have been more practical.
He had to get out of here fast, before the youngsters could snap out of it and ask him to demonstrate the counter-charm!
Lockhart's reactions were exceptionally sharp. While it looked like he was just offering a few words of encouragement to the students, he had actually slammed the door shut on any follow-up questions and turned to leave on the spot.
Before setting off, he glanced sideways and caught sight of someone in the corner of the crowd: Ron, looking utterly miserable as he stared at his own taped-up wand. Inspiration struck, and Lockhart beckoned to him. "Come along with me."
Ron blinked, startled. "Where to?"
To buy a wand, of course.
And incidentally, to have this experienced little wizard guide him in using the Floo Network fireplace. While Lockhart possessed the memories of his predecessor and other wizards, he himself had never used it even once. That particular mode of transportation was hardly without risk; word had it that mispronouncing a destination could send you hurtling off to all the wrong places, which would be an absolute disaster.
Dragging Ron along with him meant nobody would ever suspect he was nervous about the Floo Network—they'd simply think he was looking out for a student.
*Heh, plan executed successfully!*
Besides...
Wands at Ollivanders came with a government subsidy for students, costing a mere seven Galleons. To an ordinary wizarding family, that might be a tidy sum (though not an astronomical one), but to a hugely successful best-selling author like Lockhart, it didn't even amount to loose change.
Besides, it was no trouble at all.
Now that he was a professor at Hogwarts, all these young students were going to be part of his future network. Investing a few Galleons in them cost next to nothing and paid huge dividends—it was the best bargain imaginable.
Ron didn't see it that way at all.
When Lockhart brought him to Professor Sprout's office and used the Head of House's fireplace to step through to Ollivanders in Diagon Alley, Ron finally snapped out of his daze.
He stared up at the sign above Ollivanders, gazing at the wand shop he had dreamed of and fantasized about for goodness knows how long, his eyes swimming with an irrepressible yearning.
He stood stiffly, a mixture of nervousness and acute embarrassment on his face. He tried his best to swallow down the sudden swell of diffidence and self-doubt, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Professor Lockhart, I... I forgot my money. I'll come back and buy one myself another time."
He tried desperately not to grip his wand too tightly, attempting to look casual as he gave it a little shake. "It actually works quite well still! That just now was a total accident."
Unfortunately, the wand refused to cooperate; the winding tape failed to hold it securely together, and the broken bottom half promptly drooped downward.
Ron gasped softly, frantically pushing the half that wasn't completely severed back into the tape, keeping his head down and not daring to meet Lockhart's eyes.
A warm hand gently ruffled his hair. Startled, Ron looked up to find a brilliant, warm smile shining down at him.
"This is a reward, Ron."
"When a friend is humiliated, to stand up so bravely and be the first to raise your wand—you are a true Gryffindor, and a brave warrior!"
Poor Ron, who had grown up in the heavy shadow of an accomplished father, a capable mother, and five older brothers—oh, and even a younger sister—had never, in all his mediocre life, received a single word of genuine affirmation.
These were quite simply the most wonderful words Ron had ever heard in his entire life!
Nobody had ever—!
Never, ever—!
No one had ever affirmed him like this, speaking such words of glowing praise.
"R-really?" Ron's eyes were shining brightly.
"Of course!" Lockhart beckoned him inside the shop. "How can a warrior be without a proper wand? Ron, I look forward to seeing what you'll achieve on the path of magic in the future."
Such expectations were something Ron had never experienced before, and for a moment, his heart burned with a fierce, hot glow.
And just like that, the two of them stepped into the shop together. Mr. Ollivander, the proprietor, enthusiastically measured his height and arm span while firing off a barrage of questions, turning the whole shopping experience into something magical.
Ron felt as if he were floating on air. The scene unfolding before him seemed to merge with his countless daydreams, feeling utterly surreal.
He took the wand Mr. Ollivander handed him, watched with breathless anticipation as the old man shook his head and took it back, and then stood frozen in place, eyes locked on Ollivander as he rummaged through the rows of shelves, waiting eagerly for the wand that was truly meant for him.
*His* wand!
Not an old, battered hand-me-down from his brother Charlie, with the unicorn hair poking right out of the end!
*They can't expect me to look as brilliant at school as my brothers while using a broken, ill-suited wand!*—he had sometimes even thought that in secret.
He was so excited that he didn't even notice Professor Lockhart was also buying a wand.
Fourteen inches, not particularly straight, featuring a slight curve and a short, curling twist at the end—designed, as Ollivander put it, because "nimble wands are better suited to graceful spellcasters."
The wood was apple. Ollivander had babbled on quite a bit about that: "It is said that apple-wood wand owners are universally popular and long-lived; I've also noticed that clients matched with apple-wood wands tend to possess a great deal of personal charm. Many people with apple-wood wands have an uncanny gift for communicating with other species, a group that includes Dylan Marwood, author of *Merpeople: A Comprehensive Guide to Their Language and Customs*."
The only drawback was that apple-wood wands had a certain degree of resistance to the Dark Arts.
The core was unicorn hair. "Unicorn hair generally produces the most consistent magic, and is least subject to fluctuations or blockages. Wands with unicorn hair cores are, under almost all circumstances, the least likely to turn to the Dark Arts."
The nature of this wand was almost the exact opposite of Lockhart's original one.
An uncanny gift for communicating with other species, casting the most stable rather than the most flexible magic, and both the wood and the core actively resisting the Dark Arts...
Mr. Ollivander looked at Lockhart with a very peculiar expression. "You seem... so very different from before."
Lockhart didn't offer any explanations. He simply kept his gaze fixed with growing interest on the wand in his hand, feeling a sudden surge of something that felt remarkably like 'eagerness' within him, and smiled. "This is rather nice, wouldn't you say?"
"Indeed," Ollivander affirmed heartily.
***
### Chapter 016: The Crystal Horned Serpent Skull and the Magical Eyeball
With the wand purchased, Lockhart sent Ron back to school first.
He had Ron step straight back through the fireplace at Ollivanders, carefully confirming via the Floo network with Professor Sprout on the other end that Ron had arrived safely. After all, dragging a second-year student out of school grounds wasn't entirely by the book; if he were to take the boy into the dark depths of Knockturn Alley, Professor McGonagall would surely have something to say about it.
Stopping by *Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions* in Diagon Alley to pick up a heavy, hooded black wizard's cloak, he casually accepted a funny promotional mask handed out for an anniversary celebration at the entrance of *WhizzHard Books*, and only then made his way back toward the mouth of the alley and the *Leaky Cauldron*.
Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, offered certain lesser-known services, such as temporarily renting out guest rooms for people to change clothes. Such things were quite common in a pub situated at the crossroads between Knockturn Alley, Diagon Alley, and the Muggle world outside.
Lockhart merely gave Tom an enigmatic nod, and the landlord knowingly grabbed an oil lamp, leading him down the dim corridors of the back guest rooms to open a small single room on the second floor. After changing into his disguise, Lockhart slipped straight through a deeper set of stairs leading directly into Knockturn Alley.
Many people knew Lockhart as an internationally renowned celebrity author, and some desperate, down-on-their-luck Dark wizards probably wouldn't mind trying their hand at making a fortune off him. Furthermore, his identity as a Hogwarts professor didn't exactly lend itself to openly strolling through here, so he routinely disguised himself to look like just another shady denizen of the alley.
With his entire person shrouded in darkness, such sneaking around was hardly out of place in Knockturn Alley.
He soon reached *Borgin and Burkes*.
It was easy enough to find; it was the largest and best-located shop in Knockturn Alley—a standalone building with bright, convex bay windows that brazenly displayed precious and dangerous magical artifacts to the wicked wizards roaming the street, completely unafraid of burglaries.
When he arrived, a glamorous young aristocratic woman was busy inspecting antique jewelry—none other than the fanatical pure-blood admirer who had previously mailed Lockhart those swimsuit photographs.
Receiving a letter like that on the very day of his transmigration had been quite a shock, instantly stoking his fascination with the magical world.
Lockhart didn't step forward to say hello, choosing instead to stand patiently off to the side and wait.
He slipped a hand into his robes to press down on the wriggling little Golden-Faced beast; the moment it entered a shop full of jewelry, it acted like a dog in a meat market, vibrating with excitement. Given its immense power, it wouldn't have cared a fig for the protective dark charms Mr. Borgin had placed on the merchandise, but doing so here would hardly be discreet.
Finally, after the young aristocratic woman left in high spirits with her newly acquired jewelry, Lockhart stepped away from the shelves and approached the counter.
Before he even drew close, a gilded mummy case standing beside the counter suddenly began to vibrate violently. Mr. Borgin's expression shifted instantly as he whipped out his wand, pointing it squarely at Lockhart. "Stop right there! What do you think you're doing?"
Lockhart stiffened as he stared down the barrel of the pointed wand.
This was entirely different from dealing with people like Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall; the Dark wizards of Knockturn Alley were genuinely capable of firing off an offensive curse without a second thought.
With his current level of ability, he stood zero chance in a fight—well, truth be told, he had no combat ability whatsoever; he was essentially a Muggle.
Even a tentative probing spell would instantly blow his cover!
It was like walking into a gangster's den full of armed thugs while completely barehanded—enough to make anyone's heart race with panic.
Yet the more alarming the situation, the less he could afford to show weakness!
"Pointing a wand at me is hardly polite, Mr. Borgin!"
Lockhart let out a cold snort, deliberately giving a gentle tap to his robe pocket to pacify the Golden-Faced beast, whose dark magical nature was clearly setting off the shop's defensive enchantments. "It's me, Mr. Borgin."
With that, he turned his back to the shop's entrance, pulled off his mask just long enough for Mr. Borgin to register a flash of recognition, and then quickly slipped it back on.
"I don't know what's in your pocket, but keep it under control!" Mr. Borgin tapped the mummy case with his wand to quiet it down, then reached behind the shelf to haul down a wooden crate. He flipped it open to reveal a crystal skull featuring a long, pointed beak.
Aside from the beak, the skull was slightly larger than an adult human's head.
"What is this?" Even with all his extensive reading, Lockhart couldn't claim to have seen every oddity under the sun, and he looked at the object with genuine perplexity.
"My friend, you've come at a rather poor time. The family that crafts Pensieves is currently locked in a vicious inheritance war; nobody has the time to manufacture a new one right now. And our supply lines from the Americas have been flagged by the Aurors, so shipments can't get through."
Mr. Borgin lifted the skull out of the crate, flipped it over on the counter, and then gripped the lower jaw of the beak to lift the entire upper cranium—making it look somewhat similar to the ancient bronze wine vessels from Lockhart's past life.
"This piece is second-hand, but I've already had someone clear out any lingering memories inside using a specialized potion. If you don't mind, you can use it just like a brand-new Pensieve."
When dealing with regular clients and suppliers like Lockhart, Mr. Borgin saw no need to conceal such details.
"Quite an exquisite design," Lockhart murmured, picking up the crystal skull and weighing it in his hands. He found it wasn't particularly heavy.
"Crafted from the skull of a Horned Serpent, utilizing the oldest Egyptian bone-crystal Pensieve techniques. Its value is extraordinary..." Mr. Borgin sighed with a hint of regret. "Using a Horned Serpent's traits to create such a Pensieve is the height of craftsmanship. It's a shame that, according to the rumors, something went wrong during the trade, and the previous owner—the one who knew the control passwords—ended up dead."
*Something went wrong?*
More like a straight-up ambush, murder, and robbery, no wonder they couldn't get the safe passwords out of a dead man's head.
Horned Serpents were fascinating magical creatures capable of shrinking and growing at will—the largest specimens grew larger than dragons, while the smallest could easily slip inside a small teapot.