The first two ingredients for Snape's improved potion—dew and sound—were simple enough to collect.
But it was exactly this kind of task that completely upended Lockhart's life.
Before this, his world revolved around the classroom, the library, his office, and the Great Hall—safe within the main castle of Hogwarts.
Now, Lockhart had to step outside his cozy little bubble.
He wasn't so paranoid as to obsess over Voldemort's curse every second—that would make life unlivable. But he wasn't reckless either. Whenever he left the castle, he brought his little magical creatures along for protection.
After class, he wove through the bustling crowd of young witches and wizards, cradling a pot of soundgrass. Watching them chase and tease each other, he felt a strange sense of being out of place, like he'd stepped into another world.
These energetic kids with their magical abilities were just too rowdy.
He even stumbled upon a group of students having a "dung fight."
Yes, a dung fight!
To be precise, they were hurling dungbombs at each other—prank items that looked and smelled disturbingly like the real thing.
The mess coated an entire corridor.
Lockhart took a long detour to avoid it.
He totally got why Filch, Hogwarts' caretaker, was always so furious. No way was he getting near that stuff.
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Especially since he had no way to deal with it.
A simple Scourgify charm would clean it up, but he couldn't cast it properly.
That was why he avoided wandering the school too much—one slip-up, and his fraud of a persona would be exposed.
It was also why he was so obsessed with Voldemort's Horcrux diary and why he valued Snape's improved potion so highly.
Magic!
He desperately wanted to wield magic smoothly, like a proper wizard.
"Professor Lockhart!" students called out as he passed. He flashed his signature dazzling smile, offering words of encouragement or signing books and cards they thrust at him.
At first, the constant fan attention was fun, but it had grown tiresome. He wasn't the real Lockhart, after all, and didn't crave the spotlight as much.
Still, he had to lean back into that role now, mingling with his "little fans" so the soundgrass could soak up more of their excited shouts.
Before he knew it, he was starting to act a lot like the original Lockhart.
Or maybe he was slipping into what could be called "the stolen fairy-tale life of Gilderoy Lockhart, the heartthrob."
Sometimes, he'd pop over to the Quidditch pitch to watch a game. Enthusiastic Hermione would drag him to sit with the Gryffindors, cheering together.
When the match ended and the students rushed to celebrate with their team, he'd quietly slip away, soundgrass in hand, heading toward the Forbidden Forest.
He didn't venture too deep—just stuck to the edges.
Hogwarts' weather had been gloomy lately, brewing a big rain. The air was humid, perfect for collecting dew.
The task went smoothly.
Today, he'd brought a small pouch to gather some fine sand—"sand from a shaded path walked during deep thought," one of the ingredients for a simplified Pensieve-like cauldron he was working on.
As dusk settled, the air grew heavy under the overcast sky.
Faint shouts from Quidditch practice echoed in the distance, making the Forbidden Forest's edge feel eerily quiet.
The only sound was barking from Hagrid's hut.
That was Fang, Hagrid's pet, a Neapolitan Mastiff who looked fierce but was a total softie.
Hagrid was probably at the Quidditch pitch watching Harry and the others, leaving Fang locked up alone.
Fang's barks were loud and frantic, which made the little golden creature in Lockhart's robe pocket itch to cast a Silencio on him.
Thankfully, it had learned to check with its master first.
Lockhart just grinned and shook his head, stopping it from scaring Hagrid's pet.
Hagrid's life on the forest's edge was pretty colorful. He had pens for magical creatures, a pumpkin patch, and even a chicken coop.
Every morning, the roosters' crows carried through the forest and across the Black Lake, audible even in the castle.
This year, though, things were different.
Those roosters would soon meet their end at Ginny Weasley's hands, seen as a threat to the Basilisk.
Speaking of which, Harry and the others had been researching the Basilisk lately and were curious why a simple rooster could kill such a powerful monster.
The answer was straightforward.
The Basilisk, like the little golden creature, was an "against-common-sense" dark creature. Its power came from defying logic, but that was also its downfall.
All it took was someone—or something—reminding it, "Hey, you're not supposed to exist."
And poof, it's gone.
It was a bit like a myth from Lockhart's previous life, where an old vegetable seller told Prince Bigan, "How can a man live without a heart?" and he dropped dead.
So, did it really need a rooster's crow to remind the Basilisk it shouldn't exist?
Once you understood the underlying logic, there were plenty of ways to handle it.
Lockhart picked up sand as he passed the chicken coop, glancing inside. It was quiet—Ginny Weasley hadn't made her move yet.
He shook his head, not dwelling on it, and continued toward the forest. But then, a small figure appeared in the shadow of a large tree.
She wore a white dress that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.
Her face was delicate, like a porcelain doll, but pale as if drained of blood.
She held a large rooster by the neck, tilting her head and staring at Lockhart with hollow eyes. Her voice was dreamy, almost sleep-talking, as she asked softly, "Are you looking for this?"
Lockhart froze.
He'd seen that eerie state before.
His mind raced, memories flipping like pages, and he found the answer.
The Imperius Curse!
One of the three Unforgivable Curses, it turned people into obedient puppets.
A chill shot through him. He dove to the side just as the girl raised her wand and snapped, "*Avada Kedavra!*" A green flash grazed his hair.
"!!!"
Holy—!
Lockhart gasped, barely steadying himself when another green flash shot toward his chest.
"*Avada Kedavra!*"
The curse carried a chilling indifference to life, laced with a cruel curiosity, like a child pouring boiling water into an ant nest. That malicious intent was far too dark for Ginny Weasley.
Tom!
Tom!
Mist swirled at the forest's edge. A gray wolf leaped out, moving with graceful speed to block the Killing Curse.
The spell hit, and the summoned forest spirit dissolved back into mist.
From the fog, another sickly green flash pierced through.
"!!!"
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