Lockhart hadn't realized how deep he'd wandered into the Forbidden Forest.
Normally, his cautious nature would've kept him from straying so far—too much risk of "triggering" some unexpected event.
But the forest felt good.
It was like coming home, a sense of boundless freedom.
He knew this was the "Forest Witch's" memories influencing him, but he didn't resist.
After a recent battle, he'd started to grasp what his predecessor meant by "stepping into a fairy tale to gain magic." He was ready to try walking the Forest Witch's fairy-tale path, to savor the "joy of the fish" in another life's story.
The Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts was a pristine ecosystem, remarkably well-preserved despite housing a Centaur colony and Hagrid's menagerie of magical creatures, not to mention the ones he'd released into the wild.
It pulsed with its own vibrant life.
Walking through it, Lockhart could feel the clamor of the plant kingdom and nocturnal creatures.
Crouching by a tree, he watched a venomous snake slither toward a bird's nest, sidestepping a chase between ants and an anteater. From the treetops, dozy Bowtruckles hiccuped in a chorus, startled awake one by one.
It was like sensing a magic that wasn't magic—not the structured kind with standard spells and wand movements, but a wild, fantastical force.
This was magic in its rawest, most chaotic form.
At its core, it held limitless potential.
In the Harry Potter books, before Harry even knew about Hogwarts, he tapped into this instinctively—leaping onto rooftops, regrowing his hair after a bad haircut, turning his teacher's wig blue, or making a zoo's glass vanish.
Those abilities vanished once his magic was tamed by formal training.
That's the difference between academic wizards and folk witches. The former climb a ladder of knowledge, trading some of that raw spark for mastery in advanced fields. The latter brim with unpredictable, vibrant magic but rely on talent and sheer luck to reach higher levels.
Take Newt Scamander, author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, or the Weasley twins—classic folk wizards. Their magic was alive with creativity, but they'd never reach Dumbledore's level.
Breeding Basilisks or crafting Vanishing Cabinets and Time-Turners? That kind of precision needed academic rigor.
That's why the scholarly approach dominated wizarding society. The bigwigs steering the wizarding world weren't fools—they knew what path drove progress.
But Lockhart didn't have to worry about progress.
Casting spells was already a struggle for him, so he'd use whatever worked.
His approach to magic was carefree—enjoy the ride, no pressure.
He craved it but didn't force it.
Full of anticipation, but not chasing it to exhaustion.
He strolled through the forest with light steps, soaking in the strange flow of magic.
It didn't seem useful, at least not for boosting his combat skills, but it was so fun, so alive.
Lockhart cross-referenced the sensations with the Forest Witch's memories, slowly absorbing her magical insights, stumbling along her path with glee.
Maybe he was born to be a wizard.
This state felt perfect.
He didn't know how long he'd walked when he spotted a rabbit.
It was likely a magical creature, looking like an ordinary gray hare except for a fluffy tuft of whiskers under its chin.
It gave off an old-scholar vibe—like it'd be right at home with spectacles and a beret.
Unlike a typical hare, it didn't bolt at the sight of him. Instead, it hopped a few steps, then turned back to watch him.
When he got closer, it bounded forward again, pausing to wait.
The Forest Witch called this a "Forest's Spirit Messenger"—a guide from the forest itself.
She trusted these signs, following them with hope for good fortune.
Like when she was sixteen and followed a Kneazle to find a hunter's abandoned cloak—her best birthday gift, sparing her from a life draped in leaves.
Lockhart followed the rabbit but didn't find any treasure.
It led him to a rabbit hole. "Are you inviting me to your house? It's a bit small for me."
The rabbit didn't speak, just crouched silently by the hole.
Lockhart turned to the Wailing Wraith floating behind him. She was growing closer to the earth's power—maybe she'd understand the messenger's intent.
She shook her head. Despite her rabbit-like appearance at times, she wasn't actually a rabbit and couldn't help.
Suddenly, Lockhart caught a shadow looming in his peripheral vision.
He whipped around to see the scholarly-looking rabbit lunging at him, its massive, fluffy hind legs aiming for his head.
"Whoa!"
He dodged, stumbling and falling on his backside.
Oh no!
His mind screamed—he was about to crush the rabbit's home!
It's not my fault! he thought, but then he felt himself plummeting.
Pink tendrils shot down from above—the Wraith's attempt to pull him up—but he was falling too fast, dragging her down with him into an abyss.
Colorful streams of light swirled around them, like tumbling through a time tunnel. Before long, he and the Wraith, tangled together, were hurled sideways, rolling forward in a dizzying blur.
It was not a fun ride.
The air roared with deafening noise, making his whole body ache.
Finally—after who-knows-how-long—things steadied. He slid downward, like on a slide, stretching his neck past the Wraith's head to peer ahead.
A slanted patch of light glimmered below, the source of the roaring sound.
Pop!
He landed with a thud, hands sinking into the soft, warm earth.
Looking back, he saw another rabbit hole.
They hadn't gone far—he could still hear the distant cheers of young wizards from the Quidditch pitch.
But there was another familiar sound, less intense than in the tunnel but still loud.
A car engine?
Lockhart looked up to see a massive stone, forcing trees to grow crookedly around it. Nearby, a group of rabbits screeched upward, as if shouting, "You're too loud! How are we supposed to sleep?!"
The magical rabbit hole amplified faint sounds to keep the rabbits alert, but it also turned noise into a maddening megaphone.
Lockhart brushed off the dirt and stood, checking that his four dark creature companions were still with him. He patted the ring holding his Firebolt and felt his wand in his pocket, sighing in relief before approaching the rabbits.
They seemed to sense he was there to help, parting to make way.
As he got closer, he gasped.
"Wow!"
A colossal spider web stretched before him, like a towering wall, layer upon layer of intricate silk.
In the center, a car was trapped, its engine revving desperately but unable to break free.
That car…
It was Arthur Weasley's enchanted Ford Anglia!
The one Harry and Ron flew to Hogwarts, crashed into the Whomping Willow, and then fled into the Forbidden Forest to hide!