Lockhart had a key reason for not going after Corbin directly: he knew the real enemy was Voldemort.
Taking out Corbin today would only mean another Corbin tomorrow. With Voldemort's influence over pure-blood families and beyond, he could easily find another powerful wizard willing to do his bidding.
More crucially, Dumbledore had warned Lockhart that Corbin might just be bait—Voldemort's way of luring them into a trap.
Real-world battles weren't as simple as killing one enemy today and another tomorrow until they're all gone. That approach could backfire spectacularly, painting Lockhart as the true villain and letting Voldemort come off as the misunderstood one.
The world wasn't airtight. Killing one after another would eventually get out, and he'd become public enemy number one. No one could stay invincible forever. Even if Lockhart did, what about his loved ones? His legacy? His friends? His work? A single weak link could bring everything crashing down.
Humans are social creatures. Would he rather be like Dumbledore, greeted with respect wherever he went, or like Voldemort, feared but forced to lurk in the shadows? That was a choice worth thinking about.
Such scheming felt too stifling, though.
Lockhart wasn't a fan. It wasn't fun at all—what was the point of living like that? Might as well just go full kill, kill, kill.
Dumbledore, munching on his Cockroach Clusters with a twinkle in his eye, had said, "You need to be a 'hero.' The hero who takes down the dark lord!"
A hero straight out of a fairy tale.
Like during the werewolf attack at the Ministry. Lockhart had stepped up as the hero, reaping massive rewards: fame, a smooth entry into the Ministry, bestselling books, more fans, and greater influence.
Meanwhile, Corbin had become public enemy number one—a werewolf in human eyes.
Lockhart didn't even need to lift a finger after that. Rita Skeeter, quill blazing, had charged into the fray, and more would likely follow.
Honestly, the whole process was pretty satisfying.
So, what next?
He didn't have a clear plan yet. He wasn't Dumbledore, with the old wizard's effortless finesse and wisdom born of experience. This would take more life smarts.
But Lockhart wasn't fazed. He heard the call of adventure and dove in, ready for the challenge that would bring glory.
He was even getting a bit hyped.
Voldemort felt too distant, but Corbin? Corbin was just right—enough to get his blood pumping, his excitement bubbling, his passion blazing.
Corbin, my wand's itching for action.
…
Lockhart lowered his wand.
He clicked his tongue, eyeing Vincent Crabbe, who looked like a corpse sprawled before him.
A nervous Harry Potter blurted out, "Professor, is he really dead?"
Harry was practically panicking, but Lockhart, ever the teacher, took the moment to guide him. With a smile, he motioned for Harry to draw his wand and began teaching him how to assess a wizard's condition, turning it into an impromptu mini-lesson.
"This is one of the most basic yet practical diagnostic charms used at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Maladies. Rumor has it a witch nurse invented it during the Muggle First World War. It's called the 'Eavesdropping Charm.'"
Lockhart guided Harry through the spell, explaining its mechanics with his own flair.
"The wand is the key conduit. It helps a wizard connect with the world—nature, other creatures. If you really tune into the spell's sensation, you'll notice your magic shifts into that raw, chaotic state from childhood, touching the world's essence."
Harry wasn't exactly in a learning mood, but Lockhart's encouraging look and expectant gesture pushed him to try.
The spell felt bizarre.
It was like an icy hand grabbed his ear, yanking it outward. Harry braced for pain—memories of his aunt and uncle tugging his ears weren't exactly fond ones.
But there was no pain.
Instead, his ear seemed to stretch like putty, elongating impossibly, threading through his wand's slender channel until it bloomed from the tip like a flower.
It even gave a little pop.
"Give it a go," Lockhart urged.
Harry swallowed hard. The spell felt so strange, like his whole body was warping.
He pressed his wand to Crabbe's chest, listening closely for any sound.
"Hear anything?" Lockhart asked.
Harry shook his head, then nodded. "It's like when I was a kid, holding a bottle to my ear—just a hollow 'whooshing' sound."
"Spot on!" Lockhart gave a thumbs-up. "Very precise, Harry. That hollow sound shows you've got a knack for sensing magic. Now, tell me—what does it mean?"
Harry wasn't sure, but he thought it over. "Does it mean… his soul's gone?"
Snap! Lockhart clicked his fingers. "Exactly!"
He grinned at Harry. "The Ministry's told us dark creatures are behind this. As co-author of Where to Find Dark Creatures, Mr. Potter, what dark creature could cause this?"
"Hint!" Lockhart added, narrowing it down. "A common dark creature."
Harry's face lit up. They'd poured over this stuff for the book, debating details endlessly in the Duelling Club. "Dementor!" he exclaimed, then paled. "The… Dementor's Kiss?"
The Dementor's Kiss was the ultimate punishment at Azkaban, the Ministry-run prison. A wizard whose soul was sucked out by a Dementor was left an empty husk, looking as good as dead.
Like a fairy-tale Sleeping Beauty, minus the wake-up call.
Though the body might retain some vitality, you might as well start digging the grave.
"Correct," Lockhart confirmed, rubbing his chin as he studied Crabbe. "But this is a more sophisticated use of a Dementor. His soul wasn't just sucked out—it was cleanly stripped away."
Seeing Harry's confusion, he tossed out a knowledge nugget. "The nature of dark creatures' magic eroding a wizard's psyche!"
Harry got it. Quick on the uptake, he examined Crabbe's facial muscles, fingers, toes, and even checked his back for tensed sinews.
Dark magic caused extreme negative emotions. When it fully damaged the soul, victims showed clear signs of corruption or physical tells of overwhelming despair.
"The Dementor's Kiss is fast, but there's still a moment where the soul's being pulled, and a wizard can resist—though few manage it," Lockhart explained. "Crabbe's case? It's like someone used a Dementor's power to surgically peel his soul out whole."
Why go to all that trouble to frame Lockhart by "killing" Crabbe this way? Most likely, the culprit was after the Crabbe family's vast wealth.
In Europe, many once-glorious pure-blood families had fallen, like the Gaunts, reduced to living in a shack. Yet even they had treasures, like Slytherin's locket.
The Crabbes, with a history even older than the Malfoys, had stayed prominent by cleverly aligning with them. No one knew how many riches they'd stashed away.
Take the Book of Bloodlines slab Lockhart had stumbled upon—something like that could change lives.
"Crabbe can be saved," Lockhart concluded. Not every wizard could pluck specific memories from another's mind as precisely as he could.
If they could, the Wizengamot's courtrooms would be out of business.
"But who stole his soul?" Harry frowned.
Lockhart shrugged and glanced at another corner of the room. "Draco, care to take a guess?"
"Draco?" Harry gripped his wand tightly, scanning the room. He'd been sure it was just him and the professor—doors and windows locked tight.
He didn't trust Malfoy one bit, certain the prat would rat out the professor to the Aurors.
Cautiously, Harry looked around, then spotted a figure emerging from the left corner—someone under an Invisibility Cloak.
Not just Draco. Goyle was there too.
Both were teary-eyed, faces streaked with grief.
"What are you doing here?" Harry aimed his wand at them.
"We've been here the whole time!" Draco yanked the cloak off, tossing it to Goyle. He wiped his tears quickly, striding up to Harry with a cold glare. "Don't act like you care about Crabbe. You've always wanted him gone!"
"I wanted him to trip up, not die!" Harry shot back, his expression resolute, emphasizing the difference.
They were about to bicker when a warm hand pressed down on each of their heads.
"Kids, now's not the time for squabbling," Lockhart said firmly.
He looked at Draco. "Got an answer, Draco? Who attacked Crabbe?"
Draco shook his head. "I didn't see, but after hearing your analysis, I've got a theory."
Lockhart nodded approvingly. "Let's hear it."
"Dementors are only controlled by the Ministry, usually by Aurors," Draco said, his thoughts clear. "And you said it was a more advanced technique, so it's likely someone who's studied Dementors closely—probably from a pure-blood family with a long history."
Lockhart smiled. "Close, but not quite. In the British Ministry's Auror Office, you won't find a single Muggle-born wizard. They're all pure-bloods or half-bloods."
Harry blinked, stunned. He'd always rejected Draco's blood-purity nonsense, but to hear the Ministry was like that too?
How could that be?
He hadn't realized the Potter family was also an ancient pure-blood line.
"I can't pin down who," Draco admitted, frustrated. His own family knew some Dementor-handling tricks, which made him realize this clue wasn't specific enough.
But it was enough for Harry. Furious, he turned to Lockhart. "So the Aurors are behind this, and they're framing you for it!"
Lockhart gave a helpless shrug, about to respond when he glanced out the window.
A carriage pulled by four Thestrals was descending from the sky, heading toward Hogwarts.
"Kids, I've got to go."
Lockhart had his own adventure to chase, and these young wizards had their own journeys to begin.
He looked at Harry Potter, the "Chosen One" championed by the pro-Muggle faction, and Draco Malfoy, heir to the influential pure-blood supremacist Malfoys, feeling a spark of hope for what these students he'd poured his heart into teaching might do.
Their actions might not change the world, but trying at all meant his efforts weren't wasted.
"Professor, what should I do?" Harry asked urgently.
Lockhart grinned. "Follow the voice in your heart~"
Follow the voice in your heart…
Harry seemed to grasp something, clenching his fist. "Professor, I'll tell everyone what I found and rally people to save you!"
"Brainless hothead!" Draco sneered. "What, you going to storm the Ministry, Savior?"
Harry glared at him. "I knew you wouldn't want to save the professor!"
Draco rolled his eyes. "The world's not all about fighting, you dim-witted Har-ry Pot-ter!"
Smugly, he shared his own plan. "I'll gather enough students to protest at the Ministry and file a formal complaint with the Wizengamot about the Auror Office's abuse of power and frame-up!"
He hoped for Lockhart's approval.
But both Draco and Harry suddenly realized Lockhart had vanished. Windows shut, doors locked, yet he was gone from the office without a trace, as if he'd never been there at all.