Chapter 286: Professor Lockhart, What About Me?
A plume of black smoke surged, traversing the space gate on the Ghost Ship and appearing instantly in the hall of Lockhart's small house in Hogsmeade Village.
It circled rapidly in the air before smashing onto the ground, transforming into a seven-foot-tall Hanged Man Corpse (the Boggart's current form), looking down at the thief on the floor.
Perception was the Boggart's forte.
"He's dead," the Boggart stated.
Behind it, Lockhart and his companions had also appeared, examining the thief.
"He's a Muggle?" the Vengeful Fairy asked curiously.
As a Dark Magic creature endowed by the earth with counter-life, she could clearly distinguish between the states of different life forms.
Lockhart nodded, stepped forward, and lightly waved his wand at the Muggle on the floor. Immediately, streaks of silver light extended from the Muggle's head, swaying and writhing in the air.
"Many people overlook the greatest difference between wizards and Muggles: the exuberant vitality."
First-year students attempt to fly broomsticks into the sky with no protection, accelerating faster than a motorbike on a city road at night, performing 360-degree free spins. They could fall in any manner imaginable.
The reason such danger is permitted, apart from the extraordinary healing abilities of Hogwarts Matron Madame Pomfrey, is primarily that young wizards have enough vitality to survive until they can be treated.
An ordinary Muggle, let alone falling from a great height, would die instantly from a fall off a thirty-foot building.
This isn't because wizards are physically superior to Muggles—they're the same. Harry's nearsightedness, Goyle's obesity, Dumbledore's crooked nose—all indicate they have the same bodies.
The only difference is the vitality; a powerful life force sustains their lives.
The Muggle lying on the floor, however, was different. He lacked that exaggerated vitality. Struck by the high-voltage electricity, death was instantaneous.
He didn't have a chance.
Lockhart immediately cast a spell to maintain the man's vitality, then began to probe his memories to decide whether to revive him and save his life.
With a light flick of his wand, the silver threads rapidly liquefied, vertically hovering in mid-air like the silver liquid in a Pensieve, resembling a mirror.
The mirror was chaotic, only rippling faintly.
Lockhart asked the mirror, "Why would this Muggle appear in a pure-wizard village?"
The mirror quickly showed scenes.
"We are the masters of this world!" The scene showed what looked like an assembly hall. A crowd waved their fists, shouting the same slogan.
As the shouting subsided, a white-haired but exquisitely dressed man in a white suit stood before the crowd, holding a microphone. "Go and find out where these monsters are! Go and get their artifacts for research! Go and capture their people, whether old, young, or women—capture them for research!"
"Only by understanding them can we completely defeat them and send them back to hell, where they belong!"
"You must believe in the tranquilizer guns in your hands; they are utterly powerless to resist! You must believe in the weapons in your hands; our firearms are enough to blow their brains out!"
"Wizards are nothing special; they can die too!"
"Remember, who are we?"
The crowd raised their fists and shouted fanatically, "Purifiers! Purifiers! Purifiers!"
Lockhart watched the mirror indifferently, shook his head, and asked again, "Why did this person come to my house? Was he specifically targeting me?"
The scene in the mirror shifted again.
A group of people resembling Muggle climbing enthusiasts held an event in the mountains near Hogsmeade Village. At night, several of them rode motorbikes toward Hogsmeade, a village invisible to ordinary Muggles.
They stopped their motorbikes near the Shrieking Shack, a corner villagers never approached. Enduring the biting cold, they changed into thin wizard robes, mixing into the crowd disguised as secretive Dark Wizards to sneak into the village.
"Don't worry, we're Squibs; they won't discover us," the leader reassured them. "We have three days. Gather here after three days!"
"Remember, don't act for the first two days. Carefully observe every house! The intelligence said many houses here are vacant!"
The Muggle now electrocuted on the floor was targeting Lockhart's small house because its windows were dusty, there were no signs of cleared snow by the door, and the house had remained unlit for two consecutive nights.
...
Lockhart watched the scenes in the mirror without a word. Finally, he gave a light flick of his wand, and all the Muggle's memories from the moment he began staking out the house were peeled away and handed to the Swooping Evil.
Then, his wand waved again. The silver liquid in the air rapidly collapsed, converging and solidifying into a silver mirror the size of a basketball.
The mirror floated down and landed in the hands of the Little Goldie (who he called Three-Hands).
"Take this to Dumbledore; he'll know what to do."
The Little Goldie nodded and glanced at the Swooping Evil. "Goo-ji!"
The Swooping Evil quickly spread its wings, unfurling completely from its small cluster. It carried the Little Goldie and flew into the Ghost Ship's space gate behind them, then flew out of the corresponding gate in the Hogwarts Forbidden Forest, heading toward Dumbledore's office.
The Swooping Evil was fast, but unfortunately, Dumbledore was not at Hogwarts.
Yes, Dumbledore was often absent from the school.
If this were the Little Goldie from before, it would have rigidly waited outside Dumbledore's office door or window. But now, it thought for a moment with a touch of intelligence and directed the Swooping Evil toward Professor McGonagall's office.
Arriving at Professor McGonagall's office door, it jumped off the Swooping Evil, holding the silver mirror in one paw, and raised the other to knock.
Knock, knock, knock.
Professor McGonagall quickly opened the door. She looked around in confusion, seeing no one, but then felt something touch her foot and was nearly startled.
"Merlin's beard!"
She gasped. "Three-Hands? Are you looking for me? Where is Lockhart?"
"Goo-ji!" the Little Goldie cried, but Professor McGonagall couldn't understand.
The Little Goldie grew anxious. It gestured with its two small, furry paws. Seeing that she still couldn't understand, it finally gave up, thought for a moment, and reached out to pinch a piece off the silver mirror.
The piece that was pinched off quickly transformed into a mouth—or rather, the piece itself was a mouth.
The mouth opened and closed, seemingly piecing together syllables to say, "Hogsmeade Village is in trouble. Purifiers."
Professor McGonagall's face changed. Seeing the Little Goldie gesture, she took the silver mirror from its paw. It immediately began to play the scene Lockhart had first viewed.
"Where is Professor Lockhart? Why didn't he come?" Professor McGonagall quickly asked.
The Little Goldie spread its paws; it didn't know.
In fact, Lockhart really was busy.
The moment the Little Goldie left, the faint Ghost Ship materialized. A long chain swung out, and the heavy anchor at its end hooked toward the Muggle's corpse on the ground.
Simultaneously, a silver body began to float out of the Muggle, fearfully looking up at the faintly swaying massive veil in the distance.
"I'm dead?" The Muggle was in disbelief. "Is that the Beyond?"
Unfortunately, he wouldn't reach the Beyond.
A huge anchor smashed into his body, passed through him, and firmly trapped his translucent body on the chain.
The chain jerked back, and he was horrifyingly pulled up, floating.
"No! No! Where are you taking me?"
Lockhart watched for a moment, curious, but he didn't want the Ghost Ship to collect someone so deeply hateful and resentful of wizards into his "Home."
He waved his wand. The chain suddenly contracted, flinging the Muggle's body away, letting it drift toward the veil.
"Then, what about me?" A voice came from the deck of the Ghost Ship.
Lockhart looked up and saw another figure, silent and standing on the deck, also pierced by the anchor chain.
"Tom—"
Tom flew down from the deck, the chain extending from his body to the ship clanking loudly.
Finally, he stood before Lockhart, his lips pressed tight. "Professor Lockhart, what about me?"
"How do you plan to deal with me now?"
Lockhart spread his hands. "I don't know."
Tom grew anxious, shouting in disbelief, "You don't know?"
Lockhart pursed his lips. "I can't let you go, allowing you to re-enter human society to start a war purely for your own benefit. That would be too great a sin."
"But I also feel that killing you would be somewhat unjustified, considering you've helped me so much."
Saying this, he pointed at the huge veil. "If you could go there, I'd let you go."
Tom was furious. "You know I can't go there! Voldemort is still alive; I am one with him!"
So, Lockhart helplessly spread his hands again.
Tom paced back and forth restlessly. He was angry but knew he couldn't let it show. He didn't dare to direct his anger at Lockhart, nor did he dare to push Lockhart toward the option of simply destroying him.
He felt deeply wronged. "I don't even know what I am now! A ghost? A Horcrux? No, I seem to be neither! I don't even know what my place in this world is!"
"Non-existent," Lockhart provided a professional assessment.
"What!" Tom struggled to contain himself, grinding his teeth. "I am not a Dark Magic creature!"
Wasn't he?
Lockhart didn't bother to argue.
Tom also fell silent.
After a long while.
"Tell me, Professor Lockhart, since I still call you Professor Lockhart, tell me, what exactly should I do?" Tom looked down at the chains on his body, filled with despair.
Lockhart still didn't know.
He never demanded that others do things a certain way. Even when teaching young, confused students, he simply tried to provide more possibilities and platforms, then let them flourish.
The same went for those who had sworn fealty to him: Rita Skeeter, Dolores Umbridge, Korban Alex, Madam Mary, Vincent Crabbe, and Percy Weasley.
He never demanded what they had to do; he simply said, Fine, I'll give you a chance.
"I'll give you a chance," Lockhart said, thinking for a moment, looking at Tom. "One thing needs to be clarified: regarding me reading your memories, I can't 'digest and absorb' every single one."
Tom answered with a touch of arrogance. "I know. We have to admit this sometimes. It's not that we choose magic, but that magic chooses us. If it's not yours, forcefully taking it won't make it yours."
Oh-ho, you actually understand this principle.
He could talk the talk, but he certainly didn't walk the walk.
Lockhart couldn't be bothered to criticize Tom, continuing, "Dark Magic creature cultivation and defense, and charms, I can absorb almost all of these. But the Potions section of your memory—even having the memory, I find it difficult to fully grasp."
It was a state that was hard to describe.
"It's in my mind, but it's like a memory buried deep in my heart. Without deliberate stimulus or conscious effort, I usually can't recall any of it," he gestured helplessly to his head. "It's scattered in the corner of my memory, piling up into a heap of meaningless garbage."
From the perspective of his current research, these memories lacked 'vitality'; they were dead.
These lifeless memories weren't just undigested external memories; some of his own memories were the same.
Memorized without understanding, they sank into the depths of memory, becoming meaningless.
"I want you to write them down."
Lockhart offered him an opportunity. "Write them down in a way that even the dullest young wizard can understand."
Tom smiled, a mocking, sarcastic look on his face. "So you can publish a new book?"
Tom knew about Lockhart's previous books. During his time with Ginny, he had looked at them as textbooks, a way to familiarize himself with the professor. He instantly saw that the information sources in those books were problematic. After Lockhart's repeated memory manipulation, even the foolish would figure it out.
"That's not the point." Lockhart didn't find it funny; he looked at Tom seriously. "Tom, it's undeniable that you are Voldemort. You should know the great sins you committed and how many people you killed. Even if you don't believe you should be held responsible for Voldemort's evils, you still killed one of your classmates to create this Horcrux using the power of death."
Tom remained silent, only nodding. He accepted this fact.
"So, I'll give you a chance. You write down all your Potions achievements, from the simplest to the most profound. I will help you disseminate them to society, helping more people receive treatment."
"Will you—"
He looked deeply at Tom. "—do it?"
Tom pursed his lips. "If I do it, will you let me go?"
Lockhart shook his head. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Tom laughed in disbelief.
Lockhart was honest. "You haven't done it yet. If you do it, and save so many people, my state of mind will definitely be different then. I can't know now whether I'll be moved by your contribution."
"Don't ask for the result; just go and do it first. Once you have achieved something and made a change, everything else will come naturally."
Tom was unwilling, but he took the parchment, ink, and quill that the Boggart had retrieved from the house.
"Fine!"
"I'll do it!"
He actually didn't trust anyone else's promises. But he trusted his judgment of people. Professor Lockhart was different. He knew he should produce results first before he could negotiate with Lockhart about his fate.
Sometimes, life is like this: just do good deeds, and don't worry about the future; the future will come naturally.