Hogwarts Bastard Professor

After buying the wand, Lockhart sent Ron back to Hogwarts. He had Ron use the fireplace at Ollivanders to return, making sure to check with Professor Sprout on the other side to confirm Ron arrived safely. Taking a second-year student off school grounds wasn't exactly by the book, and if Lockhart had dragged him to Knockturn Alley, full of dark wizards, Professor McGonagall would've had his head. 

At Diagon Alley, Lockhart stopped by Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions to pick up a black wizarding robe with a large hood. He also grabbed a quirky mask with the "WW" logo of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, handed out during their anniversary celebration, before heading to the Leaky Cauldron at the alley's entrance. 

Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, offered some under-the-table services, like letting folks use a guest room to change. It's a common thing at this pub, sitting right at the crossroads of Knockturn Alley, Diagon Alley, and the Muggle world beyond. 

Lockhart gave Tom a subtle nod, and the old man, without missing a beat, grabbed an oil lamp and led him down a dim corridor to a small room on the second floor. After changing, Lockhart slipped down a hidden staircase that led straight into Knockturn Alley. 

Everyone knew Gilderoy Lockhart, the internationally famous author. Some desperate dark wizards wouldn't think twice about trying to make a quick Galleon off him. His public persona didn't exactly scream "Knockturn Alley regular," so he disguised himself as a shady dark wizard. Draped in his hooded robe and mask, he blended right in—sneaky figures like him were a dime a dozen in this part of town. 

He made his way to Borgin and Burkes in no time. It was hard to miss—the shop was the biggest and best-located in Knockturn Alley, a standalone building with two large, curved windows proudly displaying rare magical items, as if daring the street's shady characters to try anything. 

When he arrived, a striking young woman from a pure-blood family—one of Lockhart's obsessive fans who'd once sent him a swimsuit photo—was browsing antique jewelry. That letter, received the day he arrived in this world, had lit a fire under him, sparking his excitement for the wizarding world. But he didn't approach her. Instead, he waited patiently, keeping a hand inside his robe to calm his excitable little golden creature. The thing was practically vibrating with glee in a shop full of shiny treasures, unbothered by the protective curses Mr. Borgin had placed on the merchandise. Still, letting it loose wouldn't be wise. 

Once the woman left, satisfied with her new jewelry, Lockhart approached the counter. Before he could get close, a gilded mummy sarcophagus by the counter started rattling violently. Mr. Borgin's face darkened, and he whipped out his wand, pointing it at Lockhart. "Stop right there! What do you want?" 

Lockhart froze, staring down the wand. This wasn't like dealing with Dumbledore or McGonagall. The dark wizards of Knockturn Alley wouldn't hesitate to throw a hex first and ask questions later. With his current skills—or lack thereof—he'd be toast in a fight. He was basically a Muggle in a wizard's robe. Even a probing spell would expose him. 

But he couldn't show weakness. "Pointing a wand at me isn't exactly polite," Lockhart said coolly, giving his robe pocket a light pat to soothe his creature. The dark magical beast had clearly triggered the shop's defensive artifacts. "It's me, Mr. Borgin." 

Turning his back to the shop door, he briefly lifted his mask, just long enough for Borgin to recognize him, then slipped it back on. 

"I don't know what's in your pocket, but keep it under control!" Borgin snapped, tapping the sarcophagus with his wand to quiet it. He reached behind the counter and pulled out a box, opening it to reveal a crystal skull with a long, pointed beak—larger than a human skull, not counting the beak. 

"What's this?" Lockhart asked, intrigued. Even with all his knowledge, he hadn't seen everything. 

"You've got terrible timing," Borgin said. "The family that makes Pensieves is caught up in some messy inheritance drama, so no one's crafting them right now. And the American supply chain's been shut down by Aurors. No shipments coming through." 

He lifted the skull from the box, setting it on the counter and flipping open the jaw to reveal its hollow interior. It looked oddly like an ancient bronze wine goblet from Lockhart's old world. "This one's used, but I had someone clean out the residual memories with a potion. If you're not picky, you can use it like a brand-new Pensieve." 

Borgin was upfront with Lockhart, a regular customer and supplier. "It's got a unique look," Lockhart said, picking up the skull and finding it surprisingly light. 

"Made from a serpent's skull, using ancient Egyptian crystal fossilization techniques. It's incredibly valuable," Borgin said, sighing with regret. "The craftsmanship is top-tier, especially with the serpent's properties, but there was an… incident during the trade. The previous owner, who knew the control phrase, didn't make it." 

An incident? Lockhart thought. More like someone got greedy and killed for it, leaving the secret phrase locked in a dead man's mind. 

Serpents, magical creatures that could shrink to fit in a teapot or grow larger than a dragon, were perfect for crafting portable magical items. But without the phrase to control its size-changing ability, this Pensieve was stuck. 

"Luckily, this works too," Borgin said, pulling out a small, rough-looking sack made of coarse burlap. He stuffed the large crystal skull into the tiny bag with ease, thanks to an Undetectable Extension Charm. Lockhart's eyes lit up—those charms were rare, heavily regulated by the Ministry and the International Confederation of Wizards. Even the black market rarely had them. 

Still, he played it cool, giving the sack a disdainful glance. "You think this is the same, Borgin?" 

Borgin tossed the sack onto the counter with a shrug. "Close enough." 

Lockhart snorted. "How much?" 

Borgin's eyes glinted with a sly, merchant's grin as he rubbed his hands together. "That batch of goods you had me handle last time? The price evens out. We're square." 

Lockhart's face darkened as he rifled through his memories. "Square? That's not right, Borgin." 

This sneaky git! Forgetting his lack of magical skill, Lockhart slammed the counter, leaning forward with a dangerous glint in his eyes. Borgin flinched, clearly intimidated. In his mind, Lockhart was a ruthless dealer who always brought high-quality, questionable goods. Swallowing hard, Borgin tried to explain. "A regular Pensieve would be cheaper, sure, but this is top-of-the-line craftsmanship! Not some clay or stone knockoff. The crystal fossilization process alone—" 

"It's secondhand," Lockhart cut in coldly. 

"You can use it like it's new! No difference!" Borgin protested. 

"It's a serpent skull, sure, but without the control phrase, it's useless for what it was designed for," Lockhart said, his voice dripping with disdain. 

A buyer who complains is a buyer who's serious. Borgin knew this. He leaned forward, glaring. "You need to appreciate quality!" 

Quality? Lockhart's eyes swept the shop, recognizing many items. A shriveled hand in a glass case—the Hand of Glory, made from a greedy gambler's hand, its candlelight visible only to its holder. A grotesque wooden mask on the wall, used by African wizard tribes, radiating fear and mental distortion. A black cabinet, the twin to the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts, later repaired by Draco Malfoy. An opal necklace, cursed to kill, displayed prominently for its infamous history of nineteen Muggle deaths. 

He knew his stuff. Digging into his memories and the books, Lockhart grabbed a glass jar from a shelf, containing a spinning magical eyeball. Placing it next to the sack, he said, "Add this, and we're square." 

"No way!" Borgin shouted. 

"I know you're still making a profit, you greedy snake," Lockhart shot back. "That batch I brought you was hard-won. You know that." 

"You're greedier than me, you pompous writer!" Borgin slammed the counter. "Do you know how rare that magical eye is? Mad-Eye Moody has one, and it's why he's so formidable!" 

"Oh, really?" Lockhart crossed his arms, smirking. "I bet Moody knows where his eye came from. I don't know the first thing about this one's origins." 

"Rumor has it these eyes are made in pairs. I don't know if the other one's lost, destroyed, or in the hands of someone waiting to curse the owner of this one." 

Borgin gave a creepy, fake smile. "If you know that, you still want it?" 

Lockhart grinned wickedly, pulling his golden creature out by the scruff of its neck. Even though it stayed calm as promised, its presence sent a chill of primal fear through anyone who looked at it. Borgin screamed, "A three-handed beast? Get that monster away from me!" 

Lockhart chuckled. "Oh, I want it. This eye's just a toy for my little friend." 

The creature's eyes gleamed at the spinning eyeball, whimpering excitedly. "See? It loves it," Lockhart said, raising an eyebrow at Borgin. 

"I'm losing money here," Borgin muttered, backing against the sarcophagus, still uneasy. After a moment's hesitation, he waved dismissively. "Fine, take it! But next time, leave that monster outside!" 

The deal was done. Lockhart had shown off his creature to make it clear the eye would be in its possession—anyone trying to curse it through a paired eye would regret it. But it wasn't just a toy. Lockhart knew what was coming to Hogwarts that year: the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. This magical eye could let him face the serpent without turning to stone. 

Danger was coming, and he was ready.