Hogwarts Bastard Professor

After securing the Pensieve, Lockhart headed toward the darkest corner of Knockturn Alley to meet a dangerous figure. 

—Mundungus Fletcher, the wizarding goods dealer. 

This shady character was worlds apart from Mr. Borgin. He had no principles, the kind of lowlife you'd compare to a rat skulking in a filthy gutter. 

If Borgin still clung to some pride as a member of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" pure-blood families and cared about maintaining influence among dark wizards, Mundungus was the complete opposite—a bottom-feeder who'd do anything for a profit. 

There was even a teatime anecdote among dark wizards: someone went to buy stolen goods from Mundungus, only to have their own belongings nicked during the deal and sold to someone else. 

As the saying goes, "Dragons tread dragon paths, rats scurry rat ways, and snakes slither snake trails." Mundungus had his own kind of survival smarts. 

He was a well-connected figure in the underbelly of the wizarding world, often handling high-end black-market goods. 

Take Felix Felicis, for example—something Lockhart couldn't get from Borgin. Mundungus was the guy who could. 

Brewing Felix Felicis wasn't exactly difficult. The process was complex, taking six months to complete, but any potion-maker with solid fundamentals could manage it. 

The catch? The brewer had to be lucky themselves. 

Forget the nebulous idea of luck working its magic—just managing to avoid any mishaps during the six-month brewing process was lucky in itself. 

So Felix Felicis was rare and wildly expensive. 

Dodging suspicious glares and creepy smirks along the way, Lockhart finally reached Mundungus's temporary hideout. 

He climbed a narrow, garbage-strewn staircase that reeked of something foul, then pushed open a creaky wooden door. Tall as he was, Lockhart had to duck to get through the low doorway. 

Clang! 

He nearly tripped over an empty wine bottle, stumbling a few steps before catching himself on an iron cage stacked with junk. A pair of glowing purple eyes snapped open inside. 

"!!!" 

Lockhart blinked, peering closer. Chained inside the cage, wearing an iron muzzle, was a juvenile Hebridean Black dragon. 

It was trembling, clearly terrified of the little golden creature that had poked its head out of Lockhart's robe pocket, eagerly staring at the dragon's purple eyes. 

"Gilderoy Lockhart~~~" a voice drawled, hoarse from a hangover and dripping with mockery. "My old mate, you've finally shown up." 

Lockhart turned toward the voice. In the corner, sprawled on a tattered, cracked single sofa, was a short, scruffy man with a stubbly beard. He raised his wine bottle in a mock toast and took a long swig. 

"I'm disguised like this, and you still recognized me?" Lockhart muttered under his breath about the man's sharp eyes, then pulled off his mask and lowered his hood as a sign of respect, flashing his signature perfect smile. "Hey, long time no see, Mundungus Fletcher." 

Mundungus stood, running a hand through his messy hair. He pulled a cigar box from his grimy dressing gown pocket and offered one to Lockhart. "Fancy a smoke?" 

Lockhart shook his head, chuckling. "No thanks. I'd rather not wake up passed out in a Knockturn Alley sewer, stripped bare." 

"Oh, you dreg, you've got no right to call me out," Mundungus teased. "At least I only nick coin." 

Lockhart's eyes narrowed, sensing Mundungus might've picked up on something, but he played dumb. Watching the man absentmindedly rub his side while searching for a lighter, Lockhart grinned. "Heard you got another beating from Moody?" 

Mundungus snorted, lighting his cigar and puffing away. It took a while to get it going, and when he did, he coughed violently. 

"American Wizarding Cigar Association's top-grade Dragon's Sleep Grass cigar—now that's the stuff!" he exclaimed, then scowled. "Mad-Eye Moody! That git's always had it out for me!" 

Lockhart scanned the dim room, finding no clean spot to sit, so he leaned against the dragon's cage, arms crossed. "Word is you were peddling contraband at the reunion again. That's why Moody gave you a taste of his righteous fist." 

Mundungus looked sour. "That bloody Gryffindor shouldn't even be at our Ravenclaw reunion!" 

"Come off it," Lockhart said dismissively. "Without Moody, the Hibiscus Ravenclaw reunion would've fallen apart ages ago." 

His eyes wandered to the pile of items nearby—fancy enamel plates and a matching ornate cabinet, probably nicked from some posh manor. 

Mundungus, eager to drop the Moody topic, told Lockhart to hang on and started rummaging through his chaotic pile of goods. 

Truth be told, Mundungus, the gutter rat, and Auror heavyweight Moody weren't just connected through the Ravenclaw reunion. Both were founding members of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. 

Yes, Mundungus was an Order member—fiercely loyal to Dumbledore, but only to Dumbledore. In the original story, he shamelessly looted Sirius Black's house after his death, including the locket Horcrux that Sirius's brother Regulus had died to secure. 

Lockhart suspected it was Mundungus's sharp eyes that tipped off Dumbledore about his memory-stealing habits in the original timeline. 

In the dim light, Lockhart's gaze darkened. His hand slipped into his robe pocket, stroking the little golden creature's head as he stared at Mundungus's back. 

"If you're thinking of whacking me on the head, I'd wait till I'm drunk," Mundungus said, turning around with a cigar in his mouth. He shambled over and shoved a small glass vial into Lockhart's hand. 

Lockhart rolled his eyes. "You always think the worst of people. I'm a man of the light, mate—I don't do that sort of thing!" 

"Yeah, yeah," Mundungus said, puffing out a cloud of thick smoke, his sharp eyes glinting oddly. "You're a Hogwarts professor now. Wouldn't surprise me if you end up a Ministry bigwig someday." 

Lockhart ignored the cryptic remark and examined the Felix Felicis. 

The potion typically came in a thumb-sized, teardrop-shaped glass vial—not just for aesthetics but because the shape made it easier to check the potion's condition. 

He held it up to the dingy yellow light hanging from the ceiling, inspecting the shimmering, twisting liquid inside. Then he tapped it with his wand, feeling the magical resonance through it, and nodded. 

"No issues?" Mundungus asked, staring at him through the cigar smoke. "That cost me a pretty penny to get!" 

"Yeah, right," Lockhart scoffed. "Who knows where you 'sourced' this from. It's already pricey—don't try inflating the value." 

Felix Felicis had a rough "market price" in dark wizard circles, where demand was high. Non-academy-trained wizards or those who flunked their potion classes often relied on it for brewing critical potions or crafting dark magical items. 

With enough transactions, a standard price had emerged. 

Lockhart tossed over a bulging sack of Galleons. "Count it." 

Mundungus weighed it in his hand and stuffed it into his dressing gown pocket. "Looks right." 

Since he was already here, Lockhart placed another order. "Keep an eye out for dark magical creatures." 

"Whoa, no way!" Mundungus choked on his cigar, coughing for a while, his brow furrowed. "I could get you Minister Fudge's underwear if you wanted, but dark creatures? Mate, I don't mess with that scary stuff!" 

Dark magical creatures were less "creatures" and more "phenomena." 

They weren't living things in the traditional sense—undying, unkillable, and even the most powerful wizards were at a disadvantage without specialized knowledge. 

Common ones, like Boggarts, Hogwarts' poltergeist Peeves, or Azkaban's Dementors, were manageable. But delve deeper, and you'd encounter truly terrifying things. 

If the wizarding schools hadn't made Boggarts a mandatory teaching topic, most wizards would be helpless against even those. 

"Information," Lockhart clarified, smirking at Mundungus's reaction. "I just want intel on dark creatures, not for you to haul one in." 

"Oh, info? That's my wheelhouse," Mundungus said, relieved. "Why not stick to being a comfy bestselling author or a posh professor in a nice office? Messing with that stuff is just asking for trouble." 

"Ever consider…" Lockhart shrugged, "that my books and teaching are about dark creatures? Read a book sometime, Mundungus. You're a Ravenclaw, after all." 

Mundungus cackled. "Ravenclaw? Ravenclaw breeds dregs, my old mate." 

It wasn't nice to say, but Ravenclaw's reputation for producing oddballs who veered into niche fields was almost as ingrained as Slytherin's for dark wizards and schemers, or Gryffindor's for Aurors and reckless fighters. Pure stereotype, but there it was. 

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