Hogwarts Bastard Professor

On Saturday morning, Harry set off with the professors under Hermione's envious gaze. 

Over breakfast in the Great Hall, Professor Lockhart had pulled Harry and Draco aside to ask for their input. If either of them had hesitated, he'd planned to swap them out for someone else. 

Hermione secretly wished Draco would chicken out—then she could tag along with her idol. 

No such luck. Draco looked positively smug, not even considering backing down. 

And so, here they were. 

Professor Lockhart, Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, Harry, and Draco zipped through the Floo Network and arrived at a cozy vineyard cottage near the Eckert family castle. 

Little Eckert, a tall, lanky middle-aged wizard, greeted them. Dressed in an Auror-style tactical coat, he carried the kind of commanding presence you'd expect from a politician. Rumor had it he was the liaison head for the "Auror Coordination Office" at the International Confederation of Wizards. 

When he spotted Snape, he froze for a split second, his smile faltering. He shot a quick glance at his aunt, McGonagall. 

Lockhart didn't need to guess what was going on. 

Voldemort's war, fought all those years ago for the glory of pure-blood families, still cast a long shadow. Old pure-blood families like the Eckerts might not have openly picked a side, but behind closed doors? Support was almost a given. 

It wasn't about right or wrong—just pure self-interest. 

Even Dumbledore, as powerful as he was, couldn't force the elite to happily accept a fall in status or watch their centuries-old family legacies crumble. 

Snape, Voldemort's once-favored protégé—the only Death Eater to receive the Dark Lord's personal tutelage in magic—had surely crossed paths with the Eckerts back in the day. 

But the past was the past. Voldemort lost, and the Eckerts weren't about to back a failure. Some things weren't worth dwelling on. 

At least McGonagall, a steadfast Order of the Phoenix member, didn't seem to hold a grudge. 

Everyone exchanged polite greetings. Little Eckert clearly held "Aunt Minerva" in high regard. Flanked by two powerful wizards from his family, he led the group toward the castle. 

As they left the vineyard, an ancient castle came into view. Even from a distance, an eerie, unsettling tension crept into their hearts—dark, gloomy, and tinged with sorrow. 

Dark magical creatures were different from magical beasts. Their presence hit you hard, dragging up all sorts of negative emotions. 

Everyone instinctively slowed their pace. 

Even on a bright summer morning, it felt like stepping into a damp, sinister cavern. 

Lockhart, cradling a pot of vibrant green saplings in one hand and his wand in the other, didn't falter. Within a few steps, he'd already pulled ahead of the group. 

Fear, he knew, came from the unknown. 

The dark creature in this castle—a "Wailing Wraith"—had killed a house-elf, making everyone wary. 

But Lockhart? He understood. 

He understood too well. 

At the castle gates, he didn't rush inside. Instead, he crouched by the wall, inspecting the narrow gap where the stone met the earth. 

"Professor Lockhart, is something wrong?" Little Eckert asked, exchanging a puzzled glance with McGonagall. When she didn't offer an answer, he cautiously approached. 

"Look at these flowers," Lockhart said, pointing. 

The tiny blooms, barely the size of a thumbnail, looked like ordinary weeds. 

Little Eckert blinked, unsure what this meant. 

Lockhart waved Harry and Draco over, his tone turning instructive. "In ancient wizarding traditions, life and death are tied to the earth. It's where we feel both the sorrow of decay and the joy of new growth." 

"When dealing with dark creatures tied to life and death, the first step is to check the state of the earth around them. It tells you a lot about the creature's condition." 

His expression turned odd as he spoke. 

He'd noticed something similar at Hogwarts. Those same vibrant weeds had started sprouting in the castle's stone crevices and stair gaps. The diligent house-elves cleaned them daily, but it was a clue. 

It wasn't hard to guess—the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets was likely stirring, slithering through the castle's pipes. 

Most people wouldn't pick up on this. Especially since Voldemort's curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post had scared off experts, leaving Hogwarts short on knowledge in this area. 

In the books, even Dumbledore and McGonagall were clueless about the Basilisk. They could only watch as the Ministry pinned the blame on Hagrid, and the school governors seized the chance to oust Dumbledore as headmaster. 

So, in a year haunted by a half-dark creature like the Basilisk, how lucky was Hogwarts to have a dark creature expert like Lockhart? 

Well, not that Lockhart—the one from the books who knew plenty but lacked the guts to act. 

"Take a look at this," Lockhart said, digging into the crevice and pulling out a weed's root. He handed it to Snape, who'd leaned in for a closer look. 

"This weed…" Snape started, then paused, his eyes narrowing. He crushed the root, squeezing out its sap, rubbed it between his fingers, and sniffed it. "It's potent enough to be used in potions?" 

Lockhart grinned and nodded. "In wizarding fairy tales, evil witches used the sap of vibrant weeds like this to enchant queens, making them beautiful but bending them to their will. This is that kind of weed." 

"Dark creatures are a phenomenon. They change their environment, and the environment grows plants like these. It's a field herbology and potions scholars haven't fully explored." 

He brushed the dirt off his hands and stood. "Good news: based on these weeds, the Wailing Wraith isn't enraged. We might even be able to talk to it." 

Cradling the sapling pot, he flicked his wand. Mist swirled, and a faint, ghostly gray wolf trotted out from the haze. 

The wolf wagged its tail at him, then darted toward the castle. 

"Come on, keep up!" Lockhart called, striding confidently through the gates. 

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