Forbidden Forest
Mere minutes after Ian and Aurora were whisked away by the house-elf Rabby, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed through the dense woodland. A towering Centaur, unmistakably the leader, emerged into the clearing, flanked by seven or eight others. Their keen eyes scanned the now-deserted scene.
The air still carried the lingering traces of magic and blood, an unmistakable testament to the battle that had taken place. Every Centaur stood alert, muscles coiled like bowstrings, ready for action.
Clearly, Rabby’s urgent warning to flee had not been mere bluster. The Centaur tribes of the Forbidden Forest almost universally regarded the vast expanse as their sovereign domain.
Classified as XXXX-level magical beings by the Ministry of Magic, Centaurs were formidable creatures. Their upper bodies bore the form of men, while their lower halves mirrored the strength and speed of fine stallions.
But beyond their physical prowess, their magic resistance, and their innate magical abilities, it was their tribal structure that made them a force few wizards could dare challenge alone.
“The disturbance originated here. A wizard engaged in fierce combat with something,” one of the Centaurs observed as he stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the clearing.
Despite their intelligence being on par with humans, Centaurs did not claim the title of ‘wizardkind.’ They identified as ‘beasts,’ refusing to share classification with hags and vampires.
“I sensed dark magic… similar to Fiendfyre… and an intense flash of light.”
The Centaur knelt beside the remains of the Manticore— its body cleaved into eight pieces, reduced to smoldering ash by Aurora’s cursed fire. His expression remained inscrutable, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed unease.
Their abilities extended beyond mere physicality. The Centaurs were famed for their talents in divination, though their methods differed vastly from those of human wizards. They read the stars, interpreting celestial alignments and natural omens to foretell the course of fate itself.
“Human wizards are contemptible!” A younger Centaur spat, his eyes burning with fury as he spoke. “They trespass upon our land! They invoke dark magic to slaughter the creatures of the Forbidden Forest! We should march upon the castle and declare war!”
His outburst sent a ripple of discomfort through the gathered Centaurs. War with Hogwarts was a perilous notion, one that could doom their entire kind. Fortunately, their leader was no fool.
“Oba, our forebears forged a pact with the humans of that castle,” The leader said sharply. His gaze bore down upon the young Centaur, who immediately averted his eyes in submission.
“I do not believe conflict with wizards is wise, not at such a precarious time.” The Centaur who had examined the ashes rose to his hooves, brushing dust from his hands.
The charred remnants of the battlefield— the scorched earth, the bone-white ash— had escaped the Centaurs’ notice. Their hooves left shallow but distinct impressions in the ground, marking their silent vigilance.
“Once the old wizard in that castle perishes, human magic will weaken,” Oba muttered, his frustration barely concealed. His territorial instincts flared like embers in his eyes, the fire of war still burning within him.
“And how many are we, compared to them?” The leader’s tone hardened, a warning laced within his words. “Discard your foolish notions— that is the only way to ensure survival.”
Oba clenched his jaw but lowered his head in reluctant acknowledgment.
To quell any lingering unrest, the leader tilted his gaze toward the sky, his expression unreadable as he spoke in a voice of quiet command.
“We must tread carefully. Consider this: the old celestial omens have shattered. What force could possibly unravel such an ancient prophecy?”
The weight of his words silenced the group. A shiver passed through the gathered Centaurs, as though something beyond their understanding loomed just beyond the veil of reality.
“That’s just a legend! Perhaps our ancestors wished only to frighten us!” Oba protested, his defiance mingled with disbelief. Yet, despite his skepticism, he dared not outright defy the leader’s wisdom.
“Why would they deceive us?” Another Centaur retorted, eyes narrowing. “Mind your tongue, fool.”
“Believe what you will,” The leader murmured, turning his gaze skyward. “But all can see that the seven stars our ancestors foretold have ignited. This is an omen unlike any before it. None among us would wish to see our kind vanish from history, reduced to the same fate as the elves.”
At his words, every Centaur lifted their gaze to the sky. The vast night sky stretched endlessly above them, an ocean of indigo where stars gleamed like pearls embedded in velvet. Among them, seven particular stars shone with an uncanny brilliance, ascending ever higher.
The pattern they formed defied description, yet to Centaur eyes, it spoke of ancient prophecies long buried in memory.
“Seven heralds shall sound their trumpets, and in the radiance of hope, suffering and exile shall be swept away… The will of the many cannot be halted.”
The Centaurs stood in solemn silence, the reflections of stars glinting in their dark eyes. Perhaps only they could perceive the faint, shifting hues that shimmered around the seven celestial bodies.
No matter their divinatory prowess, one truth echoed in the minds of every Centaur present: their blood carried knowledge lost to human wizards. Their prophecies, however cryptic, often spoke of fates beyond mortal understanding.
“Now, Oba,” The Centaur leader turned, his voice low but firm. “Study the sky. Observe the celestial omens and answer me this…”
He fixed the younger Centaur with an unyielding stare.
“This is a sign— a human wizard seeks to ascend beyond mortality. Whether they succeed or fail is immaterial. They dare to reach for divinity itself. Tell me, Oba, do you truly wish to challenge a species so unhinged in their ambition?”
In the quiet forest, the ancient oaks and evergreen shrubs swayed gently in the night breeze, casting elongated shadows across the mossy ground.
The Centaur leader’s words were met with silence.
Contrary to their reputation for boldness, the gathered Centaurs showed no trace of bravery in that moment. Instead, a heavy stillness settled among them, barely concealing their unease and apprehension.
“May the so-called angel foretold by fate never be born within Hogwarts. Only then might we find some measure of peace amidst the coming upheaval.”
…
After escorting Aurora back to the Slytherin common room, Ian silently memorized the password. One never knew when seemingly trivial knowledge might prove useful.
“See you tomorrow… and do try not to eat the house-elves. Who else would cook for us? Friendly creatures are off the menu— including those plump, round-faced chickens wandering Hogwarts.”
Ian wasn’t entirely sure whether Aurora had taken his repeated warnings to heart.
On his way back, Ian rummaged through his bulging robes. Aurora had handed him three eggs, each adorned with swirling greenish patterns.
In the dimly lit corridor, the eggs— only slightly larger than ordinary chicken eggs— emitted a faint glow, pulsating rhythmically as if breathing, giving off an uncanny sense of impending life.
Perhaps the Manticore had stolen these eggs for a midnight snack, or perhaps they were its own offspring. Ian found the latter explanation more likely.
After all, a Manticore that had lost its master— though technically free— shouldn’t have attacked Aurora so fiercely, unless it had no prior knowledge of her presence.
“Protecting its eggs is the most logical explanation… but why are they glowing? Could they be imbued with latent magic?” Ian held one up to his nose and sniffed.
A peculiar aroma wafted from the shell. With his years of culinary experience, Ian had the distinct feeling that this scent would pair well with tomatoes and a bit of minced garlic.
“And just a sprinkle of chopped herbs…”
He swallowed hard, likely influenced by Aurora’s peculiar eating habits.
If not for the high value of magical creature eggs, he might have considered a detour to the kitchen. It was only his empty pockets that prevented him from conceptualizing a new culinary series: ‘Magical Creatures in the Cauldron’.
Returning to his dormitory without incident, Ian continued to examine the three peculiar eggs.
Would hatching them and selling them be more profitable?
Or perhaps raising them himself and allowing them to multiply?
“These are Ministry-restricted contraband. They can only be sold discreetly in Knockturn Alley. Maybe I should take them to the Twilight Zone tomorrow night and raise them there.”
“Given the way time flows in the Twilight Zone… hmm, I might actually have a shot at becoming a master breeder of magical creatures.”
Having decided on a plan, Ian carefully placed the eggs in his suitcase and cast several concealment spells over them. Feeling reassured, he settled in for the night amid the soft snores of his roommates.
Before falling asleep, Ian noticed that Snape and Dumbledore were still nearby. The two seemed to have an unusual rapport, given that they had started what could only be described as an elaborate game of hide-and-seek outside the Headmaster’s office.
“Middle-aged wizards have more energy than I do,” He muttered with a yawn.
After a quick wash, Ian soon drifted into sleep. Unlike most young wizards, he had already mastered the art of controlling his dreams, allowing him to craft his own adventures at will.
“Damn it! We came to rescue the princess! Why did you put her in the cauldron too?!”
…
At the break of dawn, Hogwarts slowly stirred to life.
The first rays of sunlight shyly peeked through the castle’s towering windows, casting a golden glow over the ancient stone walls. The sky transitioned from deep blue to a delicate pink, then to a brilliant gold— nature’s own masterpiece unfolding over the sleeping world.
“Morning!”
“We’ve got Defense Against the Dark Arts today!”
“The new professor is Lockhart! My mum and dad divorced because of him!”
Students began spilling out of their dormitories, filling the corridors with laughter, chatter, and playful teasing. Some rubbed sleep from their eyes, while others were already brimming with energy, eager to face the day’s lessons and challenges.
It was an unmistakable divide— those who embraced their studies, and those who barely tolerated them.
‘Smack!’
‘Smack!’
Ian had been one of the last to sleep the night before, but thanks to a psychological shadow cast by Aurora, his usually controllable dreams had taken an unexpected turn.
As a result, he awoke unusually early— which is not entirely a bad thing, as in his dormitory, the earliest riser enjoyed a rather peculiar privilege: the right to deliver two well-placed slaps to the nearest sleeping roommate.
Having fulfilled this morning ritual, Ian stepped out of the dormitory only to witness a similar custom taking place elsewhere. A girl was slapping a boy across the face with great enthusiasm.
The words ‘”Why didn’t you brush your teeth?!”‘ echoed down the hallway.
Ian hastily covered his ears and quickened his pace.
He knew.
A new day full of vitality and energy had dawned over Hogwarts. Breakfast remained a hearty affair, yet Ian, with a slightly diminished appetite, settled for two vegetarian sandwiches.
With Halloween fast approaching, many young wizards were eagerly chattering about it over their morning meal. Ian gazed thoughtfully at the floating candles that flickered everlastingly above the Great Hall.
“What’s on your mind?” William, munching on a rasher of bacon, leaned in curiously.
“I’m thinking you should practice handling magical creatures more often and stop losing mine,” Ian muttered, recalling the rather frustrating dream he’d had the night before.
“Maybe you should just get a broomstick instead. I’m much better at handling those,” William quipped, well aware of Ian’s penchant for wildly imaginative dreams.
“What about me? What did I do last night?” Michael chimed in, not wanting to be left out. At just over ten years old, no one wanted to be the forgotten member of a trio.
Ian glanced at him, setting down his sandwich.
“I don’t know, Michael. Maybe you should ask William. He’s the one who lost you, not me.”
Michael let out a dramatic sigh.
The clever Ravenclaw frowned for a moment before grinning. “I bet I was off conquering the wizarding world. I’d make a great Dark Lord, wouldn’t I?”
Laughing, the three of them gathered their “The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection” textbooks and left the Great Hall.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was located on the second floor.
As one of the more peculiar subjects in the O.W.L. curriculum, Defense Against the Dark Arts had its own unique teaching methods. Unlike most classes, it was conducted separately for each House.
“No one’s here?”
“We’re the first!”
Having eaten quickly, they were the first to arrive.
When Ian and his two roommates pushed open the door, they were surprised to find the classroom devoid of desks and chairs. Everything had been moved elsewhere.
“I bet Lockhart sold off school property,” Michael declared confidently. “My mum says he’s a right piece of work. Apparently, handsome men are never trustworthy.”
Ian shot him a pointed look.
Michael quickly backtracked, “Of course, you’re the exception, Ian. My mum isn’t always right, you know.”
Then, as if struck by inspiration, he added eagerly, “Can I take care of William tonight? I promise I won’t lose him.”
William, who had been skimming through his textbook, suddenly perked up and lunged at Michael.
“Oi! I’m Ian’s favourite groom!”
The two began wrestling in the empty classroom.
“You two are ridiculous,” Ian remarked, blissfully unaware of his own hypocrisy.
Still, something about the room nagged at him. Why hadn’t Lockhart decorated the place with piles of his own books?
Given Lockhart’s nature, even if his autobiographies weren’t required reading, he surely would have found a way to distribute a few free copies in an attempt to boost his own popularity.
“Maybe the other students are helping him lug them in. Knowing him, he might be shameless enough to peddle them right in the middle of class.”
As Ian speculated, more Ravenclaw students trickled in. Among the early arrivals was Cho Chang, who made a beeline for him.
“Here.”
She handed him a small bag of coins. “Thirteen Galleons each. I sold five for you. Turns out your map is more popular than I expected.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think people would pay in full without even seeing it first.”
He opened the pouch, and a glimmer of gold met his eyes.
Perhaps, before Halloween, he could send gifts to the children at the orphanage. Of course, if the Ministry didn’t allow enchanted objects to be sent to Muggles, he might have to ask his rather ‘understanding’ uncle to exchange the Galleons for pounds. With winter fast approaching, his childhood friends could use thick blankets and new coats.
Ian wanted to make money.
For many reasons.
“It’s because the buyers are my friends, ones I’ve known since childhood,” Cho said, watching as Ian discreetly handed her a few more maps like some dodgy merchant in Knockturn Alley.
“Much appreciated, my dear friend… These are the improved versions! Consider them the premium edition.”
Pulling out his own money bag, Ian counted out a few Sickles to give Cho as commission.
He still found the wizarding currency system absurd. One Galleon equalled seventeen Sickles, and one Sickle equalled twenty-nine Knuts. Who came up with these numbers?
Wouldn’t a decimal system be far more sensible?
Perhaps the magical beings who first devised wizarding money had seventeen fingers and twenty-nine toes?
“No need.”
Cho Chang shook her head. “Consider it my tuition for future lessons. Last night’s class was amazing. It’s clear you’re far more advanced than the rest of us.”
Her voice carried genuine admiration, and for a moment, she seemed almost dazed— only snapping back to reality when she noticed that Ian had already tucked both money bags into his robes.
So fast.
It was so fast that it was almost dizzying.
“You’ve no idea how much effort I’ve put in behind the scenes!” Ian declared, ever ready to cultivate his image as a dedicated and hardworking student.
However.
Gilderoy Lockhart arrived at an inopportune moment.
“Good afternoon, everyone!”
His voice rang out grandly, brimming with the self-importance Ian had come to expect. As Lockhart swept into the room, an elegant cane in hand, his every movement seemed calculated to project effortless grace and charm.
A composed smile, an air of distinction— at first sight alone, several young witches gasped, their reactions not unlike those of star-struck fans.
“Lockhart! It’s really him!”
“Merlin’s beard! My mum adores him!”
“I heard he’s saved countless lives! A hero, second only to Harry Potter! Thank Merlin! And thank the late Professor Whoever!”
…
And it wasn’t just the witches.
A few young wizards, too, looked positively awed. After all, as one of the most famous adventurers and authors in the wizarding world, Gilderoy Lockhart was something of a celebrity in the magic-starved community.
“Good, good! I do love enthusiasm! This is precisely the welcome I envisioned.” Lockhart’s smile shone brilliantly, his delight practically radiating off him.
Of course.
Or perhaps he simply lacked the ability to conceal it. In any case, Ian could plainly sense the sheer confidence, pride, and eager anticipation rolling off the man— he was looking forward to putting on a performance.
Given his flair for self-promotion, Lockhart would undoubtedly relish the chance to play his usual role— embellishing his image with borrowed glory.
Ian wasn’t remotely surprised. Lockhart’s every move, every word, practically screamed, Look at me! I am the great wizard you’ve been waiting for!
This only deepened Ian’s impression of him as both theatrical and flamboyant.
“To be quite honest, before receiving Dumbledore’s invitation, I never imagined myself as a Professor.” Lockhart strode to the front of the room, pausing with a deliberate flourish to lean his cane against the desk. Then, flashing his most charming smile, he continued,
“But of course, this is a marvelous opportunity— an exciting new venture, one that makes me feel truly invigorated!”
His immaculately styled golden curls framed his face as his sharp eyes scanned the room, ensuring that every gaze remained firmly on him.
“I must say, your esteemed Headmaster has excellent taste. Believe me, there is no one more suited to this role than I. No one!” Lockhart beamed. “I know dark magic very well. Oh yes, I daresay even Dumbledore himself would vouch for that!”
Ian hadn’t even reacted yet—
But beside him, Michael had already curled his lip and muttered under his breath, “What a show-off.” Clearly, Michael wasn’t as taken with Lockhart as William was.
“Professor, there are no desks or chairs. Are we supposed to stand and hold our books for the entire class?” A student asked, raising their hand.
“Close your books and put them aside. We won’t be needing those today. I had the desks and chairs removed to show you that my class is a practical one.”
“In fact, not just today— every lesson I teach will be hands-on! That so-called ‘self-defense’ textbook? You won’t need it. If time permits, I may even write a proper one for you myself!”
“Of course, whether I find the time depends entirely on my mood.”
Ian suspected that Lockhart was already laying the groundwork to sell his own books. He was openly dismissing Hogwarts’ assigned reading, after all.
Ian raised his hand.
“Professor, how exactly are we supposed to practice?”
A troubling thought crossed his mind— was Lockhart about to have a first-years duel in class? Was he planning to start the Dueling Club a whole year ahead of schedule?
“I remember you, child. Ian Prince, correct? I do hope my recommendation helped you resolve your dilemma last night,” Lockhart said smoothly, calling him by name.
Ian inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
He must have stayed up late memorizing his students’ names.
Seeing Ian’s response, Lockhart’s dazzling smile brightened further.
“Practical learning, my boy, requires confrontation! Theory is the easiest part of this subject— you can study that in your own time! Why waste our precious moments together on it?”
Sure enough.
Ian had a bad feeling.
Gilderoy Lockhart continued expounding on his philosophy, his voice smooth and theatrical. “In truth, whether it’s Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Astronomy, or even Herbology, all of these subjects serve as prerequisites for this one. Only by excelling in them can you truly grasp the art of defending against the Dark Arts.”
He clasped his hands together, flashing a dazzling smile. “Yes, my dear students, true defense against the Dark Arts does not rely on any singular tool. One must use every resource at their disposal to confront danger. Even using certain… unconventional methods against dark magic is, at times, necessary.”
Gasps rippled through the class. Some of the young wizards even paled in horror.
That was Dark Magic.
A professor— a Hogwarts professor— was openly stating that combating Dark Magic with Dark Magic was permissible? For many students raised in wizarding households where such practices were strictly forbidden, this notion was difficult to swallow.
Were it not for the man speaking— renowned, published, and undeniably famous— someone might have outright challenged him. But while most students wrestled with their discomfort, Ian only felt mild surprise. He had little respect for Lockhart, but he had to admit: the man wasn’t exactly wrong.
After all, in a real confrontation with the Dark Arts, survival was the ultimate proof of success. If countering one dark spell with another was the only way to make it out alive, who could argue that wasn’t effective defense?
“Take your time to absorb this, let the idea settle,” Lockhart continued, waving a hand grandly. “One day, when you have seen as much as I have, experienced as much as I have, you will come to understand the wisdom of my words.”
With a flourish, he twirled his wand between his fingers, the polished wood gleaming under the classroom’s torchlight. The handle was adorned with small, glittering gems, arranged in what Ian suspected was an intentionally ostentatious display of wealth and taste.
“Professor, can you show us some Dark Magic?” A bold student had recovered enough to raise their hand, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Lockhart, however, merely chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, my dear child, while I admire your eagerness, I’m afraid it is far too early for students your age to be exposed to such things. I doubt our dear Headmaster would approve of me demonstrating actual Dark Magic in class.”
Ian resisted the urge to scoff.
‘That was convenient.’
Once again, Lockhart had expertly twisted the conversation, making it seem as though he ‘wanted’ to show them but was being unfairly restricted by school rules. A clever excuse— one that let him escape performing anything of substance.
Ian’s last hopes for this class withered. Would Lockhart just spend every lesson spinning tales instead of actually teaching them anything useful?
“Professor, you said this would be a practical class,” William suddenly interjected, a knowing glint in his eye. “Will we be practicing with an Irish Leprechaun? Forgive me for accidentally spotting one in your office yesterday.”
The room collectively perked up. Excited murmurs broke out amongst the students. Having arrived to find the classroom void of desks and chairs, they had begun to worry about what was in store. If Lockhart had prepared a Leprechaun, then perhaps this lesson ‘would’ involve something tangible after all.
Lockhart arched an eyebrow at William but showed no signs of irritation. “No need to apologize, my boy. What you saw was merely a remnant of my predecessor’s collection. I would never dream of using ‘another professor’s’ materials for my own lessons. That simply wouldn’t be…authentic.”
Ian wasn’t sure what was more amusing— Lockhart’s blatant deflection or the way he made “authentic” sound like the highest virtue one could possess.
Then Lockhart’s gaze swept across the room, finally settling on Ian. His stare was pointed, and Ian, who wasn’t particularly thrilled to be in the spotlight, stiffened slightly.
“Ah? Professor, are you planning to use ‘me’ for today’s lesson?” Ian asked warily.
Lockhart threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh. “Ha! Of course not, my dear boy. I’m merely a touch disappointed. I had expected more from the student Dumbledore himself speaks so highly of! You didn’t even notice the little surprises I set up.” He leaned forward, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. “Child, let this be your first lesson— ‘always’ remain vigilant. A good wizard never lets his guard down.”
His voice dipped, drawing the class in. “Do not assume that just because you are within Hogwarts’ walls, you are completely safe. Danger lurks in places you’d least expect… and I intend to prove it to you.”
With that, Lockhart raised his wand and tapped the teacher’s desk.
The effect was instantaneous. The sturdy wooden surface shimmered, its texture liquefying as if it had been transfigured into molten wax. Before their eyes, it collapsed into a swirling pool of dark brown liquid.
Revealing the massive, iron-barred cage concealed within.
“No!”
“We’re going to die!”
“Aaaahhh!”
Panic erupted among the students. The moment the cage appeared, the temperature in the room plummeted. A damp, suffocating chill swept through the air, turning breath into mist. The atmosphere grew unbearably heavy, pressing down on their chests like an invisible weight.
Dark and cold.
The kind of cold that seeped into bones, chilling not just the body but something deeper— something ‘primal.’
Fear.
It was unseen, yet felt by all. A phantom grip tightening around their minds, their instincts screaming at them to flee.
“What…?! What ‘is’ that?!” William shouted, instinctively reaching out to grab Ian and Michael, prepared to make a run for it.
But as they turned toward the exit, a terrifying realization struck them.
The classroom door had shut. Locked. Sealed tight.
It was not just them. No one was getting out.
Michael’s face was ashen with fear, and many students collapsed to the ground, scrambling backward in terror. Even Ian wore an expression of disbelief.
There was no mistaking it.
Ian had never expected to see such a presence in Defense Against the Dark Arts— a towering, hooded figure hunched inside a cage, its face entirely shrouded in shadow. Its skeletal hands, gray and withered like those of a long-dead corpse, curled around the iron bars.
“Dementor!”
Ian’s eyes widened in shock.
How in Merlin’s name did Gilderoy Lockhart think this was remotely acceptable? Did he not understand his own limitations? Was he trying to turn the classroom into a miniature Azkaban?!
A glance around at his classmates told him everything.
Fear. Pure, undiluted fear. Young wizards were trembling violently, some already unconscious, others rolling their eyes back as they fought against the soul-chilling despair.
The light in the room seemed to wane.
Not just the torchlight— joy itself was being drained from the space. Ian found it incomprehensible. How had Lockhart managed to smuggle a Dementor into the school?
Where was Dumbledore?!
Frantically, Ian yanked out his Marauder’s Map. As he suspected, the Headmaster’s name was nowhere to be seen.
Snape’s, too.
“This has to be illegal!” Ian muttered, gripping the map tightly. There was no way Dumbledore had sanctioned this. Lockhart must have pulled some ridiculous stunt to make this happen.
Hogwarts really did have more security gaps than a sieve.
“This is Defense Against the Dark Arts, Mr. Prince,” Lockhart declared smoothly, standing closest to the caged Dementor. Even he seemed slightly affected, his eyes closed, his voice unusually cold and distant.
“You’re completely mad!”
Ian no longer cared about staying on Lockhart’s good side. He was likely the only student still standing unaffected, and as he scrutinized the Dementor more closely, a horrifying realization struck him.
This was the same one he had seen near the Owlery before.
Lockhart had somehow stolen a Ministry-assigned Dementor just to make himself look impressive!
How? Bribery? Persuasion? Something worse?
There was no time to dwell on it. His two roommates were already growing disoriented, Cho Chang and several other students barely breathing. The Dementor’s presence alone was rapidly siphoning their hope, their will to resist, their very sense of self.
And once the fear reached its peak, paralysis would set in.
The Dementor could not leave its cage— perhaps a deliberate precaution— but even from within, its mere glance was unbearable for the young witches and wizards.
Driven by instinct, it exuded its insatiable hunger, stretching its influence like unseen tendrils that smothered the room in darkness and despair.
“They can’t take much more of this! What kind of lesson do you think this is?!” Ian shouted. He was beginning to wonder if Lockhart was under the Imperius Curse. The real culprit behind the previous professor’s death was still at large, after all…
“They will learn,” Lockhart intoned, his voice eerily composed. “And so will you. This is reality, child. Do you think true enemies wait for you to come of age before striking?”
“After today, they will loathe their own weakness. And they will strive to become stronger.”
“Lumos!”
The brilliant light burst forth from Ian’s wand, piercing the gloom, forcing back the Dementor’s suffocating aura. The air warmed slightly, but it wasn’t enough. No mere light spell could banish such a creature.
Ian locked eyes with the Dementor.
For the briefest moment, he felt something— an understanding, an unnatural connection. But before he could process it—
“Impressive Lumos,” Lockhart murmured, suddenly opening his eyes.
Ian froze.
Those eyes— blue, piercing, unreadable.
For the first time, Lockhart’s usual vanity was absent. Instead, he radiated an unnerving sharpness, a presence that sent a shiver down Ian’s spine. For a fleeting second, Ian questioned everything— was this truly Lockhart? Or had someone far more dangerous taken his place?
His unease deepened.
“The Lumos Charm, however brilliant, cannot repel a Dementor,” Lockhart continued, raising his wand. “No matter how bright the light of your heart is, it is not enough. The correct way—”
Ian tried to aim his wand at him.
But his left arm was suddenly frozen mid-air, locked in place as though trapped in invisible chains. His wand remained in his grasp, yet he couldn’t move it to attack Lockhart.
“Protego Diabolica!”
A circle of eerie, spectral flames erupted around Ian, a technique taught by his Friend’s grandfather, Gellert Grindelwald, in ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’.
The searing flames offered some protection, their wild, living forms twisting hungrily, keeping any magic at bay. But Ian didn’t just intend to defend.
“There!”
With a flick of his fingers, the cursed flames lashed toward Lockhart, who stood perilously close to the Dementor’s cage.
Was it someone with an Imperius Curse victim or a Polyjuice imposter— it didn’t matter. Lockhart had brought a Dementor into a classroom full of children. That alone justified Ian’s actions.
Strike first.
Then he will think about the consequences of his actions.
After all, attack was the best defense.
“Ha. Well learned.” Lockhart deflected the flames with a smooth flick of his wand as he spoke.
“But that is not today’s lesson. Watch closely, child. The correct way to counter a Dementor…”
He lifted his wand higher.
Ian tensed, prepared for anything.
Then—
“Expecto Patronum!”
Lockhart’s voice rang through the classroom, steady and unwavering.
At the tip of his wand, a silvery mist gathered, thick and luminous. A warmth unlike anything else filled the air, pushing back the suffocating dread.
The wand pulsed, activated by something deeper than mere magic.
A force ancient, powerful.
And beautiful.
(End of this chapter)