Chapter 111: The Obsessive Lockhart

Only after finally shooing away Colin Creevey did Silven get to take his first bite of beef pie.

“Silven, did you go to Lockhart’s office?” Ron suddenly leaned over to ask.

“No, why?”

“Nothing, I just heard Lockhart stood like a specimen in front of his office all morning.”

“Not a specimen!” Hermione snapped. “Professor Lockhart is just waiting for an important guest.”

“He sure is important,” Ron muttered under his breath. “Everyone says he looks like a peacock.”

“That’s formal robes!” Hermione said. “Only worn on special occasions—and it’s the greatest respect you can show a guest.”

Silven cut another piece of pie. He thought he knew who Lockhart was waiting for—almost certainly Rita Skeeter.

That also meant the person who tipped off the Daily Prophet was Lockhart himself—he simply couldn’t resist the lure of front-page fame.

But why had Rita Skeeter approached him first?

He was just a wandmaker who played with wood and magical creatures (as Rita Skeeter had described Garrick).

He wasn’t completely unknown, but his only real fame was breaking into dorms twice—barely a topic among students, nothing compared to Lockhart.

So why had Rita Skeeter deliberately blocked him on the second-floor corridor, as if she’d known he’d come out of the library?

Tom Riddle?

A name surfaced unconsciously in Silven’s mind, deepening his suspicion of Lockhart.

But if Lockhart was behind this, why was he waiting outside his office?

Silven sighed. Good wand cores were rare, but Tom Riddle’s constant meddling was exhausting.

And many things he still didn’t know were Riddle’s doing—making him even more frustrated.

Silven couldn’t help blaming Dumbledore—how long had it been? Couldn’t he even find a student holding a diary?

If all else failed, he’d just tell Harry.

With Harry’s wit and courage, he’d surely break through every obstacle and find the basilisk and the diary.

Hmm, better not… Silven suddenly remembered Harry’s drowsy, half-asleep expression.

He already felt guilty pushing Colin Creevey onto Harry—this dangerous business with the Chamber and the basilisk? Better keep him out of it for now.

Wait a bit longer. And maybe it wasn’t Tom Riddle at all—he couldn’t possibly know Silven. Perhaps the note was just a special kind of magic.

Like, whoever read it first would automatically see a line designed to frighten them.

Such magic existed in many places at Hogwarts.

…

Though he thought this, after lunch Silven still found an excuse to visit Lockhart’s office.

Just as Ron said, Lockhart today looked exactly like a peacock.

His forget-me-not-blue formal robes were embroidered with intricate patterns, forming a giant “GL”—his initials.

White cuffs featured elaborate ruffles, each adorned with a brilliant amethyst, paired with a golden lace collar… Silven didn’t understand this design—maybe it was just the current trend.

He hadn’t been to a proper clothing shop in ages… aside from buying his school uniform.

“Oh—it’s Silven.” Lockhart’s face flickered with disappointment, then vanished, replaced by an overly warm smile. “Here for another autograph? You’re the greediest student I’ve ever met—but no matter. Who could refuse a little special treatment for a devoted admirer?”

As he spoke, Lockhart pulled out a massive peacock-feather quill.

“It’s not a book this time, Professor,” Silven forced himself not to show his distaste for the peacock feather.

The thing was hideous—more garish than a Quick-Quotes Quill, absurdly expensive. He doubted anyone but Lockhart would buy it.

“I need to borrow three books, but they’re in the Restricted Section,” Silven placed a parchment on the desk. “So I need a professor’s signature.”

Lockhart glanced down.

“Talking Books: Advanced Curse Guide,” “Singing Silverware and Talking Diaries,” “Dangerous Human Transfiguration.”

“You’re too young for this sort of thing,” Lockhart’s hand paused slightly, his eyes locking on the word “Curse.”

“Why not ask Minerva?”

“I think you understand curses better than Professor McGonagall,” Silven watched his expression. “In ‘Breaking Up with a Ghost,’ you used ginger root powder to break the curse of the Warrington Ghost.”

“Ah, yes—that’s right. ‘Breaking Up with a Ghost’ is probably my favorite book,” Lockhart beamed and signed the parchment with a sweeping stroke.

“I must warn you—don’t even think of doing anything wicked.”

“Of course, Professor,” Silven said.

Outside the office, he casually tore off the top two names on the parchment.

Those two books were made up—he’d invented them. The Restricted Section didn’t have them.

Yet he still saw no sign of deception on Lockhart’s face. Maybe he was just imagining things.

Silven entered the library and handed the remaining parchment to Mrs. Pince.

“‘Dangerous Human Transfiguration’?” She eyed him suspiciously, then stared harder at the ornate script of the signature. After a long pause, she said:

“Transfiguration again? Wait here.”

The signature had passed.

The transfiguration journals Silven had been reading mentioned this book repeatedly—and everyone’s opinion was strangely uniform.

Though clearly labeled a highly dangerous magical text, the human transfiguration techniques it described were simply too compelling to ignore.

In other words, it was widely accepted by the academic community—at least in the field of human transfiguration.

Silven had always wanted to read it, but McGonagall refused—this time, Lockhart had conveniently helped him get it.

Minutes later, Silven left the library with a thick book in a red cover.

When he returned to the common room, Ron was struggling with his homework as usual.

“Still eight inches short? I calculated it perfectly!”

“Then write bigger,” Harry said.

“It’s already as big as Neville’s.” Ron sighed.

“Harry?” Silven was surprised—he saw Harry idling in the common room!

Had Oliver Wood finally been dragged off by Dementors for abusing his team?

“We have a match tomorrow,” Harry explained. “Oliver gave us a day off—said it’s necessary pre-game relaxation. I slept until seven for the first time in days.”

Silven detected genuine happiness in his voice—just because he could sleep until seven… while Ron wouldn’t get out of bed before eight-thirty.

That was only because the castle stairs wasted time—if not, he’d sleep another twenty minutes.

Clearly, Dementors should’ve taken Oliver Wood—he’d clearly gone mad over Quidditch.

Just like Lockhart with front-page headlines.

“But you don’t look relaxed at all,” Silven sat down beside him.

Harry’s face was scrunched, his body tense—he seemed to be working with Ron, but his parchment was blank.

As for Ron’s… better not look. His Potions essay clearly treated Snape as less than human—he might even get fewer marks for turning in a blank parchment.

“Is tomorrow’s opponent strong?” Silven asked casually.

“Slytherin,” Harry said gloomily. “They’re average, but they’ve got seven Firebolt 2001s. We won’t stand a chance.”

“I told you—you should’ve replaced your broomstick handle with a giant wand,” Silven tempted. “Want to try? Give me one night—I’ll give you a brand-new Firebolt 2000.”

“N-no thanks,” Harry laughed nervously, declining.

Even setting aside whether a “wand-broom” met match regulations, Harry couldn’t be sure the broom would even fly after turning the handle into a wand.

But in Silven’s opinion, that didn’t matter.

The Quidditch rules only forbade players from using wands during the match—they never said you couldn’t turn the broom into a wand… no, that wouldn’t even be called a wand anymore.

A magical broom casting spells? That made perfect sense.

Seeing Silven still wanted to argue, Harry quickly changed the subject. “What’s that you’re holding?”

“Oh, just borrowed a book from the library,” Silven said. “Want to read it?”

“No thanks,” Harry shook his head quickly.

“Pity,” Silven said. “You’d never get this one normally—it needs a professor’s signature.”

Harry didn’t care—he was already struggling to finish his homework on time; he had no energy for books outside class.

“Will you come watch the match tomorrow?” Harry asked. “Last year, you were the only one from Gryffindor who didn’t show up.”

“Who says that? I was there,” Silven countered. “I remember you caught the Golden Snitch in five minutes.”

Silven had never been interested in Quidditch. After watching last year’s match, he found it dull.

But this year, he’d definitely go.

Most wizards loved Quidditch—especially the first match of the new term. Nearly every student and professor would be at the pitch.

Then the whole castle would be empty—and Silven thought that was unsafe.

The chance was small, but what if the basilisk came out again? He couldn’t keep turning to stone—another Petrifying Curse would shatter him for good.

So staying with the crowd was definitely safer.

…

(End of Chapter)