Lockhart couldn't find Hagrid—probably because he'd already set off for Hogsmeade Station, where the Hogwarts Express would soon arrive with the young witches and wizards.
Leaving Hagrid's gamekeeper hut behind, Lockhart did, however, run into Professor Pomona Sprout, the Herbology expert. She was near the Black Lake, hauling some freshly sunbathed magical plants from a rocky patch toward the greenhouses. The plants looked like chubby little babies, their roots dangling into the soil-filled pots.
Lockhart hurried over to lend a hand.
"Oh, thank you!" Professor Sprout said, her hair a bit whiter and her face more weathered than Lockhart remembered.
"No trouble at all," he replied with a dazzling smile. "As the student who earned the most house points from you back in the day, I figure I ought to step up."
Sprout paused, unsure if that was entirely true. Lockhart had certainly been a lively one, always eager to show off for house points. Rumor had it he'd memorized the entire textbook, raising his hand at every opportunity to answer questions and racking up points from nearly every professor. Memorizing textbooks was commendable, and professors weren't stingy with rewarding points, but Lockhart's enthusiasm for the spotlight had fizzled out after a while.
Sprout looked at him with a warm, almost grandmotherly smile. "Yes, you were quite the standout back then. But now you're all grown up, a professor at Hogwarts. I hope you'll keep shining."
Lockhart felt a twinge of emotion. *Really.* Since arriving at the school, he'd plastered on his brightest smiles, yet no one had offered him a shred of genuine kindness until now.
"Professor Sprout…" His grin softened, less dazzling, more sincere. "Thank you."
For once, Lockhart didn't bring up his self-serving book deal plans. Instead, he quietly helped Sprout organize the greenhouse, preparing materials for the upcoming term. The most peculiar plants were those chubby, baby-like ones that had just been basking in the sun.
Back in the greenhouse, they seemed to shrivel, losing moisture and looking almost monstrously withered. These were Mandrakes, key ingredients in many antidotes and potent restorative potions. In the wizarding world, they were incredibly valuable and rare. Most found on the market were wild-grown, but Professor Sprout? She was skilled enough to cultivate them in bulk—a feat both impressive and dangerous.
A mature Mandrake's scream sounded like a wailing infant and could kill anyone who heard it. Even the juvenile plants were risky, capable of knocking someone out for hours. And here, in the greenhouse, there were over a hundred of them. If they all screamed at once, the combined sound would be catastrophic.
"We need to get these buried back in the soil before they wake up," Sprout said. "Just to be safe, we'll need earmuffs. Where did I put those earmuffs?" She stood, scanning the cluttered greenhouse, then smacked her forehead. "Oh, Merlin, my memory! I'll go grab them. Wait here."
She took a few steps, then paused. "Or, if you've got other things to do, I can manage."
Lockhart just smiled and shook his head. "No, I'll wait."
"You're a good lad, Lockhart," Sprout said warmly before hurrying off.
Once she was gone, Lockhart stayed put, careful not to touch anything. Sprout's greenhouse was no safer than the Forbidden Forest. It was filled with dangerous plants banned from trade by the Ministry—some downright deadly. Take the massive, claw-like vine in the corner: a Venomous Tentacula. Its toxic tendrils could seize passing creatures, inject lethal venom, and drag them to its toothy maw. Lockhart had no desire to test its reputation, even if he knew a single leaf could fetch 10 Galleons.
He'd read in novels from his past life that Hagrid was often jokingly called Hogwarts' secret millionaire. But in truth, every professor here could easily amass wealth beyond most wizards' dreams.
Crouching quietly by the hundred-plus Mandrake seedlings, Lockhart felt an odd calm settle over him, as if his whirlwind of a life since crossing into this world had finally paused. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the greenhouse roof, dust motes dancing in the beam. His thoughts drifted.
He was grateful for this second chance at life. Not for the fame or fortune his predecessor, Lockhart, had accumulated, but for the sheer *aliveness* of it all. In his past life, the final five years were spent immobile in a hospital bed, a fate that made him cherish every vibrant moment now.
But it was almost *too* vibrant.
He frowned, feeling the flood of memories in his mind churn and boil. As they pieced themselves together, the emotions and experiences within them seemed to be reconstructing entire personalities—dozens of them. How could he handle this?
Dumbledore's Pensieve came to mind. It could extract memories from one's head, which might help. Borrowing it from Dumbledore was out of the question, but perhaps he could tap his old network—someone might know where to find such an artifact. They weren't *that* rare.
The catch? He relied heavily on these memories, and extracting them could risk exposing his secrets. *Slow down,* he told himself. *No rush.* These memories couldn't form real souls—just vivid fragments that, at worst, disrupted his ability to cast spells.
Sprout was gone longer than expected. Lockhart watched the sunlight shift through the roof's gap, inching across the greenhouse. Then, it hit the roots of a few Mandrake seedlings.
Like a switch, the light woke them. The shriveled, baby-like plants flailed their root-limbs and let out piercing screams. "Aaaaaah!"
Lockhart gasped, his head buzzing painfully. The cries triggered the others, and soon over a hundred Mandrakes were shrieking in unison, a cacophony that felt like it was shredding his mind. His soul seemed on the verge of tearing apart.
Miraculously, he didn't pass out. But the chaotic memories in his head churned into a jumbled mess, voices from countless pasts echoing wildly.
*Think!* He had to act fast.
His vast store of memories held the answer. Among them was the wisdom of a powerful jungle-dwelling witch: to quiet Mandrake seedlings, feed them something nutritious. The most rustic, down-to-earth method? Sprinkle a bit of urine on their screaming mouths. In professional terms, "fertilizing."
Simple, yet Lockhart bet most wizards didn't know this trick.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stumbled to his feet, fumbling with his belt.
---
"Merlin's beard!"
Professor Sprout, who'd been dragged into a rant about Lockhart's annoying habits by Snape, froze. The distant wail of Mandrakes echoed from the greenhouse. "This is my fault—I shouldn't have lingered talking!"
She drew her wand and bolted for the stairs. "Lockhart's still in there!"
Snape frowned, hesitated, then drew his wand and followed. He was faster than the aging Sprout—thanks to a Flying Charm taught to him by the Dark Lord himself, a skill only they shared. Leaping from the castle corridor, he soared to the ground and raced toward the greenhouse.
But then, something strange happened. The deafening screams stopped, one by one, until silence fell before they reached the greenhouse.
Did Lockhart kill Sprout's precious Mandrakes? Snape wondered with a touch of malice.
He paused, letting Sprout catch up, and they entered together, wary and confused. Sprout cared about her plants but was more concerned for Lockhart's safety—unlike Snape, whose thoughts were less charitable.
Inside, Sprout raised her wand, scanning for Lockhart, ready to administer aid. Instead, she found him calmly spraying her dragon dung nutrient solution onto the Mandrake seedlings.
"You…"
"You're alright?" she gasped.
Lockhart turned, flashing his signature charming grin. "Of course. This was no match for me."