Chapter 18: 0018 **A Dangerous Experiment**
Everything was ready. Back in his office at Hogwarts, Gilderoy Lockhart's face grew increasingly grim.
Magical experiments were synonymous with danger, brimming with countless unknown risks. Far too many witches and wizards had met their end tinkering with magic. Take Luna Lovegood's mother—blown to bits in a spell experiment when Luna was nine, leaving the "loony" girl able to see Thestrals. Cases like that were a dime a dozen.
Even something as basic as brewing a simple potion could go wrong without a master like Snape watching like a hawk. Outside Hogwarts, rogue dark wizards and graduated witches didn't have that luxury. Every year, the *Daily Prophet* tucked away stories of a few deaths or maimings from botched experiments in the corner of the paper—too common to make headlines.
Take asphodel, a common potion ingredient. Its roots were prone to infection by a nasty fungus called *Ledochikius*. Imagine tossing a contaminated root into a cauldron—boom, disaster. That kind of thing would *never* happen at Hogwarts. The school's governors, whose own kids studied here, made sure expert herbologists vetted every ingredient before it reached the potions classroom.
So, yeah, you could never be too careful with magical experiments.
Lockhart triple-checked his setup: a crystal Pensieve carved with Occamy skulls, a vial of Felix Felicis, and his brand-new wand. He tested the wand again, but aside from a successful Memory Charm, even a simple Levitation Charm only made the papers on his desk twitch.
He didn't let it get him down. The fact that he could *feel* the magic coursing through him—stronger than the old Lockhart ever had—was enough to keep him hopeful.
"What else do I need?" he muttered, racking his brain. Then it hit him. He strode to his desk and scribbled notes to Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco, asking them to swing by his office after dinner for "extra training." If things went south, those kids could fetch another professor for help.
He'd considered calling in the N.E.W.T. students, but they were probably off enjoying their weekend in Hogsmeade, flirting or whatever sixth- and seventh-years did. Harry and his gang, though? They were always free, bless their idle little hearts.
After sending the letters via owl, Lockhart hung a sign on his door: *Magical Experiment in Progress—Do Not Disturb*. He locked the windows, grabbed his Bowtruckle, and gave it a stern talking-to.
"I got you that toy, so you'd better step up if things go sideways, got it?"
The Bowtruckle blinked its golden eyes, nodding obediently while clutching its new toy—a charmed eyeball that wriggled slightly. It scurried to the door and squatted there like a tiny, fuzzy guard.
"Good," Lockhart said, satisfied. He popped open the Felix Felicis, took a small sip, and rubbed his face, trying to calm his nerves.
"Gotta stay cool," he told himself, taking deep breaths to channel the effortless swagger of the old Lockhart. That carefree confidence was the key to casting smoothly—overthinking just scrambled your magic.
Extracting memories was simple enough. He pressed his wand to his temple, gently, slowly, carefully drawing out a silvery, thread-like strand of memory.
With a flick, he sent it into the Pensieve. The crystal basin, etched with Occamy skulls, glowed softly, its surface rippling with mysterious runes. The silvery strand dissolved into a misty, liquid-like pool.
This was a test to make sure Borgin's Pensieve wasn't faulty. Greedy as he was, Caractacus Burke had a reputation for delivering quality goods. The Pensieve worked perfectly.
Peering into the silvery liquid, Lockhart saw a faint image: an old wizard, lantern in hand, strolling through a village street. Intrigued, he watched the memory unfold.
The old man pushed open his door, slipped into a nightgown, and doused the oil lamp. His frail, bony frame curled up in bed, and he sighed contentedly, soon snoring away. Moonlight spilled across the windowsill. In the dim room, a faint rustle of fabric sounded. A hand emerged from under the bed, clutching a slender wand, and aimed it at the sleeping wizard.
"Obliviate!"
Nobody knew just how *powerful* Lockhart's Memory Charms were. Some spells, when mastered to an extreme, produced effects beyond imagination. Take the Patronus Charm: sure, it fended off Dementors, but only someone like Harry Potter could blast away *hundreds* of them with a single cast, as seen in *Prisoner of Azkaban*. That wasn't normal wizarding power—otherwise, Azkaban would've been overrun years ago.
Lockhart's Memory Charms were in that league. As the spell hit, the old wizard twitched, his head glowing faintly. Silvery threads of memory slithered out like ethereal snakes, writhing in the air before diving into the head of the Lockhart under the bed.
Stealing memories was *that* easy.
When Lockhart slipped away, the old wizard was still snoring, dreaming sweet dreams. By morning, he'd be the same powerful wizard—minus his most dazzling memories. Most victims never even noticed what Lockhart had taken.
The human mind was a funny thing. When memories were erased or altered, it patched over the gaps, smoothing out inconsistencies and even tweaking other memories to make everything fit. Aurors did this to Muggles all the time, and you never heard of a Muggle having an identity crisis over it.
Back in the office, Lockhart's movements quickened. He pulled out memory after memory—his own, the original Lockhart's, and those of the dozen or so powerful wizards he'd pilfered. He was checking for glitches, seeing if these foreign memories were messing with his head.
Everything went smoothly. Soon, he was flicking his wand with ease, sending silvery threads into the Pensieve automatically. The process even sparked new ideas about Memory Charms, building on the original Lockhart's techniques.
But the more skilled he got, the more cautious he became. He gripped his wand tightly, not daring to relax.
Then, the wizarding world's weirdness struck. As he reached the final fragment of memory, something froze him. A primal, soul-deep terror surged through him, screaming at him to *stop*.
*Stop now!*
His hand trembled, locked in place. A crystal-clear realization hit, thanks to the Felix Felicis: he was just a Muggle. Without these memories anchoring his magic, he'd be nothing. If he stripped them all away, he'd become a Muggle again—and Muggles couldn't reload memories from a Pensieve. Even Dumbledore probably couldn't pull off shoving someone else's memories into a brain and making them stick.
Lockhart reacted fast, his face not even registering panic yet. With a practiced flick, he aimed his wand at the Pensieve. "Obliviate!"
Instantly, the stored memories erupted, silvery threads swirling back into the air and rushing toward his head.
What a waste. The experiment hadn't yielded much. All he'd confirmed was that his past self was a Muggle—hardly a revelation.
Oh, and one other thing: the original Lockhart was a complete idiot. Stuffing his head with stolen, magic-infused memories without any control or organization? No wonder he ended up a vegetable.
Squinting at the silvery threads zooming back toward him, Lockhart realized these weren't just memories—they carried magical weight. He'd need to dig into some serious magical theory to figure this out.
Sighing, he braced for the memories to return. Then his face twisted in horror. "Oh, no!"
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