Right now, Mr. Filch, the caretaker of Hogwarts Castle, was positively gleeful.
He'd finally caught the little wizard who dared to muck up the castle—Harry Potter.
He knew, oh, he knew. These young witches and wizards, trudging back from Quidditch practice in the rain, were bound to track mud all over the place.
But he'd had enough!
He'd just finished scrubbing an entire corridor reeking of dung, scraping frog brains and rat guts from the crevices, and was admiring the gleaming tiles when he spotted a trail of muddy footprints on the freshly mopped floor around the corner.
Well!
His temper flared right up!
You wizards, can't you cast spells? Don't you know Scourgify?
Why do you have to make such a mess of the castle?
On purpose, isn't it?
Just to make poor old Filch's life harder, right?
You love laughing at this Squib, fumbling and helpless, don't you?
With his oil lamp in hand, he hurried after Mrs. Norris (his beloved cat) and finally cornered the little pest—Harry Potter!
This kid was exactly as Professor Snape described: utterly infuriating!
"A bit of mud to you, boy, but for me, it's another hour of scrubbing!" Filch fumed, clutching a long black quill, ready to jot down Harry Potter's offenses on his form.
But just as his quill touched the parchment, a loud BANG! shook the office ceiling, rattling the oil lamp.
"Peeves!" he roared instinctively, then froze, his face paling as he noticed something. His eyes darted to the door opposite his office, where a flood of blood was seeping out from under it.
"Professor Kettleburn!"
He leapt up, dreading anything happening to the old professor.
"Harry—Potter!" he barked urgently. "Grab your wand and come with me! Hurry!"
Harry snapped to attention, dripping wet, and realized this might be his chance to dodge Filch's punishment. He scrambled after him toward the opposite office.
But…
That blood pouring from the door looked awfully familiar.
Yes, he'd never forget that horrific lesson, endlessly distinguishing between "Banshee's Wail" and "Crypt Rot," and how, at Urquhart Castle, Professor Lockhart was slurping blood off the floor.
Filch flung the door open.
Sure enough, it was Professor Lockhart.
But it wasn't quite what they expected.
The scene was downright ghastly.
The room was a mess of charred black marks and pools of wet blood. An old professor lay on the floor, possibly dead, while Lockhart stood nearby, holding a cup of blood…
"!!!"
"!!!"
Filch froze, his body rigid at the horrifying sight, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. Trembling, he nudged Harry with his arm.
Go on, wizard!
Aren't you the Chosen One?
Get in there!
Harry swallowed hard. Even though he knew what this blood was about, he couldn't shake the dread. After a stern glare from Filch, he gritted his teeth and stepped forward.
"Professor Lockhart…"
See, appearances matter immensely. If Lockhart could just cast a simple Scourgify, would he be stuck in such an embarrassing mess?
He nodded at Harry and Filch, sighed, and helped Professor Kettleburn to his feet.
A quick check showed it wasn't too serious.
Lockhart summoned a Banshee, whose eerie song could stimulate human vitality. Under his guidance, its wail swept through the room like a sonic wave.
Harry and Filch felt goosebumps erupt, their souls trembling in eerie awe, hearts pounding as if they might leap out of their throats.
Harry had felt this at Urquhart Castle, but never this intense—so intense he nearly screamed.
"Ahhh!"
Professor Kettleburn let out a yell, practically springing up from his chair, though with no legs and only one arm, he didn't get far.
Lockhart steadied him. "Professor Kettleburn, are you alright?"
Kettleburn cackled, grinning like a mischievous child. "Thrilling, absolutely thrilling! Lockhart, can we do it again?"
"Your body might not handle it," Lockhart said, calling the Banshee back into its jellyfish-like form, which vanished into him. He patted the old professor's shoulder. "You need to recover. Adventures are always waiting, but we need strong bodies to chase them."
"Yes, yes," Kettleburn said, his eyes gleaming as he studied the Banshee's fading form. "Dark creatures are so different from magical beasts."
Lockhart nodded. "We guard our hearts against them to avoid their influence. But with magical creatures, it's the opposite—you open your soul."
Kettleburn raised an eyebrow, nodding at Filch, who was carefully adjusting his prosthetic leg. "Insightful, Lockhart. You clearly know your magical creatures! But you're wrong about one thing."
Lockhart blinked, stunned.
"When we face magical creatures, we don't fully open our hearts. We always keep a final stronghold—our sense of self," Kettleburn said earnestly, gesturing toward the Banshee. "But with dark creatures, you can't completely shut your heart. You have to open a part of it, to connect, to truly feel them."
He smiled. "I'm only saying this because you've already grasped some of this. You need to find that balance."
That balance was tricky to pin down.
Lockhart recalled his time in the Forbidden Forest, where his magic took on a "Forest Witch" quality, and the forest began to accept him, showing him kindness.
That feeling…
It was hard to grasp.
It seemed to require a certain instinct. Even the real Lockhart's mastery of the Memory Charm wasn't studied—it came naturally, step by step.
"We can use a little tool to help understand this balance," Kettleburn said, noticing Lockhart's frown. In decades of teaching, he'd seen that look on many gifted wizards' faces.
The brighter they were, the more they overthought, making things complicated.
Magic was simple—or it should be.
"Wizard!" He pointed at himself.
"Nature, the world, magical creatures, dark creatures—all the things we connect with through our hearts," he said, waving his hand dramatically.
Then he gently picked up his wand from the desk, waving it before Lockhart. "This—the wand—stands between the two!"
Lockhart gasped, staring at the wand.
"Hahaha!" Kettleburn laughed, grinning like a smug child. "See? I knew you'd overlooked it!"
"I…" Lockhart's voice was hoarse, struggling to respond. "I always thought it wasn't that important."
Even in spell-casting, where wands were key, he saw them as a stepping stone to wandless magic. He'd never considered using one to connect with dark creatures.
"Hahaha!" Kettleburn roared with laughter, pointing at him gleefully. "Another brilliant mind stuck in a rut!"
"This is a wand—the most tightly regulated item by the Ministry! African wizarding communities pay outrageous prices for a handful of secondhand ones! Their schools have to master wandless magic out of necessity, not choice!"
"This is the wand we forbid magical creatures from touching. We've killed house-elves, goblins, centaurs, and wiped out entire species, just because they dared covet it."
He grinned at Lockhart. "Still think it's unimportant?"
Lockhart listened, dazed.
It was as if a massive bell rang in his mind, clearing away all fog, his thoughts sharper than ever.
Trembling, he drew his wand from his pocket, staring at it.
"The wand is between me and the world…"
Yes.
He tried sinking back into that "Forest Witch" state, the "Darling of the Forest," feeling the subtle bond between himself and the world.
It wasn't ideal—he was no longer in the Forbidden Forest but in Hogwarts Castle.
Yet that wondrous feeling lingered, ever-present.
His wand suddenly glowed faintly.
Through the light, he looked at the kind, smiling old wizard and had a strange revelation: he'd helped the rabbit gentlemen with their problem, and they'd led him to the wise man's home, where his confusion was dispelled.
This was very fairy-tale.
This was very magical.
And so, so real—real enough that he truly felt, in this moment, he was living inside a fairy tale.