The haul from this little adventure was impressive—wands, an Invisibility Cloak, a vial of Felix Felicis, a crystal stone brimming with luck, and a bunch of other odds and ends. It was like stumbling into a treasure trove straight out of a Hogwarts mystery.
But what really thrilled Lockhart was the magical items this group had brought to counter dark creatures—items that were pure gold in the wizarding world.
First up was a jar smeared with strange, eerie pigments, designed to deal with the little golden beastie. Lockhart had a similar jar, but his was nowhere near as powerful. His old jar could barely keep the creature sealed, and if you weren't careful, it'd pop open. He remembered the time Hermione got nabbed by the beastie's eyeball-plucking antics because of that shoddy jar. The difference between the two was like comparing a regular wand to the Elder Wand itself. This new jar? It created a world full of eyeballs, the kind of place the golden beastie would not only willingly scamper into but practically beg to stay in.
The other item was a massive harp. Lockhart wasn't entirely sure what it did, but it clearly followed the same logic as the phonograph used to trap the unjustly slain fairy. Same vibe, different execution.
These magical tools weren't just rare—they were practically impossible to buy, no matter how many Galleons Lockhart could scrape together. The Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families had a stranglehold on the wizarding world's resources, and it wasn't just about money or politics. It was everything—knowledge, artifacts, influence, you name it.
That's why young witches and wizards at Hogwarts pushed themselves to ace their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. Stellar grades opened doors to organizations that controlled those rare resources. Take Hagrid, for example. If he weren't backed by Dumbledore and tied to Hogwarts, he wouldn't be weaving unicorn tail hair into cushions or living the "secretly rich" life some folks teased him about. Getting into a place like Hogwarts—or any elite wizarding group—was no easy feat. Without a powerhouse like Dumbledore vouching for you, good luck.
By comparison, places like the Ministry of Magic, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies, the Anti-Dark Magic League, or even wizarding newspapers were slightly easier to break into. But only slightly. And let's not kid ourselves—those groups were still tangled up with the Sacred Twenty-Eight in one way or another.
Take the Ministry. Someone like Arthur Weasley, from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, could draft laws for the Wizengamot or the Auror Office that everyone had to follow, no questions asked. Your average wizard? They'd never climb that high. Landing a job as a regular Auror or a Ministry clerk was about the ceiling for most.
That's what pure-blood prestige looked like. That's what made it glorious.
And that's why, even though everyone knew Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard alive, so many still sided with Voldemort—a guy who treated his followers like disposable tools. It wasn't just about fear or ideology. It was about access, power, and survival in a world where the Sacred Twenty-Eight held all the cards.
Dark creatures that terrified most wizards? To the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they were just another Tuesday. Over centuries, these families had built up arsenals of tricks and tools to handle them. Even the Dementors of Azkaban, the stuff of nightmares, could be negotiated with—or controlled—by the right pure-blood family.
Mooncalf dung, for instance, could make magical plants and herbs grow like they'd been hit with a Fertilizing Charm on steroids. The Yaxley family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, had a hidden grove in some ancient forest where they harvested it. Compare that to Hogwarts, where even with all its resources, Professor Sprout had to wait nearly six months for her Mandrakes to mature. That was the gap.
Thinking about the Yaxleys made Lockhart's eyes narrow. Corban Yaxley, Ministry bigwig and Death Eater, popped into his head. The guy had practically radiated hostility the first time they met at the Anti-Dark Magic League's "We're Not Dead Yet" club. Lockhart had a gut feeling Yaxley was behind this attack. It made sense—Voldemort probably tapped him for the job.
Yaxley wasn't like the brain-dead Death Eaters who'd rush in wands blazing. Lockhart had made a big show of saying Dumbledore would be with the group, so even if Yaxley's spies figured out Dumbledore wasn't actually there, he was too cunning to lead the charge himself. Instead, he'd likely rounded up lowlifes like Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf, and a few rogue dark wizards to do the dirty work. Smart move—they probably didn't even know who'd hired them.
There was another suspect, though: Lucius Malfoy. Less likely, sure, since his son Draco was part of this trip. But if Voldemort himself had leaned on Lucius—maybe with a threat or two—it wasn't impossible. Plus, they'd come through the Crabbe family's secret Floo Network fireplace, with old Crabbe claiming he and his wife would guard it. If Lucius was involved, stepping out of that fireplace could mean walking straight into an ambush.
Snape, who'd finally snapped out of whatever funk he'd been in, sat quietly nearby, listening to Lockhart's theories. His expression flickered, like he could smell the war brewing again after over a decade of quiet. Voldemort was back, and the tension was thick enough to cut with a Severing Charm.
Snape gripped his wand tightly, then turned to the young witches and wizards distracted by the colorful fish in the deep lake. "You need to rethink your actions," he said, his voice low and sharp. "Dragging students out here so recklessly—especially when you and Harry are both on his radar—is beyond foolish."
He'd been against Lockhart's Christmas outing from the start.
"Oh, come on," Lockhart said, brushing it off. He flipped his hand, revealing a delicate little teapot and holding it out to Snape. "Guess what this is?"
Snape's eyes narrowed, sensing the steady magical hum radiating from it. "A Portkey?"
Lockhart nodded, grinning. "Made by Dumbledore himself. I triple-checked with him before we left. Even in a magically protected place like Crabbe's fish farm, this Portkey will get us back to Hogwarts in a snap."
In other words, if things went south, Lockhart could whisk the students to safety in an instant. Snape gave a grudging nod, satisfied for now. "Then get the students back already."
But Lockhart wasn't having it. "Hey, Severus, we can't always run away. The kids need to face some danger to grow. I'm not their babysitter. I'm training them so they can handle themselves—now and in the future. I don't want them turning out like hothouse flowers, wilting at the first sign of trouble."
Lockhart's approach was less like a Hogwarts professor and more like an old-school mentor from some ancient wizarding guild, expecting his students to step up so he could kick back with a cup of tea.
"Adventure," Snape spat, the word dripping with disdain. He barely held back his frustration. "Fine. Tell me, then—what happens when we step through that Floo and an Avada Kedavra comes flying at us?"
Lockhart laughed, standing up and striking a dramatic pose, hands on hips. "Severus, let's get one thing straight: I'm the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. When it comes to stuff like this, I've always got a plan."
Snape's face soured, looking like he'd just smelled a cauldron of spoiled potions. But Lockhart reached up, grabbed the air, and yanked down a red cloak. Suddenly, it was as if the breeze and grass of the forest itself brushed against them.
Snape blinked, realizing they'd been under the cloak's protection the whole time.
"Dark creatures…" Snape stood, sneering. "Have you already forgotten how your little pets were countered one by one?"
"It's simple to deal with that cloak," Snape continued. "A Patronus Charm would—"
He stopped short, realization dawning. Even if Voldemort himself was waiting on the other side of the Floo, or if Death Eaters or dark wizards were lying in wait, none of them could cast a Patronus Charm. And even if they brought someone who could, who'd think to cast it at thin air? It'd be absurd.
This red cloak wasn't just any cloak—it was a dark creature, one that had lurked in this fish farm for decades, undetected. No one could tell if its effects were a curse or something else entirely. Like a Boggart, it was most dangerous when you didn't know what it was. In that state, it was practically invincible.
Even Voldemort, with all his power, couldn't harm a Boggart with a Killing Curse if he didn't know it was there. Just like how Horcruxes made Voldemort untouchable—until you knew they existed. Without that knowledge, he could outlast even Dumbledore.
"This is a lesson," Lockhart said, petting the fluffy little head of the golden beastie peeking apologetically from his robe pocket. He sighed. "I shouldn't let anyone know about the dark creatures I keep close."
He needed to keep some cards hidden, even from his students. That was a plan for later, though—new dark creature pets would have to be unrecognizable, even to those closest to him. For now, Lockhart was practical. He brushed off the worry and started rounding up the students to catch the colorful fish in the lake, which had multiplied like crazy over decades of neglect.
No rush to leave. If there was an ambush waiting, let the attackers sweat it out. Catching the fish was fun and straightforward—Hogwarts students were clever enough to figure out magical solutions. Cedric cast Bubble-Head Charms, letting everyone breathe underwater with shimmering air bubbles around their heads. The Weasley twins tried to sell their "Snot Bubble Gum" for oxygen storage, but got no takers. In the end, only they dove into the lake with giant bubbles sprouting from their noses.
After the fish hunt came a lively bonfire feast, with everyone chowing down on delicious grilled fish and collecting fishbone stones as protective charms against whatever lurked in the Chamber of Secrets. Lockhart seized the moment to hold a class, having students share their adventures in the "fairy tale" world and their real-world battles with werewolves and dark wizards. They analyzed what they could've done better, with Lockhart and Snape chiming in with expert advice.
They stayed a full day, unaware that the red cloak had once again spread above them, a massive shadow shielding them from harm.
The next day, Lockhart warned the students about potential dangers ahead, pretending to cast a concealment spell to downplay the cloak's role. Then, through old Crabbe's crystal ball, they returned to the Floo on the other side, stepping into the Crabbe family's safehouse.
The moment they emerged, the students gasped.
Blood.
The walls were splattered with it, and the floor was a lake of crimson. Old Crabbe's wife's head lay to one side, her body blasted to pieces, gore smeared everywhere.
Draco screamed, shoving past classmates to get a closer look, only for Snape to yank him back. "This is a curse cast with her own life," Snape said, squinting at the corpse, his voice cold and warning. "In the wizarding world, bodies are dangerous. You never know what dark magic is waiting."
They soon found old Crabbe, his stout frame frozen in a defensive stance by the safehouse door, wand raised. But his body was hard as stone.
Snape examined him, then sighed, meeting Lockhart's questioning gaze. "Avada Kedavra. Dead as they come."
The Crabbes had kept their promise to guard the Floo—but they'd paid with their lives.
Draco was sobbing, mourning the couple who'd been kind to him since childhood. Then panic hit, and he grabbed Snape's sleeve. "Professor! My dad—please, contact my dad!"
He was terrified, dreading news that his parents, Lucius and Narcissa, might've been attacked too.
The other students fell silent. Even Harry, who loathed Draco and wished every Death Eater would drop dead, felt a pang at the sight.
Lucius Malfoy arrived quickly, with old Goyle in tow. Goyle collapsed, sobbing over his friend's body. Lucius said nothing, gripping his cane so tightly his knuckles whitened, his face pale, tears brimming but unshed. Malfoys didn't cry—they couldn't afford to. If they fell, their allies would have no one to lean on.
The Dark Lord was purging traitors. Lucius had survived one attack already, but the Crabbes hadn't been so lucky.
Snape rested a hand on Lucius's shoulder, his voice low and heavy with meaning. "You've got a son to protect. Don't do anything rash."
Lucius stayed silent, lost in shadow.
Snape pursed his lips, saying no more, and raised his wand to neutralize the curse lingering on Mrs. Crabbe's body, protecting the others from its unknown dangers.
Lockhart, meanwhile, was grappling with his own thoughts when he spotted a sneaky figure in the crowd—Rita Skeeter, the Daily Prophet reporter.
How'd she sniff this out?
Rita whispered an explanation. "Your book, Where to Find Dark Creatures—I was chasing interviews with parents. I was just at Malfoy Manor when…"
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