Clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack...
The train, pulling away from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, rumbled along its tracks. The young wizards, released for the holidays, darted excitedly through the corridors outside their compartments, making the journey particularly lively.
Lockhart sat languidly on the train, chatting with his closest apprentices.
Among them, Percy was undeniably the most eager, fetching drinks and water, so deferential that even Hermione, with her boundless adoration for her idol, found it a tad much.
But what they hadn't realized was that there was an even greater enthusiast.
Draco and Goyle watched Crabbe bustling about with the tired, phone-staring expression of an old Muggle on a train. They simply couldn't fathom that their usually food-obsessed, simple-minded friend would actually take initiative.
Yet, deep down, everyone harboured a touch of envy for these two.
Professor Lockhart had concluded his teaching at Hogwarts, and it wouldn't be easy for the young witches and wizards to receive instruction from such a knowledgeable and widely travelled professor again. One could only imagine that henceforth, only these two would have the privilege of being close to the professor.
Especially Crabbe.
Rumour had it that Crabbe would be staying with the professor all summer.
Percy, too, wished to remain by the professor's side, but his father, Arthur, had won the Daily Prophet's annual grand prize, and plans were already set for the entire family to enjoy a month-long holiday in Egypt during the summer break. He simply couldn't miss such a family affair.
Professor Lockhart had also advised Percy to spend more time with his family, reminding him that, much like his two older brothers, there would be precious few opportunities to live with his family once he graduated.
Young witches and wizards are often swayed by emotions, and the thought of 'separation' always brought with it a myriad of sorrows.
"Children, there's no need for such despondency," Lockhart said, smiling at the youngsters around him. "Next year, you'll be able to visit Hogsmeade Village on weekends. I've bought a house there, and you'll all be welcome guests."
Hermione's eyes lit up, and she couldn't help but exclaim excitedly, "Really?"
Not just her, but everyone else seemed thrilled.
"Of course, your journey has only just begun..."
And so, as the train pulled into station after station, fewer and fewer young wizards remained in the carriages.
Lockhart and Crabbe disembarked at a particular stop.
Their destination was the grand magical mansion acquired by Lockhart's original self.
Upon entering, Crabbe immediately busied himself, waving his wand to help clean. Before long, his family's house-elf, Tu-tu, also arrived, assisting in redecorating the home according to Professor Lockhart's wishes.
Tu-tu was an elderly house-elf, dressed in a rather exquisite little robe, embroidered with the Crabbe family crest in gold and purple thread on the back.
This old elf sported a quaint goatee, making him resemble a prim and proper old butler. He treated Professor Lockhart, whom Crabbe wished to serve, with the utmost respect.
"It doesn't need to feel too 'lived in'."
Lockhart didn't mince words when directing the student and his house-elf. "I don't plan on residing here permanently. This arrangement is mainly for hosting a particular gathering. Tu-tu, please move all the portraits on the walls to the storeroom."
Tu-tu seemed quite experienced. "Professor Lockhart, if I may ask, what kind of gathering do you intend to host? I can assist in contacting vendors for food and decorations."
"It's an alumni reunion," Lockhart mused. "It needn't be too extravagant. Moody doesn't appreciate overly lavish affairs, and some of our old classmates haven't fared particularly well; excessive opulence might create a distance between us."
Not every Ravenclaw graduate found success like Lockhart, Rita, Mundungus, or Lovegood. Some classmates, those truly lost in the ocean of magical knowledge, led rather austere lives.
Of course, no one would truly look down upon them. Ravenclaws speak through their work, and one never knew when a member might suddenly produce a monumental work that would bring both fame and fortune.
"I shall see to it," Tu-tu said, then apparated away after tidying the portraits.
Many pure-blood families would look down upon less fortunate families without house-elves. This wasn't merely about lacking a few servants; over the long history of wizards, house-elves had become utterly integral to pure-blood wizarding life.
These house-elves, passed down through generations within a family and intimately involved in family affairs, sometimes understood what an ancient family should do even better than the pure-blood wizards themselves.
One could say that as long as the Crabbe family did not lose these house-elves, they would never truly fall into ruin.
Of course, there was a prerequisite.
The family had to not have completely fallen – at the very least, they needed a castle.
House-elves would only remain in a castle, which was why Mr. Urquhart had written to Professor McGonagall for help. The Urquhart family's influence now spanned across Europe, and logically, they weren't strictly bound to their ancestral castle. However, without a castle, the elves would leave, which would be an immense loss of family resources.
"Professor, what is an alumni reunion?" Crabbe asked with curiosity.
"The Hibiscus Ravenclaw Alumni Society," Lockhart casually explained. "The gathering times for this club aren't fixed. Aside from the chairman summoning members, it's usually up to any member willing to fund a gathering to invite everyone to participate."
"Mutual assistance – that's the value of this alumni society."
"I've invited everyone this time because I have something I need their help with."
As he spoke of this, his expression grew peculiar. "I hope what I'm asking them to help with won't scare them off."
The reason he hadn't immediately embarked on a journey or sought out Mr. Grindelwald in Austria was because he had a far more important task at hand – the global distribution of "Lord Voldemort: A Pure-Blood Supremacist with a Muggle Father?"
For this task, these Ravenclaws would be most useful.
But it wouldn't be an easy feat to achieve.
Even though the Ministry of Magic repeatedly debunked rumours that 'Voldemort was dead,' everyone still believed the Dark Lord was alive. Selling such a book carried immense danger.
Three days later.
The Hibiscus Ravenclaw Alumni Society officially held its gathering.
As figures emerged one by one from the fireplace, the mansion began to hum with activity.
Tu-tu, leading a group of the Crabbe family's house-elves, offered drinks to every guest, drawing gasps of admiration from the Ravenclaws, each pursuing their own ambitions.
Lockhart's rise had been so swift; in the blink of an eye, his life seemed to have ascended to yet another new level.
Well, not everyone was astounded. Mad-Eye Moody, his magical eye whirling wildly in its socket, keenly observed the Crabbe family crest on the house-elves' uniforms. He strode directly to Lockhart, pulling him aside into a corner, his voice gruff. "Gilderoy, are you now siding with the pure-blood families?"
Lockhart chuckled, looking at the stubborn old man and quipped, "Aren't you a pure-blood yourself?"
"You know that's not what I mean!" Moody's magical eye spun frantically in its socket, occasionally darting to Vincent Crabbe in the background. "This is a Death Eater's child!"
"Please, Moody, without sufficient benefit, you cannot force us Ravenclaws to pick sides. Not everyone needs to participate in Dumbledore's and the Dark Lord's opposing narratives."
Upon hearing this, Moody's brows furrowed deeply.
A turncoat—he had already labelled Lockhart as such in his mind and resolved to maintain an even greater vigilance.
In truth, it was illogical for a Gryffindor like him to be present at a Ravenclaw alumni meeting. The reason he consistently attended, aside from his affection for the club founded by his late wife, was partly to keep an eye on these seemingly inconspicuous but immensely influential Ravenclaws for Dumbledore.
At his age, he had long understood that the world wasn't simply governed by brute force.
Force could compel submission, but it couldn't win conviction.
Everything gained and built through threats of force would be utterly destroyed by those who had suppressed their anger in the past, once that force could no longer threaten them. Everything, good and bad, would be swept away, leading to naught.
And the formidable influence of these Ravenclaws was sufficient to sway such public opinion.
One could argue that if Voldemort and the Death Eaters had the assistance of this group of Ravenclaws, they might very well have transformed into positive figures, shifting from 'Dark Lord' to merely 'Dumbledore's political opponent,' or even managing to brand Dumbledore as a schemer like Grindelwald, thereby completely whitewashing the Dark Lord into a courageous rebel against the world's hidden puppet masters.
Was such a feat difficult?
For Ravenclaws, it was surprisingly not.
The only difficulty lay in the Ravenclaws' disunity, lacking a strong leader to guide their collective will, much like scattered grains of sand.
Mad-Eye Moody was guarding against precisely this kind of development, especially concerning Gilderoy Lockhart. This man's rise had been incredibly swift; just a few years after graduating, he had transformed from an ordinary, low-ranking half-blood wizarding school graduate into an internationally renowned figure and author.
And at every gathering, a new title would emerge: Order of Merlin, Third Class; honorary member of the Anti-Dark Arts Alliance; new bestsellers continually expanding his influence and readership...
Over the past year, it had become even more exaggerated, his life soaring like a rocket – Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; Chief Wizard of the Department of Mysteries, Hall of Lineages; establishing himself as an industry master with Where Are Dark Magical Creatures?; and a fearsome record of triumphs against Dark wizards...
And this man was only twenty-eight this year!
Twenty-eight years old!
How could anyone feel at ease?
Could another figure like him be found among his contemporaries? No, absolutely not. Even looking at those five or fifteen years older, like Lucius Malfoy or Arthur Weasley, they couldn't even begin to compare to his influence.
Did Mad-Eye Moody truly not want to shut down this club? Yes, his wife had founded it, and its creation hadn't been easy. But once a relationship was established, dissolving it wasn't so simple either.
If Moody were to announce the club's closure, these clever Ravenclaws would, of course, raise no objection. But at the next gathering initiated by these same individuals, the only one conspicuously absent would be Moody himself.
His mind was filled with such apprehension as he observed the young man before him, not wishing for him to become the opinion leader of this club.
But alas, things seemed to be spiralling in a direction he dearly wished to avoid.
When Lockhart produced the book, "Lord Voldemort: A Pure-Blood Supremacist with a Muggle Father?," everyone present reacted with shock, fear, or hesitation, but not a single person wished to leave.
The terrifying reputation of the Dark Lord was, naturally, beyond doubt. To say nothing of the author, even the booksellers might face death threats.
Yet, despite this, everyone was eager to hear what Lockhart had to say, and this was the very scenario Moody had most dreaded.
"Regarding this book, I shall make but two points."
Lockhart surveyed everyone around him, raising a single finger. "Firstly, Albus Dumbledore has read this book and concurs with its contents. The material within is not mere fabrication; every single word and phrase can withstand scrutiny and the test of time."
"Secondly!"
"I seek no profit; I seek only renown. Whatever earnings you garner from this book belong entirely to you; you need not pay me a single Galleon."
Upon hearing this, many in the room felt their hearts stir.
The extraordinary popularity of Lockhart's books was, of course, known to most wizards worldwide. But precisely how much money they could truly earn—perhaps only the Ravenclaws present had a rough idea.
And now, such a colossal fortune lay before everyone. Even Xenophilius Lovegood, who was not particularly greedy, felt a pull. He could truthfully say he wasn't avaricious, yet he couldn't help but ponder the immense potential such earnings could bring to The Quibbler, a magazine he dedicated his life's efforts to.
Lockhart needed broader promotion, for more people to see this book.
The book not only contained content that would undermine Voldemort's support base within the pure-blood faction but also offered profound reflections and research on magic itself. This book would undoubtedly cement his standing.
The title of Master of Magic would, thanks to this book, be questioned by no one ever again.
How does one achieve such status? This is how.
Renown, sometimes, is profit—a profit far more valuable than mere Galleons.
What Moody could fathom, Lockhart naturally understood, but he had long since moved beyond such trivial pursuits.
He desired more!
Far more than Moody could comprehend!
He had crossed into this magical world, lived in this era, and continuously trodden the magical path of 'fairy-tale adventures,' slowly beginning to feel the very pulse of this world.
It was an incredibly subtle experience.
He certainly wished to guide this power, but never through ridiculous power struggles or the pursuit of higher political status. Such matters brought him no joy whatsoever.
Not beautiful at all.
Not magical at all.
He was simply fed up with Dumbledore's and Voldemort's narratives, fed up with this world's stagnation, fed up with the wizarding world's rigidness and the foolish future of ever-accumulating conflict with Muggles, waiting for war to arrive one day.
If, after crossing into this life, he continued to drift along as he had in his previous existence, unknowingly pushed and pulled by the inexorable wheels of history, wouldn't that be a wasted journey?
He was going to do something!