Chapter 462: Lockhart: Vampire's Food?
At Hogwarts, the position of Professor of Defensive Magic Against the Dark Arts was one that changed hands with unsettling regularity. Each new appointment required a fresh adjustment to the office’s wind charm. Wade followed Professor Troke into his office, and as soon as the door closed behind them, a dozen candle holders flared to life in silence—flames leaping upward, yet the room remained dimly lit. Professor Troke made no move to draw back the heavy curtains.
The room held few personal belongings. On the bookshelf stood an array of magical tomes, scattered notes, and records of student progress. A wine cabinet had been added to the wall, filled to the brim with red wine. But to Wade, the liquid in the glass bottles looked less like wine and more like blood.
“Please sit, Wade,” said Professor Troke, settling into his chair with hands folded gently. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”
“Of course, Professor. What is it?” Wade asked, taking a seat.
“Well,” Troke began, “I’ve recently heard a few things—rumors, really—that most professors consider your mastery of magical knowledge to be… far beyond that of your peers. So I’ve granted you permission to attend classes from higher years.”
He reached over and pulled a folder from the shelf beside his desk, opening it to reveal a stack of documents.
“Additionally, I’ve noticed your two assignments since returning to school were exceptionally strong—especially the one on werewolves. I must say, I was genuinely surprised. Out of the ordinary. Have you considered submitting it to a magazine? I know a few reliable editors.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Wade replied, though his expression was hesitant. “But… I’m not quite ready. It’s just an assignment, Professor. I don’t think it’s reached the standard required for publication.”
The acclaim meant little to Wade. But turning a single assignment into something worthy of print would take time—time he wasn’t willing to waste.
Troke noticed the subtle refusal and smiled without pressing further. “Fair enough. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Of course,” Wade said.
“Also, based on your performance in class and the quality of your work, I believe your skill in Defensive Magic Against the Dark Arts is already at a level that inspires confidence. May I ask… what level have you reached through self-study?” Troke asked, blinking slowly.
Wade paused, considering. “If we’re talking textbook material, I’ve completed all the spells up to the Seventh Year curriculum. But I’d say my practical ability still needs work.”
“Oh?” Troke raised an eyebrow. “Then do you know how to defend against a Confusion Charm?”
Wade answered without hesitation. “Mental Defense, yes. You can also counter it with a Confusion Charm reversal, or use a Barrier-type amulet.”
Troke’s expression shifted—genuine surprise. “Mental Defense isn’t part of our standard curriculum. It’s not in any textbook. Not even Seventh Years are exposed to it. It’s an advanced, obscure form of magic…”
He stared at Wade, disbelief creeping into his voice. “—You’ve studied it?”
Wade nodded.
“Merlin’s beard,” Troke murmured.
He didn’t ask how skilled Wade was—Mental Defense required long-term practice to master, and at Wade’s age, Troke couldn’t believe he’d had enough time. But another question came to mind.
“Then… do you know how to deal with a Dementor?”
Wade gave a brief, precise answer. “Patronus Charm.”
“Oh,” Troke chuckled. “Yes, the Patronus is the most effective way to repel—or even destroy—a Dementor. But since most people don’t master the spell, the proper response is to flee, stay with a crowd, and avoid being alone.”
Then, suddenly, a thought struck him. His smile faded. He studied Wade with a growing unease.
“—Wade… you can cast a Patronus?”
Again, Wade nodded.
Troke inhaled sharply, telling himself it couldn’t be true.
“Demonstrate it.”
Wade drew his wand and pointed it toward the window. “Patronus Charm!”
A silver eagle erupted from the tip of his wand, streaking through the air in two swift, looping circuits before settling onto Wade’s shoulder.
Troke recoiled in shock, stumbling backward. His chair clattered to the floor, knocking over a vase on the wall cabinet.
He didn’t care about the broken vase—his eyes were wide, stunned, flickering with something close to fear as he stared at the living, breathing Patronus.
“—A living Patronus?”
He looked back at Wade. “The newspaper said… after the Dementor stopped the Hogwarts Express, the student who summoned the eagle-shaped Patronus… was you. Not a professor?”
“Yes,” Wade said. He waved his wand, and the silver figure dissolved into shimmering light that scattered across his shoulders before vanishing.
Troke exhaled in relief.
A real, solid Patronus could harm any dark creature—including a vampire. A powerful one could even inflict agony akin to acid burns.
He quickly composed himself, waving his wand to repair the broken vase, coaxing the water and rose back into place. Still, he managed a strained smile.
“You’ve truly stunned me, Wade… what spell don’t you know?”
“Other than the two you just asked about, all the spells I’ve mastered are quite basic,” Wade said modestly.
Troke couldn’t help but twitch his lips. He wanted to say something—anything—but swallowed it down.
After all… a student this talented should make any professor proud. Even if such a student was, admittedly, a bit dangerous.
After a moment, he said, “Well then… I fully believe your level has reached N.E.W.T. standard. You just… lack practical experience, correct?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Good. Then you’ll need a personal schedule.” Troke glanced at his notes and class plan, tapping his wand lightly on a blank parchment.
“Here’s your schedule, Wade. Mostly practical classes. A few of my own notes on defensive magic techniques—feel free to organize your time as you see fit.”
At last, the unnervingly gifted student was out the door.
Troke stood there, still shaken, touching the curtains where the Patronus had brushed against them. Then, pulling out a fresh notebook, he began recording the day’s class observations.
When he accepted the post, Troke had truly wanted to do well. He’d even gone so far as to secretly consult with human teachers from Muggle schools, asking how to be a good professor.
At first, he worried students wouldn’t respect him. So he kept a stern face, occasionally demonstrating powerful magic to assert authority.
But as the weeks passed, students began to sense his gentle nature. They grew bolder in class.
And for Troke, the passion and excitement he once felt for the job were fading fast—replaced by exhaustion.
Teaching the entire school’s Defensive Magic course meant endless assignments, back-to-back lectures, and constant emergencies. The students’ energy was vibrant, yes—but their constant chatter was exhausting.
He finally understood why the position changed so often.
Troke thought, If I’m a vampire and I’m about to burn out… how did the human professors survive a whole year?
Thankfully, he only had to endure six months.
At first, he’d feared the upcoming event would draw too many people to Hogwarts—risking exposure of his true identity.
Now he realized his decision to take the post had been the wisest choice of his life.
Just survive these few months.
He sighed, weary.
Then, suddenly, a soft, tinkling sound—like a brook flowing through the forest—reached his ears.
Troke pressed the communication pea.
“Garr?” His voice held surprise. “What…?”
He glanced at the window, shrouded behind curtains, and whispered, “—How did you get to Hogsmeade?”
He wasn’t completely isolated. He’d known for some time that his nephew and his friends were wanted criminals—on the Ministry’s vampire hit list. Not exactly news.
He’d asked Garr if he ever fed on innocent people, and after confirming he didn’t, Troke had decided to protect the boy. But he never intended to bring them into his school.
“I can’t help it, Uncle Ryan,” Garr said, crouched in the dark woods, his face pinched with frustration. “There’s nowhere else in Britain free of Dementors. We barely escaped!”
He glanced at Lockhart, who lay slumped beside him, barely breathing.
“Can you send us some money and food? And if you have Polyjuice Potion, even better. I want to find a real place to stay, take a hot bath…”
Troke sighed. “Not now. Wait until nightfall. I’ll send it then.”
“Thank you, Uncle Ryan! I love you! Special, special love you!” Garr chirped.
“Just don’t get me into trouble,” Troke warned. “And keep an eye on your friends. If I hear anyone in Hogsmeade suddenly forgot their memories…”
“Can’t happen! Absolutely can’t!” Garr insisted, waving his hands. “We’ll stay quiet—like Pufu Puff! I swear!”
Troke grunted. “You better.”
By evening, Lockhart and Garr crouched in the woods, growing increasingly restless. When the sky was completely dark, two owls finally appeared, struggling through the air, each carrying a large parcel.
Garr rushed out to meet them, barely grabbing the package before someone tapped him on the back.
“You’re late, brother,” a stranger said, grinning.
“Come on. Everyone’s gathering over there.”
Garr blinked. “You know me?”
“Know you?” The man laughed. “Of course not. But I can tell you’re a vampire from a mile away.”
He glanced at Lockhart, hair long enough to brush his shoulders, and grinned.
“Haha! Great work, gathering supplies. You’re really doing your part!”
Lockhart’s eyes snapped open. He fumbled for his wand—but then a sudden kick from Garr sent him sprawling.
“Yeah,” Garr said, forcing a smile. “You like that, huh?”
In the darkness, several bats emerged, circling before landing and transforming into human forms. They surrounded Lockhart, hands resting on his shoulders.
The cold presence at his back froze him in place.
(End of Chapter)
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