Hogwarts Bastard Professor

Dark magical creatures like Cellar Rot and Wailing Wraith were rare these days. By 1992, Muggle technology and culture had squeezed out the resources and space these beings once thrived on. The wizarding world's history was full of magical creatures that had become scarce, their habitats and behaviors altered by Muggle influence. 

The most obvious sign? What used to be called "Defense Against Fantastic Beasts" had morphed into "Care of Magical Creatures" at Hogwarts. Even mighty dragons now relied on breeding farms to survive. Who knew when "Defense Against Dark Creatures" would turn into "Care of Dark Creatures"? 

Cellar Rot wasn't completely gone—you'd still hear whispers of it haunting "cursed houses" or the like. But Wailing Wraiths? They'd been practically extinct for the last three or four decades, with no sightings reported. 

"These two dark creatures might seem similar in their effects, but their nature is fundamentally different," Lockhart explained, his voice steady as he lectured. A sudden spark of inspiration hit him—maybe he could follow in Newt Scamander's footsteps and write a book like Where to Find Dark Creatures. 

Not for the Galleons, mind you. The original Lockhart had left him a tidy fortune, and he wasn't exactly desperate for cash. No, this was about boosting his own power. As he'd told Hermione, a wizard should lean into their natural talents, immerse themselves in the right environment—a "storybook romance" vibe—and their skills would soar. His talent clearly lay in tackling dark magical creatures. Figuring that out so quickly after arriving in this world? That was pure luck. In his past life, he'd lived decades without a clue what he was good at. 

But priorities first. Writing a book could wait. Professor McGonagall had mentioned a problem at the Urquhart family's castle—an opportunity too good to pass up. Facing dark creatures alone after his one-year teaching stint ended? Risky. But this? With McGonagall and the Urquharts backing him up? That was a golden ticket. 

McGonagall had no idea Lockhart was so keen on hunting dark creatures to hone his skills. She was just touched by how seriously he was taking her request. 

"Cellar Rot, sometimes called 'Black Bristle,' is easy to spot by the black, hair-like strands you'll find in the pools of blood it leaves behind," Lockhart said, grimacing as memories of the creature flooded his mind. Merlin's beard, that thing's disgusting. 

"It shares traits with other 'shadow-dwelling' dark creatures—a faint stench of rot or decay, sometimes with a weirdly sweet tang. That smell attracts all sorts of nasty critters: snakes, leeches, spiders, venomous bugs, you name it. Cellar Rot's odor is slightly sour with a hint of sweetness. Lick it, and your tongue'll tingle like you've been zapped by a mild electric current." 

Lick blood laced with black bristles? McGonagall subtly edged away. 

"Its magical essence is decay," Lockhart continued. "You'll hear it in the sounds it makes—wailing or sighing, like it's mourning lost time. Now, the Wailing Wraith, or 'Witch of the Pyre,' is easier to identify. Follow the sound, and you'll find a pale, translucent figure of a witch tied to a stake. Legend says they date back to Hogwarts' founding, during the witch hunts. Muggle women—often not even witches—were burned at the stake. It wasn't justice; it was persecution. The earth itself mourned their deaths, drawing snakes and insects, the ground weeping blood in a kind of song. That only fueled the hysteria—people thought they'd caught real witches, hence the name 'Wailing Wraith.'" 

The legend was a grim, almost satirical fairy tale: Muggle women persecuted, transformed into vengeful witch-like spirits. 

"When you hear a Wailing Wraith's song, listen closely. There's a faint undertone—the earth's cry, saying, 'Stop burning her, bury her in the ground to rot, and she'll be reborn.' The easiest clue, though? You'll hear birds chirping, like pwee-chew, pwee-chew. Cellar Rot's sound is different—bubbling blood, a bloop-bloop-bloop with a distinct echo. They're similar but easy to tell apart once you know what to listen for." 

Lockhart tried mimicking the sounds but, lacking the knack for it, gave up. Instead, he grabbed a decorative crystal ball from a warped bookshelf squeezed against a tree trunk in his office and handed it to McGonagall. "I'll demonstrate. You record it with magic and pass it to young Mr. Urquhart. We need to confirm which creature we're dealing with before we plan our move." 

McGonagall took the crystal ball, watching as Lockhart stood, deep in thought. "Professor Lockhart, I don't know how to thank you…" 

He waved her off with a smile. "Teaching at Hogwarts, you've shown me so much patience and support. I'm the one who should be grateful." 

No need for more pleasantries. It was time to act. 

For his demonstration, he needed a bit of help. Leading McGonagall around the large tree in his office, he spotted a few eavesdropping students—Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco. The kids weren't exactly intimidated by their young, flashy professor. To them, Lockhart was more like a knowledgeable big brother than a stern authority figure. McGonagall, though? She scared them stiff. 

Seeing her approach, they scrambled to grip their wands, trying to look ready for action. McGonagall wasn't impressed. "You'll never appreciate how rare it is to get private lessons from a professor," she scolded. "You should seize this opportunity!" 

Outside of someone like Horace Slughorn, who loved networking and running his little "Slug Club," most professors didn't have time to tutor students outside class. It'd leave them with no personal life. For kids like Ron and Hermione, private training like this usually only came after acing their O.W.L.s and joining a N.E.W.T. prep class. 

Lockhart didn't mind their antics. They were just twelve or thirteen—lively, not outright brats. He didn't contradict McGonagall, though. Instead, he strolled to the peach tree by the fireplace and tapped lightly on its hollow, like knocking on a door. 

Nothing stirred. 

Then, a golden streak zipped across the room. His Bowtruckle clambered onto his shoulder, glaring into the hollow with tiny hands on its hips. A Boggart could ignore Lockhart, but it couldn't defy the little creature that wielded fear like a weapon. Reluctantly, black smoke swirled, and the Boggart emerged, taking the form of a tattered-robed figure. 

The young witches and wizards eyed the sinister shape nervously. McGonagall, however, was more wary of the fluffy, golden "monkey" on Lockhart's shoulder. Dark creatures were a murky, complex field, and while the Boggart looked evil, that cute little critter gave her a chilling sense of danger. 

Everyone was tense—except Lockhart. He was practically buzzing with excitement, rubbing his hands together like a kid about to open a Chocolate Frog. Facing dark creatures might just be his true calling. In the books, the original Lockhart was hopeless with them—couldn't even handle Cornish Pixies. But this Lockhart? His recent experiment with memory magic hadn't taught him new spells, but it had sparked ideas about mastering his mind. That was his power, not some stolen trick. 

Eager to test his theory, he gently grabbed the Boggart's tattered hood, tilting its "face" toward him. "Come on, be good," he said with a grin. "Feel my fear." 

Boggarts loved tormenting humans—why would it listen to him? 

Joking, right? This… 

This is easy! 

The Boggart sensed the dangerous gaze of the Bowtruckle glaring down from Lockhart's shoulder and decided to play nice. Feel his fear? Fine, human, you asked for it. 

With a bang, it exploded into black smoke. Before anyone could react, blood began seeping from every corner of the office's little indoor grove, bubbling with a bloop-bloop-bloop sound. Venomous snakes, spiders, and insects crawled from the shadows, rustling ominously. From deep within the trees, a haunting, ethereal female voice sang. 

"Aaaah!" Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco screamed, scrambling behind McGonagall. 

Lockhart ignored them, blinking to shake off the fear gripping his mind. He turned to McGonagall. "Listen closely. That bubbling blood and the singing? That's the hallmark of Cellar Rot." 

McGonagall, wand poised over the crystal ball, recorded the scene and sounds, her face tight but nodding. 

"Got it? Now let's simulate a Wailing Wraith," Lockhart said. "Boggart, feel it again." 

The Boggart faltered, confused. Why did this human's deepest fear shift? Worse, it couldn't fathom why the Bowtruckle—capable of exploiting the vulnerability in Lockhart's fear-soaked mind—didn't attack. Instead, it was helping him control the Boggart? 

It didn't get it. But what could it do? It obeyed. 

The scene shifted subtly. The blood turned clearer, less viscous, free of bristly strands. The snakes and bugs became less menacing. Birds chirped from the treetops, and the earth seemed to hum along with the witch's ghostly song—still eerie, but less horrifying. 

Nope, still terrifying for Harry and the others. They wanted to bolt. 

But Lockhart waved them closer, urging them to study the scene and listen as he explained the differences between Cellar Rot and Wailing Wraith—two creatures that seemed similar but were worlds apart. 

As McGonagall finished recording, Lockhart kept going, shifting his fear back and forth, making the Boggart toggle between the two creatures. Harry and his friends would never forget this lesson. 

Forget? Hermione was on the verge of a breakdown. That golden "monkey" on Lockhart's shoulder was staring her down, its eyes glinting. She'd felt what it was like to have her eyeball plucked out—not fun. In this nightmare scene, her breathing grew ragged. If it weren't for Draco standing nearby, ready to mock her "Mudblood" status, she'd have screamed ages ago. 

"Brilliant!" Lockhart exclaimed, dispersing the scene with a wave of his wand. The office grove returned to normal. "That was a perfect lesson!" 

The others—Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco—exhaled in unison, relieved. McGonagall, amused, nodded. "Yes, very well done." 

A bit too intense, perhaps. She finally understood why young Urquhart's letters about the castle were so panicked. Using a Boggart to simulate dark creatures? She'd never heard of anyone pulling that off. Lockhart's mastery of dark creature defense was extraordinary.