The Darkwood Wand

Handsome

Lockhart stepped closer to the frame. It was disconcerting to see him so hale and hearty with all his old flair instead of the befuddled wizard in St. Mungo's.

"Gilderoy, please," Lockhart said silkily. "And how shall I address thee, gentle lady?"

"Hermione Granger. You taught my Second-Year Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Hermione ..." His face lit up. "Of course! You alone of all my students earned a perfect score on my Dark Arts Essential Knowledge Test! Tell me," he said eagerly, "what is my favorite color?"

"Lilac."

"And my secret ambition?"

Hermione chuckled. "To rid the world of evil and market your own line of hair care potions."

Lockhart flashed Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile. "Beautiful and brilliant."

"Professor—"

"Gilderoy." Lockhart sighed. "Oh, my dear, if only you were a painting!"

"Hopefully not for a good many years," Hermione said. "I'm still alive, as you see." She frowned. "And so are you, for that matter. How is this possible?"

"Technically, I am alive, yes," Lockhart agreed. "But the form you see before you, with all this natural radiance, sadly is no more. The current Gilderoy Lockhart is merely a pitiful shadow." He struck a tragic pose.

Hermione frowned. "I've met that Lockhart at St. Mungo's, I consider him an improvement."

"Simply not possible, Miss Granger," the wizard said with decision.

She shook her head. "No, that Lockhart may be confused, but I don't think he would abandon an innocent girl and attack his students. Just to protect his reputation."

"Base slander!" Lockhart cried, hand on his chest. "Do I look like a man to do such a thing?"

"No," Hermione said, "but I've learned not to trust a handsome face."

Immediately the portrait part swung away from the wall, nearly striking Hermione, and revealing a dark doorway. Lockhart cried out in pain as the canvas met stone.

"Good night, Professor," Hermione called as she stepped into the doorway.

A muffled squeak: "Gilderoy!"

The painting slammed shut behind her and Hermione found herself following a surprisingly airy passage sloping downward, then a spiral staircase leading upward. The stairs ended at a white-painted door with no knob. "Vigilante," she said, and the door opened.

Her jaw dropped at the sight of the small, dimly lit room, packed to the ceiling with oddities and assortments. Moody's seven-locked trunk was pushed against the wall, the Foe-Glass perched on a cabinet, and Moody himself glared at her from his portrait.

"Hermione Granger," he barked. "Who was my Harry Potter?"

"Mundungus Fletcher," she said.

"CORRECT!" Moody shouted.

A door Hermione hadn't realized was there creaked open and there was Ginny, wand in hand. A standing lamp flared to life, and Hermione noticed Neville's Cringing Vine flowing out of its pot on a small table.

"I agreed to take the vine tonight," Ginny said. "Some idiot pulled off a leaf. It feels safer here."

"SECOND QUESTION!"

Ginny ignored Moody. "Come on in, Hermione."

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Ginny led her into a small bedroom, decorated in Gryffindor red and gold, with a bed, two armchairs and a tiny hearth. Three of the room's four walls were actually big windows, looking out over the Great Lake.