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At that very moment, Lockhart was reclining on the plush, rose-gold sofa in his office, a dreamy, self-satisfied look on his face. After painstakingly revising his signature style for the one hundred and first time, he found himself bored and aimless, so he reached for that small black diary and flipped it open.
He remembered quite clearly the inscription written on the inside cover when he first received it: 'To my most devoted reader — Gilderoy Lockhart.' Beneath those flamboyant, curling letters was a dainty little heart, drawn with a flourish that could only have come from someone thoroughly enamored.
But strangely enough, although he had already leafed through the diary from cover to cover more than once, he had yet to find a single trace of ink inside. Not even the faintest scribble. It puzzled him deeply. So, curiosity piqued, he picked up his peacock-feather quill once again and, turning back to the first page, rewrote the dedication in his own elegant hand:
[To my most devoted reader — Gilderoy Lockhart.
The moment his quill lifted from the page, something incredible happened. The ink — still fresh on the paper — suddenly began to ripple and blur, as though it were alive, spreading across the parchment in smooth, serpentine waves.
A line of neat handwriting slowly emerged from the blank space below:
[Hello, dearest Gilderoy. Your signature is a true marvel… so refined, so exquisitely crafted. Every flourish speaks of impeccable taste!]
Lockhart sprang upright with a loud gasp. "Merlin's socks! A diary that talks!"
He looked around in a flurry, glancing anxiously over both shoulders to make sure no one had witnessed this peculiar event. Then, unable to hold back a wide grin, he eagerly bent down again and scribbled in reply:
[Why, thank you! My signature style has been carefully curated, I'll have you know. I must say — you have quite the discerning eye!]
More elegant words appeared almost at once, the calligraphy smooth and polished, brimming with 'genuine admiration:'
[Honored Mr. Lockhart, it is the greatest privilege to share this page with your exquisite penmanship. Your signature exudes both strength and charm; much like the fearless courage you displayed in "Travels with Trolls."]
Lockhart's eyes widened in surprise, and then his face lit up with a triumphant glow. "Ha! This must be a surprise gift from one of my most fanatical fans — a thoughtful little token of admiration. Gilderoy Lockhart, you truly are irresistible!"
He dipped his quill in the inkwell again without hesitation, and with renewed enthusiasm, let it dance merrily across the page:
[Allow me to formally introduce myself: Gilderoy Lockhart, Hogwarts' most beloved professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, proud recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award…]
As he wrote, Lockhart's thoughts were bubbling with delight. A diary that could talk — one that just so happened to be a devoted admirer of his! It was, without a doubt, a gift from Merlin himself — a treasure trove of inspiration just waiting to be mined. Perhaps he could use this as a easter egg chapter in his next autobiography? And even if that didn't pan out, it would still make for the perfect confidant; a tree hollow of a listener, silent and never interrupting.
The only thing nagging at him… was the fact that this diary had originally belonged to that red-haired Weasley girl.
Should he… perhaps cast an Obliviate on her? Erase the memory entirely, just to be safe?
His long, elegant fingers tapped lightly against the page as he weighed the idea. In the end, he gave a tiny shake of the head.
With a mischievous little twinkle in his eye, the golden-haired professor decided it would be far more interesting to first explore what other surprises this magical notebook might be hiding. The rest… well, that could wait.
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Hogwarts had fallen into a quiet lull once more.
Sargeras, ever persistent, roamed the castle with Harry Potter by his side after class each day, combing through every corridor and staircase in search of the elusive entrance.
At the same time, after many rounds of coaxing, flattery, and persistent pestering, Lockhart had finally succeeded in convincing Dumbledore to approve his "brilliant" idea for a Dueling Club.
Wasting no time, he proudly pinned a sheet of gold-trimmed parchment to the noticeboard, the words written in grand, swirling calligraphy that practically glowed: the date and time for the club's first meeting, the venue, and the most important detail of all — the invited participants: every student at Hogwarts.
Whether the basilisk would be interested in dueling anyone was beside the point. What truly mattered was that Lockhart now had another golden opportunity to dazzle the young witches and wizards with his brilliance. In fact, he had already played the whole event out in his mind countless times, imagining himself effortlessly defeating his opponent with style and flair, while the crowd watched in breathless admiration.
He was absolutely certain that after this, his fan base would surge once again… and perhaps even reach an all-time high.
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That afternoon, for the first time in a while, Harry took the initiative to ask Sargeras for a rare favor: a temporary leave of absence. Both of his friends were going to attend the Dueling Club, and he didn't want to miss out on such a rare chance to join a school-wide activity.
What was even more surprising was that Malfoy, despite still being in the middle of his detention period, made the exact same request. Sargeras, though visibly displeased and clearly reluctant, ended up granting it nonetheless.
To Sargeras, Lockhart was nothing more than a puffed-up peacock — all glitter and no substance. A man who lacked true power, yet never failed to conjure up some spectacle to keep himself in the spotlight at Hogwarts.
A Dueling Club, was it?
Very well. He would play along.
He would make his way over later tonight and give those little witches and wizards a proper lesson… and perhaps, while he was at it, give one to Lockhart as well.
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The Dueling Club was scheduled to take place in the Great Hall, with the event set to begin precisely at eight o'clock in the evening.
By the time students began arriving, they were met with a spectacular sight: The long dining tables had vanished entirely, replaced by a gleaming stage edged with gold. Hundreds of floating candles hovered overhead, casting a warm, golden glow that lit the entire space as bright as day. Above them, the enchanted ceiling shimmered with the slow swirl of a deep, starlit galaxy.
Every student and professor at Hogwarts had gathered for the occasion, and the vast Great Hall was packed to the brim. The young witches and wizards gripped their wands tightly, their faces filled with anticipation. Excitement buzzed in the air; they were clearly eager to try their hand at dueling.
"Who do you think is going to be teaching us tonight?" Hermione stood on tiptoe, trying to peer over the heads of the crowd. Her voice trembled just slightly from how excited she was.
"I bet it's Professor Flitwick!" she added quickly, answering her own question with conviction. "He used to be a dueling champion in his youth; there really couldn't be a better choice!"
Ron scratched at his mop of red hair, frowning a little in thought. "But… don't duels need two people? How's one person supposed to demonstrate? Is he gonna duel his own shadow or something?"
"To be honest, I don't care who it is," Harry muttered, shrugging with a touch of exasperation. "As long as it's not Snape."
A mischievous grin spread across Ron's face. "Oi, don't tell me you forgot about Lockhart?" he teased. "Didn't you say just last week that he's your newest recurring nightmare?"
Harry's expression immediately twisted into a grimace. "Fine, fine. Let me rephrase that… as long as it's not Snape or Lockhart, I'm good with anyone else!"
He paused, then leaned in a little and lowered his voice.
"Honestly, if I could choose, I'd want it to be Professor Greengrass. He really looks like he knows how to duel. But he's been caught up with other things lately, so I doubt he'll turn up tonight…"
"Speaking of him…" Ron suddenly edged closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is it true he's been learning Parseltongue from you? I mean… why would a professor want to learn something like that?"
Harry shook his head slowly, looking just as confused. "He said it was, you know, 'better safe than sorry.' But as for what that really means, I—"
He never finished the sentence. His eyes had just been drawn to the stage, and the sight was enough to make the rest of his words vanish on the spot.
A gaudy golden fence bordered the platform. Ribbons floated in midair, swirling lazily like parade streamers. Every now and then, bursts of magical fireworks popped into life overhead, showering the stage with sparkling lights. The whole thing looked like something straight out of a third-rate wizarding variety show.
And just like that, a sense of foreboding rushed through him, sinking like cold water in his gut.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening!"
Striding confidently onto the stage was Gilderoy Lockhart, draped in a scarlet robe embroidered with gleaming gold thread that shimmered under the lights. With his chest puffed out and his chin lifted high, he marched across the platform like a proud peacock putting on a show, absolutely in his element.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione let out matching groans of despair. Their expressions were practically identical: wide-eyed and horrified, as though they had just seen the worst possible outcome become reality.
And as if that weren't bad enough, they spotted a second figure stepping onto the stage behind Lockhart — a tall, sallow shadow trailing close behind.
There was no mistaking that curtain of greasy black hair or the hooked nose set in a perpetually sour face.
Snape!
Murmurs broke out instantly across the Great Hall. Voices rose in pockets and waves, some filled with surprise, others with disbelief. The entire space buzzed with nervous chatter.
Lockhart pulled out his wand and brought it up to his throat, clearly trying to cast the Sonorous Charm to amplify his voice—
But he botched the spell on the first try, and the sound that came out of his mouth was more like the wheeze of a duck being strangled than anything intelligible.
Two more fumbled attempts followed, both equally pathetic, until finally the charm took effect.
"Quiet! Please, quiet!" He threw his arms wide in an exaggerated flourish, like an actor basking in applause, and with his now magically enhanced voice booming through the hall, he made a grand announcement:
"I know, I know, you all already know who I am — but just in case, allow me a quick. introduction! I am… Gilderoy Lockhart, your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, proud recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award! Not that I ever brag about that sort of thing — because it wasn't my smile that drove out the Banshee of Bandon, now, was it?"
He beamed, puffing himself up even more. "Oh, and of course, as the celebrated author of Gadding with Ghouls and also…"
Down below, the students exchanged knowing looks, many of them rolling their eyes or barely suppressing sighs.
By now, after spending more than half a term with him, it didn't take a genius — or even an average Troll — to see through this man's act.
But Lockhart, oblivious as ever, stood basking in the attention with obvious delight. He took the whispering and muttering in the crowd as a sign of admiration, utterly convinced they were in awe of his greatness.
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[Chapter End's]
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