Lockhart wasn't sure how he made it back to his office.
His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—chaotic, jumbled, yet somehow tethered to a faint, elusive thread of clarity that kept slipping through his grasp.
Harry Potter had trailed him the whole way, buzzing on about something or other.
Along the way, they'd passed Peeves, who was gleefully plotting to topple the school's precious Vanishing Cabinet. The moment the poltergeist spotted Lockhart, he let out a terrified yelp and bolted.
There was also a ghost hovering nearby, whispering to Harry about some sort of deathday celebration.
But none of that mattered.
Thud.
The office door slammed shut, and Lockhart sat alone on a slanted tree trunk that served as a chair. His golden-furred companions scurried back to their little nests, too wary to disturb him.
Only the Wronged Fairy lingered, gently wiping the blood from his hair with a towel.
Lockhart stared blankly at the wand in his hand.
It was glowing.
Even now, he remained in his "Forest Darling" state, and the sensation grew stronger as he settled into the "little grove" of his office.
"Flower's Cure!"
With a wave of his wand, the grove burst into bloom with vibrant purple flowers, their sweet fragrance filling the air.
"Gray Wolf Pack!"
Another wave, and a mist swirled through the grove. From it, three gray wolves stepped forward, their forms shimmering. Without further instructions, the forest spirits wandered off to rest in different corners of the grove.
See? He did have some talent.
He was truly living out the "romance of a fairy tale," putting the wisdom he'd gleaned from his memories to good use.
Now, these two spells had diverged from the original techniques of the Forest Witch.
The most significant change was in the incantations themselves. What was once "Kindly Flowers, Heal the Wounds" had become "Flower's Cure." And "From the Forest's Depths, Wolves in droves" had turned into "Gray Wolf Pack."
He was carefully digesting the Forest Witch's memories and wisdom, fully transforming her adventurous, fairy-tale life into his own.
He was even starting to grasp the rhythm of the Forest Witch's spellcasting, allowing his magical state to shift into that of the "Forest Darling."
But it was this very unique state that made things so hard to control.
"The subtle relationship between me and the world?" he murmured, gazing at his wand. "And this wand… it's the measure?"
Suddenly, he understood why Ollivander asked so many personal questions when selling wands, why each wand had to be tested to find the right fit.
Back then, holding a wand was like embedding it into the connection between himself and the world—like completing a circuit. When the connection was strong, magic would spark to life.
Choose me, and light up for me!
So, the answer to everything lay in the wand that perfectly matched him!
With that realization, his heart raced. He began rummaging through the original Lockhart's personal belongings.
He'd packed them away earlier, planning to dispose of some items, including the original Lockhart's wand.
He dug it out.
Holding one wand in each hand, the difference was immediately clear.
The wand he'd bought for himself was glowing brightly, while the original Lockhart's wand lay dormant, showing no sign of life.
"Let's give it a try…"
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself and clear his mind, focusing entirely on the original Lockhart's memories.
Unlike the fragmented memories of a dozen other powerful wizards, the original Lockhart's memories were whole, vivid, and loud—always the loudest in the cacophony of his mind.
He'd always been cautious about delving into this part of himself.
After all, even processing a small snippet of a wizard's adventures was dangerous enough. The complete personality and memories of the original Lockhart? That was on another level.
Slowly…
So slowly…
Time passed—how long, he couldn't say. Sitting on the tree trunk, Lockhart's facial muscles, posture, and aura began to shift.
To dark creatures like the Wronged Fairy, this change felt utterly alien.
So alien that the Boggart and the Snallygaster stirred, ready to confront this wizard daring to encroach on their territory.
The Wronged Fairy stared at Lockhart in confusion, unsure why he suddenly seemed like a different person.
Only the little golden creature, quick as a flash of lightning, leapt onto Lockhart's shoulder, baring its teeth at the others, ready to fight to the death to protect him.
The office fell into a tense silence.
After an unknown stretch of time, Lockhart's aura shifted again, becoming distinctly different. The Boggart, Snallygaster, and Wronged Fairy now fully saw the man before them as someone else entirely.
But the golden creature kept its fierce gaze on them, ensuring they didn't make a move.
Having subdued the "riffraff," the little creature turned to Lockhart with concern, unsure what was happening to its master.
Unlike the last time, Lockhart hadn't given it any instructions beforehand, leaving it at a loss.
The Lockhart before them was so different.
His heart burned with an unparalleled madness—a twisted, consuming madness.
This was a proud young man, raised on endless praise, who entered the magical world and Hogwarts only to find that everyone around him was a wizard, too. Worse, so many were far more talented than he was.
And then there was the backward, foolish obsession with blood purity. He, a man blessed with such striking looks and intelligence, was discriminated against because of his so-called "birthright"?
He was the one who discriminated against others, thanks to his natural gifts!
He couldn't accept it.
He wouldn't accept it.
The boy had suppressed his feelings, despaired, and raged against his fate. In the end, he swore he would become the most unique, the most dazzling person in the world.
He refused to be ordinary. He refused to blend into the crowd. He refused to live a life so unremarkable that the world would forget he ever existed.
And he succeeded!
In just a few short years after graduating, he took down so-called "greats" of the wizarding world: a close friend of the Erkhardt family, an old ally of Dumbledore, a witch the American Magical Congress feared most…
One by one, he defeated these powerful wizards, claiming their proudest achievements as his trophies.
He was proud—rightfully proud. Raising his hands high, he sneered at the wizarding world: You're all rubbish compared to me!
He knew his actions were dangerous. One misstep, and those powerful wizards could kill him. One slip, and exposure would mean disgrace and a one-way ticket to Azkaban, never to return.
But so what?
He'd come prepared to die at any moment. He would go out in a blaze of glory, not fade away unnoticed and uncared for.
Even if he died mocked by all, it would be on the front pages of The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, Wizarding Weekly—a headline that would shake the entire wizarding world!
He would die spectacularly!
"Haha!"
A perfect, radiant smile spread across Lockhart's face—not practiced, not forced, but a gift from the heavens. He was born with that flawless smile.
He rose elegantly, then frowned slightly at the two wands in his hands.
The wand in his left hand felt foreign, its faint glow rapidly fading.
But the wand in his right hand—the one he'd used since childhood—was practically buzzing with excitement, spraying brilliant golden sparks as if to say, My old friend, you're finally back!
Back?
Lockhart was puzzled. With a casual flick, he tried to toss the left-hand wand away.
It didn't work.
The wand clung to his hand as if glued.
"Hm?"
Curious, he lifted it again. Its glow returned—not the soft fluorescence from before, but a dazzling, blinding brilliance.
A brilliance that demanded to be noticed.
Boom!
A powerful shockwave erupted, blasting his original wand out of his hand and knocking him unconscious once more.
"Heh…"
Lockhart's expression flickered rapidly. Before he could collapse, he steadied himself, a sly grin forming. "So that's how it is."
"Guji!" The golden creature on his shoulder squeaked excitedly, as if cheering its master's return.
"Don't worry, it's just a little experiment. I've got this," Lockhart said, ruffling its head with a smirk. He glanced at the wand on the floor. "Know why your memories can't take over this body?"
"Because you're not Lockhart. You're just his memories."
"But me? I'm a real, living person, connected to the world, interacting with it in subtle, intricate ways."
"That's what life is!"
Life—the fundamental difference between humans and ghosts, portraits, or other strange entities.
Lockhart twirled his wand lightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "And this wand? It anchors life's existence in the world!"
That was his confidence.
Magic could be strange and dangerous, but once you understood it, there was little to fear.
Danger came from the unknown.
And he understood.
As Snape had once said, magic is the expression of one's will. The wand, then, was an extension of that will, reaching out into the world.
This was just too fascinating.
Lockhart wasn't content with merely understanding. He had to use it. He'd always been good at wielding knowledge.
With a flick of his wand to his temple, he drew out a silvery thread of memory, letting it drift into the Pensieve made from a crystal serpent skull. It dissolved into a shimmering, silver liquid.
"I'm not greedy," he said.
"I just want a Cleaning Charm. My life desperately needs it!"
"Yes, I need it so badly, I should be able to absorb this memory without any trouble!"
"This is the measure between me and magic—the balance between me and these memories!"
What was rightfully his, what could be his, was within his grasp.
But forcing what wasn't his would only bring disaster.
To keep absorbing more magical wisdom, he needed to live, to experience, to crave more. Those desires would become the keys to unlocking and digesting those memories.
And that was the principle behind "stepping into the fairy tale, letting magic bloom."
Grinning, Lockhart stood before the Pensieve. Instead of diving into the memory as one normally would, he gently dipped his wand into the silvery liquid.
Let the wand be the measure between him and the memory!
This was the way to do it!
No—there was more.
Drawing on the techniques from Snape's handwritten Severus's Potions Lessons, he combined them with the wand movements used in potion-making.
Pop, pop, pop!
The silver liquid in the Pensieve began to bubble, as if gas were rising within it, slowly dissipating into a misty vapor.
Lockhart, standing before the Pensieve, his eyes half-closed, sank into every experience of the Cleaning Charm—every instance the original Lockhart and those dozen great wizards had seen, used, or felt it.
Finally, after an unknown stretch of time, the Pensieve was empty.
Lockhart stood in thought, gently rubbing his wand.
"Scourgify!"
In an instant, the blood and grime on him vanished completely.
The magic rippled outward like a wave, touching the Wronged Fairy, the golden creature, the Boggart's tree hollow, every strand of the Snallygaster's fur, every corner of the wardrobe.
"Perfect!"
Even without the lights on, the room gleamed, reflecting the lightning from the storm outside, sparkling and pristine.
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