The castle was unusually quiet over the weekend, with older students off at Hogsmeade. The corridors stood empty, and Gilderoy Lockhart strolled along, watching younger students play by the grounds and the Black Lake. A chilly north wind whispered through the air.
The faint sounds of the drama club's rehearsal faded into the breeze.
"Flitwick has his Frog Choir, Levent has his drama club—that's why they're popular with students…"
The more Lockhart thought about it, the more it made sense. "To boost my influence among students and shine in front of the whole school, I need my own club."
"Wizard chess, gobstones, Quidditch, choir, drama club…"
"These are all ordinary activities. They don't showcase my unique talents. I need a stage to display my charisma, to make them fall for me."
Muttering to himself, Lockhart grew more excited, his perfect smile widening, his expression animated.
By the time he reached the Muggle Studies office, he'd made up his mind. He adjusted his collar, fine-tuned his smile, and knocked.
Knock, knock…
"Come in."
Melvin stood by a shelf, placing fresh sprouts from the greenhouse into a glass jar, replacing the water in the lid before sealing it. He turned to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, raising an eyebrow. "Professor Lockhart? Something I can help you with?"
"Beetles? You've got peculiar tastes, Melvin."
Lockhart glanced at the jar, chuckling as he sat at the desk. "I saw the drama club rehearsing on my way here. Did you know they're working on a script about Sir Cadogan? The bumbling knight destined to die by dragon's jaws, only to accidentally stab its tonsils, choking the wyvern and triggering a fiery explosion."
Melvin sat behind the desk, pouring Lockhart a cup of tea and gesturing for him to continue.
"A tired tale of praising courage through reckless deeds—dull, don't you think?" Lockhart scoffed, then pivoted to his own stories. "My adventures are entirely different—tackling various monsters with wit, courage, and magic."
Before Melvin could respond, Lockhart's excitement surged, his face flushing amid the tea's steam. "Turn them into a series for the enchanted mirrors—it'd be a hit! Melvin, a wizard like you must see the potential, right?"
Melvin swirled his teacup, his face half-hidden by the steam. "Well, Professor Lockhart, we've discussed this before. There are… complications."
"I know, I know!"
Lockhart eagerly pulled two small glass vials from his pocket. "The Ministry's got Madam Edgecombe helping out. They need detailed memories of my adventures. Since our last talk, I've been busy with this. You were right—some parts aren't suitable for public eyes, so I edited them, like you did last year. Take a look!"
The vials shimmered with silvery light, pearlescent, like floating mist or rippling liquid.
Melvin glanced at the memory-filled vials, then at Lockhart's beaming face, his expression turning odd.
These were definitely not Lockhart's memories but stolen experiences from true heroes in remote regions. No wonder Lockhart had been unusually quiet the past two months, avoiding attention-grabbing antics—he'd been busy pilfering memories.
"Alright, let's take a look…"
Melvin summoned an enchanted mirror and placed a strand of memory inside.
Silver mist swirled, revealing a snow-swept village. Children's cries filled the background, and snippets of dialogue from passing wizards introduced a yeti rampage. The scene shifted, and Lockhart appeared through the blizzard, flashing a radiant smile…
It was a standard adventure tale. Lockhart had mimicked last year's films, even adding background music. But as an amateur filmmaker, his shots were rough and clumsy, the music's emotional cues forced and awkward.
Surprisingly, the fabricated memory was flawless, seamlessly edited. If Melvin didn't know the protagonist was someone else, he'd have been fooled.
"Impressive work, Gilderoy Lockhart," Melvin said, genuinely surprised. "You're really suited for this."
"Just borrowing your techniques," Lockhart demurred, flashing a sincere, dazzling smile.
"I'll gather the Mirror Club to review it soon, but you know how slow pub owners can be. Easter in April is the earliest we can manage," Melvin said vaguely, stalling.
Lockhart sipped his tea, warmth spreading through him, as if fame and fortune were already waving.
"Professor Lockhart…" Melvin toyed with the vial. "Have you heard the riddle I left outside the Ravenclaw common room?"
"The Ship of Theseus?"
Lockhart paused, scrambling for a way to bluff. "While I had a legendary waterborne adventure in Voyages with Vampires, I'm quite familiar with sailors and boatmen. But wizard ships are different from Muggle ones, trickier to repair. This Ship of Theseus you mention…"
"It's not about ships."
Melvin cut him off, marveling at how this wizard had slipped past publishers' editors. "The ship's just a metaphor, inspired by Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party. If a ghost's personality differs completely from their living self, how can we be sure their soul remains the same?"
"Oh!" Lockhart nodded, adopting an expert's tone. "That's similar to my thoughts in Breaking with Banshees. Some ghosts and banshees are so erratic, you need special tactics to handle them."
"…"
Melvin gave up correcting his nonsense. "My point is, if the Ship of Theseus can be replaced, and a ghost's soul can change, can a person's memories alter their essence?"
"I… don't quite follow."
Lockhart frowned, dropping the know-it-all act.
"It's well-known that our unique experiences shape our memories, which in turn define who we are. They give us knowledge, shape our thinking, and form our character…" Melvin's tea steamed. "Professor Lockhart, if the memories that shape our character are replaced, would we change?"
Lockhart's smile faded. He lifted his teacup, set it down, and repeated the motion several times, deep in thought.
Melvin continued unhurriedly. "At Ilvermorny, a classmate once scared me in the attic. Now, I always check blind spots when climbing stairs or turning corners. If that memory were replaced, would I still have that habit?"
Lockhart stared at Melvin, something flickering in his dark eyes—eager encouragement or an ambiguous question?
He couldn't tell.
As a wizard skilled only in Memory Charms, Lockhart felt his heart race, new ideas stirring.
"Taking it further…" Melvin paused. "If Dumbledore shared his memories with me, and I discarded some of mine, could I become a wizard like him?"
Lockhart sipped his tea, his heart pounding harder.
He didn't have Dumbledore's memories, but he had others—many heroes' memories.
Replacing memories was tricky, risking mental disruption and self-awareness, but Lockhart excelled at memory magic.
He couldn't help but imagine: if he had those memories, he'd no longer be the fraud deceiving readers. He'd be a true hero, adored by students.
"I just remembered something urgent. I'll come back later, Melvin!" Lockhart bolted, leaving the office door open.
Melvin gazed at the open door, sipping his tea. As the steam cleared, his eyes gleamed with anticipation.
…
Monday morning, a biting wind howled across the grounds.
The bell hadn't rung yet, but students had already fled to classrooms, shutting windows and lighting fireplaces against the cold.
The second period was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry thought the class was dreadful—worse than Quirrell's last year.
Lockhart couldn't teach properly. His lessons were a stage for self-aggrandizement, his ten textbooks his scripts, and Harry was practically his golden supporting actor.
When Lockhart recounted Travels with Trolls, Harry was the silent, feeble troll. In Holidays with Hags, he was the shrieking hag. Halfway through the term, he'd played a banshee, troll, vampire, and werewolf.
The only role left was the yeti, which Lockhart saved for snowy days, claiming the cold set the mood.
As the bell rang, Harry saw Lockhart enter.
He wore his usual sky-blue robe, now layered with a wool sweater. His expression was calm, not overly friendly, making him oddly more tolerable. Tucked under his arm was a thick book—Year with the Yeti, judging by the spine.
Lockhart caught Harry's gaze, paused thoughtfully, and flashed a radiant smile. "Harry… good to see you."
"Morning, Professor."
Harry was puzzled, watching Lockhart take the podium. He turned to his friends. "Does Lockhart seem… different today?"
"Definitely different," Ron said, squinting thoughtfully.
"Hm?"
"You get to play the yeti today!"
"…"
Harry scooted away, worried he'd lose control and kick Ron if he went berserk as the yeti.
"I wonder if the Chamber's monster is a yeti? If it's something from his books, we'd have a way to deal with it, but none have bright yellow eyes," Hermione muttered.
Harry stayed silent.
Their weeks of investigation had yielded nothing. They'd gathered every clue possible, but none were useful. Dobby hadn't reappeared, and Hermione was obsessed, scribbling deductions in her notebook.
Knock, knock…
Lockhart tapped the desk, drawing the class's attention. "Good morning, everyone."
The students exchanged confused glances.
Lockhart, seeing their bewilderment, felt their youthful energy and smiled—a warm, imperfect smile. "I've covered a few dark creatures before and planned to save the yeti for a snowy outdoor lesson. But that'd be too cold, so I'll teach it now. Hopefully, when it snows, you can reflect on it…"
The classroom grew quiet.
No theatrical performance today?
Harry frowned. This Lockhart felt unfamiliar, exuding an old-fashioned air—not like Dumbledore's, but slower, like Tom at the Leaky Cauldron.
"Yetis live in frigid regions, like the Himalayas, colder than a snowy Hogwarts. At night, no one goes out—not even to the bathroom. They handle it indoors. Know why?" Lockhart asked.
Seamus piped up from the back. "Why?"
"It's so cold your fingers would freeze in ten minutes, turning brittle like toffee, snapping into pieces."
"What?"
"One snap, and they'd shatter into bits."
"Ugh!"
The students shivered at the imagery, their interest piqued.
"Yetis appear on those snowy nights, up to fifteen feet tall, with pale fur blending into the snow. From a distance, they look like small snowdrifts. But when you get close, they leap up, unstoppable even by a dozen wizards…"
The room was silent.
Lockhart's class had transformed. Gone were the tedious role-plays and empty boasts. Now, his vivid, detailed descriptions felt like a decades-long resident of a snowbound village speaking, bringing the world to life.
The two-hour lesson flew by, the students immersed in the windswept Himalayan village and the yeti's looming shadow, thrilling and novel.
"Alright, class is almost over."
Lockhart closed his book and drew his wand. "I'll show you a small spell to conjure snowflakes. Watch closely… Nix Floccus."
Under the class's gaze, he flicked his wand. Nothing happened.
Frowning, Lockhart studied his wand, puzzled, as if it had malfunctioned.
As he prepared to try again, the bell rang.
Lockhart waved. "That's it for today. We'll continue next time!"
The students streamed out, but Harry lingered, unusually patient. He exchanged looks with his friends, their eyes wide and unblinking.