Brushing past Lockhart in the hallway, Lucien mulled over what he knew about the Order of Merlin.
The famous wizard Merlin had founded the Order of Merlin back in the mid-11th century—the wizarding world's first official magical organization.
His goal? Get wizards to help non-magical folks.
Any witch or wizard who contributed to the magical community could earn an Order of Merlin medal.
After centuries of chaos and calm, the Order itself dissolved.
But the medal stuck around, now one of the highest honors in wizarding society. Since the 15th century, the Wizengamot hands them out.
Lucien thought of the second- and third-class recipients he knew personally.
Take Newt Scamander—second class for his groundbreaking work in magical creatures and magizoology.
Undeniable. No wizard on the planet could claim more authority in that field.
Lockhart's third-class medal? For "bravery against dark creatures" and spreading defense methods in his books.
The adventures weren't his, but the tips were real—stolen from the actual heroes. Someone in danger might actually use them and survive.
The award was mostly for spreading those methods. Hey, that counts as a contribution, right?
Lucien had published two papers: one digging deep into layered transfiguration, the other pioneering magical-creature transformation.
The first built on existing theory. The second opened a whole new branch of transfiguration.
Not everyone could master creature transformation, but the layered principles in the paper alone would blow the minds of anyone who understood it—sparking new research paths.
That's gotta count as a contribution to wizarding knowledge.
Question is, how does the Wizengamot rank that stuff?
Come to think of it, Dumbledore's the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Maybe ask him?
Earlier, when Lucien mentioned awards, Dumbledore had this "I've got more to say" vibe—like he was holding back.
If Lucien actually snagged an Order of Merlin—second or third class—his fame would skyrocket.
More fame = more sales for his alchemical gadgets and potions. Speaking of which, it's about time to Apparate off-campus and check on his shops—restock, see how things are moving.
Luster Apparition makes it easy. Just sneak out on a weekend.
Sure, transfiguration journals and awards would make him famous—but mostly in transfiguration circles.
An Order of Merlin? That's wizarding-world headline news.
The payoff would be huge.
First class, though? No way.
Lucien compared past recipients and spotted the pattern: first class is basically for saving tons of lives or solving massive magical crises.
Dumbledore's was for defeating dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald—obvious.
Others: Orabella Nuttley repaired the Colosseum with a Mending Charm after a broom-race riot nearly exposed magic to Muggles.
Tilly Toke and her family saved a bunch of Muggles during the 1932 Ilfracombe incident…
Some get awarded posthumously with lower bars—just for heroic acts.
Like Norwell Dunk: saved a Muggle kid from a manticore, got first class after death.
Then there's the "tradition": pretty much every retiring Minister for Magic awards themselves a first class on the way out.
Bottom line: to earn a living first class, you either solve a world-ending crisis or become Minister.
How many of those crises are just lying around?
Wait for Voldemort to return and blast him to bits in front of the whole world?
Lucien chuckled, shaking his head, and headed toward the twins to check recent sales.
Then—a flash of memory. Lockhart muttering to himself:
"…control the monster, cause chaos… a witnessed, real adventure… save the little wizards, save the future of wizarding kind…"
Lucien stopped dead. Turned. Stared at Lockhart's retreating back.
Oh yeah. He did say that.
…
Fast forward. October rolls in.
Cold, damp air creeps through the castle. Half the school's sneezing and coughing.
Madam Pomfrey whips up a cold cure—works like a charm, but your ears steam like kettles for hours.
Sneezes and coughs fade. Whistle-like toots echo everywhere.
Hogwarts looks like a foggy dream—very magical.
Lucien walks through the entrance hall. Kids with steaming ears everywhere. Some own it—bopping their heads like it's fun. Others hide behind books, sleeves, or scarves.
Should I brew a side-effect-free cold potion? Not hard. Seasonal product—big sales in fall/winter.
"Whew, rain every day lately. Good thing you invented the water-repelling bracelet, or we'd be soaked and muddy after practice!"
Harry lifts his wrist, showing off the sapphire-blue band. Pouring outside, but his Quidditch robes are bone-dry.
Lucien glances at it. Rain every day? Of course—Æthel gets restless. He lets the little thunderbird out of the trunk world to stretch his wings in the real sky.
Æthel, the thunderbird chick Lucien brought back from Arizona.
Their flights whip up storms. Britain's already soggy—this just piles on.
That's why he made the bracelets: auto-casts Impervius and cleaning charms. Keeps rain and mud off.
Not just the Quidditch teams—tons of students bought them.
Cheap, easy, better than umbrellas or constant spell-casting.
More and more kids are hooked on Lucien's alchemical gadgets and potions. Convenience. Comfort.
Loyalty!
"Yeah, thanks to Lucien's inventions, I can lead my team in training so much easier."
Harry groans. Ever since Flint got detention and Slytherin practice got canceled, Malfoy—somehow—took over leading the team.
Now every time they cross paths, Malfoy has to brag three to five times. That's him being "shy."
"Malfoy, is your captain's detention ever ending?"
Malfoy smirks, fake-sad shrug.
"Who knows? Professor Snape's got a lot of toads, rats, and bats to deal with…"
---
Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's Office
Lockhart's desk: the faded diary lies open. He scribbles with a gaudy peacock quill, muttering:
"That… that monster… it won't kill anyone, right?"
"I just want headlines, not Azkaban. That's no storybook ending…"
"It's huge. Could totally eat someone…"
He writes his fears. The ink vanishes—swallowed by the page.
Seconds later, new words appear:
"It's a basilisk. Follow my instructions—you'll control it completely."
"Relax. No direct eye contact = petrification at worst. Petrification is curable. A few months in bed, tops."
"No one will know you staged it. The world will remember Gilderoy Lockhart: tamed the basilisk, saved Hogwarts, protected the children—wizarding hero!"
"Fame, worship, honors, glory… all yours."
Lockhart's breath quickens. Still hesitant, he writes:
"Tom, I'm still worried…"
He doesn't notice: faint wisps of life force and soul energy slip from his body, vanishing with the ink into the diary.
Deep inside the diary…
A spacious round room. Weird silver instruments. Empty picture frames on walls. A Sorting Hat tossed on a shelf.
Looks a lot like the Headmaster's office—just… different. Older.
A sixteen-year-old boy lounges in a big chair.
Black hair. Black eyes. Pale. Features blurry.
A fresh diary lies open before him. Lockhart's words appear.
The boy—called Tom—sniffs.
"Still not enough life force or soul energy."
His face sharpens slightly. He reads, then sneers:
"Timid. Greedy. Clueless. Is he easy to fool… or not?"
Tom knows exactly what Lockhart wants: fame, a witnessed, real adventure.
Under Tom's guidance, Lockhart quickly bought into using the basilisk to stage a crisis.
But when Lockhart actually entered the Chamber and saw the thing—he chickened out.
Now he's waffling: release it? Control it? Cause panic? Defeat it for glory?
He was following instructions perfectly—open and compliant. Tom was siphoning tons of life and soul.
But the stalling slowed everything.
Tom needs that energy to rebuild himself.
This "Tom" is just a soul fragment—accidentally split from sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle, fused with the diary. A Horcrux.
Enough stolen life and soul = new body.
Then teenage Tom Marvolo Riddle walks the earth again. Maybe merge with the main soul…
"No. I am me. Observe first. Wonder how the main me's doing—has he mastered magic? Become Headmaster? Ruler of wizarding kind?"
Tom writes:
"Gilderoy, my friend—if you're nervous, let's test with animals. See if the basilisk obeys you 100%."
His words vanish. For the plan, Tom will make the basilisk play along.
But once he's strong enough…
"Time for the real show. If Hogwarts loses a bunch of students, Dumbledore's out as Headmaster!"
Tom remembers: Dumbledore visiting the orphanage. Burning his prized wardrobe with magic.
The flames were fierce. Beautiful. Unforgettable.
He remembers: acing school, beloved by teachers and students—yet Dumbledore watched him like a thief.
Now Lockhart told him Dumbledore's Headmaster.
Resentment flares.
"That narrow-minded old man who never saw my genius—how dare he sit in that chair? Just like he forced his will on me back then!"
Tom needs a body. Needs Dumbledore gone.
So Lockhart will obey. Step by step. Feeding life and soul.
Lockhart reads the reply, twirls the peacock quill, still uneasy.
"Animal testing? The students have tons of pets. There's that mangy cat wandering around. Tsk, a magical school with a filthy stray…"