(Gilderoy Lockhart)
Dinner at Flamel Cottage had been pleasant enough; warm, comfortable, and only mildly overshadowed by the fact that Nicolas insisted on lecturing even as we ate. But once the dishes had cleared themselves away, I excused myself, stepped outside into the cool evening air, and prepared to Apparate.
Dumbledore had given me a simple task while he and Grindelwald finished their ritual work:
Pick up Harry Potter.
Straightforward… in theory.
With a twist, I vanished from the quiet Devon countryside and reappeared on a painfully ordinary pavement in Surrey.
Privet Drive, Number Four. Little Whinging.
And Merlin's crusty socks, what an eyesore.
Rows of identical yellow brick houses with matching brown roofs stretched in either direction, like someone had copied and pasted the same perfectly bland building until the world was drained of personality.
I stared at the nearest house and sighed.
"You'd think Muggles would have discovered creativity at some point," I muttered to myself. "Or colour."
Bracing for what I knew would be an encounter of the thoroughly unpleasant sort, I walked up the front path and rang the bell.
The door swung open a moment later, revealing a boy who could only be described as a pig in a blond wig attempting to evolve into a baby whale. His tiny eyes blinked up at me. This had to be Dudley Dursley.
He gawped at my robes and froze.
"You must be Dudley, yes?" I asked pleasantly.
He swivelled his head back toward the hallway and bellowed, "Mum! Dad! There's a freak at the door!"
Charming. Absolutely charming.
I kept my trained, immaculate smile firmly in place. Honestly, I wasn't even offended. I had been expecting it, and besides… The Dursleys felt so cartoonishly awful they hardly seemed real. More like caricatures from a children's book than actual human beings.
Petunia Dursley arrived next, her sharp features arranged in tight disapproval, until she got a proper look at me. She blushed, predictably… and then went pale as if my robes were a declaration of war. Her neck, already rather long, seemed to gain an extra inch purely through indignation.
Then Vernon arrived, and I nearly blinked.
Since when did walruses wear human business suits?
He shoved Dudley aside and filled the doorway. "What do you want, freak?"
I kept smiling. "Good evening, Mr Dursley. I'm one of Mr Potter's professors. I've come to collect him. The school year is beginning a bit earlier than usual this time." A harmless but convenient lie.
Vernon's moustache twitched. He looked torn, should he be pleased Harry was leaving sooner or furious that his free household labour was disappearing?
"Fine," he grunted. "You can take the boy. Would be even better if you took him for good." He turned and bellowed, "BOY! Pack your things! One of your freak teachers is here to take you!"
Upstairs, something crashed. A thump, followed by a muffled swear that might have been Harry's.
A minute later, he came stumbling down the stairs, dragging his trunk with one hand and clutching Hedwig's cage with the other. His hair was a disaster. His glasses were crooked. His expression, however, lit up instantly when he saw me.
"Professor Lockhart!"
"Hello, Mr Potter," I said warmly. "Come along; I'll explain everything once we're off."
He didn't even glance at the Dursleys before stepping past them. Sensible.
I offered the family a courteous farewell, though they looked at me like I might explode at any moment. Vernon slammed the door behind us with a noise that suggested celebration was moments away.
I turned to Harry. "Alright, Mr Potter?"
"Never better," he said at once. "Thank you for coming, sir, but… why are you here? And where are we going?"
"Dumbledore asked me to pick you up," I explained. "As for where we're going, well, Apparition and Portkeys aren't an option. The place is heavily warded."
His brow furrowed. "So how are we getting there? Wherever that is."
"We," I said grandly, "are taking the Fawkes Express."
"Fawkes?" Harry repeated, head tilting in confusion.
As if on cue, flames erupted above us in a brilliant whirl of gold and scarlet.
Harry yelped and stumbled back as Fawkes descended gracefully and perched on my shoulder with a soft trill.
"Hold your things tightly," I told Harry, resting a hand on his shoulder.
Fawkes spread his wings and the world vanished in a burst of fire.
…
We landed in a forest clearing, a different one from the previous ritual site, cleaner, untouched by residual magic. Harry blinked, steadying himself.
"Professor Dumbledore?" he said the moment he spotted the headmaster, and the other old man standing beside him.
"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore said warmly. "Gilderoy."
I nodded politely. Dumbledore gestured. "This is my friend Gellert."
Gellert lifted a hand in casual greeting. No surname, obviously. Even I wouldn't lead with Grindelwald in front of a thirteen-year-old.
Albus looked up at the sky. "Harry, have you had dinner?"
Harry shook his head.
"Then we shall remedy that." A wave of his wand, and a full table of food appeared, steaming dishes, warm bread, desserts included. Harry looked bewildered at having dinner in the middle of a forest, but hunger won. He set his trunk aside, opened Hedwig's cage so she could stretch her wings, and sat.
I shrugged and claimed a seat myself. I'd already eaten, but I never declined free pudding.
They ate; I sampled dessert; Dumbledore made gentle small talk. Eventually, Harry frowned.
"Sir… why am I here?"
Dumbledore's expression shifted, grave and careful. "Harry, there is something you must know. Years ago, a prophecy was revealed, and it concerns you."
Then he began explaining all the story, how part of the prophecy reached Voldemort's ears and how his parents sacrificed themselves to protect him.
Harry froze. "So that's why Voldemort was after me…"
"Yes," Dumbledore said softly.
"But what does that have to do with bringing me to a forest?"
Albus opened his mouth to begin some long-winded explanation, but Gellert did not let him.
"We're going to break the prophecy," he said bluntly. "The thing tying you to that idiot is in your scar."
Harry slapped a hand to his forehead. "My scar?"
"Yes," Gellert said cheerfully. "There's a piece of his soul in there."
"Gellert," Dumbledore sighed, rubbing his temples.
"What?" Gellert replied. "You'd have taken all night."
And, to be fair… he would have.
…
Once everyone had finished eating, we lingered for a short while to let nerves settle, Harry's especially. When Dumbledore finally rose to his feet, the air seemed to tighten.
"It is time," he said gently.
He flicked his wand and the table vanished in a soft ripple of light. Harry stood, swallowing hard, and followed Dumbledore towards the new ritual circle carved into the earth.
I stepped up beside him. "No need to worry, Mr Potter," I said lightly. "We tested a nearly identical ritual just weeks ago. It went perfectly."
Gellert, naturally, couldn't resist. "Nothing exploded," he added helpfully. "So the chance you'll burst into a fine mist of flesh is quite low. Not impossible, just low."
Harry went visibly paler. Dumbledore shot Gellert a sharp look; but the retired Dark Lord merely smirked.
Since Harry was already wearing Muggle clothes, there was no need to change, as he wasn't wearing anything with magic on it. He lay down in the centre of the ritual circle, trying, and failing, not to notice the thick metallic scent of basilisk blood or the sticky patches where some of it had dried. I winced in sympathy. Basilisk blood never washed out entirely.
Around him, within the meticulously drawn runic ring, lay every ingredient Dumbledore had deemed necessary: the preserved basilisk heart I had so graciously provided, phoenix ash and phoenix tears, a vial of freely-given unicorn blood, three dragon hearts, and over a dozen rarities most wizards alive would never have seen.
When Dumbledore checked the time again, he raised his wand and began chanting. The words were ancient and heavy, thick with power. I joined him at once, careful to keep my cadence steady; I had spent weeks practising this incantation and had no intention of being the weak link that caused a magical catastrophe. Gellert joined in too, voice steady and confident, his magic unmistakably sharp.
As the chant deepened, tendrils of pressure wound around Harry like invisible serpents. His breathing hitched. One hand twitched towards his scar.
Then, with a wet, tearing hiss, the lightning-shaped mark on his forehead ruptured.
Black blood, thick as ink, splattered across his face. Harry screamed, a raw, sharp sound, and then sagged unconscious.
But there was no time for panic.
The moment the foul thing tore free, Dumbledore and I seized it with conjured chains of silver light, just as he and Grindelwald had done weeks earlier.
The fragment writhed, shrieking soundlessly, a twisted knot of soul and hatred, but it was visibly smaller than the last one.
This time, Gellert stepped forward.
He raised a hand, and Fiendfyre answered.
I had used the cursed flame myself the previous time, but what I conjured had been a crude instrument, a furious spell barely tamed. What Gellert called forth was… elegant, controlled, and horrifyingly beautiful. A serpent of living fire coiled around the screaming soul-piece with absolute precision.
And with one effortless tightening of its flaming body, it consumed the fragment utterly.
The clearing fell silent again.
And I could not help but think: compared to Grindelwald's, my own Fiendfyre had been little more than the magical equivalent of a toddler scribbling with crayons.
…
Harry woke up some time later, groggy but breathing easily. The first thing he saw was Dumbledore's concerned face leaning over him, framed by half-moon spectacles. The second was my carefully relieved smile.
"Happy birthday, Harry," Dumbledore said warmly.
"And from me as well," I added, offering him a little flourish.
Harry blinked at us, confused for half a heartbeat, then remembered the ritual, paled, and instinctively touched his forehead. His scar was gone. Smooth skin met his fingers.
Before his panic could rise, Dumbledore gently handed him a small box. "A replacement for your ill-fitted ones," he said. "Your vision should be a touch clearer with these. I took the liberty of adjusting the prescription."
Harry took off the old and slipped on the new glasses and his eyes widened. "Thank you, Professor."
I presented my own gift next, a neatly folded set of casual robes and proper wizarding clothing. "To replace those dreadful cast-offs your cousin inflicted on you. Consider it a belated rescue of your wardrobe."
Harry grinned, a little sheepish but very pleased. "Thank you, Professor Lockhart."
Dumbledore and I both turned to look at Grindelwald, who stared back at us with a baffled expression, as though we had just asked him to recite poetry to a flock of goats.
"…What?" he said flatly.
Harry quickly shook his head. "It's fine, Mr Gellert. Honestly. I've already got the best gift I could have asked for. I'm not connected to Voldemort anymore. That's enough."
Something in Grindelwald's expression shifted, surprise first, then something softer, almost reluctant.
With a quiet huff, he reached beneath the collar of his coat and unclasped his silver necklace. He held it out to Harry without ceremony.
"Since you're a Potter," he said gruffly, "this may as well go to you. The last of the Peverells, Iolanthe Peverell, married into your family. This symbol belonged to them."
Harry took the necklace reverently, turning it over in his fingers.
The triangle, the circle, the line, I recognised it instantly.
"The Deathly Hallows…" I whispered.
"Quite," Grindelwald muttered and gave me a glance. "Don't get any foolish ideas."
Harry thanked him with genuine feeling, and Grindelwald, who clearly didn't know how to handle gratitude, looked away in embarrassment. And Dumbledore's approving smile did not help his composure in the slightest.
When Harry had rested enough, Dumbledore conjured a soft blue glow to light the path out of the anti-apparition wards so they could apparate. Fawkes had gone away at some point and he didn't want to bother him. "Come, Harry. The Weasleys are expecting you. Molly insisted she would not let your birthday pass without a proper celebration."
Harry brightened immediately and gathered his things.
As they disappeared through the trees, guided by Dumbledore's wandlight, I stretched, rolled my shoulders, and felt the fatigue of the ritual begin to settle in. A night of ancient magic, soul extraction and emotional revelations certainly warranted a reward.
"Well," I murmured to myself, "I may as well take advantage of my freedom."
I said goodbye to Grindelwald who was busy removing the traces of the ritual, and walked outside the wards. With a crack of Apparition, I headed straight for the Three Broomsticks, my girlfriends were expecting me, and after the day I'd had, spending the night in their company sounded infinitely preferable to collapsing on Flamel's guest bed. I could always return to the cottage in the morning to continue my studies.
A little celebration never hurt anyone.
…
Far below the Ministry of Magic, in the silent depths of the Department of Mysteries, a single prophecy orb, long untouched, gave a faint, hairline crack.
Then another.
And then, with a soft, crystalline whisper… it shattered into a thousand pieces.
Fragments glittered on the stone floor for a moment before the magic within them faded away entirely.
The prophecy was finally broken.
…