February 14, 1993, Sunday
Nearly three full weeks have passed.
Three very exhausting weeks.
I am beginning to suspect that living alongside a possessed first-year girl is far more physically demanding than slaying a Banshee while posing for a portrait.
Ginny Weasley, or rather, Ginnymort, as I have privately named the situation, has been relentless.
She moves like a hunted animal now. Skittish, slippery. Never in the same place twice. Tom Riddle's influence has grown cautious. Smarter.
He knows I'm watching.
And then, two days ago, her irrational moves stopped altogether. Finally, some confirmation of my suspicions.
The diary was discarded. Cast aside. Abandoned. Which means only one thing: Tom is seeking a new host.
Naturally, I assumed Potter would end up with it. Fate does adore shoving cursed objects into that boy's hands. But a light line of questioning and one extremely subtle Legilimency probe confirmed that he does not have it.
No diary, no whispers, no mental tampering. Just the usual confused heroics.
Which leaves me with very few pleasant options.
So for now… I wait and observe.
I linger near the second-floor girls' bathroom. I listen for plumbing that sounds too… conversational.
Myrtle has been insufferably helpful.
Now then.
Enough about deranged teenage dark lords and plumbing-based horrors.
It is Valentine's Day.
And I, Gilderoy Lockhart, intend to honor it properly.
I was striding toward the Great Hall in an ensemble of lurid pink robes, slashed sleeves, gold trim, a collar that fluttered dramatically behind me, and I must say, there are very few men alive who could wear that shade without looking ridiculous.
I am probably the only man alive who can wear it and still look dashing.
In preparation for this most romantic of holidays, I enlisted the help of my protégés.
The Weasley twins.
They refused, quite rudely at that, to wear pink.
So we came to a compromise.
They currently sport small, enchanted white wings on their backs, fluttering rhythmically like real cupid wings. They very much hate them.
Which makes this even better.
I also took inspiration from a version of myself I feel spiritually connected to and hired a group of dwarves in full cupid attire to deliver Valentine messages around the school.
Tiny wings. Tiny bows. Tiny grumpy faces.
Perfect.
As the three of us burst through the Great Hall doors, the twins leapt into action. They raised their miniature bows and fired heart-tipped arrows straight toward the ceiling.
They struck true and exploded into pink, sparkling, heart-shaped fireworks that filled the air, scattering glittering embers over the breakfast tables.
Naturally, I stepped forward and threw my arms wide.
"HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, HOGWARTS!"
With a theatrical flourish of my wand, I transformed the decorations of the Great Hall. Banners shifted from house colors to varying shades of pink. Floating hearts appeared overhead. The ceiling took on a rosy dawn glow. Even the cutlery gained tiny heart-shaped embellishments.
It was followed by chaos, a bit of screaming, and enthusiastic clapping from my adoring fans.
Snape's face visibly darkened by at least three shades.
Wonderful!
Somewhere in the castle, an irritated young Voldemort was probably searching for a new victim.
But at this exact moment?
Love was in the air.
And I was in charge of it.
…
I stepped up to the podium in a sweep of pink satin that absolutely deserved silence, and for once, I got it.
"My dear students," I said warmly, spreading my arms as if I were about to embrace the entire hall, "I do hope you're enjoying the atmosphere. Hogwarts has always been a place of learning… but today, it is a place of love."
I paused, then turned pointedly toward the massive doors.
"And speaking of love, I believe our special guests have arrived. You may come in now."
The doors creaked open.
In marched a perfectly straight line of dwarves, all dressed in elaborate Cupid attire, tiny gilded wings fluttering with every synchronized step. Their faces were uniformly grumpy, their bows polished, their tiny boots clicking in precise, militaristic rhythm.
They looked… majestic.
And slightly murderous.
"Aren't they wonderful?" I beamed. "I've hired them personally to help deliver your Valentine's messages today. Simply hand them your letter, whisper the name of your beloved, and off they'll fly."
I leaned in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "And for a small extra fee, they'll sing while delivering it. Very moving. Occasionally terrifying. Always memorable."
A few students clapped. A few looked alarmed. Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.
"Oh!" I added, lifting a finger. "I was tempted to ask Professor Snape to teach you all how to brew love potions for the occasion…"
A strangled noise came from the Slytherin table.
I held up my hands quickly. "But of course, I would never allow such a thing. Love potions are nothing more than the Imperius Curse in a bottle. Unforgivable. Love isn't something that should be forced… it should be earned, cherished, and dramatically celebrated."
Snape was staring at me like he was choosing between poison methods.
I only smiled brighter.
"Enjoy the festivities!"
I swept over to the staff table with the kind of effortless grace that tends to trigger envy in less gifted men and took my seat beside Aurora.
With a small, practiced flick of my wand, a bouquet of perfectly bloomed red roses appeared in my hand, followed by a neat, ribboned box of chocolates. No need to fumble with pockets. I have standards.
"For the most beautiful and sweetest witch in the entire castle," I said smoothly, placing them before her. "Roses and chocolate. A classic, but classics endure for a reason."
Then, of course, I turned slightly toward my other side.
"No offence, Minerva. You'll always have a very special place in my heart," I added earnestly, patting my chest, "but I'm afraid it currently belongs to Aurora."
Aurora accepted the gifts with a soft laugh, shaking her head as she did so.
McGonagall, meanwhile, looked like she was internally debating whether strangling a colleague in broad daylight would really cost her job.
Aurora leaned in closer, eyes warm, amused. "Must you always go around provoking people?"
I glanced casually past her.
Severus Snape was staring at me as though he were calculating the most efficient way to dissolve my bones.
Minerva looked ready to throttle me with her bare hands.
I gave them both a charming smile.
Absolutely worth it.
…
(Luna Lovegood)
I went back to my room after breakfast, because the air in the Great Hall had started to feel too loud.
The Ravenclaw Tower was much nicer; quieter, and full of good thinking echoes.
I climbed onto my bed, pulled the curtains shut, and lay on my stomach. My toes dangled off the edge, swinging back and forth while I opened my new diary. I dipped my quill and started to write.
[Hello Tom. You won't believe this, but Professor Lockhart hired a group of dwarves dressed like cupids today. They had tiny wings, and he talked as if he really believed they could fly. Do you think he's been infected by Wrackspurts too?]
The ink shimmered, and his answer appeared.
[Hello Luna. Maybe he's pretending. Acting foolish might be a way to make people underestimate him.]
I paused, chewing on the end of my quill.
That did make sense.
[You're probably right,] I wrote.
[He doesn't feel like most foolish wizards. He knows a lot about magical creatures. Do you think he'd help me find the Crumple-Horned Snorcack if I asked him?]
There was a longer delay before the words formed.
[The Crumple-Horned what?
I don't think that's a real magical creature. I've never heard of it.]
I frowned gently at the page.
[That doesn't mean it doesn't exist,] I wrote.
[There are lots of creatures no one has found yet. They're just waiting for the right people to find them. Maybe we could be the ones. Would you like to help me?]
His reply came faster this time.
[Speaking of magical creatures, I know where you can find a very interesting and ancient one. It's right here in the castle. You just have to follow my instructions.]
My quill stopped.
I tilted my head, thinking.
Then I wrote carefully.
[I'm sorry, Tom, but I can't do that.]
The ink scratched itself almost angrily.
[Why? Why not?]
I swung my feet and answered honestly.
[Daddy told me never to trust anything that can think if you can't see where its brain is.]
The response came quickly.
[That doesn't apply to me.
I'm just a memory, Luna. I'm your friend. I'd never lie to you or put you in danger.]
I pursed my lips.
[Still no, Tom.]
[Now where was I? Oh, yes. We should go looking for Nargles again soon.]
The page went very still.
Very… tight.
I could almost feel him being cross with me, so I closed the diary gently.
Tom was interesting, but he felt… scratchy in the wrong places.
And scratchy things were rarely to be trusted.
Inside the diary, Tom Riddle fumed in silent, frustrated rage.
This strange, dreamy little girl was proving to be a very… difficult problem.
…
(Merry Christmas!)