June 12, 1993, Saturday
It was early morning as I made my way back toward Hogwarts from the Three Broomsticks, staff tapping lightly against the cobblestones, my lilac robes swishing with impeccable elegance at every step. The wind tried its best to disturb my perfectly styled blond locks, but, of course, it was no match for artistry such as mine.
As I strolled through Hogsmeade's narrow streets, familiar faces brightened at the mere sight of me.
"Professor Lockhart!"
"Good morning, Professor!"
I answered each greeting with my trademark dazzling smile, the kind that inspired confidence, admiration, and perhaps the occasional swoon. Truly, the people here were lucky to exist in the same era as I.
Thankfully, the dirt path leading back to Hogwarts lay quiet ahead of me. No students, no chatter, just the crunch of gravel beneath my boots and the freedom to indulge in my thoughts. With only a week left before the end of the school year, it seemed the perfect time to take stock of all that I had accomplished.
Let's see…
Become the best Defence Against the Dark Arts professor Hogwarts has ever seen, done.
Kill the basilisk, done.
Obtain Gryffindor's sword, done.
Complete Gryffindor's absurdly dangerous ritual, done.
Receive an Order of Merlin, First Class, done.
Earn Dumbledore's goodwill, done.
Write a book using this year's brave and remarkable events, currently in the final rounds of editing, so essentially done.
Deal with Ravenclaw's diadem, in progress.
Solve the curse on the Defence position, also in progress.
Destroy Tom Riddle's diary… unfortunately a failure, as the disturbingly persuasive young version of the Dark Lord had somehow managed to escape.
Still, one cannot win them all.
And as if to compensate for that singular shortcoming, I had secured an apprenticeship with none other than Nicolas Flamel himself, unexpected, yes, but tremendously deserved.
All in all, an extraordinary year.
Still, I couldn't help but feel as though something important had slipped my mind.
I slowed my pace slightly, frowning as I sifted through the year's events and mentally overlaid them with what I remembered from the original timeline. Everything had gone so spectacularly off-script that it was hard to keep track sometimes, but then it hit me.
Dobby.
Wasn't Mr. Potter supposed to free the little house-elf after the basilisk incident?
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped me. Of course. I'd been so wrapped up in rituals, relics, cursed objects, and my own stunning heroics that I'd completely forgotten about the poor creature. In my past life, he'd been something of a fan favourite, after all. Loyal to a fault, and brave in the smallest, strangest ways. A pity to leave him bound to Malfoy.
Perhaps I could strike a deal with Lucius. I had enough leverage at this point… and failing that, there were many creative ways to "misplace" a cursed sock in the right hands. Still, I would have to consider the best approach carefully.
With that thought stored away for later, I arrived at the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Before I could even speak the password, it sprang obediently aside and once on top of the stairs, the door drifted open of its own accord, as if I had been expected.
Inside, Dumbledore leaned casually against his desk, waiting for me.
Coincidentally, he too was dressed in lilac robes, though his were, somehow, even more extravagant than mine. A matching pointed hat sat atop his head, while tiny enchanted stars twinkled lazily all over his clothes from time to time.
"Ready for our little excursion, Gilderoy?" he asked pleasantly.
"Of course," I replied, stepping inside with a smooth flourish.
He extended a quill toward me. "If you would, take an end."
I grasped it without hesitation and he said the portkey's activation password.
"Nurmengard."
With a familiar, stomach-lurching plop, the office vanished around us.
…
Austria, Nurmengard Castle, single cell in the tallest tower.
As the guard outside the cell pulled the heavy, vaulted door open for us, Dumbledore and I stepped inside with such ease that one might have thought we were just paying a cordial visit to an old colleague, not standing in the presence of one of the most dangerous wizards in history.
A bald, elderly man stood with his back to us, gazing out through the narrow stone window. The light caught faintly on the curve of his skull and the thin, almost fragile outline of his frame.
"Albus," he said, without turning around. His voice, though aged, was still unmistakably sharp. "You are punctual as always."
Then, after the briefest pause, as though he had only just noticed the second set of footsteps, he added, "And you brought someone with you." There was a trace of genuine surprise in his tone.
He finally turned to face us, and for a fleeting moment I caught a glimpse of the man history still remembered, not for his appearance, but for the strange, unsettling magnetism that lingered around him. The only physical remnant of the legendary Gellert Grindelwald's former charm lay in his eyes: one a deep, calculating brown, the other an unnaturally pale blue, so light it almost looked white.
"Mr. Grindelwald," I said politely, inclining my head. "I'm Gilderoy Lockhart. A pleasure to meet you."
He gave me a glance that lasted barely a second before dismissing me entirely, turning his attention back to Dumbledore as though I were no more than an interesting piece of furniture.
"So this is the man you have chosen to succeed you," he remarked. "He seems promising. A little too vain, perhaps… but the heart is there."
I had already suspected as much, of course, but seeing Dumbledore fail to deny it, not even with a gentle redirect, made the implication far more real than I had expected.
After a moment's silence, Dumbledore finally spoke.
"Old friend," he said softly, "we have come today to request your help. We are faced with a… very particular problem, and we hoped you might possess a solution that has so far eluded us."
Grindelwald's lips twitched faintly, the closest thing to a smile.
"We have found a magical artifact that has been used as a vessel for a Horcrux," Dumbledore continued. "The complication is that this artifact is invaluable, and we do not wish to see it destroyed. I consulted Nicolas, but even he was unable to provide a satisfactory answer."
"So I am your last resort," Grindelwald finished calmly.
Then his pale eye sharpened, and he went on, voice lowering almost imperceptibly.
"No… it is not as simple as you say, Albus. If it were merely a priceless object, you would have destroyed it already and spared yourself the trouble of coming here. There is something else you are not telling me. There is more than one Horcrux, isn't there?"
The silence that followed was cold and heavy.
"And one of them is alive," he added. "A human vessel. I would wager my freedom on it."
Once again, Dumbledore did not deny it.
In that instant, the full picture snapped into place in my mind. My surprise quickly turned to a grim understanding. He hadn't brought me here because of Ravenclaw's diadem at all.
No, this wasn't about the diadem.
It was about Harry Potter.
He already knew that the boy, and the scar upon his forehead, was a Horcrux.
"So," Grindelwald said quietly, "even the great Albus Dumbledore has something he can't do."
He made a dramatic pause.
"What you seek," he went on, "is an ancient necromantic ritual. And fortunately for you, I happen to have dabbled a bit in the arts."
I then remembered the story, the baby Qilin he had murdered… and resurrected under his control. Dabbled was far too gentle a word.
Dumbledore exhaled softly. "What ritual, Gellert?"
"The Soul Transfer Ritual," Grindelwald answered. "The same principle used to create a phylactery… a vessel for the entire soul. With the proper modifications, however, it can be used to extract and relocate a fragment, a Horcrux, from one host to another."
"And what would you demand in exchange?" Dumbledore asked, though he already knew.
"I want my freedom," Grindelwald said simply. "I will not die in the prison I myself built. I wish to spend what little life remains in peace. I can even take a vow to behave, if that pleases you."
"You know I cannot do that," Dumbledore replied quietly. "I swore a vow long ago…"
"I know," Grindelwald interrupted. Then he looked at me.
"But he can."
My breath hitched.
"Me?" I echoed, genuinely stunned.
"You cannot be seriously considering this," I turned to Dumbledore, alarm creeping into my voice. "The panic alone if he ever escapes… We would be the first to be suspected."
Dumbledore shook his head, utterly calm. "Gellert Grindelwald can never be allowed to escape Nurmengard," he said.
Relief washed over me… until he added, "…But he can die."
Understanding hit me immediately.
A staged death.
Grindelwald's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Always thinking like a strategist, Albus."
I clenched my jaw, unease twisting in my chest, and a dangerous thought suddenly crossed my mind. I decided to go for it, "I will help. But on one condition."
Now both men watched me intently.
"I want everything," I said. "Not pieces. Not riddles. I want you both to teach me all you know. Every spell, every theory, every truth you would otherwise keep hidden."
For a moment, there was only silence.
Grindelwald chuckled softly, then suddenly burst into delighted laughter, genuine and unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls.
"I like you, boy," he said when he finally recovered. "Very well. Let us see what sort of monster is born from our shared knowledge."
Dumbledore studied me carefully, as though trying to read the very threads of my soul.
At last, he seemed to find what he sought and nodded.
"Then it is agreed."
…