Time passed quickly, and the school year at Hogwarts was drawing to an end. The Great Hall was once again filled with light and color, decorated splendidly for the year's final feast. Students sat together in high spirits, their chatter echoing through the vaulted space. Since Gryffindor was leading by a wide margin in House points, the hall was draped in red and gold streamers — the proud colors of the lion. Behind the teachers' table hung a massive banner bearing the majestic Gryffindor emblem, its golden lion roaring with pride.
The atmosphere was jubilant. It wasn't only because summer vacation was just around the corner, but because everyone was about to see their long-awaited hero — a man whose name had become legendary throughout the wizarding world.
Dumbledore, as usual, gave his closing speech. Though the students listened politely, their hearts were elsewhere. Their eyes often drifted to the man seated behind the Headmaster, the one they truly wished to hear.
With a knowing smile, Dumbledore concluded, "Well, it seems my students can hardly wait any longer. This old codger cannot hope to compete with the charm of youth." His tone was light, amused, and completely unconcerned that his students' attention was already stolen away.
"Now," Dumbledore continued, turning to the man behind him, "let the one you've all been waiting for say a few words. I believe he is eager to share his thoughts with you."
The Great Hall erupted into thunderous applause.
The man who stepped forward was none other than Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, who had been away from Hogwarts for quite some time.
"Ah, thank you, thank you," Lockhart began with his trademark dazzling smile, flashing his perfectly white teeth that seemed to glimmer beneath the enchanted ceiling. He wore his iconic sky-blue forget-me-not robes, embroidered with medals that shone brilliantly in the candlelight. Every movement of his hand, every tilt of his chin, seemed choreographed to perfection — graceful, elegant, magnetic.
The students cheered, their admiration overflowing. Lockhart had that rare gift — an aura that could make even the most skeptical heart waver. Hero worship, after all, was something instinctive among the masses.
Well… almost everyone. The Slytherins sat in stony silence, their green ties like patches of disapproval among the sea of red and gold. Their own "hero" had been overshadowed — erased, even — by the man on the stage.
"Actually," Lockhart said modestly, his voice smooth and warm, "I've done only a little work." He paused for effect, letting the crowd laugh and clap again. "I, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class — oh, pardon me, it should be Second Class now — was informed only recently of my promotion. Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award…"
He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "But really, these are all just empty titles. Among all my achievements, the one I cherish most is being your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
His voice softened as if reminiscing. The candlelight reflected off his golden hair as he gazed into the distance, the very picture of gentle melancholy.
The students broke into another round of applause. Harry and Ron clapped so hard their palms turned red, shouting Lockhart's name along with the others.
Lockhart raised a hand, gesturing for quiet. "Thank you for your enthusiasm," he said kindly. "However, due to certain… circumstances, I will no longer be teaching here. I believe Professor Dumbledore has already explained — my spellcasting ability has been severely affected."
A collective sigh swept through the hall.
"As you know," he continued, "Defense Against the Dark Arts is a subject vital to your safety. A teacher must not only have knowledge but also strong practical skill. Once, I might have managed with difficulty… but now, I must admit, I can no longer do so."
The sorrow in his tone rippled through the crowd. Many students bowed their heads in regret. It was unthinkable to imagine Hogwarts without Professor Lockhart's bright smile and radiant confidence. But reason prevailed — neither their parents nor the school would allow an impaired wizard to teach such a dangerous subject.
Then, unexpectedly, a voice rang out from the Gryffindor table.
"Professor Lockhart!"
All eyes turned toward the speaker — a boy with a head of unmistakably bright red hair.
"Oh? Isn't that Mr. Weasley?" Lockhart said, unfazed by the interruption. His smile remained as charming as ever, and he gestured gracefully. "Go ahead, my boy."
Ron, who hadn't quite thought things through before shouting, now felt a hundred pairs of eyes burning into him. But he clenched his fists and spoke up. "I heard that the Care of Magical Creatures professor might retire next year because of his age… I was wondering if you'd consider teaching that class instead?"
The Great Hall buzzed with excited whispers. Students from every house except Slytherin exchanged hopeful looks. The idea of keeping Lockhart at Hogwarts — in any capacity — was too delightful to dismiss.
For a brief moment, Lockhart looked tempted. But then his gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, who sat smiling serenely, blue eyes twinkling with inscrutable amusement.
At that, Lockhart's heart sank slightly. The thought vanished as quickly as it came. Because at that moment, a certain memory flashed in his mind — one that still made his stomach twist.
It was of the time he had spent at St. Mungo's Hospital.
After the incident with the Basilisk, stories of his supposed heroism spread like wildfire. "Bravely fighting the monster," "sacrificing himself to save the students," "Hogwarts' shining protector" — the headlines were endless. The wizarding world's major newspapers all wanted an interview.
When Lockhart finally regained consciousness, he found himself lying on a large, soft bed covered with crisp white sheets. His head throbbed faintly, but before he could gather his thoughts, the door burst open.
A flood of reporters stormed into the room, surrounding his bed with quills and cameras ready.
"Mr. Lockhart, we heard your magic has been affected — is it true?"
"Do you regret teaching at Hogwarts?"
"What were you thinking when you saved Miss Granger?"
"How did you manage to defeat a Basilisk that's lived for centuries?"
The barrage of questions left him dazed — but Lockhart, ever the master of performance, recovered quickly.
After all, a man who could build an entire career from plagiarized adventures had to possess extraordinary storytelling skills.
And so, realizing that everyone already believed him to be a hero, Lockhart did what he did best: he improvised.
"Yes, yes, it all happened so quickly!" he began, his expression grave but gallant. "The Basilisk's tail lashed out, sending waves of wind through the chamber! I had to fight with my eyes closed, you understand — I relied only on sound to find its position. Then, with perfect timing, I—"
He went on, his words flowing like honey. The more he spoke, the more animated he became, and the more enthralled the reporters looked.
When he finally finished, the room burst into applause.
"Truly remarkable, Mr. Lockhart!" one reporter exclaimed.
"Yes, yes," another agreed, adjusting his glasses. "But we mustn't tire him — he's just woken up, after all. There'll be plenty of chances to interview him again."
The reporters filed out, their footsteps echoing down the hall.
As silence returned, Lockhart lay back on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. For a long time, he didn't move.
This newfound fame — this heroic identity built on misunderstanding and lies — filled him with a strange unease. In the past, he had always relied on the Obliviate charm to clean up his deceit. No matter how many lies he told, he could erase the evidence afterward. But now, with his magic faltering, he no longer had that safety net.
And this time, the lie was enormous.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him. "I'll think about it tomorrow," he murmured, forcing himself to relax.
Just as his head touched the pillow, however, something caught his attention — a drawer slightly ajar beside the bed. Inside, he could see a thick stack of papers.
Curiosity prickled at him. He hesitated, then reached out and pulled them free.
The moment he flipped through the first few pages, his blood ran cold.
His eyes widened in disbelief, his heart pounding. For an instant, he even thought his soul might leave his body.
Lockhart glanced nervously toward the door — locked, thankfully — and only then allowed himself to breathe.
The contents of those documents…
Whatever they were, they would change everything.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Jackssparrow