Lockhart stared at the stack of documents laid before him.
What he saw made his breath catch—the names of every person whose memory he had ever altered, along with their present situations, and, chillingly, their own accounts of being robbed of their memories by him.
He flipped through the pages faster and faster, the rustling sound somehow soothing the growing terror in his chest. Yet every line he read dragged him deeper into disgrace. These dark records, once revealed, would be enough to turn him from a beloved hero into a hounded fraud, a stray dog cursed by everyone. His so-called heroic deeds—false from the beginning—would crumble to dust.
Trembling, he reached the final page. Scrawled in bold black ink was a single sentence:
"Take care of yourself."
His eyes locked on those words, drawn as if by some unseen force. Then, from somewhere deep in his mind, a majestic old man's voice thundered—solemn, commanding—and fragments of forgotten memories flashed through his consciousness like lightning. They tore at his thoughts, stirring a storm within him.
Startled, Lockhart jerked upright on his bed. His mind raced as he tried to piece together the flashes he had just seen, still chewing over the warning that lingered in his ears.
He remembered the cursed notebook. He remembered Dumbledore descending into the Chamber of Secrets, defeating the basilisk as effortlessly as crushing an insect. He remembered himself lying unconscious, the admiring Hermione at his bedside, and Malfoy—the boy—handing him a glass of whiskey.
"Why did he give me the credit?" Lockhart muttered to himself.
He recalled the reporters' unnatural enthusiasm that morning. For someone like him—well-versed in manipulating publicity and veterans of countless interviews—the whole affair had seemed oddly contrived. The way the press swarmed him, the way their questions led him toward a narrative he hadn't written—it all smelled of conspiracy.
"That's it," he thought suddenly, as if struck by revelation. "That's what it is!"
The explanation, absurd yet perfectly reasonable to his mind, took shape.
Dumbledore's own fame had long reached its zenith. As the greatest living wizard—the man who defeated Grindelwald—people expected greatness from him. Solving the basilisk problem would surprise no one; it would be seen as merely another duty accomplished. 'Oh, of course the Headmaster did it,' they'd say. 'The school's safe again.'
But if Lockhart had done it, it would be another story entirely.
The more he dwelled on this, the clearer Dumbledore's motives seemed. A hero who achieved miracles without effort inspired no awe. But a hero who suffered, who paid a heavy price for victory—that kind of story burned itself into the public heart. And who better to play that part than Gilderoy Lockhart, the man who had "sacrificed greatly" in battle?
Perhaps, Lockhart reasoned, Dumbledore had seen his true level and, instead of exposing him, had chosen to grant him a graceful exit—by giving him credit for the basilisk incident and a noble reason to leave Hogwarts with dignity.
The thought filled him with a strange mix of gratitude and reverence.
And then another idea came to him. That girl—Hermione Granger—was Muggle-born. A teacher risking his life to save a Muggle-born student could ignite a wave of sympathy, shaking the old blood-purist ideologies to their core.
A brilliant move.
It fit Dumbledore's long-held vision: peaceful coexistence between wizards and Muggles.
And—Lockhart smiled faintly—it aligned perfectly with his own ideals.
Of course, the comparison was laughable. Dumbledore was the world's most respected wizard; Lockhart was a fraud wrapped in glitter. Yet, somehow, they shared the same "belief." That comforting thought deepened his admiration for the old man.
Perhaps surviving death had granted Lockhart some newfound insight, for part of his reasoning did brush close to the truth. But as always, he conveniently forgot anything that might tarnish his self-image. The possibility that he had been manipulated—controlled by the diary—never fully crossed his mind. Instead, he accepted the "official" version of events and let himself off with ease.
Or perhaps Dumbledore had tampered with his memory a little more than he realized.
Either way, Lockhart decided he would follow Dumbledore's lead. The old man clearly had a plan, and Lockhart was no fool; better to stay in his good graces.
Now standing before the gathered students, Lockhart stepped back, gesturing toward Dumbledore.
"You can let the Headmaster answer this question," he said with an elegant smile. "After all, Ron—you did say it was only a rumor."
Dumbledore stroked his long silver beard, his blue eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Ron's information is quite reliable," he began, pausing as the students leaned forward in anticipation. "However," he continued, lowering his hands, "it seems you've all misunderstood something. There are magical creatures far more terrifying than basilisks."
The sudden gravity in his voice silenced the hall. The students shifted uneasily, reminded that the basilisk itself was but one of many deadly beings in the magical world. If such monsters existed, then their professors must possess power far beyond their imagination to keep them safe.
One by one, their earlier excitement faded into humble awe.
Then, to everyone's surprise, Dumbledore smiled again, his tone softening.
"Indeed," he said, "your Care of Magical Creatures teacher for the third year will soon retire. He's grown old and wishes to spend more time with his beloved creatures. So, next term, you'll welcome a new professor—someone you may already know. I trust you'll look forward to it."
A ripple of curiosity spread through the hall. Ron sighed and slumped back onto his stool, disappointed.
Beside him, Harry frowned and tapped the table with his fist.
They had secretly hoped Snape, the "old bat," might one day be humiliated again, or that Lockhart would miraculously recover his magic and reclaim his post. But Dumbledore's teasing ambiguity crushed that hope—for now.
Returning to the podium, Lockhart resumed his "Heroic Deeds Press Conference." With what he believed to be Dumbledore's endorsement, his confidence soared. He embellished every story with greater flair, earning rounds of applause from the enchanted audience.
Only Hermione, standing beside him, felt none of the excitement. Irritation prickled beneath her polite expression, mingling with an inexplicable disgust she couldn't name.
Among the cheers, discordant voices began to rise—from the Slytherin table. Each time Lockhart described another "feat," applause erupted across the hall, except from that corner, where hissing and jeers slithered through the noise.
"He talks so grandly," sneered one voice, "but who was it that lost his magic in the end?"
Another muttered more darkly, "Imagine throwing away your future to save a Mudblood."
The whispers weren't loud, but they multiplied quickly.
Dumbledore's sharp gaze swept across the hall and came to rest on Snape. The Potions Master gave a faint wave of his robe, signaling his students to stop.
The hall quieted, though the air still crackled with tension. Everyone knew Snape's favoritism toward his own House; his attempt at restraint seemed half-hearted at best. Many suspected he secretly enjoyed the defiance—a small revenge for his earlier humiliation.
At least, that's what most Slytherins believed.
Pansy Parkinson, however, remained silent. She sat beside Malfoy, stealing nervous glances at him. He had been uncharacteristically quiet, his expression unreadable. The louder the praise for Lockhart grew, the tighter his jaw clenched. The "hero" on stage shone brighter, and by contrast, the "villain" in the shadows seemed smaller—more pitiful.
"Enough."
Malfoy's sudden voice cut through the murmurs. Pansy flinched. For a moment she feared he was about to explode, but instead he spoke calmly, his tone low yet firm.
"If we keep making noise," he said, "the Headmaster will step in for real, and even Professor Snape won't shield us. Losing is losing. It's a poor habit to slander others behind their backs. What matters is winning next time."
He hadn't raised his voice, but somehow every Slytherin heard him clearly. The older students exchanged surprised looks. It wasn't so much the meaning of his words as the quiet authority behind them—the way they seemed to echo in their minds, almost like a spell.
In that moment, though defeated, Draco Malfoy's standing within his House rose higher than ever. Most of the students, impressed or not, chose to obey his lead. His command carried more weight than their professor's rebuke.
Malfoy turned his gaze back toward the stage. Lockhart stood there, basking in applause, his golden hair gleaming under the enchanted ceiling's light. For a long moment, Malfoy simply watched in silence.
Then he sighed—quietly, almost wistfully.
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