All the gifts that fate bestows come with a hidden price tag.
Malfoy recalled this line he had once read.
Now, on the brightly lit stage, Lockhart stood in high spirits. Everything that had just happened was because of him, yet he strutted about like a savior. To Malfoy, that felt profoundly unfair.
And yet, in truth, it was perfectly fair.
For Lockhart had already paid dearly for his moment of triumph.
Perhaps only Merlin himself knew how long Gilderoy Lockhart had left to live.
Even in a world where magic exists, certain laws cannot be defied—principles like Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. These laws, in a vague way, echo the immutable theorems that Muggle physicists have discovered.
At their heart lies one shared truth: conservation.
Ginny Weasley, in the original tale, was able to escape calamity when the diary was destroyed. The life force it had stolen from her was returned. The balance was restored.
But Lockhart? He would not be so lucky. He might already have overdrawn his own future.
In the magical world, the true masters—the ones who stand at the top of the pyramid—are Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Grindelwald. There can be little debate about that. Whether measured by sheer magical power or the artistry of spellcraft, these three are the gods among wizards.
Below them stands the second tier: professors of Hogwarts who are both scholars and formidable combatants. Even among them, Severus Snape ranks near the top. In the original story, he managed to gain a slight advantage when dueling Professor McGonagall, and even after Flitwick joined the fray, Snape withdrew unscathed. His strength is not to be underestimated.
So then, what price would Lockhart have to pay to defeat Snape in a fair duel? Even assuming that Snape had underestimated him somewhat—what kind of magic could bridge such a gap?
Perhaps only Merlin could answer that question.
After all, for someone like Voldemort—a dark cult leader in his youth—it was common to master sinister spells that consumed one's life force to amplify strength. Such magic always demanded a toll.
Lockhart should perhaps count himself fortunate for having above-average talent. Without it, he might never have survived the cost of what he had done. He would not be standing on that stage now, boasting of achievements that were never truly his.
Time rewinds to not long before that moment.
"Headmaster, I suggest you pay close attention to Lockhart."
A low, hoarse voice broke the still air—Snape's voice.
A first-class wizard does not underestimate himself, nor does he succumb to boundless arrogance. Snape understood his own capabilities with precision. He cared little for the petty matter of winning or losing, even though, to his students, his expression after the duel seemed ghastly pale. Ron and Harry had thought him furious at defeat, but Snape's mind was fixed elsewhere.
He was not brooding over humiliation.
He was worried—about someone's strangeness, and someone's safety.
Thus, when the Duelling Club ended, Snape made this quiet recommendation to Dumbledore.
The Headmaster's office was, as always, filled with mist and the gentle whir of silver contraptions puffing smoke. Behind his desk, Dumbledore was carefully unwrapping a piece of candy, seemingly oblivious to Snape's words.
"Severus," Dumbledore said mildly, without looking up. "Would you help an old man whose hands are not as nimble as they once were? Tear this wrapper open for me, won't you?"
He tossed the candy toward Snape.
It was a transparent attempt to change the subject.
With a dull thud, the candy hit the floor. The soft sound rang faintly across the office—Snape's unspoken protest.
He did not accept the deflection.
"Oh, very well, Severus," Dumbledore sighed, sensing the silent storm in the man before him, though Snape's lips did not move.
"You are too suspicious," Dumbledore murmured, his tone carrying that strange magic of calm that only he possessed. "We do not have the luxury of worrying about a professor's dueling strength. From what I recall, Lockhart was quite a celebrated student in his day. It's not unusual for a gifted student to become an accomplished teacher, is it?"
"But—" Snape began, his fingers tightening around his wand.
"I know what you want to say." Dumbledore's voice remained soft but firm. "Even the best professors are not immune to… mishaps in class. It was his first term teaching, after all. Nervousness is understandable."
Dumbledore glanced up from behind his half-moon spectacles, eyes twinkling faintly. "I doubt you could guarantee that young Neville Longbottom will never make a mistake in your classroom, could you?"
Snape's jaw tightened. "But—"
"Professor Snape," Dumbledore interrupted again, this time with quiet finality, "I would suggest you focus on your potions for now. Once the Mandrakes mature, we'll rely on you to brew the restorative draughts for our petrified students."
His tone grew heavy at the mention of them—Colin, Justin, Hermione—children frozen mid-life.
"Very well, Headmaster," Snape said stiffly. "I trust you'll be satisfied."
He turned sharply, his black robes billowing like storm clouds as he strode toward the door. But just before stepping out, he paused. His voice, cold as ice, carried a faint tremor of something darker—resentment, perhaps, or warning.
"I only hope," he said, "that the next potion you ask me to prepare does not have 'resurrection' as its prefix."
The door closed softly behind him.
But beneath that quiet exit, unseen undercurrents were churning through the room.
"Waste," Dumbledore murmured to himself after a long pause, "is not a virtue worth praising."
He sighed softly, bending to pick up the candy that had fallen. Brushing off a trace of dust, he turned it in his hands, looking for a place where the wrapper would yield easily.
Riiiip.
The wrapper finally tore open with a small, satisfying sound.
Gone was the clumsy fumbling from before; now Dumbledore seemed perfectly composed, almost serene.
Whether his earlier awkwardness had been genuine—or merely another act of the wise old man—no one could say.
Perhaps only Dumbledore himself knew which was true.
Fate's gifts always come with a price.
Lockhart's glory had not been granted freely; he had purchased it with something precious—perhaps years of his life, perhaps the stability of his own soul.
Snape, sharper than most, had sensed that something was amiss. His defeat had not wounded his pride so much as it had alarmed his instincts. Power borrowed always leaves a mark, and Snape had seen that mark in Lockhart's eyes—a flicker too wild, a confidence too brittle.
And Dumbledore? Perhaps he knew as well.
Perhaps he simply chose to let events unfold.
The chessboard of Hogwarts was never without purpose; each piece, no matter how small, had its place in his long game.
Outside, the wind howled faintly against the stone walls. The portraits slept, and the silver instruments on the shelves continued their soft ticking, puffing, and spinning, measuring things no human could quite name—time, fate, or the slow unraveling of destiny.
Lockhart, for his part, basked in his borrowed spotlight, unaware—or perhaps unwilling to acknowledge—that every triumph carries its toll.
For even in the world of magic, there is no true miracle. There is only exchange.
And as the old saying goes:
All the gifts of fate are priced in secret.
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