Leaving the headmaster's office behind, Lockhart emerged from the castle into the crisp Scottish air. Rather than returning immediately to London, he set out toward Hogsmeade, the bustling wizarding village nestled just beyond the school grounds.
He had not come on a whim. If he hoped to make a lasting impression on the parents of incoming students, he needed to acquire a few specific supplies—and, more importantly, lay the groundwork for his long-term ambitions.
After running several errands across the village, he stowed his purchases inside a leather suitcase expanded via an Undetectable Extension Charm. Content with his progress, he made his way to the heart of the village, stepping through the warm, mahogany doors of Hogsmeade's premier establishment: the Three Broomsticks.
The moment he stepped inside, a familiar voice called out over the chatter of the tavern.
"Gilderoy Lockhart!"
The landlady immediately left the patron she was attending to and strode toward the entrance.
"Good afternoon, Madam Rosmerta," Lockhart said smoothly, offering his signature, dazzling smile accompanied by a polite bow.
Rosmerta's eyes brightened. "It's been far too long! How have you been keeping lately?"
Lockhart gave a subtle, practiced wink. "Remarkably well, thanks to your continued good wishes... Tell me, is my reserve bottle still waiting for me in the cellar?"
"Of course! It's tucked away in the absolute best spot downstairs. Shall I prepare it as usual—a double shot of aged Ogden's Old Firewhisky over a single sphere of ice, topped with two splashes of soda?"
"Naturally," Lockhart replied smoothly. "Unless... have you concocted any new house specialties in my absence?"
Rosmerta's expression turned proudly coy. "As a matter of fact, I've been experimenting with a new recipe. Would you care to be my test subject?"
Lockhart chuckled. "I am a gentleman of modest reserves, Madam Rosmerta, and I could never bring myself to refuse a drink offered by such a stunning host."
"Oh, you smooth-talking rogue!" Rosmerta laughed, swatting at the air before turning back toward the bar.
The patron Rosmerta had abandoned, however, looked less than pleased.
"Hey!" shouted a bald wizard without a hat, slamming his pewter mug onto the counter. "How come he gets a custom brew from the landlady, while I'm stuck waiting?"
Rosmerta glided past him without breaking stride. "Simple, sweetie. One Galleon a glass—or you can stick to draught."
"One Galleon?! That's robbery!" the wizard sputtered, glaring across the room. "Why does the pretty boy get the royal treatment?"
Rosmerta favored Lockhart with an openly shameless smile. "When you can slay a werewolf with your bare hands and name the vintage and vineyard of a fine wine from a single sip, I'll be happy to mix drinks for you, too."
Feeling the bald wizard's sullen gaze, Lockhart chose not to engage. He simply offered a quiet nod and slipped into a secluded booth near the back.
While noisy taverns were hardly his preferred sanctuary, cultivating a strong alliance with Madam Rosmerta was essential. If his memory served him correctly, Rosmerta possessed an astonishingly vast network of contacts. Students, Hogwarts professors, Ministry officials, and even Gringotts goblins frequented her establishment. Even Cornelius Fudge himself rarely passed through Hogsmeade without inviting her for a drink.
Her natural charm and striking appearance certainly helped, but her real value lay in her position at the crossroads of magical society. Maintaining a close relationship with Rosmerta meant Lockhart would always have a discreet, highly connected intermediary whenever he needed access to key figures.
Besides, spending time in the company of a quick-witted, attractive woman was hardly a hardship.
Across the room, the bald wizard seemed intent on causing a scene, muttering under his breath as he rose to his feet. Lockhart quietly slid his wand out from his sleeve, concealing it beneath the table, and gave a subtle flick.
A moment later, the bald wizard blinked, his aggressive posture melting away. He sat back down with a placid, slightly dazed expression, happily humming to himself as he took a slow sip of his drink.
Lockhart casually scanned the room. Seeing that no one had noticed the quiet piece of magic, he let out a silent breath of relief.
It had been a subtle, non-verbal Confundus Charm—just enough to convince the man that he was actually having a wonderful afternoon and had no desire for a fight.
Ever since realizing that his inherited magical skills were disastrously narrow, Lockhart had been forced to completely overhaul his approach to spellwork. In the absence of a structured magic system, a wizard's mental focus was their primary resource. Even a master like Dumbledore favored Transfiguration above all else because mastery required deep specialization.
The original Lockhart's sole talent lay in Memory Charms. Recognizing this, the transmigrated civil servant realized that any magic involving mental manipulation, suggestion, or perception shared a common foundation with Memory Magic. Over the past few weeks, he had focused intensely on mastering prerequisite skills: Mind-Affecting Charms, subtle hypnosis, sensory illusions, and emotional modifiers like calming or agitating jinxes.
By contrast, his attempts at elemental magic or high-level Transfiguration remained a total failure. Transfiguring objects yielded pathetic results, and summoning firestorms or water barriers was completely out of the question. However, practical utility spells—such as the Shield Charm, Accio, or the Severing Charm—were functional, while body-affecting magic like Stunners or the Reductor Curse sat comfortably in the middle.
His mental spells, however, were exceptional. The silent Confundus Charm he had just executed seamlessly in a crowded room was proof that his targeted training was paying off.
I'm not entirely defenseless after all, Lockhart thought to himself. If a politician can't manage a crowd or subtle manipulation, they have no business seeking power.
A few moments later, Madam Rosmerta returned carrying a polished silver tray, setting down a crystal glass alongside a small plate of warm Scottish shortbread.
"Lambert didn't give you any trouble, did he?" she asked, glancing toward the bar with concern.
"So his name is Lambert?" Lockhart picked up his glass with a relaxed smile. "No trouble at all. He seems rather subdued—perhaps he has a lot on his mind."
Rosmerta sniffed. "He certainly does. His childhood sweetheart, a witch named Yennefer, walked out on him recently. Ran off with some long-haired, white-haired Muggle mercenary named Geralt, of all things! Ever since, Lambert's been picking fights with every handsome man who walks through the door."
"Ah, a tragic case of heartbreak," Lockhart remarked smoothly.
"Is it? Because you look like you're thoroughly enjoying the gossip," Rosmerta teased, leaning against the edge of the booth.
"Never," Lockhart replied solemnly, taking a delicate sip from his glass. Decades of civil service training kicked in instantly: never admit to anything on the record.
He immediately steered the conversation back to his drink. "Sensational... You've added heather honey, which is a brilliant touch. But is that a hint of wild cherry juice as well? It cuts through the heavy peat of the Firewhisky beautifully."
Rosmerta's jaw dropped slightly. "Sweet Merlin, you really can pick out every note! Remarks like that make me want to bottle your tongue and keep it on my top shelf just to taste my brews."
Lockhart offered a polite smile, choosing not to take the landlady's gruesome magical humor literally. In truth, his palate was simply the result of years spent attending high-end political receptions and corporate dinners in his past life. Knowing how to discuss fine wine and spirits was basic survival in government circles.
Seeing that the mood was right, Lockhart segued into his main objective.
"Actually, Madam Rosmerta, I was wondering if you might do me a small favor. I've recently spotted a lucrative venture in the Muggle financial sector, but I find myself short on Muggle currency. Would you happen to have a personal channel to arrange a private meeting with Mr. Ragnok at Gringotts?"
If his memory served him right, Ragnok was one of the most senior goblin managers at Gringotts—the very figure Bill Weasley would later try to negotiate with during the Second Wizarding War.
Rosmerta sighed, putting on a mock expression of betrayal. "I might have known you didn't drop by just to see my lovely face."
"Perish the thought," Lockhart replied, his charm turning on full blast. "I need to secure enough Galleons to afford visiting you far more often. Your finest vintages don't come cheap, you know."
"You get what you pay for, Gilderoy. You always order the top shelf," Rosmerta countered, though a pleased flush rose on her cheeks. "Look at those Hogwarts kids over there—perfectly content with a one-Sickle bottle of Butterbeer."
"Butterbeer?" Lockhart made a subtle, dramatic shudder. "Absolute liquid sugar. As a public figure, I have to keep an eye on my waistline."
Rosmerta's eyes unconsciously strayed to his chest, tracing the subtle, broad taper of his shoulders beneath his fitted velvet robes.
In the wizarding world, physical conditioning was rare outside of professional Quidditch players; even muscle-enhancing potions rarely produced natural athletic frames. Lockhart, however, maintained a rigorous fitness routine. Despite being twenty-eight, he looked as sharp and physically fit as a seasoned athlete.
Rosmerta adjusted her shawl, suddenly feeling a bit warm.
"I suppose I might be able to pass a message to Ragnok's office," she murmured softly. "Though senior goblins move on their own schedule, even for an influential wizard... It might take until tomorrow morning to get a response. Will you be staying in town tonight?"