Skyl walked off with Dumbledore, chatting and laughing, leaving Lockhart standing there on the spot—blank-faced and pale as a plaster statue.
"Professor, what do you think of Mr. Lockhart now?"
"He spent seven years at Hogwarts without ever learning self-awareness," the old educator sighed, "but reality taught him in three months. Life really is the best teacher."
"Seeing him this pathetic, you still plan to teach him how to communicate with a thought-form?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Gellert is becoming more and more dangerous. Someone has to stop him."
"But with your current strength, Professor, beating Grindelwald would be as easy as lifting a hand, wouldn't it?" Skyl exposed the truth.
Dumbledore's expression turned a touch awkward.
"In the end, you just can't let go. You can't bring yourself to raise a hand against an old flame, so you send a younger upstart to knock him down instead. Very 'White King' of you—place a piece wherever you like and the 'Dark King' is instantly in check. Grindelwald may be strong, but he can't even see your back. If he ever truly realized the gap between you, he'd be completely crushed. Then you can stroll up all calm and detached and say, 'All this fighting and killing doesn't suit seniors like us anymore. Why don't you retire with me—move into Hogwarts, and live a shameless little life for two?' Right?"
Dumbledore looked utterly resigned. "Skyl, it's a shame you didn't run for Minister for Magic."
"Professor, your trash talk is really leveling up," Skyl said, glancing at the time. "Uh-oh—class. See you."
"You're actually going to class?" the headmaster said, pretending to be shocked.
Skyl clicked his tongue and walked off without looking back.
Dumbledore watched the mysterious transfer student disappear. Behind him, Lockhart had already rushed over, hugging Dumbledore's leg pitifully.
"Professor, you have to save me. When the time comes, could you brew Polyjuice Potion, turn into me, and go duel Grindelwald instead?"
"But haven't you got no hair left on you?" the old headmaster asked with a helpless smile.
Lockhart went shy. "Actually… there's one place where the hair hasn't been completely… removed."
Dumbledore froze. "Your beard?"
Lockhart shook his head and pointed behind himself—more precisely, the region above the thighs and below the waist, the noble territory commonly known as one's rear end.
"You don't mean—" The old educator's face turned green as a pickle.
"Mhm." The Minister for Magic nodded, bashful and coy.
Dumbledore suddenly pointed behind Lockhart. "The minister from the Human Union Department is coming over."
"Where?" Lockhart twisted his head—and in that instant, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fist the size of a sandbag. He vaguely caught the silhouette of a brawny, musclebound old man with hair and beard flaring like a lion's mane, and that… seemed to be Dumbledore?
His final thought before everything went black was:
Since when do wizards solve problems with their fists?
Bang!
Lockhart dropped like a sack of flour. Dumbledore's fist smoked faintly; he blew on it with cold, hard-boiled seriousness and muttered, "Winterhold secret technique: Mage's Fist." Ever since Sauron's divine power reinforced his body, Dumbledore had also asked Savos Aren for a few self-defense tricks suited to casters. Judging by the results, they worked beautifully.
Not far away, the Ministry Aurors on watch stared for a solid moment—then quietly turned their heads away. They were still young. They didn't want to die here. The dumbass minister's suicidal hobbies had nothing to do with them.
Dumbledore flicked his wand and summoned a house-elf. "Please take Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart to an empty staff room."
"Oh! Mr. Lockhart!" The elf was a Lockhart fan, eyes shining at the sight of her idol. "What happened to him? Should I take him to the hospital wing?"
"He's feeling unwell. Probably fainted from low blood sugar," Dumbledore said, kindly and indulgently. "A bit of rest will do. When Mr. Lockhart wakes up, tell him to come to my office. The password is [Sherbet Lemon]."
"Yes, Headmaster! Leave it to Kiki!" The house-elf snapped a salute with all the solemnity of a tiny soldier, then happily Apparated away with her idol.
Lockhart remained unconscious.
When he opened his eyes again, it was already the next day.
He found his bedside surrounded by house-elves, all staring at him with adoring, starry-eyed worship.
"Who am I? Where am I? And who are you?"
"You're the great Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart!" "You're at Hogwarts—we're the house-elves employed by Hogwarts!" "And we're your fans too!" "That's right, that's right!"
"Gilderoy Lockhart? Who's that?" The man on the bed looked completely lost.
The elves exchanged baffled looks. Kiki let out a shriek. "Mr. Lockhart has amnesia?!"
Early that morning, Dumbledore received word that Gilderoy Lockhart had been moved to the hospital wing. Feeling strangely guilty, he hurried over. Several Ministry members stood around the bed sweating buckets.
Madam Pomfrey frowned. "Sir, it appears the patient's head suffered a heavy blow. There's a strong chance he's experiencing short-term memory loss due to a concussion."
"Will he recover?"
"That depends."
The Aurors paced in place. "No—he needs to go to St Mungo's."
Dumbledore rejected it immediately. "No. Mr. Lockhart cannot come to harm. If he does, wizarding confidence will collapse. This must not get out."
The Ministry people looked at one another. They were furious, but at this point, there wasn't much they could do.
On the bed, Lockhart stared into space. Dumbledore walked up with a gentle smile. "Young man, are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I want to leave, but they keep insisting I stay here."
"Young man, do you remember your name?"
"Gilderoy Lockhart."
"Oh?" Eyes lit up around the room. "Then do you remember anything from before?"
"No."
Dumbledore thought, perhaps this was for the best. He studied Lockhart for a long moment, then said, "Then so be it. Mr. Lockhart, come with me."
The amnesiac Lockhart followed Dumbledore around Hogwarts, wide-eyed with wonder. "This is all magic?"
"That's right."
"Can I learn it?"
"Of course. You're a wizard, Lockhart."
Every student they passed looked at Lockhart with a mix of grief and fierce inspiration. Again and again, they all said the same thing:
"You can do it!"
"What are they talking about?" Lockhart whispered, baffled. "Why do they keep telling me 'you can do it'?"
"Young man," Dumbledore said solemnly, "do you know you're carrying a great mission on your shoulders?"
"A mission?"
"Yes." Dumbledore's gaze turned deep and serious. "Your mission is to defeat the Dark Lord. The burden of protecting peace is yours."
Lockhart's battered face bloomed into a naive grin. "Really?"
"Yes. And I just happen to have a set of secret magical texts—never shown to the public. Learn them, and you'll be able to save the world."
Dumbledore reached into his robes and produced an ancient parchment. On it, one line of writing could faintly be made out:
True-Name Curse Technique.
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