March 29 — another chaotic day at Hogwarts.
Every day, hundreds of Muggle fans tried to barge into the school just to talk to Lockhart. Some things were downright absurd. Everyone knew exactly what Gilderoy Lockhart was—ignorant, slippery, and shamelessly profiting off stories he'd stolen from other people—yet the admirers still kept coming in an endless stream.
Most people in the world didn't actually worship a person. They worshipped that person's fame. So even a truly vile bastard, as long as he's famous, can gather a following—and there will always be people who work overtime to scrub his reputation clean. Lockhart wasn't even that evil. He was just an idiot.
Whenever laughter and shrieking echoed down the corridors again, it meant Lockhart's magic had caused another disaster. Someone had pranked him in the bathroom, blasting a toilet apart and drenching his head.
Lockhart tried to use a cleaning charm on himself, but instead he conjured a bunch of firecrackers and managed to blow up the stalls. Dirty water and flying crap went everywhere. As for him—his clothes got blasted clean off, his wig went sailing, and he ended up pitch-black from head to toe like a soot-charred hard-boiled egg, with filth still stuck to him. There was no dumber sight on Earth.
"Enough, enough!" Some kind-hearted students protested. "Stop bullying him!"
"He won't get mad. It's not a big deal."
And it really wasn't. Even reduced to that state, Lockhart would only run off somewhere to have a good cry.
"He's still a person. He'll be hurt. You're a bunch of creeps."
When the professors arrived, they docked House points from the students who'd bullied Lockhart—mostly Slytherins, plus a portion of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws.
After several days of special training, the idiot wizard's casting ability was still enough to make anyone despair. Maybe magic itself was rejecting him.
McGonagall skipped the fundamentals and went straight to guiding Lockhart through the [True-Name Curse]. She knew she was trying to build a garden in midair, but at this point there was no better option.
"Lockhart, you have to cast this spell. It's your only hope of defeating the Dark Lord—and your only hope of staying alive."
Lockhart's expression looked like he was trying with all his might not to pee. As expected, he still failed.
McGonagall sighed. "Go on. You can go."
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall." The idiot wizard bowed politely, eyes shining. The old Lockhart had spent seven years at Hogwarts without showing a fraction of this sincerity.
McGonagall watched the foolish boy wobble out of the classroom and suddenly felt a sharp unfairness. An evil Lockhart wouldn't be worth saving—but an amnesiac good man shouldn't have to die for nothing.
"Hey, Skyl. Want to eat lunch together?" Lockhart liked Skyl a lot. Skyl never bullied him, and he never looked at him with those strange eyes either—Lockhart felt respected around him.
Skyl didn't refuse. Amnesiac Gilderoy wasn't annoying; if anything, he was sort of endearing.
"Mr. Lockhart, how's your magic coming along?"
"Huh? That?" Lockhart grinned stupidly. "Still no clue. Eating comes first." He had a grown man's face, and the idiotic expressions he made on it were hard not to laugh at.
Lockhart ate like a starving animal. The first time he tried a foot-long hot dog, he actually stood on the bench, lifted the whole thing up like a strand of spaghetti, and started biting from the bottom upward. The Great Hall had practically lost its mind laughing.
"Skyl, do you know what kind of person I used to be?" Lockhart asked. "I asked Dumbledore, and he told me not to chase the past. He said I should believe in the name… but 'Gilderoy Lockhart' feels so far away. Like a stranger. Like it has nothing to do with me."
"You used to be a famous author," Skyl said, keeping it simple. "We first met at Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. You were… very 'enthusiastic' with me, and you even promised you'd give me an autobiography."
"Haha, did I?" He laughed openly, eyes clear. "If I survive, I'll definitely write an autobiography and give it to you. Though I don't really know how to write anymore."
Skyl smiled. "That's fine. You just need to perform. I'll help you finish the book."
March 30. With the duel drawing close, Lockhart still hadn't learned the [True-Name Curse], and his spellcasting was still a disaster.
Facing that reality, Professor Flitwick suggested letting Lockhart participate in a few real wizard duels. Even if practice didn't make perfect, it could at least teach him the rules—so when Grindelwald killed him, he could die looking like he knew what he was doing.
So, with several professors leading the effort, Hogwarts formed a Dueling Club. The original goal was to crash-train Lockhart, but at the last moment they decided to invite students too and turn it into a school activity.
Eight o'clock in the evening—everyone gathered in the Great Hall.
It had already been rearranged. The long tables were removed, and a gilded platform had been placed in the center, draped with green felt.
Hundreds of burning candles floated beneath the enchanted ceiling, turning the hall brilliant with light. Students clutched their wands, buzzing with excitement, packed shoulder to shoulder, chattering nonstop.
At around 8:05, the professors arrived one after another.
Flitwick, small as ever, was beaming. He stepped onto the platform and bowed to the crowd, and the students answered with generous applause.
"Thank you, thank you, everyone. The purpose of tonight's Dueling Club, I'm sure you all understand—our Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart will be facing the terrifying Dark Lord Grindelwald the day after tomorrow!"
The Great Hall fell dead silent. Grindelwald's name alone was enough to squeeze the breath out of the students.
"However, Mr. Lockhart has run into a slight issue. His magic hasn't reached the level we'd hoped for, so we plan to let him experience dueling firsthand. Perhaps he'll produce a miracle. In any case, before we begin, Professor McGonagall and I will demonstrate."
Usually so dignified, McGonagall wore a sharper, more practical set of robes tonight—sleeves tightened, tailored slacks, and flat shoes. She looked clean-cut and agile.
"As for dueling, I believe Moonshadow has already taught you a great deal. Some of you are itching to try—soon you'll have your chance. For now, Professor McGonagall and I will demonstrate the proper dueling procedure."
Flitwick and McGonagall stood about six or seven steps apart and bowed to each other with full respect.
"Next, we'll count to three. Then we begin casting."
Students whispered predictions about who would win.
"One—two—three!" The two onstage raised their wands at the same time.
"[Expelliarmus]!" The short, sharp voice was Flitwick's. A streak of red light shot from his wand, racing toward the silent McGonagall.
And just as everyone thought McGonagall's silence meant she was too slow, the green felt in front of her suddenly surged upward like a wave. Flitwick's spell struck the rising cloth, blasting it into a violent roll before it dissolved into smoke.
McGonagall looked like a goddess yanking up a tidal swell. She snapped her wand downward, and the "wave" of felt skimmed fast across the platform.
"[Impedimenta]!" Flitwick reacted instantly. Stone steps thrust up from the floor, blocking the advancing cloth.
Back and forth they went. Charms and Transfiguration collided in a dizzying display. Students gasped in bursts, and the watching professors nodded now and then in approval.
In the end, Flitwick won by a narrow margin—his spell stripped McGonagall's wand away before she could cast again.
The Great Hall erupted in applause.
Next, it was Lockhart's turn.
"Go, Mr. Lockhart!" The applause was ten times louder than before. Students jumped, laughed, and whistled. People raised cheering signs and posters, and some even used magic to conjure fluttering streamers.
Lockhart stepped onto the platform, visibly nervous. His opponent was Snape, wearing pure impatience on his face. Lockhart bowed awkwardly, shouted "One, two, three," and then immediately lost to a single [Expelliarmus]. The force of the spell blasted him off the platform; he skidded across the floor and only stopped after sliding under the skirt of a Hufflepuff girl.
Students murmured to each other—some laughing, some sighing.
"He's unbelievably stupid."
"Yeah, he's dead for sure."
Flitwick's expression didn't change. "All right. Next, everyone pair up and try dueling." He encouraged Lockhart to fight more students, and the young witches and wizards began picking opponents.
Ugh, I went hiking today—so tired. It's been way too long since I exercised. You all should remember to stay active too.
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