The students in the Great Hall were having the time of their lives, happily throwing magic at each other. Boys and girls fired curses from their wands—over here, bang, a bouquet of flowers appeared; over there, someone broke into a tap-dancing jig with a pop and a flash. One moment, someone's front teeth widened and swelled comically; the next, someone's backside caught fire and started belching smoke.
The onlookers cackled and pointed at their friends' ridiculous predicaments, laughing so hard they could barely stand. The enormous Great Hall felt like a box of jokes. For witches and wizards, this was basically like a dance—only more thrilling, and a lot more dangerous.
At the same time, in the Headmaster's Office, the harsh glare of the Imperius Curse exploded into being.
Snape went down hard. He'd thrown himself in front of Dumbledore and taken the Imperius Curse for him, losing consciousness on the spot.
"Draco" let out a low, grating laugh. "You got there first, Severus. Albus will become me soon enough."
Dumbledore snapped the Elder Wand and fired a Disarming Charm. "Draco" immediately raised his wand to counter. Two scorching, crimson beams collided midair with a roar like exploding lightning. Blinding light burst outward, and the sheer magical radiation made skin sting.
Dumbledore felt his focus and thoughts like a short levee standing before a raging river—being rapidly worn down, scoured away by the current.
He twisted the Elder Wand slightly, forcing more power into the spell. His opponent did the same. The two beams grew thicker, brighter—then the point where they met suddenly detonated.
The shockwave swept every corner of the room. Tables and chairs flipped. The walls shuddered. Elegant objects shattered or scattered across the floor.
Dumbledore staggered back two steps. The velvet cloth on the desk flew up, and Azura's Star spilled its brilliant orange radiance into the room.
"Draco's" eyes snapped to that glow. He made a small, curious sound, and his feet started edging toward Azura's Star without him even noticing.
Dumbledore flicked the Elder Wand again. This time, with his opponent distracted, he blasted "Draco" back. The wand flew out of "Draco's" hand.
The wand traced an arc through the air and landed in Snape's hand.
Snape came to, wearing a strangely odd expression.
"Severus, are you all right?" Dumbledore asked.
With a binding spell, Dumbledore tied "Draco" up. Now he couldn't keep causing trouble.
That was when the oddness on Snape's face sharpened into something unmistakable—an eerily familiar smugness, exaggerated and preening. In that greasy bat-voice of his, he said, "Severus? No, that name is too stupid. Hmph. My whole past was too stupid. But Lockhart is different. The greatest hero, the greatest legend under the sun—that's me!"
Dumbledore sighed and raised his wand toward "Snape."
Then it happened again, like a replay: "Snape" abruptly surged with immense magic.
Dumbledore understood at once. Voldemort had made contact with Gilderoy Lockhart's thought-form.
He had stolen that name and drawn power from it—feeding on the longing of more than six billion people across the globe. Faith like that was enough to raise a mortal to godhood.
Two spells collided again in midair, erupting in fierce light. Dumbledore was growing more and more tired. Roughly a tenth of his strength had already been spent, and for a wizard over a hundred years old, that did not feel safe at all.
So he tightened his grip and twisted the Elder Wand. A far stronger blaze burst from its tip, forcing "Snape's" attack back.
Snape was struck, disarmed, and slammed to the floor.
"Severus, wake up! You're not Lockhart. Think of Lily."
The vicious look on Snape's face froze. His whole body trembled. "No… I'm not Severus. I don't want to be Severus. He ruined Lily. I'm not him…"
Dumbledore let out a weary, helpless breath and knocked both Lockhart-possessed men unconscious. He looked around the office. It was a wreck. The painted portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses were all complaining, voicing their worries about Hogwarts' safety.
"Albus, have you no shame, letting something that dangerous into the school," said Phineas Black—the least popular headmaster Hogwarts history had ever recorded.
"All right, Black, spare us the cold commentary," an old headmaster named Armando said, speaking up for Dumbledore. "But Albus, you must deal with this quickly, or the students will be in danger."
Dumbledore shook his head with a gentle smile. "Ah, the students' safety is what I'm least worried about. Ms. Moonshadow and Skyl are here—where in the world is safer than Hogwarts? What concerns me more is Mr. Lockhart. I doubt he realizes what kind of trouble has landed in his lap."
The Great Hall's laughter and cheers rolled on without pause. Lockhart, still thinking about the autobiography he'd picked up earlier, made an excuse and returned to his quarters ahead of time.
After shutting the door tightly, Lockhart eagerly flipped open the diary he'd stolen.
On the first page, it described a baby boy named Gilderoy Lockhart, born in England to an ordinary—and yet not ordinary—family. Ordinary, because they were like countless others: living in a quiet town, both parents holding honest, reliable jobs, raising several children. Not ordinary, because the lady of the house was a witch.
Gilderoy was the third child. His two older sisters were Muggles. The autobiography described the family's joy at his birth. His mother adored her sweet youngest son, gazing at him tenderly, soothing him, praising him—telling him he was the best child in the whole world.
The first forty pages were drenched in his mother's gentle words: Gilderoy's first speech, Gilderoy's first steps, Gilderoy's first tumble and scraped knees—his mother was always there.
At night, the little boy would lie in his mother's arms. In the pitch-dark bedroom, his witch mother would take out her wand and summon stars and a moon across the ceiling. When little Gilderoy smiled, shooting stars would fall, scattering like rain—like snow—while colorful nebulas gathered into animals: cute zebras, little deer, kittens and puppies, racing in circles around him. In those moments, Lockhart was the center of the world.
When morning came, his mother would put away her wand and insist she couldn't do magic at all. For a time, young Gilderoy truly believed he had two mothers—one who appeared by day, warm and kind, and one who emerged at night, mysterious and beautiful.
Gilderoy's childhood was happy—especially once he began to show talent for casting spells. His mother praised him endlessly, saying he would definitely enter Hogwarts, and with his cleverness and brilliance, he would surely stand out and become one of the best students.
The first eleven years of the autobiography were like maple syrup—clear and sweet. And then, upon arriving at Hogwarts, Gilderoy suddenly realized he wasn't the most special one after all. His little clever tricks did earn praise from professors at times—but not enough to make him exceptional. In Ravenclaw, there were plenty of students far more gifted and far more hardworking than he was.
That was when sour frustration crept in. The sweetness of childhood seemed to vanish, never to return.
To keep winning attention, Lockhart began chasing cheap tricks. He squandered his talent, turning himself into a clown through one flashy stunt after another. His classmates all hated the troublemaking show-off.
Did Lockhart know he was hated? The autobiography didn't say. But as the idiot Lockhart read on, a heavy sadness welled up inside him.
For the first time, he felt connected to his past self—how he'd tried with everything he had to earn everyone's affection, only to become a joke; how his pride had been smashed to pieces, and he'd still had to pretend it didn't matter. That feeling was etched into his heart—an old wound that still hadn't healed.
People always say shame leads to courage. But Lockhart refused to study. He'd grown used to love that came easily. His mother's indulgence was like deep mud, holding him forever in childhood.
Looked down on at school, Lockhart swore in secret that he would make a name for himself—become famous—so his mother could be proud.
The autobiography reached its end. The idiot Lockhart saw how his former self had stolen credit and lied shamelessly. The brazenness was shocking.
Could someone so vile and contemptible really become a "hero" who saved the world?
He trembled all over. It felt like the sky was collapsing, the earth splitting open. He wanted nothing more than to fall into an abyss and never see daylight again.
The crushing shame and pain made the idiot Lockhart pound his own head with his fist.
So that was why Dumbledore had told him not to chase the past.
His past wasn't worth remembering.
The words on the diary page slowly dissolved. Then a single line of ornate script appeared:
"Hello. I'm Gilderoy Lockhart. I'm pleased to meet you—who are you?"
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