The idiot wizard stared at the words that had appeared on the diary page, and for a moment, he forgot to be sad.
Lockhart thought it over, then picked up a quill and wrote back:
"You say you're Lockhart? But everyone says I'm Lockhart."
"I am the true Gilderoy Lockhart," the diary wrote in flamboyant script. "And you are nothing but a scapegoat—controlled and used by others. So admit it: you aren't Lockhart at all. You're just an amnesiac idiot."
"You're lying."
"Whether it's a lie makes no difference. What matters is that you don't want to be Lockhart at all, do you? He's fake and greedy—an overgrown infant who's good for nothing, forever living under his mother's shadow."
"…But I want to save the world."
"You can't save anything. You're about to die, too. When you die, will you still be carrying the name Lockhart?" The diary coaxed him gently. "The day after tomorrow, you'll face Grindelwald. He only needs to lift a finger to kill you. Do you want to die under the name 'Lockhart'… or under your own name?"
"My own? I… I'm Lockhart, aren't I?"
"That's what they told you. But you don't truly believe it in your heart. The name 'Lockhart' is a cage to you. So abandon it."
The handwriting on the page grew more ornate, more complex—each word like an ancient plant sprouting branches and roots, exhaling a soul-grabbing magic.
The idiot wizard stared blankly, then slowly wrote:
"All right. What should I do? Please tell me."
The diary trembled. The evil soul inside it was in ecstasy.
"Come. Take your pen and write: I am not Gilderoy Lockhart. You are Gilderoy Lockhart."
…
When Dumbledore reached the Great Hall, he learned that Lockhart had already left early.
A chill of foreboding hit him at once.
Ms. Moonshadow asked why he was rushing around. Dumbledore gave her a brief account of what had just happened.
"That diary is probably a Horcrux," he said, voicing his suspicion. "Tom is back."
"No wonder. For a soul, reaching out to a thought-form is the most natural thing in the world," Ms. Moonshadow said lightly. "Even now, before he's fully become Gilderoy Lockhart, he's already this strong. Once he completely claims the true name, he'll leap to an entirely new level."
Dumbledore also mentioned Draco and Snape's abnormal behavior.
"They both claimed they were Lockhart—and then they gained magic power far beyond themselves."
"That's because the thought-form has gone out of control," Ms. Moonshadow explained. "Gilderoy Lockhart's thought-form is already close to a god, but the real Lockhart is still in 'divine sleep' and hasn't mastered the true name. So the homeless thought-form looks for a host to make itself whole. Anyone who truly believes, from the bottom of their heart, that they are Lockhart can be possessed—like a god descending into the world."
Dumbledore was no stranger to that state. He had once borrowed Sauron's divine power through Azura's Star; back then, he had felt what a "descent" really meant—the way mind and body could be twisted, the way one could fall at any moment into becoming a dark god's claw and fang. The memory still made him wary.
"We have to find Lockhart quickly. He's in danger."
The other professors stayed behind to keep order in the Great Hall. Dumbledore and Ms. Moonshadow hurried to Lockhart's door.
"Mr. Lockhart, are you inside?" Dumbledore called.
Silence. No answer.
"Lockhart—if you picked up a diary, do not believe a single word in it. I'm opening the door now!"
Ms. Moonshadow acted immediately, without wasting breath.
The door exploded under a powerful impact, splinters flying.
The room inside was pitch-black—then a fierce surge of magical force burst outward.
Dumbledore's beard and hair whipped in the gale. Ms. Moonshadow, light as a leaf, was blown backward; she chuckled, then drifted back a moment later.
The candles in the room flared to life again, illuminating everything.
Dumbledore looked in—and saw two identical figures. One was slumped over the desk, unconscious. The other stood calmly beside it, facing the intruders.
That earlier surge of magic had come from the diary floating in midair. On its open page, the words were unmistakable:
"I am not Gilderoy Lockhart. You are Gilderoy Lockhart."
They were one step too late. The remnant soul had already completed the theft of the true name. The thought-form's power now belonged to Voldemort—more than six billion people's faith gathered into a single being, only one step away from godhood.
"Tom?" Dumbledore stared at the floating diary.
That was the Horcrux—like a lich's phylactery. To kill Voldemort, every Horcrux had to be destroyed.
"No. Gilderoy. Call me Gilderoy." The man by the desk lightly touched the diary, and the old book slowly crumbled into ash.
Dumbledore's expression changed.
If the Horcrux was destroyed, the remnant soul inside it should have been annihilated with it.
So why hadn't the soul calling itself Gilderoy died?
"Surprised?" Gilderoy rolled his neck, like a ghost adjusting to a flesh-and-blood body. "Albus, I told you long ago—stop thinking of me as Tom."
"Being back in the world feels wonderful. I can hear them calling—from every corner of the planet beneath our feet. On the African highlands, in the rainforests of the Americas, even in those remote, untamed Muggle lands, they call me a god. I can answer them. And so I am everywhere. Which means—I can do anything."
Dumbledore and Ms. Moonshadow exchanged a look.
"Just now, you let me escape. I'll admit you're still sharp. But I'm not who I was a moment ago. You'll soon discover that the great Gilderoy is stronger than Merlin himself. Mortal rabble should call me god. Are you ready to submit?"
Gilderoy's face overflowed with arrogant, frivolous delight. Power roiled around him so thickly that the room's tables, chairs, and bed began to float.
In that moment, he truly looked like an invincible god made manifest.
"All right." The old educator shrugged and slipped a hand into his pocket. Then, suddenly, orange-red arcane light shot from his eyes. His beard and hair flared like a burning lion's mane, and a vast, terrifying aura of evil pressed down on Gilderoy like a mountain.
The showy Gilderoy shrieked and collapsed, trembling on the floor—no longer untouchable, now shivering like a drenched kitten.
He stared at Dumbledore in disbelief. "Impossible! Y-you… why are you so strong?!"
Dumbledore's voice carried a deep, solemn echo, like a verdict pronounced in a grand hall—yet his tone was strangely relaxed.
"Excellent. I was worried Mr. Lockhart couldn't beat Grindelwald. With you here, that won't be a problem."
He extended his hand. A crimson chain shot out and bound Gilderoy, scorching him like a branding iron until smoke curled from his skin.
Gilderoy screamed.
The chain slowly sank into his body, becoming a powerful restraint. It couldn't erase him—but it could make him wish he were dead.
Dumbledore's face tightened with strain as he gradually loosened his grip on Azura's Star. He returned to normal, looking exhausted as if he'd fought a great battle—panting, sweat beading on his brow.
Before he could say anything, the shrieking Gilderoy on the floor abruptly turned into a cloud of black mist, burst through the wall, and shot into the night—escaping Hogwarts.
"Oh dear. He got away," Ms. Moonshadow said dryly.
"He'll come back," Dumbledore said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Whew. That was close."
"So," Ms. Moonshadow asked, "what are you going to do with the remaining Mr. Lockhart?"
Dumbledore stepped forward to check the idiot wizard. He still had a pulse and breath, but his skin had turned deathly pale. He was terrifyingly weak, his cheeks almost hollow, like a skeleton.
"His vitality has been severely drained," Dumbledore said softly. "He doesn't have much time left. Let him spend the last stretch of his journey here at Hogwarts."
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