The politicians who had signed the bombing protocol were either hiding in safe houses or clustered around the long table in the intelligence room, all of them tense and uneasy as they waited for news from the front.
The Minister of the Human Union Department was stationed at the New York headquarters, calling this circle of European and American elites again and again, grilling them with accusations and demands.
"You're nothing but a pack of villains!"
"This is war, Michael. There's only winning and losing—no good and evil." The general on the other end answered like that.
Behind the minister, the witcher Andrei Spark spoke up. "You won't succeed. You don't understand the power of magic."
"And who are you?"
"A witcher."
"Never heard of it. Who gave you permission to speak?"
The minister shouted, "I did."
Before the words had even finished falling, the Secretary-General burst into the minister's office, face struck dumb with shock.
"It's over! The bombing is over!"
"How did it go? How many are dead?"
"Zero!"
"What?!"
"Yes. There might've been some trampling injuries on-site, but the bombing didn't achieve the intended effect. Hogwarts is still sitting right where it was."
Aerial footage came in, and they all saw it—the dazzling, imposing magical eyeball atop Hogwarts' white tower.
Andrei pointed at it, thrilled. "See? I told you The Lord of the Rings was all real. That's the Eye of Sauron. And the place where all those wizards are gathered—that's Mordor!"
The minister didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He could only sigh in awe. "Magic… incredible. Well, now we're all in trouble."
The line went dead. The conspirators slumped back in their chairs, unable to move.
…
From the very first exchange, the battle between Voldemort and Grindelwald surged straight into a white-hot frenzy. The spectators' bodies were burning too—literally and figuratively. Faced with a wizard's duel you might only see once in a century, everyone was damn well fired up.
In the original story, Grindelwald died at Voldemort's hands—but back then, he was trapped in prison, a broken old man with no power to resist. When Voldemort interrogated him, he refused to reveal the Elder Wand's whereabouts, and he never betrayed Dumbledore.
Now, though, Grindelwald had a wand in his hand, and he carried the hopes of Europe's wizards on his back.
He had reasons he had to win. If he meant to build his ideal wizarding order, he couldn't lose. But the moment they truly clashed, he realized something was deeply wrong with his opponent.
Voldemort's current magical power was easily seven times that of an ordinary great wizard. One of his spells could match a dozen of anyone else's. He was still short of anything you could call divinity, but for a caster in the Harry Potter world, he was frighteningly close.
If Dumbledore hadn't suddenly been seized by some godlike power and unleashed something enormous—shattering Voldemort's nerve—he would've long since reverted to form and worn the Dark Lord's posture again.
Since he couldn't beat Dumbledore, Voldemort decided to carve up Grindelwald instead.
[Reducto]!
A thick, bucket-wide beam of red light blasted out, punching straight through Grindelwald's protective barrier. Luckily, the instant he sensed disaster, he rebounded himself with magic and barely avoided the fatal hit.
But Voldemort's assault clung like a curse you couldn't scrape off—relentless, unbroken. Grindelwald was forced into desperate dodges, scrambling and overstretched, defending here and there with no room to breathe.
Watching it, people couldn't help wondering: how had that useless sack Gilderoy Lockhart suddenly become this strong?
The witness, Dumbledore, arrived painfully late. By the time he reached them, Grindelwald had already been driven to the shore of the Black Lake.
Grindelwald swung his wand, and a pillar of water rose off the lake and crashed toward Voldemort.
"Is that all you've got?" his opponent mocked, sneering at Grindelwald's weakness as he froze the water solid with a chilling spell.
Poison gleamed in Voldemort's eyes. First he stole a cautious glance at Dumbledore, and then he cast a spell that conjured a swarm of venomous snakes, sending them skimming fast toward Grindelwald at the lakeside.
"Yield! Bow your head before the great Gilderoy, abandon your ambition!" The booming proclamation of victory echoed across the grounds.
The crowd, hot with excitement, applauded and cheered.
Grindelwald pointed his wand at the sky. A mass of dark cloud billowed out from the tip, and lightning spilled from within. The moment it struck, the snake swarm died instantly.
Voldemort's lips moved without a sound. A light breeze drifted by.
Then Grindelwald's upper body suddenly tore open with several wounds that pierced clean through chest and back. Blood poured out. He collapsed helplessly at the water's edge.
Dumbledore immediately declared, "Gilderoy has won!"
He rushed to the shore, scooped up the gravely wounded Grindelwald, and repeatedly cast healing magic at the injuries.
[Episkey]. [Episkey]. [Episkey].
Grindelwald lay in Dumbledore's arms, expression calm—at most, a little helplessly resigned.
"How did you teach him?" Grindelwald asked. "How did you make a worthless fool this strong?"
"Oh, don't mind it," Dumbledore said lightly. "You lost to Tom Riddle—the most brilliant Dark wizard after you."
"Your finest student too," Grindelwald scoffed. Under the spell's effect, his injuries closed, but he'd lost a great deal of blood, leaving him exhausted and weak. "Would you mind if I recuperated at Hogwarts for a while?"
"You'd be most welcome," Dumbledore smiled. "Stay as long as you like."
Witches and wizards in the crowd used [Scourgify] to clean away the sticky napalm clinging to people, and they healed those injured in the trampling. Reporters gathered up whatever equipment had survived and reconnected to the station. Viewers around the world stared in disbelief as an entirely intact Hogwarts reappeared on their screens.
"Gilderoy Lockhart" delivered a long, long speech to the spectators. While he spoke, an elderly witch slowly slipped away from the crowd.
Seeing her child safe and whole was enough. She had nothing left hanging on her heart. It was time to go home.
That was when two people approached from the opposite direction and stopped in front of her. One was a young Hogwarts student. The other was a thin, fragile-looking fellow.
"Excuse me… are you Mrs. Andrea Lockhart?" the frail Lockhart asked.
"Yes, that's me." The old lady nodded. Her dull blond hair fluttered in the wind, and her bright blue eyes were full of confusion. "Do you two need something?"
"Have you been well lately?" Lockhart's voice trembled. His expression turned strange, like some memory was surging back in a violent tide. "Has life been treating you alright?"
"I've been fine, thank you for asking, young man." Andrea looked at him, and her heart suddenly missed a beat.
"Are your children… well-behaved?"
"My two daughters are fine. It's my youngest who always made me worry." She hesitated, studying him. "But, dear… have we met somewhere before? You remind me of someone."
Lockhart broke. He crumpled into sobs.
"Mom… I'm the real Gilderoy Lockhart."
Out in the crowd, the "Gilderoy" who was actually Voldemort shouted about creating a new order under wizard rule. His words caused an uproar, and the wizards—enraged by the bombing—agreed in droves.
"Down with Muggles! Grind them underfoot!"
"Wizards of the world, unite!"
The call to war had been sounded, and responders gathered like a tide.
Through the Floo Network, through the media, the storm would spread at terrifying speed.
Grindelwald had been defeated, and the righteous "hero" had torn off his mask. Europe's wizards turned fully toward war.
"We want peace! Not war!" A loud voice crushed through the roar of tens of thousands.
Voldemort's face changed violently. He felt magic draining away. The power of the thoughtform was leaving him.
A pale person pushed through the dense crowd, supported by a mother, and came to stand before him.
"You're not Gilderoy Lockhart," the pale, nameless nobody said. "I am. And I'm going to stop you."
"Where'd this lunatic come from? Get out of here!" someone shouted.
Lockhart shakily raised his wand. "Come on, then. Duel me!"
Voldemort stared at the man who looked like he might topple over from a strong gust. In a low voice, he asked, "You got your memories back?"
"Yes," Lockhart said, voice breaking. "Because I have my mother."
At that, the orphan-born Voldemort's expression turned hideous.
"You're asking to die!"
He fired a spell at Lockhart.
From Lockhart's wand, a feeble little burst of fireworks sputtered out. At the edge of death, he still couldn't create a miracle.
He thought he was finished—and in that instant, Andrea suddenly threw her arms around her youngest son.
A mother used her back to take the blow for him.
Lockhart held his mother's corpse and stared blankly at Voldemort.
Then another spell struck Lockhart.
He died there as well.
Voldemort gave three cold laughs. Finally, he'd killed the eyesore. But the moment he turned around, a voice rose from within the corpse.
"I am the real Gilderoy Lockhart."
A ghost floated up from the nameless nobody's body—blond-haired, blue-eyed, handsome, dressed in flashy robes.
Powerful magic coiled around him. The thoughtform's strength gathered and surged, while Voldemort—who had stolen the true name—grew weaker and weaker.
"No! No! How can this be? You said I was the real Gilderoy!" Voldemort screamed as his appearance gradually shifted back into Tom Riddle's.
"The diary that recorded that sentence was destroyed by your own hand, Tom," Dumbledore said, staring at Voldemort with an odd look. "Arrogance has ruined you again."
"No!!!"
Lockhart's soul rose and rose, and in the hearts of everyone in the world who knew him, a single voice rang out.
"I am Gilderoy Lockhart. I am speaking to you."
"People of the world, I confess to you: I am the source of this information catastrophe. Because I met a demon-god of knowledge and fate, and I wished to become the most famous person alive. It granted my wish."
"Now I have paid for that wish with my death. But the world is standing on the brink of war. The wizarding world is not yet ready to meet you all—please give it more time, and give us time as well."
"Please repeat in your hearts: I am Lockhart."
"I will do everything I can to undo this disaster."
In solemn churches, believers whispered: I am Lockhart.
In lively classrooms, students whispered: I am Lockhart.
In Europe and America, in Asia, Africa, and Latin America, in Oceania, in outer space—people all across the world whispered: I am Lockhart.
A mighty tide of remembrance gathered.
Everyone felt a current of magic stirring inside their bodies.
The people of Earth raised a hand, pointed it at their own heads, and together murmured:
[Obliviate]!
The name Gilderoy Lockhart vanished without a trace, as if it had never existed.
Lockhart's soul dissolved in a fierce light.
He rose, and rose, passing through all of humanity's minds, drifting little by little into the void at the edge of matter. When he turned back, he didn't see the universe.
He saw a black book—Mora's Book.
Gilderoy Lockhart floated in deep space. Green auroras shone like neurons.
Where those "neurons" converged, there stood an ancient Aztec-style pyramid.
Lockhart slowly descended onto the altar at its peak.
Mora's idol was still there. And beside it stood someone familiar: Skyl.
"Meet again, mortal." Mora released a satisfied sigh. "I am very pleased. You have offered up the greatest secret—Gilderoy Lockhart. The entire world has forgotten him."
"Great demon-god, may I trade this secret for another wish?"
"Of course. You want to resurrect your mother, and then resurrect yourself, correct?"
"No." Gilderoy Lockhart's expression was calm. "I want all the tampered information to return to what it was. I caused the world a great deal of trouble."
"An unexpected choice… but I can grant it." Mora waved a tentacle, then coughed once. "So long as my master agrees."
"Your master?"
"Yes—the supreme Lord of the Doorway, standing right beside you." Mora praised Skyl with nauseating reverence.
Lockhart looked at Skyl in surprise, then gave a free, easy smile. "So that's how it is. So you've been angry with me all along, haven't you, Skyl? Forgive me for trying to cast a Memory Charm on you back then. After this… maybe only you will remember me."
Skyl smiled. "Mr. Lockhart, you still owe me an autobiography."
"Yes. I owe you an autobiography. I'm sorry. I may have to break my word."
"I've already finished it for you," Skyl said. "A story about a lying wizard who makes a deal with a demon-god—ending with him using a Memory Charm to make the whole world forget him. How's that?"
Lockhart gave a bitter smile. "Better than my entire life."
"Then name the story."
"Hmm." He thought for a moment. "Let's call it Me, Who Can Do Magic."
Skyl nodded to Mora. The demon-god swung its tentacles, and a fierce radiance surged up from the depths of the void, flooding the altar. Mora's Book slowly closed, and on its cover, a line of gilded letters appeared:
Me, Who Can Do Magic
Gilderoy Lockhart closed his eyes in the light and whispered, "I'm sorry, Mom. I let you down."
…
April 1st was April Fools' Day.
Today, nothing happened. The Statute of Secrecy functioned perfectly, and Muggles remained completely unaware of the wizarding world.
The best-selling storybook on Earth was Me, Who Can Do Magic, translated into countless language editions. There were no precise statistics, but its circulation was likely over a billion copies. Wizards and Muggles alike were all familiar with the lying "Gilderoy." Yet the author of the story was anonymous, which was truly strange.
Some media outlets reported that many people had dreamed they experienced a bizarre death. In particular, over a dozen New York detectives had the exact same nightmare. They claimed they were pierced to death by black tentacles.
Andrea Lockhart dreamed that she died after being struck by a spell. In her arms, there seemed to be someone else—but she couldn't remember who.
After she woke, she continued her quiet life.
Andrea and her husband raised their two daughters together. When she was younger, she'd once thought about having another son, but for some reason she eventually abandoned the idea.
Neither daughter inherited her wizarding blood. When they grew up, they moved out, visiting their parents only occasionally. Andrea's husband developed severe dementia. He remembered almost nothing—yet sometimes, he would suddenly stare into the empty little bedroom and ask:
"Gilderoy… where did you go?"
No one lived in that small bedroom. It was empty.
Andrea would answer, "You're confused. No one in our family is named Gilderoy. That's a fictional character from a storybook."
Her husband would shake his head and still ask, "Gilderoy, where did you go? Dad can't find you. Will you come back? Dad doesn't blame you anymore. Come back."
Andrea didn't know why tears would fall from her eyes. Furious, she'd snap, "Who are you talking to? There's no one named Gilderoy in our family!"
When she felt stifled, she would sit for a while at the Leaky Cauldron, or go to Diagon Alley to chat with old friends.
Every time she passed Flourish and Blotts, Andrea couldn't help stopping. The shop's best-seller was Me, Who Can Do Magic—which, of course, was no surprise. Thinking of her husband endlessly muttering "Gilderoy," she decided to buy a copy to prove that Gilderoy was nothing but a fictional person.
She walked into the shop. A young clerk with blond hair and blue eyes hurried up, warmly trying to sell her books.
"I'd like a copy of Me, Who Can Do Magic."
"No problem, ma'am." He selected one for her and wrapped it up.
Andrea looked at the friendly, lively young man and felt a warmth she couldn't explain.
She told herself she was overthinking it, took the wrapped book, and headed out.
Behind her, the young man called, "Sorry, ma'am—have we met before?"
"Probably not. Why?"
"Nothing," he said, smiling shyly. "You just feel very familiar."
"What's your name?"
"Gilderoy." He grinned. "Like the Gilderoy in the book. Funny coincidence, right?"
After that, Andrea often visited Flourish and Blotts. She became friends with the young man named Gilderoy. And when she and her husband eventually died, Gilderoy held their funerals—though that would be many years later.
At last, that wraps up this storyline. Judging by how cold the reaction's been, I won't do this kind of thing again. I'm turning over a new leaf. I sincerely repent. If you want to curse me out, go ahead.
//Check out my P@tre0n for 30 extra chapters on all my fanfics //[email protected]/Razeil0810