Lockhart had a downright delightful Christmas holiday.
He spent it with his favorite student, Tom Riddle.
The Basilisk, though? Not faring so well. It was sprawled out, half-dead, looking like a tattered rag—hardly the fearsome monster of Slytherin's Chamber.
Not built to last, huh?
Sigh.
Professor Lockhart was a master at spotting potential, and after tireless efforts, he was thrilled to discover that Tom was an absolute goldmine.
This wasn't just a Pensieve holding memories—this was Voldemort's Horcrux, and the most unique one at that.
Its value wasn't just the memories of a sixteen-year-old Voldemort. It was that it could think!
It could take in new information and process it!
Tom, the baby Voldemort, displayed a jaw-dropping magical talent.
Worthy of being called "the most powerful and dangerous dark wizard in history," Tom absorbed everything Lockhart taught him, extrapolating effortlessly. His breadth of thought, depth of insight, and intuitive grasp of magic were nothing short of astonishing.
Over this time, Lockhart and Tom had become almost like best mates, with Lockhart pouring out everything he knew.
Erm, except Tom had a bit of a memory problem, often needing to start from scratch.
He even chatted with Tom about the "spiritual" path of magic, like the forest witches, sharing his insights on their connection to nature and forests. And then Tom dropped a bombshell.
—Tom Riddle, based on Lockhart's teachings, invented a new spell!
Sure, Tom scoffed at the spiritual approach, but he still managed to whip up a spell from it.
And when Lockhart tested it and suggested tweaks, Tom even improved the spell based on the feedback!
Merlin's beard!
Lockhart couldn't even imagine how gutted he'd be when the time came to destroy this Horcrux.
Tom!
What am I gonna do without you?!
…
Lockhart quickly ditched Tom, shoving the diary aside.
The Basilisk's sorry state was one reason, but he also had something big to deal with.
His book, Where Are the Dark Creatures?, had finally hit the shelves.
The moment it launched, it seemed like the entire wizarding world was buzzing about it.
Credit where it's due: his old schoolmate Rita Skeeter worked her magic, and pure-blood families like Lucius Malfoy lent their influence. But the real boost came from Minister Fudge and Undersecretary Umbridge pulling strings behind the scenes.
Kingsley was right—once Lockhart joined the Ministry's ranks, he was a natural ally for Fudge and Umbridge. No matter their personal feelings, his growing influence was a huge win for them.
So, Lockhart found himself jetting around the globe, from one bookstore to another, hosting signing after signing.
New York, Manhattan, Paris, Florence…
Busy as a house-elf.
This was all part of digesting the memories of his predecessor, and he wasn't about to let it go to waste.
For the young co-authors of the book, though, it meant something different.
Especially for Crabbe. Having just buried his parents, he was a wreck—listless and lost. If his friends hadn't dragged him along, he'd have been rattling around the massive Crabbe Manor alone, and who knows what might've happened.
Snape, tasked with protecting the kids, was on edge. Unlike the carefree, perpetually cheerful Lockhart, he was constantly braced for an attack.
Sure, the Death Eaters looked down on Fenrir Greyback, but that didn't mean they underestimated his strength.
Yet, the journey passed without incident, and Snape's worries started to feel overblown.
Finally, they reached their last stop: the British Ministry of Magic.
Fudge had personally approved this event, declaring Lockhart—an internationally renowned author—a point of pride for British wizardry. The Ministry had to show full support to avoid being the laughingstock of other nations' Ministries.
Snape finally relaxed. Even a lunatic like Fenrir Greyback wouldn't dare attack the Ministry, especially with Dumbledore there, presiding over cases as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.
But Lockhart was the one who got wary.
He knew Greyback was just a pawn. The real threat was Corban Yaxley.
And there he was, smiling broadly, but Lockhart's Boggart senses picked up a wave of hostility and a cold smirk beneath the facade.
Here we go…
Just as Lockhart stood with one arm around Harry, the other around Draco, surrounded by the students who'd co-authored the book, posing for Rita's cameras with big goofy grins, a piercing wail cut through the air.
Everyone turned to see a group of Aurors, wands raised, levitating a werewolf through the Ministry's entrance.
It was the Aurors' standard method for escorting prisoners—using a Levitation Charm.
The display was meant to intimidate would-be troublemakers, projecting an image of disciplined authority.
The only problem? A sobbing old woman trailed behind them. Spotting the swarm of reporters, she wailed even louder. "My husband's no criminal! He's been framed! It's not his fault he's got Lycanthropy—he locks himself in the cellar every full moon, never hurt a soul!"
Fudge's face darkened.
He'd been having a rough time lately. Werewolves and dark wizards had attacked Hogwarts students, and the Aurors still hadn't caught the culprits. He was taking heat for "incompetence" again.
He'd planned to use Lockhart's high-profile signing, with all the reporters around, to stage this prisoner escort—creating the illusion that the case was closed.
A little vagueness, and the press would eat it up.
After all, didn't they say Aurors existed not to protect people, but to make them feel protected?
But this? This was a mess he hadn't seen coming.
"Who's that woman?!" Fudge snapped, glaring at Scrimgeour, head of the Aurors, and Corban Yaxley, head of the Magical Law Enforcement's Injury Assessment Office.
Scrimgeour watched the scene with a cold stare, smelling a setup but saying nothing under the reporters' scrutiny. He just shook his head, signaling he didn't know what was going on.
Yaxley, quick on his feet, said, "I'll have someone calm her down and escort her out."
But before Fudge could respond, the reporters surged toward the Aurors and the old woman, turning the scene chaotic. By the time Fudge strode forward, face grim, the reporters were already firing off questions that made his head spin.
"Are you saying the Aurors couldn't catch the real criminals, so they framed your husband?"
That one cut straight to the Ministry's systemic issues.
"The Ministry's despicable! Your husband's a victim of werewolves, yet he's paying the price for their crimes!"
That was a masterclass in emotional storytelling.
"I read Lockhart's book—he's got a spell to save werewolves! Madam, you should ask him for help. He can clear your husband's name in front of everyone, and we'll back you up!"
That was just stirring the pot for drama.
Some might even be angling to flex the media's influence over the Ministry's authority.
Every reporter had their own agenda, all chasing a big scoop.
The old woman, clearly inspired, scanned the room and spotted Lockhart on a small platform. She pushed through the crowd of fans, shouting, "Lockhart! Gilderoy Lockhart! Please, help me!"
The reporters, acting all righteous, helped her shove through the crowd, escorting her straight to Lockhart.
She sobbed hysterically, pleading as if he were her savior.
And just like that, Lockhart was put on the spot.
His fans were swept up in the emotion, thrilled to see their idol cast as the hope to fix everything.
Someone shouted, "Gilderoy Lockhart!"
A few joined in, and soon the whole crowd was chanting, "Gilderoy Lockhart! Gilderoy Lockhart! Gilderoy Lockhart!"
Bloody hell!
Lockhart glanced at Yaxley, standing outside the crowd with a cold smirk. This old politician's move was slick—unlike the blunt threats of other Death Eaters, this struck at the core.
In the books, Lockhart's few lessons at Hogwarts tanked his reputation, making students see him as a flashy fraud.
And in the adult world, especially among the Ministry's seasoned bureaucrats, how could no one see through him?
Sure, in Wandering with Werewolves, Lockhart described his method for handling werewolves—the Humanity Restoration Charm.
But that spell wasn't something your average wizard could pull off. People might buy it from Dumbledore, but on a peacock like Lockhart? Big question mark.
Compared to the wild idea that he "stole others' experiences for his books," skeptics were more likely to believe his stories were pure fiction.
A dozen bestselling books, packed with intense, high-stakes battles, written by someone who graduated Hogwarts just a few years ago, with no time to hone master-level skills and no evidence of such power at graduation? His whole persona was riddled with holes.
Yaxley was going for the jugular!
If Lockhart, like his predecessor, fumbled this, his carefully crafted image would crumble.
With the reporters hyping it up, his reputation—the foundation of his existence—could take a fatal hit.
Would parents still trust him to teach their kids at Hogwarts?
Without Hogwarts and Dumbledore's protection, dealing with Lockhart would be a breeze.
Heck, any follow-up attack could be pinned on "disillusioned fans."
Lockhart, a pro at managing fame, instantly mapped out Yaxley's whole plan in his head.
What could he do?
He'd face the challenge head-on!
He'd already walked his predecessor's path—writing books, doing signings, building the image of an international author and magical master, basking in global adoration.
Now, it was time to break free from that track and forge his own.
He wasn't here to become the person in those memories—he was here to digest them and follow his own magical path.