Meanwhile, in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, Dumbledore sat with a strange book in his hands, his expression heavy with worry.
He was trying to find someone for next year's Defense Against the Dark Arts post, but it wasn't going well. Even his closest friends, even old friends willing to set up a Contact Book with him, had all declined—politely, but firmly.
They were all experienced, grown wizards. Trying to drag someone in by "friendship" just so they could take the curse for him was… a bit much.
The Contact Book was an ancient alchemical device, made with technical support from Nicolaus Flamel. As long as both parties were in front of the book, they could speak in real time, with no delay at all.
At this moment, Dumbledore almost wished there were a delay. At least then, when his friends refused him, it wouldn't feel quite so immediate and decisive. Letters took time, after all; the distance softened the sting.
Then he remembered he usually sent messages by phoenix. A round trip with that creature didn't take long either. Just thinking about it made him feel tired.
"So where am I supposed to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor now?" Dumbledore muttered to himself.
He did have a few people he trusted. For instance, Remus Lupin. Though Lupin was a werewolf, Dumbledore had watched him grow up and knew his kindness and learning.
But recently, Lupin had told him he needed to go undercover in a newly emerged werewolf organization. He couldn't possibly come to Hogwarts to teach.
Dumbledore had helped Lupin many times, but he had never thought of himself as above him, much less someone who could order him around.
He respected Lupin's choice. More importantly, Lupin was doing it for Dumbledore's sake.
Dumbledore was curious about that organization as well, but since he wasn't a werewolf, he had no way to get any direct information about it.
With Lupin ruled out and everyone else tied up in their own careers, there were a few retired old friends he could ask… but they were already exhausted, and Dumbledore didn't want to disturb them just yet.
He sighed and, resigned, picked up a letter from his desk.
For a letter, the envelope was absurdly extravagant, pressed with gold foil to make something that should have been ordinary look lavish.
That an owl had delivered it safely was remarkable in itself.
As for what was inside…
Dumbledore opened it and pressed a hand to his chest.
It was a job application.
Setting the content aside for a moment, the writing was superb: flowing, ornate, lavishly phrased, with handwriting as elegant as the prose. It was the kind of letter that could be used as an example in a writer's textbook.
But when you stripped away the glittering language, the overblown adjectives, and all the extra flourish, it boiled down to one sentence:
I want to teach at Hogwarts so I can gain even more fame.
The sender was Gilderoy Lockhart.
Dumbledore knew the name well. In recent years, it had been splashed across The Daily Prophet again and again, often on the front page.
And every time Dumbledore saw that bright, enthusiastic smile in print, his head started to ache.
He hadn't first met Lockhart through the papers. Lockhart had once been a Hogwarts student too—and a famously notorious Ravenclaw.
Generally, the ones who became famous in each House did so by embodying their House's defining trait: Slytherin's elegance, Gryffindor's courage, Ravenclaw's intelligence, Hufflepuff's diligence.
They stood out because they excelled at what their House valued.
Gilderoy Lockhart was the exception.
He was famous because he was stupid and convinced of his own greatness.
He loved showing off in public and basking in admiration. The problem was that he'd never understood that what mattered most was cultivating yourself. If you truly had knowledge and ability, respect would come on its own.
Lockhart refused to believe that. He preferred shortcuts. He preferred trickery—deceiving people into praising him.
Every time, he earned ridicule instead.
And every time, he seemed to enjoy it.
The professors could barely stand him, and when he finally graduated, everyone quietly breathed a sigh of relief.
After graduating, he'd stayed quiet for years, then suddenly reappeared a few years ago. He styled himself a "traveler" and published books like Break with a Banshee, Gadding with Ghouls, and Wanderings with Werewolves.
The content was the same as ever: gaudy, flowery phrasing, sprinkled with just enough useful information to hook readers. He'd even built up a loyal following.
But Dumbledore had read those books. There was no real substance inside. They were far closer to novels than academic works.
The last time Dumbledore had seen Lockhart's name was on an application for the Order of Merlin. To be honest, Dumbledore had stared at it for a long time, stunned.
In the end, he approved it. The Order of Merlin, Third Class, was awarded to those who made "outstanding contributions to cultural entertainment."
Whether Lockhart wrote fiction or scholarship, he certainly entertained people.
But that was all. Dumbledore still believed the man was fundamentally uneducated.
And yet, if no one else was willing to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts position… then it seemed he had no choice but to choose this man.
...
There was, technically, another candidate: Snape. He had always wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and his stubborn persistence was far greater than Tom's had been back then.
But…
Dumbledore sighed again.
Snape was his spy. What if Snape took the position and died?
The thought made Dumbledore feel ashamed. He really was dragging someone in to take the curse, like an offering—trading one person for one year of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
That post was cursed, plain and simple. The curse Tom had left behind was vicious. It either killed you or left you maimed.
Staring at the garish letter, Dumbledore felt his temples throb.
And as if the letter itself weren't irritating enough, it even included demands. Yes—probably because he knew the position was dangerous, the man had the nerve to make conditions.
If he became professor, students would be required to buy his entire series of books as textbooks.
Using the school's students to boost his sales. Shameless.
Dumbledore's teeth clenched. For a moment, he almost found himself wishing Lockhart would "have an accident" in the position.
He pulled out a sheet of parchment to write a reply.
Enough. It would have to be him.
Just as Dumbledore lowered his head to write, a strange, harsh cawing came from the window.
Dumbledore looked up and saw a raven, pitch-black from head to toe, with crimson eyes.
A letter was clamped in its beak.
Dumbledore paused, his expression turning grave.
"A raven?"