After the rattled fourth-years left the classroom in a chaotic blur of voices and hurried footsteps, I leaned back in my chair, hands clasped behind my head, and allowed myself a satisfied smile.
The illusion had gone perfectly; the screams, the tension, the horrified faces. Absolute Cinema. Cedric had exceeded every expectation. Yesterday, when we practiced, he could barely mutter his lines without tripping over his own nerves, but when it mattered? He performed like a true professional. Perhaps I should start a Hogwarts Drama Club, with myself as the dazzling director, naturally.
"Not bad, Batman," I murmured under my breath, amused by the comparison.
A flick of my wand and a softly murmured "Tempus" painted glowing numbers in the air. Noon already. My stomach rumbled faintly, the price of two hours of continuous magic and genius-level lecturing. Wizards often underestimate the strain of spellwork; there may not be a "magical core" as certain fanfictions would like to tell you, but channeling ambient magic through one's body was not unlike running a marathon while solving complex equations in your mind.
The power of a wizard comes from how efficient they are in channeling this ambient magic, how sensitive they are to it, and of course, the mind and willpower also plays one of the most important roles. Everyone can train to increase these aspects and become stronger with time, it's just that everyone has a different starting point and speed of progress, but in theory, anyone should be able to reach the level of wizards such as Dumbledore.
But indeed, most forget that the body matters. Without a vessel strong enough to handle the flow of magic, even a brilliant mind like Dumbledore's reaches a limit. That's why the old man hasn't gone around vaporizing mountains or, more appropriately, spanking Voldemort back into his mother's cauldron. The Dark Lord's rituals had made him far stronger physically, which lets him channel massive amounts of magic at a time, bridging the gap in experience with pure raw power, an unpleasant truth, but a truth nonetheless.
If the body didn't play such an important role when it comes to magic, just imagine how powerful someone like Nicolas Flamel would be after being using magic for over six hundred years.
Philosophical reflection complete, I drew my wand again, muttering a few grooming charms until my hair gleamed like sunlight on silk. My robes adjusted themselves to the perfect drape, casual elegance with a touch of heroism and made my way to the Great Hall.
The doors were wide open like usual so everyone can just enter, but that won't do, so I wave my wand to close them.
Then, with all the theatrical flair I deserved, I swept open the doors. The hinges groaned just enough to announce my presence. The afternoon light framed me in gold as my hair caught the faint breeze, fluttering like a halo of glory.
Heads turned, forks paused midair just as they should.
I took my time walking down the center aisle, offering a graceful nod here, a winning smile there. Aurora Sinistra hid a giggle behind her hand. Hagrid began clapping (bless his heart) until Snape's glare reduced him to awkwardly patting his beard instead. McGonagall's lips pursed tighter than a coin pouch, Sprout shook her head fondly, Bathsheda rolled her eyes hard enough to summon wind, and poor Flitwick rubbed his temples, muttering what sounded suspiciously like, "Why do I even try?"
I took my usual seat beside Aurora, who arched a brow at my triumphant smirk. A plate of steak and chips materialized in front of me, steaming and perfectly arranged, accompanied by a tall glass of orange juice.
"So," I began, slicing elegantly into the steak, "did you manage a proper sleep after our little breakfast incident? Any… particularly pleasant dreams?" I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively.
A faint blush colored her cheeks before she smirked back. "Wouldn't you like to know? But yes, I slept well, thank you for asking."
Before I could retort and keep flirting, McGonagall's voice cut in sharply. "Mr. Lockhart."
I turned to her and faced her look of disapproval with my best roguish smile. "Just Gilderoy, Minerva. We're colleagues now, remember? You can't take points from Ravenclaw for my charm anymore, no matter how tempted you are."
Her eyes narrowed. "Unfortunately, as I'm feeling tempted enough to assign you detention for the rest of the year."
"Oh, don't threaten me with a good time. I'd love to spend a few hours each day with you." I shamelessly flirt with the old transfiguration mistress.
She coughed into her napkin, was that a faint blush I see?, and briskly continued, "The Headmaster requests your presence in his office after lunch. He wishes to discuss something with you."
I chewed thoughtfully on a piece of steak and took a sip of juice before replying. "Ah. And what might our venerable Headmaster want to discuss?" I try to dig for information, not wanting to meet the old bee unprepared.
"He didn't say," she replied coolly. "But if I had to guess, it might involve you pretending to kill a student in class. What in Merlin's name were you thinking?"
Ah, the lecture tone, I recognized it instantly. Time for a tactical diversion.
"Now, now, Minerva," I said, raising a calming hand, "isn't it improper to question a colleague's teaching methods?"
Her mouth snapped shut at that; point to me.
"That said," I continued smoothly, "since it's you, I don't mind a brief explanation. Our students are reckless; I have seen them more than once slinging spells at each other for fun, half of them don't grasp the danger they're flirting with. And some come from… darker families. You and I both know it wouldn't be a surprise if a few have dabbled in Unforgivable Curses over the holidays."
That made several professors glance up sharply.
"So," I said, cutting another piece of steak, "I decided to make the lesson unforgettable. A demonstration of consequence. And after this class, I dare to say they'll never underestimate those spells again, and no one was hurt. I'd call that a rousing success."
McGonagall didn't look entirely convinced, but at least she wasn't lecturing anymore. To my mild surprise, Snape's expression carried something resembling grudging respect. Flitwick's eyes, on the other hand, gleamed with curiosity and something that seemed like pride.
"You just wanted to make something dramatic," Bathsheda muttered, narrowing her eyes.
"Oh, Sheda, you wound me."
"Don't call me that name." she bristled like a cat.
"I simply wanted to ensure my students took the lesson seriously."
Flitwick leaned forward eagerly. "Still, quite the impressive display, if what I've heard is accurate. What spells did you use?"
"The illusion fog spell," I said proudly. "It works best under dim light, of course, daylight reveals the deception. But I'm refining it for outdoor use. Imagine how effective such illusions could be for teaching purposes."
Flitwick all but vibrated in his seat. The two of us dove into an animated discussion, trading theories and improvements like excited students ourselves. The others occasionally interjected, though McGonagall mostly sipped her tea with that patient, long-suffering look she reserved for my presence.
Between bites of steak and enthusiastic hand gestures, I let my gaze wander over the students' tables.
At Gryffindor, the Weasley twins were reenacting the morning's class, with Fred writhing dramatically on the floor while George waved an imaginary wand. The hall erupted with laughter.
At Hufflepuff, Cedric was surrounded by girls, blushing furiously but clearly enjoying the attention. Ravenclaws were deep in debate, dissecting my spellwork like scholars over a mystery. And even the Slytherins were whispering among themselves, subdued but intrigued.
I leaned back with a satisfied sigh. The Great Lockhart Lecture on the Unforgivables would be remembered for quite some time.
…