December 22, 1992, Tuesday
Hogwarts feels strangely hollow once the Christmas holidays begin. The castle is never truly silent, there's always a portrait snoring somewhere or Peeves practicing a new and undoubtedly illegal stunt, but the absence of hundreds of chattering students leaves an echo behind every footstep. I find I don't care for it. A man of my caliber deserves an audience, after all.
Still, the peace gives me time to think.
Last Sunday marked the final Fight Club meeting of the year. Flitwick and I had started introducing group engagements, easing the students into 2v1s, 2v2s, 3v2s, 3v1s and even the chaotic 3v3s. The disadvantaged teams received special lectures from me, naturally, on how to prioritize survival, flee with dignity, and create diversions that wouldn't embarrass them for the rest of their school years.
I must say, watching them scramble under pressure is oddly endearing. They're improving. Slowly, but improving nonetheless.
Without classes to teach, I've had more time to monitor the Marauders Map. I've kept an especially close eye on a certain fluffy-haired Gryffindor who has been spending an unreasonable amount of time in Myrtle's bathroom. Even without reading minds, one only needs to connect a few dots to know exactly what Hermione Granger is brewing.
Polyjuice potion.
I confirmed it personally, of course. What I haven't figured out yet is how she obtained the recipe this time. In the original timeline, she tricked my past self into signing the permission slip for the Restricted Section. A clever plan, admittedly, but this time, even when she tried distracting me with that "Please sign my autograph, Professor!" routine, a single brush of legilimency showed me precisely what she was after.
I could have given her access. Truly. There was no practical reason not to. But I wanted to see whether she'd manage it on her own, without borrowing my brilliance for once.
And she did.
Still… her little excursions into Myrtle's lavatory put me on edge. Not because of the potion, Polyjuice is dangerous, yes, but not deadly in skilled hands. My concern is Ginny. Or rather, the thing sharing space with her.
If Hermione crosses paths with a possessed Weasley girl at the wrong moment…
Well. I'd rather not find out what happens. So I watch, I listen. I keep the map close, and my awareness closer.
Christmas at Hogwarts may be quiet, but trouble never sleeps.
Certainly not in this ancient castle.
…
If there's one advantage to a mostly empty castle, it's privacy. And I needed a great deal of that today.
For weeks I'd been deciphering the last of Gryffindor's runic sequence; ancient, stubborn things that refused to yield to anything short of obsessive dedication and several very expensive reference tomes. But I did it. Every rune translated, confirmed, cross-checked, and tested with the precision of a man who absolutely refuses to lose a fight against a giant murderous snake.
And even more importantly, I've finally refined my skill in magical tattooing.
It's extraordinary how motivating imminent death can be.
The ritual requires the runes to be drawn in a perfect circle around the caster after the beast is slain, but only a fool would depend on having the time and safety to draw it then. No, far better to carry the circle with me. Always ready. Always primed.
Which is why I found myself standing before the stretch of blank wall on the seventh floor, pacing back and forth.
I need a place where I can tattoo myself and see every inch clearly, I thought.
The door appeared instantly after the third round.
When I stepped inside, the Room of Requirement had given me a chamber made entirely of mirrors; tall, elegant, and far too honest for my taste. I was reflected fifty times over, every angle, every flaw. A lesser man might have felt self-conscious.
I, however, thought I looked rather dashing.
I set my things on a conjured table, then picked up the small flask containing my ink. A dark red so deep it was almost black, thick with powdered phoenix ash, ground basilisk fang, and several ingredients that had cost me more galleons than I care to admit. But the most important component was my own blood.
It was equal parts unnerving and impressive how much of it I'd needed for such a small amount of ink.
I uncorked the flask. The smell hit immediately; metallic, sharp, strangely potent. With a subtle spell, I drew the ink into my wand like pulling liquid through a quill.
Then came the awful part.
Magical tattoos don't sit on the skin. They carve themselves in.
I pressed the wand to my sternum, took one steady breath, and dragged it downward.
White-hot pain lanced through me.
"Merlin's majestic moustache!" I hissed between clenched teeth.
The line glowed, burning as it embedded itself deep beneath the skin. One rune completed, dozens to go.
I kept going.
Up my ribs. Across my abdomen. Over my shoulders. Around my back. Every stroke was agony, hot, slicing, precise agony, but there was a rhythm to it, a silent chant of intent that guided the runes into perfect formation. Five hours of relentless work. Five hours of biting back curses colorful enough to make a sailor blush. Five hours of reminding myself that power is never free.
By the end of it, I had run out of Merlin's body parts and was halfway through Morgana's.
When I finished the final spiral along my left side, I staggered back and braced myself on a mirror.
My entire torso glowed faintly, crisscrossed with elegant runic lines that pulsed with a deep crimson light, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. It was… honestly stunning.
I turned slowly, admiring the craftsmanship reflected in the dozens of mirrors around me. Even covered in sweat and half-healed burns, I had to admit…
I looked incredible.
It was a shame they would vanish once I completed the ritual. An even greater shame the ritual could only ever be performed once in a wizard's life.
Still… for now, I allowed myself a thin, satisfied smile.
Gilderoy Lockhart: beauty, brains, bravery, and now a walking runic masterpiece.
Not bad at all.
…
I slipped my shirt and robes back on, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed the still-tender runes etched into my skin. A quick charm dulled the pain, temporarily, at least. With everything in place, I pulled out the Marauder's Map.
One tap of my wand.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The familiar sprawl of names unfurled across the parchment and my eyes went straight to the second floor.
Hermione Granger, Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom. Still.
Honestly, the girl had the survival instincts of a lemming near a cliff.
A slow grin crept over my face.
"Well then. Let's go make sure she's not accidentally killing herself today."
I turned to the Room of Requirement.
'I need a discreet passage to the second floor. Ideally one that won't make me look suspicious when I pop out of it.'
The door shifted, changed, and when I stepped through I found myself spat out into a narrow stretch of corridor near the Transfiguration classroom.
Perfect.
I didn't even take three steps before Hermione barreled around a corner and nearly crashed into me.
I caught her shoulders before she fell backward. "Careful there, Miss Granger."
Her eyes went wide with guilt and panic that she quickly tried to mask.
"P-Professor Lockhart! I… sorry, I didn't see you."
"No harm done," I said brightly. "Tell me, where are you going in such a hurry?"
"To the Great Hall. For dinner."
"What a coincidence!" I clasped my hands together, beaming. "I'm headed there myself. So let's walk together, shall we?"
Hermione froze for half a heartbeat before giving a stiff, uneasy nod.
We walked in silence for a moment… then I sniffed the air dramatically.
Hermione nearly tripped over her own feet.
"You know," I said lightly, "the curious thing about Polyjuice Potion, Miss Granger-"
Her breath actually hitched and her face turned pale.
"-is that its smell is quite distinct before you add the final ingredient."
She stared ahead, refusing to look at me, clearly praying the floor might open up and swallow her.
"Oh yes," I continued cheerfully, "very recognisable. A good potioneer can smell it from several corridors away. Nasty, swampy sort of scent. But once you add the human hair, the smell changes entirely. As does the colour. Depends entirely on the owner of the hair, you see. Almost impossible to identify by scent after that."
She swallowed so hard I heard it.
"And of course," I added, "you must be very, very careful not to confuse animal hair with human hair."
Hermione finally looked up at me, horror etched across her face.
"Otherwise," I said with a sympathetic pat on her shoulder, "you'll spend several weeks in the hospital wing covered in fur. Ears, tail, whiskers, the full set. And Madam Pomfrey does not appreciate the shedding."
Hermione made a strangled noise.
"Oh, don't look so worried. Honestly, Miss Granger." I flashed her a dazzling smile. "Ten points to Gryffindor for successfully brewing such an advanced potion in your second year."
Her mouth fell open.
"I would give you more, but" I wiggled a finger "I had to consider discounts for all the rule-breaking."
She inhaled sharply, mortified and speechless.
We reached the doors of the Great Hall and I leaned slightly closer.
"Let this be our little secret, alright? Because if Professor McGonagall hears of it, she'll punish me too. Probably worse than you."
Hermione blinked twice.
Then I gave her a wink, followed by my award-winning, perfectly dazzling smile, and strode into the Great Hall as though nothing unusual had occurred at all.
The long tables had been replaced by a single round one for the holiday break, students scattered around it in little clusters of warmth. I took my seat, humming pleasantly to myself, while Hermione sat stiffly several chairs away, looking as though she'd aged five years in the last two minutes.
Honestly… youth today.
So dramatic.
…
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