Chapter 2
The morning sun filtered through the high arched windows, casting long, golden beams across the stone floor. Gilderoy Lockhart sat up in bed, his chest heaving with a sudden, sharp intake of breath. He patted his face, his hands moving frantically over his cheeks, his nose, his forehead.
Solid. Warm. Real.
He slumped back against the pillows, a few stray tears escaping the corners of his eyes to track hot paths down his temples. It hadn't been a dream. The nightmare of the Janus Thickey Ward, the blank stares, the endless autograph signing for the few people who pitied him, it was all gone.
And why shouldn't it be? he thought, wiping the moisture away with a dignified sniff. It made perfect sense, really. The universe had simply realized its error. One could not simply discard a wizard of his caliber, a five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, into the dustbin of history without consequences. He deserved this. He was Gilderoy Lockhart, after all.
He swung his legs out of bed, the cold stone grounding him. He had work to do.
He moved to the large, ornate mirror standing in the corner. His reflection stared back — tired, perhaps, but young. Vibrant. There was no vacancy in those blue eyes today.
He reached for his wand on the bedside table. It felt warm in his hand, humming with a readiness he hadn't felt since his school days.
Time to freshen up.
He gave his wand a complicated twirl. "Crinus Mollis."
Usually, the hair-softening charm required a bit of wrestling, a forceful push of intent to get the curls just right. Today, the magic flowed out of him like water running downhill. It was effortless. His hair shimmered, falling into a perfectly coiffed, golden wave that caught the light just so.
He stared at the wand in wonder. The Prodigal Sorcerer. The System hadn't lied.
He continued his routine with renewed vigor. A whitening charm for his teeth that usually tasted of chalk now felt like a cool mint breeze. A skin-polishing spell that removed the sleep from his eyes and tightened his pores worked with a precision that would have made his past-self weep in envy. He finished with a complex scent charm—lilac, with a hint of old parchment and success.
He looked at himself. He looked magnificent. He looked like the hero on the front of Magical Me.
But the image in the mirror flickered in his mind's eye, superimposed by a man in a straitjacket humming to himself.
Gilderoy gripped the edge of the dresser, his knuckles turning white. No. Never again. He was going to be better. He had the talent now. He just had to apply it.
But first, he had to survive breakfast.
A knot formed in his stomach. Yesterday. He winced as the memory of his arrival washed over him. He had spent the entire tour regaling Minerva McGonagall with the tale of how he saved the villagers of Wagga Wagga. He had thought her tight-lipped silence was awe. Now, with the clarity of hindsight, he recognized the sheer exhaustion in her eyes.
Well, perhaps she just wasn't appreciative of seeing her old student surpass her. It was a common flaw in teachers, he reasoned, unable to accept when the pupil became the master. It wasn't his fault she lacked imagination.
However, he would need to be careful. The staff at Hogwarts were not the adoration-filled fans he was used to. They were sharp, dangerous, and cynical.
Especially Severus Snape.
Gilderoy shivered. He remembered the Dueling Club. He remembered the force of that Expelliarmus, the way he had flown through the air like a ragdoll while the students laughed. He could practically feel the phantom bruise on his ego even now.
He needed to avoid the Potions Master. The man was a walking mood dampener anyway, always skulking about in those dreary black robes. Best to give him a wide berth. No advice on potion-brewing for him today, no matter how helpful Gilderoy wanted to be.
He straightened his robes, they were forget-me-not blue, to match his eyes - and flashed a dazzling smile at the mirror. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was a start.
Right then. Breakfast. He would go down there, he would eat his toast, and he would be the most charming, competent, and un-ignorable Professor Hogwarts had ever seen. And he would definitely, absolutely, not talk about the Whomping Willow to Professor Sprout.
Probably.
The walk to the Great Hall was a journey through a gallery of regrets.
Gilderoy’s polished dragon-hide boots clicked rhythmically against the stone, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. He passed a large window overlooking the Quidditch pitch and paused, his hand resting on the cold stone frame. The grass was pristine now, green and manicured.
He remembered it differently. He remembered being seventeen, hovering on a broomstick for six hours straight, carefully carving G. LOCKHART into the turf with a Severing Charm so massive it could be seen from the Astronomy Tower. He had served a week’s detention for that.
A week of scrubbing cauldrons.
He grimaced, his reflection in the glass mocking him. At the time, he had thought it was a stroke of marketing genius. A declaration of intent. Now, with the clarity of looking over his life with nothing else to do in a medical ward for the insane, he just saw the waste. The sheer work required to maintain a precise Severing Charm over twenty feet of grass while flying… if he had applied that focus to, say, Transfiguration, he wouldn’t have needed to steal the credit for the Wagga Wagga Werewolf. He could have simply handled the beast himself.
He pushed off the wall, smoothing the front of his robes. Wasted time, he chided himself. But no more.
He reached the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall.
Be humble, a voice in his head whispered. It sounded suspiciously like the Healer from St Mungo’s. Just go in, sit down, and eat your eggs.
Gilderoy took a deep breath, centered himself, and pushed the doors open with both hands.
They slammed against the stone walls with a resounding boom that echoed through the cavernous room.
"Good morning, Hogwarts!" Gilderoy boomed, his arms sweeping out as if to embrace the enchanted ceiling. "A splendid morning for the pursuit of knowledge, is it not?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
The Great Hall was largely empty, save for the High Table where the core staff sat huddled over their breakfast. The "Old Guard," as Gilderoy mentally dubbed them.
He strode up the aisle, his forget-me-not blue robes billowing behind him like a cape.
Minerva McGonagall lowered her teacup with a sharp clink. Her lips were pressed into a line so thin they had practically vanished. She looked at him over her square spectacles with the same expression she used to wear when he hadn’t handed in his Transfiguration homework — a mix of disappointment and a headache waiting to happen. She didn't return the greeting, simply returning to buttering her toast.
To her left sat Pomona Sprout, her flyaway hair already adorned with bits of leaves and soil despite the early hour. She looked up, startled by the noise, a piece of bacon halfway to her mouth. Upon seeing it was just him, her shoulders slumped visibly. She offered a vague, polite nod.
Further down sat Aurora Sinistra, the Astronomy professor. She blinked at him slowly, and offered a weary, noncommittal wave before retreating behind her copy of the Daily Prophet.
And then there was Severus Snape.
The Potions Master sat at the end of the table like a brooding gargoyle. He didn't look up. He didn't flinch. He simply continued to cut his sausage with the surgical precision of a man dissecting a flobberworm. The air around him seemed three degrees colder than the rest of the hall. Gilderoy felt a phantom ache in his ribs where the Expelliarmus would eventually hit him.
Right. Not there, Gilderoy decided instantly.
His eyes landed on the final figure. Filius Flitwick.
The tiny Charms Master was perched on a stack of cushions, his feet dangling well above the floor. He was looking at Gilderoy with wide, inquisitive eyes. Filius had been his Head of House. He was the one teacher who had always indulged Gilderoy’s antics with a sort of patient bemusement, praising his charm-work even while gently suggesting he talk less and cast more.
"Ah, Filius!" Gilderoy declared, veering away from the perilous gloom of Snape and the stony silence of McGonagall. "Just the man I hoped to see!"
He pulled out the heavy wooden chair next to the tiny wizard and sat down with a flourish.
"I trust the summer has treated you well?" Gilderoy beamed, reaching for the silver teapot. "I was just thinking on the way down — Ravenclaw tower must be absolutely breathtaking this time of year. The light, you know. Good for the soul."
"Toast, Filius?" Gilderoy offered, sliding the rack toward the Charms Master. "And perhaps some marmalade. I find citrus does wonders for the vocal cords. Essential for speaking for a while."
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Flitwick squeaked, taking a slice. "It is good to have you back. I was just telling Pomona that it’s been years since we’ve had a Ravenclaw in the Defence post."
"Has it?" Gilderoy blinked, forcing a light chuckle. "Well, naturally. We are a rare breed. Too busy solving the riddles of the universe to worry about dark creatures, usually."
He buttered his own toast, catching a skeptical side-eye from Minerva. He cleared his throat. He needed to set the stage. He couldn't just walk into a classroom and start blasting away like an incompetent fool. He needed an excuse for his sudden dedication to study.
"I must admit, however," Gilderoy said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still managed to carry across the table. "I’ve been leafing through the Standard Book of Spells this morning. A fascinating read. You see, when one spends as much time as I have battling Yetees in the Himalayas or wrestling with the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, one tends to rely on the... grander magics."
He paused. Don't overdo it, he told himself.
"Consequently," he continued, flashing a winning, if slightly tight, smile, "my basics are rather... rusted. I'll be practising them while I prepare for the syllabus I'll be teaching. That won't take long of course. A wizard of my caliber simply needs to shake off the dust, and the muscle memory will return in a trice."
Minerva didn't look up from her tea. "I am sure it will," she said dryly. "So long as you don't feel the need to refresh your memory on the Dark Mark-mimicking projection spell you used in your seventh year, then you may practice all you like."
Gilderoy’s smile froze. He opened his mouth to defend the artistic merit of that particular projection — it was his face, after all, not an skull with snakes — when a deep, calm voice drifted from the doorway.
"Now, now, Minerva."
The air in the room seemed to shift. Albus Dumbledore swept into the room, his robes a majestic deep purple embroidered with gold stars that twinkled.
"It seems that our Gilderoy is putting in effort, as he should," Dumbledore said pleasantly, moving to the high-backed chair at the center of the table. "The role of an educator is a vital one."
He settled into his seat and looked down the table, his blue eyes finding Gilderoy over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. They twinkled with an intensity that made Gilderoy feel like a moth caught in a searchlight.
"It warms my heart to see you take your duties seriously, Gilderoy."
Gilderoy felt a cold bead of sweat slide down his back.
He forced himself to nod, picking up his teacup to hide the slight tremor in his hand. He knows, Gilderoy thought, his heart thumping against his ribs. Of course he knows.
He remembered the interview for this job. Dumbledore hadn't asked about his dueling skills. He hadn't asked for a demonstration. He had asked about the events of the memories he stole from the Armenian Warlock. He had asked about the events that he stole from the witch who banished the Bandon Banshee. At the time, Gilderoy thought Dumbledore was just a fan. Now, he realized it was a trap. Dumbledore knew the victims. He knew they had lost their memories.
He had brought Gilderoy here to expose him. He wanted the fraud to collapse under the weight of his own incompetence in front of the entire student body. It was a punishment.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Gilderoy managed to say, addressing the marmalade jar rather than looking at the old wizard. "I merely wish to give the students the best."
He took a bite of toast that tasted like sawdust.
You won't get your show, Albus, Gilderoy thought, a spark of defiance igniting in his chest. I deserve to be exposed, I know that. But I won't be that man anymore. You hired a fraud, but you're going to get a wizard— no, an Archmage.
He chewed methodically, keeping his eyes down, terrified that if he looked up, those piercing blue eyes would see the new plan forming in his head. Or worse, that they would see the fear.
Gilderoy wiped the crumbs from his lips and stood up, pushing his chair back with a scraping sound that drew the eyes of the table once more. He needed to leave before Dumbledore asked him anything specific about his plans.
"Well! I simply must be off," Gilderoy announced, smoothing his robes. "I shall be in the library if anyone requires my expertise. Do try to have a marvelous day, everyone. Best of luck with the lesson planning!"
He turned on his heel and marched toward the exit, his robes billowing dramatically. He kept his head high, waiting until the heavy oak doors swung shut behind him to let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He took a step toward the marble staircase and nearly tripped over his own feet as a blue screen materialized directly in his path.
[For Making An Adequate Impression on your Colleagues][Weak Attraction]With this perk you may pull small, lightweight objects closer to you. This is a Quirk of convenience, grabbing things from the other side of the room like keys or drinks. It is heavily limited by the weight of the individual objects it can grab, mostly focused on small, lightweight things under a few pounds.
Gilderoy blinked, reaching out to steady himself against a suit of armor. He'd say he did better than adequate, but there wasn't a point in arguing with a screen. Still, this meant that he'd gain more of these 'perks' he thought, as he smiled.
He read the description again. It wasn't exactly the potential to become the strongest or glow like a star, was it? It was a parlour trick. He could already picture it: sitting in a lounge, lazily extending a hand to summon a glass of wine while his admirers gasped in delight. It would be effortless elegance.
No.
He shook his head violently, dislodging a perfectly placed curl. He had to stop thinking like a celebrity.
He looked at his empty hand. This wasn't for wine. It was for war. If he was disarmed — when he was disarmed, inevitably — his wand would fly from his grip. With this, he wouldn't need to scramble in the dirt like a fool. He could just call it back. He would be practically immune to the Disarming Charm.
A small, smug smile touched his lips as he straightened up. It was a brilliant advantage.
Though, he supposed, if a few students happened to see him summon a quill from across the room with a mere flick of his wrist... Well, surely there was no harm in inspiring them with a little flair.
Gilderoy Lockhart smiled, he'd have a better run this time.
AN: I'll mostly be sticking to small chapters for these Snippets, as I find them more preferable. Gilderoy didn't make an ass out of him, two years in a crazy ward with a lot of reflection does that, who could have guessed? I'm attempting to strike a balance between him buying into his own hype and being aware he isn't there yet. I'm trying to dig into his thoughts and psyche so I hope that's fun to read. Also, I've renamed the story to the Celestial Star as I felt it more fitting and less generic than the other one.