Chapter 3
The Library was just as Gilderoy remembered: a cavernous cathedral of silence, smelling of dust and parchment, and of course one could think of the library and not remember the unpleasant Madam Pince.
Fortunately, the vulture-like librarian was nowhere to be seen. Gilderoy had never been fond of her, she was one of the few women in the castle entirely immune to his smile, treating it less like a gift and more like a contagion. He moved quickly through the stacks, his cherry-wood wand tapping rhythmically against his thigh.
He wasn't here for the Restricted Section or lost arcana. Not yet. He swept through the rows housing the educational standards, pulling volumes from the shelves with a speed that would have alarmed a more careful scholar. The Standard Book of Spells (Grades 1 through 5), A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, and Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.
He piled them into his arms. He remembered these texts. He had breezed through them in his youth, well, mostly. He hadn't been the absolute top student, of course, but he maintained that was a conscious choice. If he had spent all his time with his nose in a book like a common Ravenclaw, who would have organized the morale-boosting Valentine’s galas? Who would have brought color to the drab lives of his peers? He was a public servant, really. A martyr for joy.
With his arms laden with books, he slipped away to the third floor, locating a classroom that had been disused since the 1970s.
He kicked the door shut behind him, sneezing as a cloud of dust puffed up from the floorboards. Rooms like these were heavy with nostalgia. He had spent many a Friday evening in rooms just like this one, usually accompanied by a beautiful witch from Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, and occasionally Ravenclaw or Slytherin who fell for his wondrous charms and dashing good-looks.
He dumped the books onto a rickety desk and drew his wand. The cherry wood felt warm, eager.
"Right," he muttered, opening the Grade 1 book. "Let's see what the damage is."
He pointed his wand at a dusty inkwell. "Wingardium Leviosa."
Nothing happened.
He frowned, giving the wand a sharp shake. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
The inkwell shuddered, rose an inch, and then fell over with a sad clack, spilling dried black flakes onto the desk.
Gilderoy stared at it, a flush of genuine embarrassment heating his neck. A first-year charm. He had failed a first-year charm. The reality of his stagnation hit him harder than a Bludger. For ten years, he hadn't cast anything other than Obliviate and the occasional grooming charm. He had let his magical skill atrophy in favor of signing autographs.
"Pathetic," he hissed, the self-loathing sharp and bitter.
He took a breath, closed his eyes, and focused. He felt the [Prodigal Sorcerer] perk humming in his mind, dissecting the failure. Wrist too stiff. Pronunciation is too flat. Intent too scattered.
He opened his eyes. He visualized the feather-lightness of the inkwell. He adjusted his grip.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The inkwell floated upward as if pulled by an invisible string, steady and smooth. He directed it in a figure-eight, then landed it gently.
He tried a Severing Charm next. The first attempt merely scratched the desk. The second gouged a deep trench into the wood. By the seventh, he had carved a perfect, ornate G into the surface.
The hours bled away. It was intoxicating.
The [Prodigal Sorcerer] ability was terrifyingly efficient. It didn't just give him the answer, it made him understand the why. He wasn't just memorizing incantations, he was feeling the way his magic flowed through him and into his wand and was shaped to achieve the effect it did with a clarity that he'd never had before. He tore through the first-year spells in forty minutes. The second year took an hour and a half.
By the time the afternoon sun was slanting low through the dusty windows, he was panting, sweat trickling down his temple, but he was grinning. He had just successfully cast a non-verbal Stunning Spell that had blown the door of a cupboard off its hinges. He'd barely made it back to his room before falling down on his head, utterly spent.
He was back. No, he was better.
He sat up with effort, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. He looked around his room, at the pile of books he'd brought from the library, then at the stack of his own novels he had unpacked earlier. Magical Me. Gadding with Ghouls. Break with a Banshee.
He picked up Year with the Yeti. It was a handsome book. Glossy cover, gold embossed title, a moving picture of him winking roguishly in a parka.
It was also, he knew now, absolute rubbish as a teaching tool.
He remembered the Cornish Pixies. In his original timeline, he had walked into his first class, unleashed a cage of blue chaos, and then tried to stop them with Peskipiksi Pesternomi - a spell he had made up on the spot because it sounded "wizardy."
He cringe inwardly. He couldn't teach from these. They were adventure novels, not textbooks. He remembered it rather clearly, when his tenure at Hogwarts was coming to an end, he'd seen quite a few students, especially the older ones burn his book and make remarks of them when they thought he couldn't hear, if he assigned these again, he'd become a laughingstock.
And then, when he was gone, they would forget him.
The thought made his stomach turn. The Janus Thickey Ward. The empty bedside table. The silence.
"A year," he whispered to the empty room. "That's all it took."
Decades of fame, five Smile Awards, and the moment he wasn't there to remind them, he evaporated. His legacy was as substantial as mist.
He looked at the battered copy of The Standard Book of Spells he had borrowed. Miranda Goshawk. He had met the elderly woman once, she had the personality of a crumpled wet napkin. She had never won Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile. And yet, her name was in every backpack in Britain. She was immortal because she was useful.
Gilderoy stood up, a new kind of fire lighting in his blue eyes.
He couldn't use his current books. And he certainly wouldn't use Goshawk’s dry, boring drivel.
He was an author, wasn't he? A best-selling one at that. Even if his only other book on practical magic, Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests had been ghost-written by a desperate wizard in Knockturn Alley (a sensible business decision, he still maintained; who wants to actually go near a doxxy?), he knew how to turn a phrase. He knew how to make people read.
He would write his own textbook.
Not a compilation of stolen valor, but a real guide. A book that combined his flair, his wit, and the terrifying competence he was currently unlocking. A book that students would actually want to read, and more importantly, one that would actually teach them how to survive.
"Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Prodigious Sorcery," he tested the title, swirling it around his mouth. "A bit heavy?"
He smiled, tapping the Peacock feather quill against his chin. He would workshop the title. But the ambition was set. He would write a book that would stay on the Hogwarts curriculum long after his smile had faded.
He sat down at the desk, pushed the dusty inkwell aside, and dipped his quill. He had a lot of work to do before September 1st.
The roast chicken was excellent, succulent and herbed to perfection, but Gilderoy found it turning to ash in his mouth.
He had come to dinner riding the high of his afternoon success. The memory of that Reductor Curse blasting the cupboard door into splinters was still fresh in his muscles. He felt powerful. He felt capable. He felt like he finally belonged at the High Table, not as a jester, but as a peer.
So, naturally, he had decided to share his brilliant pedagogical strategy.
"I have been reviewing the curriculum," Gilderoy announced, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "And I must say, the standard texts are dreadfully... uninspired. Dry as a dead billywig. Students need engagement! They need flair!"
He paused for effect, flashing a smile that was only slightly strained.
"Therefore, I have decided to pen a new primer myself. A comprehensive guide, written specifically to outlast my tenure here. Something to bridge the gap between theory and... my level of expertise."
The silence that followed was louder than a Howler.
Severus Snape slowly lowered his goblet. His black eyes bored into Gilderoy’s with a look of profound, exhausted loathing.
“Another one?” Snape sneered softly. “I should have thought seven volumes of your… imaginative reconstructions would have quite satisfied the publishers. Or is this new tome to be a picture book? Perhaps Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Matching Your Robes to Your Spells?”
Gilderoy’s grip tightened on his fork. imaginative. The word stung, but the open mockery in front of the others burned worse.
"I assure you, Severus," Gilderoy said, his voice tight. "It will be a rigorous text."
"Really, Gilderoy," Minerva sighed, not even looking up from her shepherd's pie. "There is no need to reinvent the wheel. The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection and its further volumes have served the school perfectly well for decades. It is Ministry-approved for a reason."
Gilderoy felt a flash of irritation. Her being so dismissive stung more than he remembered. How had he not noticed this back the first time? Had he truly been that blind to everything around him? She thought he was incapable of writing anything of substance, so she was pointing him toward the toddler-proof safety scissors of textbooks.
"Oh, come now," Flitwick squeaked, trying to cut the tension but failing miserably. "It’s... spirited of you, Gilderoy! Though, writing a textbook in three weeks? That is quite a tall order. perhaps it would be best to... supplement? Stick to what you know?"
Stick to what you know. Smile. Wave. Be the fraud. That's what he knew.
Gilderoy was about to retort, to tell them about the Stupefy he had cast earlier that was strong enough to knock out a troll, when Dumbledore spoke.
"I think it is a marvelous idea," the Headmaster said brightly.
Gilderoy froze.
Dumbledore beamed at him, his blue eyes twinkling with that infuriating, omniscient light. "Innovation is the lifeblood of education, Gilderoy. If you feel inspired to create a custom curriculum, then you have my full support. I look forward to reading it."
The blood drained from Gilderoy’s face, though he tried to hide it.
He remembered this tone. In the timeline that never was, he had demanded the students buy his entire bibliography. The other teachers had been outraged. But Dumbledore? Dumbledore had smiled just like this. He had praised the "boldness" of the decision.
It wasn't support. It was a rope.
Dumbledore was handing him enough rope to hang himself. He expected Gilderoy to write a piece of fluffy, narcissistic garbage. He wanted Gilderoy to distribute a book full of lies and nonsense, so that when the students kept failing, Gilderoy’s incompetence would be undeniable. It was yet another trap.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Gilderoy said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "You are too kind."
He looked around the table. Snape’s sneer, Minerva’s pity, Dumbledore’s calculated encouragement. They all saw a clown.
A cold, hard lump formed in his chest. It wasn't the panic he used to feel. It was something heavier. Determination.
Laugh all you want, Severus, Gilderoy thought, stabbing a potato with unnecessary force. You think I'm writing a coloring book. You think I'm walking into a trap.
He thought of the [Prodigal Sorcerer] perk. He thought on the perfect flow of his magic. He thought of the years he had wasted, and the second chance he had been given.
I will write a book that will make Quentin Trimble look like an illiterate amateur. I will write a book that will save these children's lives.
He finished his wine in one gulp and stood up.
"If you will excuse me," he said, his voice clipped. "Authorship calls. I find the evening air... conducive to brilliance."
He didn't wait for a response. As he swept out of the Hall, feeling the eyes of the staff boring into his back, he made a silent vow.
He was done with the High Table. He would take his meals in his quarters from now on. He wouldn't sit there and be their court jester. The next time he faced them, he wouldn't be the Gilderoy they expected. He would be the wizard he was pretending to be.
And God help anyone who underestimated him then.
AN: I'm attempting to leverage everything that Gilderoy was known for in this story, and first and foremost is of course, being an Author. And so, reading these dry and uninteresting - he is inspired to write his own. For Dumbledore, it's another rope around Lockhart's neck.
Three chapters at once, so you all have something to discuss. What are some potential plot-bunnies you'd like to see happen in this story?
And a quick question, is there a place with the lore for Hogwarts Mystery game? I'm entirely too lazy to play it, but I like the idea of adding more to this story.
As usual, thank you for reading. Please, please - if you enjoy this like and interact with the story by replying to the thread. It's what lets me know that I should continue this story.
Check the Snippets Thread: https://questionablequesting.com/threads/spiders-web-of-snippets.35881/#post-11786185
There aren't a lot of snippets there yet, but there is a fun DxD one as well. So, go watch that.