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Chapter 6
By noon, Gilderoy was finally back in his private quarters. He locked the heavy oak door behind him, tossed his velvet coat onto the bed, and stretched his arms high above his head until his shoulders popped.
He let out a long, exhaling breath and sank into his plush armchair. The tension that had been keeping his spine rigid all morning finally melted away, replaced by a warm, heavy satisfaction. The look of genuine shock on Minerva’s face, the unbridled excitement from Filius, and even the frustrated silence from Severus Snape replayed in his mind like a beautiful melody.
This feeling was entirely new. When a crowd of middle-aged witches sighed at his smile, it fed his ego, but it was hollow. It evaporated the moment they looked away. But the respect of his peers, wrung from them against their will by the sheer undeniable quality of his work, that felt solid. It felt real. It belonged to him.
A familiar, clear chime rang out in the quiet room.
The translucent blue rectangle materialized right in front of him, hovering gently in the air.
[Impress Your Colleagues]
Gilderoy smiled, leaning forward in his chair. He was eager to see what the System would provide him this time as a reward for his hard-earned victory.
[Unity and Bonds]From here on out, you share a telepathic and empathic link to those with whom you are close with, sharing thoughts and feelings with everyone who cares for you, and you for them. The closer and stronger the bond the stronger the link you will share with them.
Gilderoy’s smile slowly faded as he read the description. A telepathic and empathic link. He closed his eyes and focused on the new sensation blooming in his mind, reaching out to feel the connections the System had promised him.
He waited. He reached further.
There was nothing. Just a vast, echoing emptiness. Absolute, deafening silence.
Gilderoy opened his eyes and let out a low, bitter chuckle. What did it say about a man that he was given the magical ability to connect with his loved ones, only to find the line completely dead? He did not feel a single connection. He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by crowds, yet he did not have a single genuine friend or family member who cared for him strongly enough to bridge the gap.
Bonds. He stared at the empty blue screen before it faded into nothingness. He had not visited his mother since that disastrous afternoon in Surrey. He simply could not face her yet. He needed more time to build himself into someone she could actually look at without sorrow.
But a face-to-face meeting was not the only way to reach out. He should have done this sooner. The thought simply had not crossed his mind until the System threw his isolation directly in his face.
He moved to his desk, pulled a fresh piece of parchment from the drawer, and stared at it. He dipped his peacock quill in the ink. He thought he would write to his mother, but about what?
He remembered sitting in his Ravenclaw dormitory, scribbling frantic letters to Clara. He used to fill pages telling her about his every little stunt, bragging about carving his name into the Quidditch pitch, assuring her of the massive impact her brilliant son was making on Hogwarts.
He swallowed hard and put the quill to the paper. He wrote about his morning. He told her about the long hours in his office, the new textbooks he had written, and the High Table. He wrote about how the other professors did not take him seriously at first, and how he was determined to prove himself even more.
He paused, reading over the wet ink. I wrote... I showed them... my colleagues... my books.
Gilderoy winced. There was far too much of him in this letter. A month ago, the old Gilderoy would have sent this without a second thought, expecting applause for his genius. The new Gilderoy recognized the suffocating narcissism dripping from every sentence.
With a flick of his wand, the last paragraph vanished from the parchment. He took a breath and started it again. He asked her to tell him about his sisters. He asked how they were doing, where they worked, and what their lives were like now. He asked about her garden. He asked her to simply tell him about her day.
He signed it plainly, Love, Gilderoy, without any of his normal elaborate, theatrical swirls. He folded it carefully and sealed it with plain wax. He dearly hoped his mother would write back. Even if she threw it in the fire, he would try again next week.
Nine days passed.
In that time, a single, folded piece of Muggle notebook paper had arrived by an elderly owl. His mother had written back. It was painfully short and entirely devoid of her normal warmth. She simply stated she was in good health, the hydrangeas were blooming nicely, and his sisters were busy managing a local bakery and an accounting firm. It was barely five sentences, but it was a response.
Gilderoy had immediately sat down to reply. He had complained about the dreadfully boring staff meetings he was forced to endure, deliberately biting his tongue to stop himself from adding that Dumbledore was clearly intimidated by his new intellect. He asked her to expand on what they did in their free time and what sort of pastries his sisters baked. It was agonizingly difficult to force the quill away from his own wondrous achievements, but he had sealed the letter and sent it off feeling a strange sense of accomplishment.
On the morning of August 23rd, a large brown owl swooped through the open window of Gilderoy’s quarters and dropped a heavy envelope onto his desk. The golden wax seal of his publisher caught the morning light.
Gilderoy broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchment.
Dear Gilderoy,
A joyous reminder that your signing at Flourish and Blotts is scheduled for this afternoon at 1:00 PM sharp. The Daily Prophet has promised a front-page spread, so do ensure you wear something incredibly eye-catching. The lilac robes, perhaps? We are expecting a massive turnout. Please remember to push the complete 'Magical Me' bundle to the crowd.
Looking forward to a highly profitable afternoon,
Tobias.
Gilderoy set the parchment down beside his inkwell. Flourish and Blotts. He remembered exactly how that day had gone in his previous life.
It was the day he had spotted a scrawny, black-haired boy in the crowd. He had reached out, grabbed Harry Potter by the arm, and dragged the bewildered child in front of the flashing camera. He remembered the soaring thrill of using the boy's fame to elevate his own, proudly announcing his teaching post to thunderous applause.
Thinking of Harry Potter immediately dragged his mind much further down a darker path.
The memory of the damp stone of the Chamber of Secrets. He remembered the feeling of being disarmed and pushed to his knees in the muck. He remembered staring down the barrel of Ron Weasley’s broken wand. He remembered his own desperate voice casting the Memory Charm. He had been fully prepared to wipe the minds of two twelve-year-old boys and leave a little girl to be devoured, all just to save his own skin.
Then came the flash of light, the explosion, and the endless fog of the Janus Thickey Ward. This was something Gilderoy had avoided thinking about.
Gilderoy looked down at his hands resting on the oak desk. They were trembling. The faint tremor traveled up his wrists, vibrating with a primal fear.
His feelings warred violently inside him. A spark of anger flared up first. Two literal children had ended his life. They had marched him at wand-point into a subterranean nightmare.
But the anger was quickly smothered by a heavy, crushing wave of guilt. He had brought it entirely upon himself. He was the adult and the sworn protector of those students, yet he had acted as the ultimate coward.
The trembling in his hands worsened. He clenched them into tight fists. This second chance, this incredible competence he now possessed, had made him feel invincible over the last two weeks. But sitting here, facing the memories of the Chamber, a realization washed over him.
He had not actually fought anything yet. He was still a coward.
The Prodigal Sorcerer perk made his spellwork flawless in an empty classroom. He could conjure stone golems and cast perfect Stunners against the wall and desks. But he had never stared down a Basilisk. He had never felt the hot, rancid breath of a werewolf or the magical shriek of a Banshee. He was a master to-be of magic who had never survived a genuine battle. The man the public believed him to be was still a complete fiction.
Gilderoy closed his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath, pulling the cool air into his lungs. He held it for a second. Then, he exhaled, forcing his hands to unclench.
Panic served no one. The Chamber of Secrets was months away, and he would not cower when the time came. He would deal with the monsters as they came.
He stood up from his desk and walked over to his polished wardrobe. He had to go to Diagon Alley. He had to fulfill his contractual obligation to Tobias and face the adoring public.
He bypassed the lilac robes entirely. Instead, he reached for a set of tailored robes in a deep, grounded navy blue. Today, he was going to do it his way.
— Harry Potter —
An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts.
Harry walked alongside Ron and Hermione toward the bookshop, which was considerably more crowded than it had any right to be on a Tuesday afternoon. A large mass of people pressed against the entrance, jostling for space, and the reason was spelled out on a banner stretched across the upper windows.
GILDEROY LOCKHARTwill be signing copies of his autobiographyMAGICAL MEtoday 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.
Harry had never heard the name before. He glanced at Ron, who rolled his eyes.
"Mum's been going on about him for years," Ron muttered. "Some adventurer bloke. Fought vampires and werewolves and all that. She's got a few of his books, and keeps re-reading them."
"He's incredible!" Hermione said, practically bouncing on her toes. "He's defeated a Bandon Banshee, trekked with trolls, and he's even voyaged with vampires!"
"Right," Ron said flatly. "Incredible."
The crowd was mostly witches around Mrs. Weasley's age, and she was no exception. She kept patting her hair and smoothing the front of her robes as they squeezed through the door. A harassed wizard at the entrance was trying to maintain order, repeating, "Calmly, please, ladies, don't push," to absolutely no effect.
They grabbed their copies of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and made their way up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Hermione's parents looked deeply out of place. They kept glancing at the moving photographs on the walls with the wide, bewildered smiles of people who were trying very hard to be polite about something they did not understand.
"Oh, there you are, good," said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless. "We'll be able to see him in a minute."
The line moved slowly. Gilderoy Lockhart came into view as the crowd shifted.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered wizard in tailored navy blue robes, seated behind a long oak table. His golden hair was swept back in clean waves, and he was signing books with a practiced flourish, chatting easily with each witch who approached. The portraits of his face that surrounded the table were doing enough winking and grinning for three men, but the real Lockhart seemed more settled than his pictures. He smiled warmly at each person, asked their name, and wrote something personal inside the front cover. The witches left looking dazed, clutching their books to their chests.
Harry could see why Mrs. Weasley had been patting her hair.
A short, irritable man with a large black camera was pushing through the crowd, looking for better angles. Every flash of the camera sent thick puffs of purple smoke billowing into the air.
"Out of the way, there," the photographer snapped at Ron, shoving past him. His boot came down hard on Ron's foot. "This is for the Daily Prophet."
"Big deal," Ron said, wincing and rubbing his shoe against his other leg.
Lockhart looked up.
His eyes found the photographer first. The warm smile on his face cooled. It did not disappear entirely, but it tightened, and his brow creased as he watched the short man elbow his way back through the line.
"These are people here to meet me," Lockhart called out, his voice carrying easily through the shop. He pointed a finger at the photographer, and his frown softened back into something more pleasant but still firm. "Let us not do that, hm?"
The photographer had the decency to look embarrassed. He muttered something and took a step back.
Harry watched Lockhart's gaze sweep across the crowd. It passed over the Weasleys, over Hermione, over the Grangers.
Then it landed on Harry.
For a very brief moment, something happened. Lockhart's composure flickered. The easy smile slipped, just for a second, and his blue eyes locked onto Harry's forehead with an expression that Harry could not read. It was there and gone in the space of a blink. The smile returned, calmer than before, and Lockhart leaned forward in his chair.
"My," he said, and his voice had a quality to it that made the crowd fall quiet. "That scar." He tapped the table once with his quill. "Harry Potter. Come here, lad."
He gestured with an open hand and a slight tilt of the head, an invitation rather than a command.
Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged. Hermione gave him a push between the shoulder blades. He walked forward, the crowd parting around him, and stopped in front of the signing table. He felt very aware of the camera clicking behind him.
Lockhart looked at him properly. Up close, the man's face was exactly like the portraits on the table. Handsome, symmetrical, and very aware of it. But there was something behind his eyes that the photographs did not capture. A sharpness, maybe. Harry wasn't sure.
"I believe," Lockhart said, raising his voice so the crowd could hear, "that this is an excellent opportunity to announce something rather exciting."
He stood up. The movement was smooth and controlled, and he placed both hands flat on the table as he addressed the room.
"I, Gilderoy Lockhart, will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this September at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
The crowd erupted. Witches clapped, a few gasped, and Mrs. Weasley let out a soft "Oh my!" that she immediately tried to cover with a cough.
Lockhart waited for the noise to settle. He looked down at Harry and smiled.
"To teach children like him," he continued, and then he winked, "though I suspect this one hardly needs it, to defend themselves against the many foul creatures that inhabit this world alongside us."
Harry felt his face go warm. He did not know what to do with his hands.
Lockhart turned to the stack of his books beside him. "In light of this occasion, Mr. Potter will be receiving the complete works of yours truly, free of charge." He piled the glossy hardbacks into Harry's arms, stacking them neatly. Then he winked at Harry again. "Just so he can learn all about his amazing new professor, just like the rest of you."
More applause. Lockhart let the moment sit for a beat.
"These are not, however, what I shall be teaching from," he added, holding up a finger. The crowd leaned in, confused murmurs spreading through the shop. "I have written a guide of my own to the wondrous magic that I perform, and I shall be providing it personally to every student at Hogwarts."
His smile widened, and for a moment it did not look rehearsed at all. It looked eager, the expression of someone who was genuinely looking forward to something. The camera flashed again, and Lockhart did not turn to pose for it. He simply stood there, smiling at the crowd, his hand resting lightly on the table.
Harry took the opportunity to step away. He staggered slightly under the weight of the books and made his way to the edge of the room where Mrs. Weasley was standing.
"Here," Harry said, holding the stack out to her. "For you, Mrs. Weasley. I wouldn't know what to do with them."
Mrs. Weasley's eyes went very round. "Oh, Harry, dear, you don't have to, these are yours, he gave them to you personally..."
"Honestly," Harry said, nudging them toward her. "Please."
She accepted the books with a flush of delight, cradling them against her chest like they were made of glass.
"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?"
Harry straightened up. Draco Malfoy was standing right behind him, his pale face twisted into its usual sneer.
"Famous Harry Potter," Malfoy said. "Can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page."
"Leave him alone, he didn't want all that!" Ginny snapped from beside her cauldron. It was the first time she had spoken in front of Harry. She stood with her fists clenched, glaring at Malfoy with a fury that seemed far too large for her small frame.
"Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!" Malfoy drawled. Ginny went scarlet.
Ron and Hermione pushed their way over, both carrying stacks of school books. Ron took one look at Malfoy and his expression curdled.
"Oh, it's you," Ron said. "Bet you're surprised to see Harry here, eh?"
"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," Malfoy said coolly. "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those."
Ron dropped his books into the cauldron. His ears had gone a deep, dangerous red, and he started toward Malfoy. Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket.
"Ron!" Mr. Weasley called, struggling over with Fred and George. "What are you doing? It's too crowded in here, let's go outside."
"Well, well, well. Arthur Weasley."
A man appeared behind Draco. He was tall, with long blond hair and sharp, pale features. His hand settled on Draco's shoulder, and the resemblance was immediate. They wore identical sneers.
"Lucius," Mr. Weasley said. His voice was civil, but only just.
"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," Mr. Malfoy said. "All those raids. I do hope they're paying you overtime."
He reached into Ginny's cauldron and pulled out an old, battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration from among the other school books. He held it up between two fingers, examining it with theatrical distaste.
"Obviously not," he said. "Dear me, what is the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"
Mr. Weasley's face darkened. His jaw was clenched tight.
"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," he said quietly.
"Clearly," Mr. Malfoy said. His pale eyes drifted sideways, settling on Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching with open alarm. "The company you keep, Weasley. And I thought your family could sink no lower."
Mr. Weasley launched himself forward. He slammed into Mr. Malfoy and knocked him backwards into a bookshelf. Heavy volumes rained down on both of them. Fred or George shouted, "Get him, Dad!" Mrs. Weasley screamed. The crowd scrambled backwards, knocking over another shelf, sending more books cascading across the floor.
"Gentlemen, please!" the shop assistant cried, wringing his hands. "Please!"
A voice cut through the chaos.
"Gentlemen!"
It was loud, clear, and carried the effortless authority of a man who was very used to commanding a room. The crowd went quiet. Harry turned and saw Gilderoy Lockhart striding toward the fight, his navy blue robes sweeping behind him. His wand was already in his hand.
He flicked his wrist. There was no incantation, no dramatic shout. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy simply slid apart, as if an invisible wall had been placed between them. Mr. Weasley stumbled back a step. Mr. Malfoy caught himself on the edge of the ruined shelf, his hair falling across his face, his eye already swelling where an encyclopedia had caught him.
"Let us be civilised now," Lockhart said. His tone was warm, almost friendly, but there was no give in it.
He flicked his wand a second time.
Every fallen book lifted off the floor. Dozens of them, heavy hardbacks and thin paperbacks, all rising at once. They sorted themselves in mid-air, spinning gently as they found their places, and slid neatly back onto the shelves. The toppled display stand righted itself with a soft wooden creak. In four seconds flat, the entire shop floor looked as though nothing had happened.
"Let's not make work for the young lad, hm?" Lockhart said, nodding to the shop assistant, who stood with his mouth hanging open.
The silence in the shop was total.
Harry stared. The spell had been completely silent. He had watched a few older students and the Professors use wordless magic in class, but never on that many objects at once, and never with that kind of casualness. Lockhart had not even looked particularly strained. He just tucked his wand back into his robes and straightened the cuff of his sleeve.
"Wicked," Ron whispered.
Hermione let out a high, breathless giggle. Her eyes were wide, her hands pressed to her mouth.
Mr. Malfoy pulled himself upright. He smoothed his long hair back into place and fixed Lockhart with a cold, appraising stare. Lockhart met it with an easy smile that did not waver. For a moment, neither man moved.
Then Mr. Malfoy looked away. He grabbed Ginny's old Transfiguration book from where it had landed on the floor and thrust it back into her cauldron.
"Here, girl," he said, his voice clipped and tight. "Take your book. It's the best your father can give you."
He seized Draco by the shoulder and swept out of the shop without another word.
Mr. Weasley stood breathing hard, his lip bleeding, his glasses askew. He looked at the perfectly restored shelves, then at Lockhart, and then back at the shelves.
"Thank you," Mr. Weasley managed, straightening his robes.
Lockhart waved a hand. "Not at all, Arthur." He said the name with an easy familiarity, as though they were old friends. "Tempers run hot. No harm done."
He turned and walked back to his signing table without waiting for a response.
"Yeh should've ignored him, Arthur," Hagrid said. He had appeared at some point during the commotion, his massive form filling the doorway. "Rotten ter the core, the whole family. Everyone knows that. Come on now, let's get outta here."
They hurried up the street. Mrs. Weasley was furious, lecturing Mr. Weasley in a sharp whisper about setting an example. The Grangers walked slightly apart from the group, still shaking.
"A fine example to set for your children," Mrs. Weasley hissed, clutching the stack of Lockhart books against her chest. "Brawling in public. What Gilderoy Lockhart must have thought of us."
Fred grinned. "Dunno, Mum. Looked like he handled it pretty well."
"Handled it?" Hermione repeated, still slightly breathless. "He cast a non-verbal separation charm AND levitation on dozens of objects at the same time. Do you have any idea how difficult that is?"
"No," said Ron, Fred, and George in unison.
Hermione ignored them. She had a faraway look on her face, the same one she wore when she discovered a particularly interesting chapter in a textbook. "He's going to be our professor," she said, almost to herself.
Harry glanced over his shoulder. Through the bookshop window, he could see Lockhart settling back into his signing chair. A witch was already approaching the table, and Lockhart smiled at her and reached for his quill as though nothing had happened at all.
Harry turned back around. He did not know what to expect from Gilderoy Lockhart. The man signed books and smiled for cameras, which was not exactly what Harry associated with fighting dark creatures. But the magic in the bookshop had been quick, and completely effortless. Whatever else Lockhart was, he clearly knew what he was doing with a wand.
He supposed he would find out in September.
— Gilderoy Lockhart —
The witch in front of him was saying something about how she had read Gadding with Ghouls fourteen times. Gilderoy smiled, nodded, and signed her copy with a sweeping flourish. She clutched the book to her chest and walked away in a daze.
He reached for the next copy in the stack and let out a slow, quiet breath through his nose.
Thank Merlin that worked.
He had not actually been sure it would. The separation charm was simple enough in theory, two bodies, one push, clean and done. But he had never cast it on two grown men mid-brawl, and there had been a very real moment where his wand was in the air and his stomach was somewhere near his boots. He remembered the fight from the last time perfectly. He had done absolutely nothing. He had sat in his chair and watched the chaos unfold with a vague, satisfied grin, his only concern being that no flying books damaged his lilac robes. They had cost a fortune.
Well, he was not wearing the lilac robes today. And all it had taken was a flick of his wrist.
A small, familiar warmth spread through his chest. He did good. He, Gilderoy Lockhart, had stepped into a messy situation, taken control, and resolved it with the casual elegance of a man who did this sort of thing all the time. It was him, after all. Of course it was going to work out.
"Gilderoy Lockhart?" the next witch in line asked, her voice trembling with excitement.
He looked up, flashed his teeth, and pulled the book toward him. "The one and only, my dear. And who might I be making this out to?"
Even as he continued to sign books for plenty of pretty witches, it felt hollow. It was nice, but it didn't compare to the look on the face of his colleagues or what he had just pulled off in front of the entire shop.
Still, as the witch in front of him leaned forward across the table, deliberately emphasising her figure, Gilderoy couldn't help but acknowledge that this wasn't bad either.
AN: First of all, Gilderoy is traumatised. I don't see a way around that after what happened in the Chamber and the years of recovery that followed. He also carries genuine guilt over what he almost did and what he was willing to do. The way I'm writing him reflects that, a shift born out of isolation and forced self-reflection. It's a mixed bag of emotions, guilt, fear, vanity, and a desperate need to prove he can be more. As for Clara, I haven't forgotten about her. Reluctant replies are still replies, and that thread isn't going anywhere. Also, Harry is intrigued. Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen.
So, this concludes Week 2 of the Monthly Schedule (which you can find pinned on the page) and as usual, I thank you all for your continued support here on Patreon. It means the world to me! Next week will be an update for In Naruto With An Achievement System.