Having all the students from different houses take a class together wasn't exactly the norm at Hogwarts, but Defense Against the Dark Arts was an exception. It was set in stone that students from all four houses in the same year would attend together.
Since the "storybook romance" style of practice took quite a bit of time, the original schedule of two lessons for second to fifth years was merged into one big class. This way, all seven years only needed one lesson each, plus the N.E.W.T. class, which counted as roughly one big lesson's worth of time. That meant just eight classes a week total.
From being Hogwarts' busiest professor, Gilderoy Lockhart had become the most laid-back. With just a flick of his wand—well, figuratively speaking—he'd reached the pinnacle of professorial ease.
"Perfect!" he declared.
"I'm practically a genius!"
In his office, Lockhart struck a dramatic pose, hands on hips, laughing with a flourish that could've rivaled a peacock in full strut. His laughter was almost dazzling—until his face suddenly turned serious.
Bloody hell!
It hit him like a Bludger: in that moment of smug triumph, he was acting exactly like the Lockhart he remembered from his tangled mess of memories.
"Am I becoming Lockhart just by playing the part? Or is this who I've always been deep down?" he muttered.
"Or… is it all these jumbled memories messing with my head?"
Frowning, he realized the gravity of the situation. In the books, Lockhart ended up a complete nutter, didn't he? A victim of his own backfired Memory Charm.
Who else had ever been turned into a gibbering fool by a Memory Charm?
If the spell was that dangerous, Aurors across every Ministry of Magic wouldn't be casually wiping Muggle memories left and right. In the books, Lockhart's own charm had rebounded on him—a simple counter-curse should've fixed it. But no, he spent the rest of his days in St. Mungo's, drooling like a permanent resident of the Janus Thickey Ward.
Yikes.
Lockhart sucked in a sharp breath, rubbing his face hard. "Don't panic," he told himself. "Panicking's useless."
His little golden Bowtruckle, sensing his mood swing, dropped the gem-encrusted shoe it had been curiously inspecting. It scampered up his trouser leg to his shoulder, tilting its tiny head in confusion.
"Guji?" it chirped.
Lockhart plucked it off his shoulder, cradling it in his hands and absently stroking its cool, fuzzy little head as he thought.
"I can't wait any longer. I need a Pensieve to sort out these memories, pronto."
Most wizards were wary of Pensieves. Once you poured your memories into one, the thing kept a record of every single one. Nobody wanted their deepest, most embarrassing secrets laid bare for someone else to snoop through. In the wizarding world, a Pensieve was so personal it was often buried with its owner.
Lockhart knew of one exception: the Hogwarts Pensieve. Used by generations of headmasters and headmistresses, it was like a living library of their life experiences, a treasure trove of wisdom for the current head. But there was no way he could just waltz up to Dumbledore and borrow it.
After some thought, he sat at his desk and penned a letter to Caractacus Burke, the owner of Borgin and Burkes. He asked if the man could track down an unused Pensieve. In his memory-hunting days, Lockhart had often nabbed valuable trinkets from powerful wizards and fenced them through Burke. The man's connections were legendary. A scion of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" Burke family, his grandmother, Belvina Black, was the daughter of a former Hogwarts headmaster, Phineas Black. Burke ran the biggest shop in Knockturn Alley and had serious clout among dark wizards.
In the books, the Burke family also controlled one of Hogwarts' secret passages—the Vanishing Cabinet—which let them slip in and out of the supposedly impregnable school. Shame the cabinet got damaged, and later generations forgot its value, leaving it to gather dust in their shop. Even Voldemort, who'd worked for Burke as a young man, never bothered to come back and curse his old boss. That spoke volumes about Burke's knack for staying on everyone's good side.
If anyone could find a Pensieve, it was him.
Over the next few days, Lockhart seemed to be everywhere at Hogwarts, stirring up a buzz wherever he went. But if you looked closely, he wasn't actually doing much beyond teaching. For younger students, he focused on practical spells like Evanesco—the Vanishing Spell—perfect for real-world scenarios. (Fun fact: in Order of the Phoenix, Chapter 36, Dumbledore used it during his duel with Voldemort at the Ministry, though Lockhart's own attempt in the books was a bit… clumsy, when he tried it on Draco's conjured snake.)
When it was time for demonstrations, he'd call up eager students—Hermione, the Weasley twins, Cedric, Percy—to show off. For older students, it was all about exam prep. Fifth years had their O.W.L.s, seventh years had their N.E.W.T.s, so Lockhart drilled them with targeted lessons, patching up weak spots and pushing the best to aim for Outstanding grades.
Teaching came easy to him. He had a knack for helping students organize their knowledge into a cohesive system, something even the original Lockhart couldn't match. Lately, students had noticed their flamboyant professor haunting the library, poring over books despite his already encyclopedic knowledge. Even Professor McGonagall praised him as a fine example for young witches and wizards—a true Ravenclaw.
But in truth, Lockhart was hunting for answers. The library was a maze of books, and searching for solutions felt like fishing for a single Galleon in the Black Lake. Maybe a drop of Felix Felicis would help, if he could get his hands on some.
He did find a glimmer of hope in a dusty book called You and I Under Emotional Trauma. It told the story of a witch recovering from a broken heart. One line stood out:
"When she realized she could never go back, that she wasn't the same person anymore, she discovered why her spells were so clumsy—her wand no longer suited her."
It wasn't quite the same as Lockhart's problem. The witch in the book cast poorly, but Lockhart couldn't cast at all. Still, it was a lead. Maybe a new wand, one that matched the current him, could help.
By the weekend, with the sun not yet at its peak, Lockhart finished grading a stack of student essays. That blasted sense of duty—despite his growing urgency, he couldn't just leave them unmarked. Stretching with a yawn, he gathered his things to head out.
He didn't need much: a pouch of Galleons and a small makeup case containing a Boggart, which he slipped into his robe's pocket. If he ran into a hostile wizard, tossing that out would buy him a moment's distraction. He glanced at his Bowtruckle, lounging on the windowsill, munching a nut in the sunlight, looking like a fluffy golden ball.
"Can you promise not to attack anyone without my say-so?" he asked.
The Bowtruckle couldn't speak but understood just fine. It tilted its head, its golden eyes sparkling, and gave a small nod.
"Alright, you're coming with me." Lockhart scooped it up, tucking it into his pocket, and set off to find Snape.
There were three proper ways to leave Hogwarts. The slowest was taking the train from Hogsmeade Station by the Black Lake. The second was Apparating from the bridge near the castle, but Lockhart couldn't manage that. The third was using a Floo fireplace, available in the headmaster's office or those of the four house heads.
Lockhart was no stranger to networking. Asking for small favors built rapport—people liked feeling you owed them one. But when he knocked on Snape's door, there was no answer. A passing student mentioned Snape was off with some older students in Hogsmeade.
Fine. He'd try Professor Sprout in the greenhouses instead. He'd already bothered Dumbledore and McGonagall enough with work stuff; no need to pester them for this.
Heading out through the castle's side door, he passed the Quidditch pitch and heard a sudden uproar. Turning, he saw a crowd scatter as Ron Weasley, in the center, retched and—blech—spewed out a massive, slimy slug.
Gross!
Lockhart recoiled, his face a mix of horror and disgust, like an old man squinting at a smartphone.
Magical damage, no question. The Slug-Vomiting Charm—nasty, but there was a standard counter-curse for it, and Lockhart's mind raced with seven or eight ways to enhance it. Problem was, he couldn't cast a single one.
Time to scarper.
Pretending to be lost in thought over some profound dilemma, he started to slip away.
"Professor Lockhart!" a young witch shouted, spotting him. "Brilliant, Professor Lockhart's here!"
Hermione's voice rang out the loudest, brimming with excitement.
Oh, Merlin's beard…