Having the entire school attend a single class was never the norm, but the decision to combine all four houses of the same year into one Defense Against the Dark Arts class had been finalized.
Because the “fairy-tale romance” exercises were time-consuming, the two periods originally scheduled for second through fifth years were merged into a single “master class.” This meant that for all seven years, plus the N.E.W.T.
level course, Lockhart only had to teach eight classes per week.
He had gone from being the busiest professor at Hogwarts to the most leisure-filled—all it took was a little initiative to hit the absolute limit of what the other professors could handle.
Perfect!
“I am a genius!” In his office, Lockhart struck a pose, hands on his hips, laughing with theatrical delight.
Then, just as suddenly, his expression went cold.
Damn it.
He realized that his smug, self-congratulatory behavior was exactly like the Lockhart from his memories!
Am I becoming Lockhart just by pretending to be him?
Or was this vanity always buried deep in my own bones?
Is this a side effect of having too many jumbled memories crammed into my skull?
He frowned, realizing the severity of the situation.
In the original story, the real Lockhart ended up a complete fool!
But wait—who loses their mind from a simple Memory Charm?
If Memory Charms were that dangerous, the Aurors of the world wouldn’t be using them on Muggles so flippantly.
The original Lockhart’s undoing had been a backfired charm—a blunder that could have been fixed with a counter-curse—yet he had spent the rest of his life as a vegetable in St.
Mungo’s.
He shivered and rubbed his face vigorously.
Don’t panic.
Panic is useless.
Goldie, his pet, sensed his emotional spike.
It dropped a bejeweled shoe it had been playing with, climbed up his trouser leg to his shoulder, and tilted its head, looking at him with confused, golden eyes.
“Goo-jee?” Lockhart picked it up and cradled it, absentmindedly stroking its cold, furry head while he thought.
It seems I can’t wait.
I need to find a Pensieve to organize these memories!
Many wizards feared the Pensieve.
It was a deeply private object; a wizard’s Pensieve was usually buried with them, as it held the most embarrassing, shameful, and secret memories of a lifetime.
The only Pensieve Lockhart knew of was the one at Hogwarts.
It was a library of lived experience used by headmasters through the ages to provide context and guidance.
But that wasn’t something the current Lockhart could just borrow from Dumbledore.
He sat at his desk and penned a letter to Caractacus Burke, the owner of Borgin and Burkes, asking him to source an unused Pensieve.
Lockhart had often used the man to fence high-value items recovered during his “adventures.” Burke was a man of great connections—a descendant of the “Sacred Twenty-Eight,” related to Phineas Nigellus Black, and a man of immense influence in the Dark Arts community.
During the next few weeks, Lockhart appeared incredibly active at school, drawing crowds wherever he went.
In reality, beyond his lectures, he did almost nothing.
For the younger students, he introduced “evanescent” spells—practical magic for real-world scenarios.
Whenever he needed a demonstration, he simply called up talented students like Hermione, the Weasley twins, Cedric, or Percy.
For the older students, he focused on test prep: O.W.L.s for the fifth years, N.E.W.T.s for the seventh.
It was pure examination-cramming—filling in the gaps of their foundation and pushing them toward top marks.
This was easy for Lockhart.
He had a wealth of knowledge to share, such as how to organize cognitive structures into interconnected systems of thought.
Even the original Lockhart hadn’t been this competent.
He spent every spare moment in the library, cementing his image as a sage who never stopped reading.
Even Professor McGonagall praised him as a shining example—a true Ravenclaw.
But Lockhart was actually scouring the library for solutions to his own dilemma.
The library was too vast, and finding the right book was like finding a needle in a haystack.
He toyed with the idea of finding a vial of Felix Felicis, but realized that was a long shot.
He did find one spark of inspiration in a trashy book called You, Me, and Emotional Trauma, a story about a witch healing her broken heart.
A key passage mentioned: “When she realized she could never go back—that she was no longer the woman she was—she discovered why her magic had become so clumsy: her wand no longer suited her.” It was a different scenario—that witch’s magic had only become “clumsy,” not entirely blocked—but it was a valid lead.
Maybe a new wand would help.
By the weekend, Lockhart had finished grading every single essay, fueled by a nagging, professional sense of responsibility.
He stretched and prepared to head out.
He packed his pockets with Galleons and the Boggart-filled vanity case (a useful defensive distraction).
Finally, he looked at Goldie, who was sunning itself on the windowsill.
“Can you promise not to attack anyone unless I order it?” Goldie understood.
It blinked its golden eyes and nodded.
“Come along, then.” He tucked the creature into his robe pocket and set off to find Professor Snape.
There were three ways to leave Hogwarts: the train (too slow), Apparition from the bridge (he couldn’t cast it), or the fireplace.
The Headmaster and Heads of Houses had fireplaces connected to the Floo Network.
Lockhart understood the art of social debt—asking for small favors to create a sense of proximity—but Snape’s office was empty.
A passing student told him Snape was at Hogsmeade with the seniors.
Fine.
He would ask Professor Sprout at the greenhouses.
He left through the side door, walking past the Quidditch pitch, when he suddenly heard a shout.
He turned, stunned, to see a crowd parting.
In the center, Ron Weasley turned green and retched, vomiting up a massive, slimy slug.
Eww.
Lockhart winced, his expression one of pure, visceral horror.
Magical damage.
He recognized the hex instantly.
He had seven or eight advanced versions of the “Slug-Vomiting Counter-Curse” in his memory—but he couldn’t cast a single one of them!
Time to leave!
He judged the situation instantly and turned to slip away, feigning deep contemplation, as if he hadn’t noticed the scene.
“Professor Lockhart!” a student shouted, spotting him.
“Thank goodness!
Professor Lockhart is here!” Hermione’s voice was the loudest of them all.
Oh, no.
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