Lockhart’s speech had worked.
Dumbledore’s gaze had softened considerably.
Professor McGonagall even wore a faint smile, remarking that “having a teacher like Lockhart, who has traveled to so many corners of the world, will be a wonderful opportunity for the students to broaden their horizons.” Perfect!
Professor McGonagall walked with a brisk, light step as she led Lockhart to his designated professor’s quarters.
After brief instructions on the evening’s welcoming feast schedule, she took her leave—she had plenty of other matters to attend to.
Lockhart maintained a perfectly charming smile until he had seen her to the door.
Once he’d closed it, he exhaled, his strength deserting him as he slumped back against the wood, sliding down to the floor.
He gasped for air, his face drained of color, beads of sweat erupting on his forehead.
“Ugh…” He gripped his robes tightly, letting out a muffled groan.
Just now, he had been frantically rummaging through the memories in his mind, and the intense strain had caused the already chaotic mess of his consciousness to fray even further.
Memory is a unique, fickle thing.
For the original Lockhart—a man who had mastered the Memory Charm to its absolute limit—this was especially true.
One had to understand that even when dealing with the same object, person, or event, different people formed different memories.
These memories were colored by subjective biases, personal perspectives, emotional states at the time, and a person’s entire worldview.
Now, the memories of over a dozen powerful wizards were clashing and colliding, causing him agony that made him want to scream.
It felt as if a dozen voices were jabbering, shrieking, and bickering inside his skull.
What could he do?
He didn’t know.
The original Lockhart certainly wouldn’t have known how to fix this, either.
Was this a side effect of his transmigration, or a latent danger from the predecessor’s reckless overuse of the Memory Charm?
“Damn it!” Lockhart took a deep, shaky breath, finally steadying himself, though his expression remained grim.
Am I going to end up like the Lockhart in the books—a total fool?
The original Lockhart was undeniably impressive; in nine short years, he had easily “handled” over a dozen powerful wizards.
But he was also weak—his understanding of magic remained superficial.
Those folk wizards might have been strong in practical combat, but their academic insights were negligible.
—He hadn’t known how to fix his own broken mind.
“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…” Lockhart stood up and walked to the window, gazing out at the castle clusters.
“Maybe I can find the answer here?” He had boasted to Dumbledore about the practical magic passed down through generations, calling the school’s academic magic too rigid and dogmatic.
But in truth, he needed that academic discipline more than anyone.
Luckily, he was currently employed at the school with a one-year contract.
Lockhart patted his cheeks to make himself look relaxed, tidied his luggage, and pushed open the door.
Dwelling on his inability to change his current predicament was pointless.
It was better to do something practical.
He could spend time in the library.
He could seek help from the other professors.
The teachers at Hogwarts were, after all, the brightest minds in the wizarding world.
Professor Severus Snape for Potions.
Professor Filius Flitwick for Charms.
Professor Pomona Sprout for Herbology.
Professor Sybill Trelawney for Divination.
Rubeus Hagrid for the care of magical creatures.
Madam Pomfrey for medical treatment.
The list was endless.
If he could just get on good terms with any of them, it would be a massive help—both for his current internal crisis and any future problems he might face.
Lockhart strolled through the castle corridors, and soon, a strange smell hit him.
It was sweet, yet spicy, with a lingering savory aroma.
“???” He blinked in confusion.
“Did I transmigrate again?
Why on earth is someone cooking hotpot here?” And it smelled like seafood hotpot, no less!
He followed the scent to a dimly lit room.
Peering inside, he realized it was just a potion brewing.
He searched his memories—it didn’t take much effort, given those greasy, black locks were unmistakable.
“Hey.” Lockhart tapped lightly on the open door, flashing a brilliant smile.
“Senior Snape.” Severus Snape had been four years his senior at Hogwarts, and they had interacted back then.
In those days, while Snape had hovered around the pure-blood students who admired the Dark Lord, he hadn’t gained much support from them, often left isolated against the Potter crowd.
As a rising star among the students, Lockhart had, naturally, felt compelled to “speak up for justice.” Of course, he was much smarter than Snape.
He had chosen a moment when only the pathetic Peter Pettigrew was around, and in front of a crowd, he had righteously condemned their bullying, earning him widespread admiration.
—Senior Snape!
Please remember, I am the only person in the entire world who ever stood up for you!
That feeling of glory had been very nice.
It hadn’t been very nice for Snape, though.
When he turned and saw Lockhart, his face curdled into a sour expression.
“Senior Snape.” Lockhart’s smile only grew, and he walked in with practiced familiarity, enthusiastically slinging an arm around the other man’s shoulder.
“Remember me?
Your dear junior, Lockhart.” Snape’s eyes narrowed.
He glanced at the hand on his shoulder and said, his voice icy, “I remember perfectly.
Anyone who magically carved their own name twenty feet high across the school Quidditch pitch would be remembered by everyone.” Oh?
Was the original guy that flamboyant?
Lockhart quickly rummaged through his memories.
That wasn’t even the worst of it—the guy had once mimicked the Dark Mark, projecting his own sparkling face into the sky.
Well, he could understand the logic.
Ask any of the wealthy sheiks in the Middle East how good it feels to show off like that—it was an indescribable pleasure.
“Hahaha…” Lockhart laughed heartily, though he naturally removed his arm from Snape’s shoulder.
He had noticed Snape reaching for his wand on the table.
“It’s truly wonderful to be working with you, Senior!” He looked out the window at the castle grounds, sighing with emotion.
“It’s still so beautiful here, filled with the scent of wisdom.
And best of all, the place is finally free of that annoying Potter crowd.” The corners of Snape’s mouth twitched upward, and he lowered his wand.
“Senior, you know, I’ve discussed you with others.
Whenever the topic of the greatest potion master I’ve ever known comes up, I always say: Severus Snape!” Lockhart turned back to him.
“But they never agree.
Everyone keeps talking about Arsenius Jigger, author of Magical Drafts and Potions, or Libatius Borage, who wrote Advanced Potion-Making, or Evan Evans, author of Powerful Potions…” He rattled off at least ten names of potion masters in one breath, then raised an eyebrow.
“Senior, what do you think?
Who is truly the best?” Snape replied with a calm, indifferent shake of his head.
“I do not care for the opinions of others.” “I beg to differ,” Lockhart chuckled.
“Every master who achieves greatness in their field possesses a pride that cannot be doubted.
Perhaps you are still too young—only thirty-one—and haven’t yet realized the beauty that comes with fame.
Proving yourself—” Snape’s patience had run out.
He turned back to the cauldron, stirring the potion with his wand, his voice thin and laced with annoyance.
“I have nothing to prove.
If there is nothing else, please leave!” Lockhart acted as if he hadn’t heard a word.
“As the facts show, any master who proves his success automatically turns those who oppose him into the villains of the story.
You understand, like Dumbledore and Grindelwald…” Snape let out a cold, sharp laugh.
“I really should let Dumbledore hear that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor he hired is badmouthing him behind his back.” Lockhart continued, “Or, for instance, you and those Potter fellows.” !
The wand in the cauldron stopped moving.
Snape stood with his back to Lockhart, motionless, radiating a dark, gloomy energy.
“Proving you were right all along!” Lockhart said with excitement.
“You know, back then, I was the only one who stood up for you.
I understood you so well, but most people didn’t.
You need to prove yourself.
That is the charm of fame!
Your extraordinary achievements will turn the people who bullied you back then into a total joke.” Snape’s wand lifted slightly; a drop of crimson potion dripped slowly down the length of the wood.
Snape turned slowly, staring daggers at Lockhart.
“What exactly is your point?” “Write a book, Senior.
Compile a definitive treatise on Potions that is uniquely yours.
Let everyone see your brilliance.” Lockhart gestured to the bookshelf on the wall.
“Just like all the great potion masters—have your work placed in the classrooms of every magical school across the world.” “If you don’t know how to write something that sells, I can help you.
Of course, there’s so much I can help you with.
In this world, no one knows how to manage a bestseller better than I do.” Swish.
A bizarre, overwhelming force surged toward Lockhart, sending him flying backward.
It felt as if he were being shoved into a narrow, twisted space.
When he was finally squeezed out and ejected, he found himself standing outside in the hallway.
Bang!
The door slammed shut, sealing Snape back into the gloom of his laboratory.
“Senior?
I saw it!
You’re interested, aren’t you?
What are you doing?
Open the door!
Come on now~~” Yes, Lockhart had seen it clearly: Snape was tempted.
His plan had been a success, surely—using his expertise in marketing to build bridges with the faculty.
So why, he wondered, did Snape have to kick him out?
He wasn’t very endearing at all.
Perhaps, he thought, I should go look for Hagrid?
Maybe the old classmate of the Dark Lord would like to make some interesting picture books for his little monsters?