I have begun the most important research project of my life.
The study of how a man powered entirely by delusion survives in a structured environment.
Case subject: Gilderoy Lockhart.
Observation setting: Dueling Club.
"Yes, that is right," Lockhart announces grandly from the stage, his robes sparkling under the enchanted ceiling. "Gilderoy Lockhart, with the permission of our esteemed Headmaster, has founded a Dueling Club."
He flourishes his wand like it is a conductor's baton.
"With me is my assistant. Professor Snape. Please, a round of applause for his bravery."
He gestures toward Snape, who glides forward with the enthusiasm of a vampire attending a birthday party.
Lockhart winks at a group of third-year girls. Several swoon.
"Do not worry, my dear students. You will still have your potions professor after I am done with him."
Tracey is slapping my arm repeatedly, eyes wide, like she cannot believe what she is seeing. Neither can I. Our entire group is here, clustered at the edge of the dueling floor. Even the Carrow twins, who have inexplicably adopted me like I am the dark prince of lunchtime seating, stand silently behind me. I call them Left and Slightly Taller Left.
They are eerily in sync. No blinking. No speaking. Just blank-faced devotion. I have made it my secret mission to make one of them laugh. Or blink. I would settle for a blink.
I glance over at Daphne, arms crossed, wearing her usual expression of regal disapproval. Millicent stands beside her, solid and silent, like a bodyguard no one hired but everyone respects.
The match begins. Snape raises his wand slowly, like a predator stretching. Lockhart throws his arm back and twirls, shouting something that might be French.
Snape flicks his wand once.
Lockhart is blasted off his feet and lands in a heap near the Hufflepuff table.
I raise my fingers to my lips and whistle. Loudly.
Team Slytherin, baby.
Harry, who stands a little further off, just sighs and shakes his head. Snape is still treating him like a fungus that got too ambitious.
Snape turns back to the crowd.
"How about we give some students an opportunity?" he says, in that voice that somehow insults you even when he is not trying.
Lockhart climbs to his feet, robes crooked, hair still suspiciously perfect.
"Good idea," he wheezes, forcing a smile. "Harry, would you kindly come up here?"
Harry groans but obeys.
Snape's eyes scan the room, then land on me. He pauses.
I give him a pleasant smirk.
He scowls.
He knows I will not take his bait.
"Draco," he calls instead.
Malfoy struts forward like he is walking a fashion runway for dark wizards. But something is different. His eyes are steadier. More focused.
"It seems someone has indeed been training," Blaise says under his breath.
I nod, but my smirk grows. Because Harry has also been training. With me.
And he is far more dangerous than anyone realizes.
The professors whisper to their chosen students. Wands are raised. The match begins.
Malfoy does not wait. He lunges forward, wand already mid-swing.
"Serp—"
"Levioso," Harry says calmly.
Malfoy shoots upward like a startled balloon, arms flailing.
"Accio," Harry snaps.
Malfoy flies toward him like a summoned broomstick.
"POTTEEE—"
"Descendo."
Malfoy slams into the floor.
A collective wince ripples through the audience.
Harry is not done.
"Depulso."
Malfoy sails backward and lands in a heap outside the ring. Unconscious. Maybe dreaming of his mother.
Silence.
Then the room erupts in sound. Laughter. Cheers. Gasps.
Lockhart claps politely, clearly unsure of what just happened.
Snape looks like someone cancelled his favorite funeral.
Harry adjusts his sleeve.
I lean over to Blaise.
"I think we might need to work on moderation."
Blaise nods. "Or maybe teach Malfoy how to fall with dignity."
Tracey is still slapping my arm.
"I trained him," I whisper.
"I know," she whispers back. "You terrifying, beautiful man."
I allow myself a smile.
Research project ongoing.
Results: promising.
<><><><><><><>
Lockhart is not a threat. He is something far worse. A glitter-covered barnacle clinging to Harry's life raft. Enthusiastic. Endlessly complimentary. And always too close.
He appears at random intervals, offering hair care tips and unsolicited dueling advice. He blocks corridors with wide gestures. He misquotes Harry in his own stories.
Harry is being slowly smothered by enthusiasm and hair mousse.
Something had to be done. Naturally, I volunteered.
With grace. And style. And zero permission.
"Harry," I said, sliding into the seat beside him at breakfast. "Have you ever considered giving back to your fans?"
He stared at me like I had suggested turning his broomstick into a teapot.
"You have fans, you know. People who admire you. Respect you. Possibly want you to sign their forehead."
"I really don't think—"
"But imagine how happy it would make them. A few autographs. A smile. Maybe some charming silence. I can even make a sign."
Harry looked deeply suspicious. Then deeply resigned.
"Is this because Lockhart tried to make me pose in a duel with a garden rake?"
"A little bit," I said.
Lunch break. Courtyard. Prime visibility.
I placed a sign near the fountain:
Meet the Boy Who Lived – One Day Only – Autographs and Modest Awkwardness Provided
Harry sat at the table I conjured. He had a stack of parchment. A borrowed quill. A cookie I bribed him with.
It began slowly. One curious Hufflepuff. Then a Ravenclaw with glitter on her robes. Then two second-years who demanded he sign their broom handles.
Within minutes, Harry was surrounded.
Tracey watched from a distance, cackling into her sleeve. Blaise handed out lemonade like this was a garden party.
Harry looked like he wanted to melt into the stonework.
Perfect.
Right on cue, Lockhart arrived.
He stepped into the courtyard with arms open wide, ready to bathe in applause. Then he saw it.
The crowd.
The flashes of parchment.
The eager eyes.
And at the center of it all... Harry. Signing autographs like a reluctant boy band member.
Lockhart froze.
His smile faltered.
His shoulders wilted.
He looked around for someone to adore him.
He found me instead.
I stepped beside him. Casual. Respectful. Innocent.
"Hard to watch, isn't it?" I murmured. "A young man getting all the attention. The admiration. The public adoration you have worked so hard to cultivate."
Lockhart said nothing. His teeth were clenched behind a twitching smile.
"But you are Gilderoy Lockhart. You deserve an apprentice who gets it. Who wants the spotlight. Who can pose with flair and strike with flourish."
He looked at me then. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
I tilted my head and gave him a small, mysterious smile.
"Someone with presence," I said. "And cheekbones."
His eyes widened just a little.
I gently patted his shoulder and walked away.
That evening, Lockhart cornered me near the music room.
"I have been thinking," he said, stroking his chin like he had invented the concept. "Perhaps Harry is too humble for mentorship. Not everyone is built for the pressure of attention."
"True," I said.
"You, on the other hand... You are ready."
"I am honored."
"You may begin with scarf-flourishing technique. We will build from there."
"Naturally."
He strode off with the confidence of a man who just discovered a new continent.
Harry owes me at least three favors and possibly a biscuit.
Research project: redirected.
Collateral damage: none.
Results: delightful.
<><><><><><><>
I was reading peacefully in the courtyard when the hedges rustled violently.
"There you are," Lockhart beamed, emerging like a dramatic flower. "I have cleared my schedule. We are beginning your brand training."
I blinked. "My what?"
"Branding," he said, seating himself beside me. "Not with fire. With flair."
He straightened my collar. "Now. Smile."
I did.
"No, no. That was genuine. Smile as if you just saved a Norwegian village from a cursed harp and refused to accept their statue."
I tried again. Crooked. Controlled.
He gasped. "There it is. That. The Rosier Tilt."
I wrote it down in my journal. Purely for entertainment.
…
Next Dueling Club, Lockhart insisted I demonstrate "elegant wand posture."
He performed a triple-spin disarming charm that shattered a chandelier.
I cast a silent Jelly-Legs Jinx on a dummy.
Polite applause. Lockhart blinked at me, confused.
"Subtle. Yes. Very subtle. Next time, perhaps... a cape twirl?"
"I do not own a cape."
"We will fix that. Burgundy. Or perhaps storm-blue. Something that says danger but can still sign autographs."
…
He cornered me in the staff hallway between classes.
"I have begun my next book," he whispered. "Minds and Mirrors: Mentoring the Next Magical Marvel. You, Mr. Rosier, are Chapter Three."
"Oh. I am honored."
"You come after the Kelpie incident but before the Vienna unveiling. I described your hair as 'windswept with secrets.' Accurate, yes?"
"Utterly."
…
I made the mistake of telling Blaise.
He choked on his tea.
Tracey asked to attend the next lesson as an anthropological observer.
Daphne stared at me in full silence, then said, "You concern me more everyday that passes."
"I am gathering intel," I told them.
"On what?" Daphne asked.
"On how far one man's delusion can stretch."
Tracey nodded. "So far, it has reached cursed harps and Norwegian statues."
…
After music club, I returned to find a velvet-wrapped package on my desk.
Inside was a limited-edition Gilderoy Lockhart action figure.
It winked when tapped.
A note was tucked inside.
To my dearest prodigy,
May your charm grow as large as your legacy.
Wear the cape with pride.
— G.L.
The figure now guards my sock drawer.
The cape? I gave it to Blaise.
He wore it to breakfast the next morning and dramatically saved a spoon from falling off the table.
Lockhart cried. Just a little.
I have never felt more powerful.