The mishap at the Fairy Tale Adventure Training Grounds was, to Gilderoy Lockhart, nothing more than a trivial blip.
He'd been teaching at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for half a year now, and during that time, he'd been tirelessly experimenting with his "fairy-tale-style romantic adventures." He knew all too well the vast gap in skill between young witches and wizards.
Consider the likes of Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Voldemort, or Nicolas Flamel—wizards with such outrageous magical prowess that a casual spell could level a city. Some lived for centuries, only giving up on brewing the Philosopher's Stone when they grew bored of immortality itself.
Then look at the Ministry of Magic, where a good chunk of folks couldn't even cast a decent Shield Charm, or worse, those utterly ordinary witches and wizards who struggled with the basics.
The gap between people? Sometimes it was bigger than the gap between a person and a pig.
Magic, much like mathematics in his previous life, was always a game for the gifted few.
Once you faced the reality of that gap—acknowledging that the talents and potential of young witches and wizards could differ as vastly as heaven and earth—you could approach teaching with a certain calm detachment.
Unlike Snape, who spent half his lessons snarling insults, Lockhart didn't see the point in getting worked up. What good did it do? None. Respect each person's destiny, he figured. A professor's job was to help those destined for mediocrity pick up a few skills that might just change their lives. That's it.
As he once told a curious Hermione when she came seeking advice, "Sometimes we have to accept the limits of our abilities and luck. Being the sidekick to a hero or a dark lord isn't a bad gig, you know."
The fairy tale adventure drills were a chance for gifted young witches and wizards to shine, to tap into that perfect state where magic flows freely. But weren't they also an opportunity for the less talented to grow by standing in the glow of their peers?
As a writer, Lockhart knew exactly how to assemble an adventure team, ensuring even the less gifted could bask in the "protagonist's" halo.
He gave them the chance. All they needed was the courage to seize it, to charge forward with the team and carve out their own magical path. Who knows? Magic might just open up endless possibilities for them.
But if fear held them back, if they froze and gave up? Well, there wasn't much to say about that.
Lockhart didn't push or scold. With his dazzling, perfect smile, he'd offer a bit of comfort to the hesitant young witches and wizards—and that was that.
He'd done his part. His energy was better spent forging ahead on his own magical journey.
And then, Lockhart stumbled upon something fascinating.
His little companions—his golden-haired friend, the Wronged Fairy, the Boggart, and even the new addition, Sack-Sack—showed no fear of his "Mind-Scrub Charm."
This was a big deal. A Banshee he'd tossed into one of his adventure scenarios had been caught off-guard by a few drops of rain infused with the Patronus Charm's power. It let out a blood-curdling wail and hid, still looking utterly drained days later.
Dumbledore had been stunned by this sort of thing before, back in the headmaster's office. Dark creatures like these, unharmed by a Patronus—able to interact with it closely, even—was something he'd never seen.
At the time, Lockhart chalked it up to his magic being special.
Now, he realized it wasn't his magic. It was his companions.
To test this, he ran an experiment. He borrowed a Boggart from the Wizarding Examinations Authority's stock of dark creatures, brought it into his fairy tale book, and hit it with the Mind-Scrub Charm.
Merlin's beard! His now-practiced spell nearly killed the poor Boggart!
What was this? Some wizarding version of "one rises, and their pets rise with them"?
Lockhart had a theory. He'd once explained to the Duelling Club students the difference between magical creatures and fantastic beasts. He'd suggested that magical creatures, by being part of a "wizard's life"—or better yet, a "wizard's fairy tale adventure"—could start to take on the traits of fantastic beasts.
Wasn't that exactly the logic behind his fairy tale adventure drills? Pairing ordinary young witches and wizards with the gifted ones, letting them adventure together?
Lockhart rifled through his memories, searching for proof.
And he found it!
Harry Potter's Dumbledore's Army!
The students in that club, training under Harry, improved their magic far beyond what they'd achieved with their professors. The difference was staggering.
Take the Patronus Charm, one of the oldest spells still used in modern wizarding society. It's notoriously difficult. Most witches and wizards could only muster a faint silver glow, with just a rare few summoning a full-fledged Patronus.
But Dumbledore's Army? Practically every member could conjure a complete, corporeal Patronus.
And spells like the Shield Charm? Child's play for them.
If you didn't know much about magic, you'd swear Harry Potter was the greatest educator of his time, outshining McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and the rest of Hogwarts' staff. He'd done what they couldn't.
But Lockhart knew magic. He knew its power came from the heart. Harry didn't exactly have a knack for reading people's souls or tailoring training to each person's unique spark.
So what was it?
Adventure!
Lockhart was sure of it. The benefits of adventuring alongside a "hero." The sidekicks, desperate to keep up with the fairy tale's pace, defied their earlier mediocre or downright dismal talents, their skills soaring.
It was like the fairy tale bleeding into reality!
In a world brimming with magic, could this really be how it worked?
This revelation got him thinking about Grindelwald's Saints, Dumbledore's counter-team, Voldemort's Death Eaters, and Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix.
Even smaller groups, like the Marauders. Take Peter Pettigrew—a total tag-along, weak as they come. But pull him out and compare him to the new generation? The guy was surprisingly strong.
Following the protagonist into a fairy tale adventure…
Lockhart pieced it all together, and a wild idea popped into his head. Should he join the Order of the Phoenix, maybe even infiltrate the Death Eaters with a fake identity, to ride the coattails of a protagonist's rise?
Brilliant!
The wizarding world's mechanisms, once understood, were like cheat codes waiting to be exploited.
Heart racing, he started plotting. The Order would be easy to join—Dumbledore knew Lockhart was firmly against Voldemort. He was on good terms with McGonagall, Snape, Moody, Mundungus, and future members like Harry and Hermione.
The Death Eaters? Trickier.
For one, Lockhart had "died" once already. Plus, many Death Eaters had claimed they were coerced, making Voldemort skeptical of his followers' loyalty. A new, unknown recruit? No chance he'd trust them.
And Lockhart wasn't about to grovel or start killing to prove himself. He'd need something valuable to offer Voldemort, some leverage. His public influence could work, but a fake identity wouldn't carry that weight.
Hiss…
Wait!
A perfect entry point hit him like a Bludger.
Corban Yaxley!
What if he assumed the identity of Corban Yaxley, a seasoned Death Eater?
It was just like how Barty Crouch Jr. disguised himself as Moody to teach at Hogwarts for a whole year under Dumbledore's nose.
Bloody brilliant!
It fit his "life-thief" style perfectly.
This would take careful planning. Yaxley wasn't an easy target. But compared to tricking someone like the Forest Witch or one of Dumbledore's close allies? Doable. He'd find his moment.
Lockhart rubbed his chin, chuckling wickedly.
Thrilling!
This was the kind of exhilarating life he craved. Too much fun!