At dawn, Professor Kettleburn, who always slept like a log, woke early.
He listened carefully to the chorus of animal calls from the forest, quickly deducing the time. He roused the Weasley twins, casting a quick charm to clean the dirt and smells off them, urging them to hurry back to the castle.
Nighttime wandering was something professors turned a blind eye to—as long as you didn't get caught.
They needed to get back before everyone else woke up, or they'd be in trouble.
The commotion startled a baby Hippogriff, which let out a sharp cry, waking Hagrid.
Rubbing his bleary eyes, Hagrid stood, looking around in confusion. It took him a moment to process where he was. "Where's Professor Lockhart?" he mumbled.
"Over there," Kettleburn said, pointing to the paddock's edge, where Lockhart stood atop a low wall, gazing at the sky.
"I'll check on him."
Hagrid, stretching his prosthetic limbs, ambled over. "Professor Lockhart, what're you doing?"
Lockhart turned, his face beaming with a bright smile. "Look! The moon and sun are in the sky together."
Kettleburn chuckled. "Big deal. You see that at dusk too."
The moon and sun sharing the sky wasn't exactly rare. Pay attention, and you'd notice it daily.
"Really? I never noticed before," Lockhart said. In his past life, he'd been too busy with school, odd jobs, and later, endless overtime as a corporate drone. Submerged in society's grind, he'd forgotten his connection to nature.
He smiled faintly, his gaze dreamy. "You know, the earth told me destruction and life coexist…"
In fact, Dumbledore's notes in Mastering Lightning echoed this, describing lightning as a blend of rebirth and destruction.
"???" Kettleburn looked baffled. "What're you rambling about this early in the morning?"
Lockhart didn't answer directly, murmuring, "Wilbert Slinkhard, in Defensive Magical Theory, wrote that counter-curses—whether general or specific—are essentially curses themselves."
"I used to think magic and its counter-curse were like a pencil and eraser."
"Now I see they're two sides of the same coin."
He should've realized this sooner. The Patronus Charm wasn't just about guarding the mind—it protected the spirit from negative emotions and dark forces.
It sounds similar, but the difference is huge.
Because, in truth, overwhelming positive forces can also harm the mind, making it hard for wizards to fit into society.
Dumbledore had told him as much: Lockhart shouldn't be swayed by dark magic or positive magic. He was himself, his will unyielding to any influence.
"What're you getting at?" Kettleburn, an old man with a slower mind, was lost.
"Nothing major—just a little magical insight," Lockhart said with a radiant grin, stepping forward and gently floating down from the wall.
Kettleburn's eyes widened. He knew that spell. He'd seen it before, from a student he'd taught—a prodigy who'd invented it at a young age. Tom Riddle's Flight Charm! Back then, everyone thought he'd be the next Dumbledore.
But no!
Kettleburn quickly noticed Lockhart's movement wasn't like Tom's. Riddle's Flight Charm was fierce, faster than a Firebolt. Lockhart's was graceful, like a leaf drifting in the wind.
"By casting magic through the lens of a counter-curse, it becomes more controllable," Lockhart explained. "A counter-curse isn't an eraser to magic's pencil. It's the other side of the coin—not control, not negation, but a cycle."
Kettleburn smacked his lips. "Sounds like something out of Transfiguration."
Lockhart nodded. "I've drawn a lot from Dumbledore's wisdom."
"Self-conflict, self-struggle—what a hassle! I've never liked Dumbledore's approach to magic. Too exhausting," Kettleburn grumbled. "What's the point of all this?"
"It's useful!" a voice called from atop the wall.
Kettleburn's eyes bulged as he looked up, horrified, to see Lockhart still standing there, smiling down.
"!!!"
He blinked, certain he'd just seen Lockhart float down!
"Merlin's holey knickers!" he blurted. "How'd you do that?"
This was Hogwarts!
Protected by powerful wards! No one—no one—could Apparate within its grounds without the castle's permission or the Headmaster's approval.
Yet Lockhart had just shifted positions right before his eyes!
"I told you," Lockhart said, reappearing in front of Kettleburn. "Cast magic as a counter-curse, and it becomes controllable. Think of it as me casting a counter-curse to a displacement spell. Simple as that."
"Ha!" Kettleburn gaped as Lockhart flickered about, utterly flummoxed. "You can do that?"
Of course he could.
Lockhart grinned, glancing to his side. Invisible to Kettleburn, his Patronus horse and a sinister werewolf stood guard, separate yet somehow merged.
In magic, counter-curses often held more mystery than the spells themselves.
Unleashing a blaze to burn a forest was dangerous and powerful, sure. But casting a spell to restore a forest from ashes? That was the true enigma of wizardry.
So fascinating.
Of course, theory was one thing—practice another.
Magic he could control fit this theory. But what about the parts he couldn't?
Lockhart needed experiments to test if this was a universal truth of magic.
Tom, time to get to work!
…
In a fairy-tale version of Hogwarts, inside the Gryffindor girls' dormitory, a scene unfolded.
"Yes, I'm not Ginny Weasley," Lockhart wrote with a chuckle in Tom Riddle's diary Horcrux. "Greetings, fascinating entity. I'm Albus Dumbledore."
—'!!!'
Tom, within the diary, was stunned, scribbling three exclamation marks in disbelief.
He never imagined he'd interact with Dumbledore like this. He chose his words carefully, wary of being recognized, yet a pang of longing hit him. How he wished Dumbledore would recognize his handwriting, proof the professor had paid attention to him.
Sadly, 'Professor' didn't.
Tom was indulging in a bit too much self-drama. Lockhart loved students like Luna, Neville, and Ron, whom he'd recruited for the Duelling Club, and held high hopes for them. But remembering everyone's handwriting? He had too much on his plate.
Recalling one was luck; forgetting was the norm.
No one's that special. You're the hero of your own story, but just a background character in others'. Did Dumbledore have to adore you?
Get over it, Tom. You were at Hogwarts during Dumbledore's fiercest battles with Grindelwald—he was busy.
Lockhart smirked, continuing, "A wizard's magic reflects their desires. We must temper our desires to keep magic from spiraling out of control."
"Let magic sway you, and you'll become its slave, unable to choose your path. Your decisions may just be magic pulling the strings."
"Then you'll find yourself dragged into the vortex of 'fate,' the most terrifying magic, with no escape."
"Only through self-conflict and struggle can we forge an unyielding will."
"It can defy fate!"
Yes!
Tom felt it—this was Dumbledore's wisdom, the kind of thing he'd say!
The writer had to be Dumbledore!
—'Can wizards truly defy fate?'
Tom couldn't help but ask, brilliant and gifted yet plagued by doubts.
—'I've always felt mocked by fate. I should've had a loving mother, noble lineage, a carefree childhood. But fate stole it all, and I was powerless.'
Tom craved Dumbledore's validation.
He'd studied Dumbledore's past, knowing he too was a victim of fate. He hoped their shared pain might touch the professor's heart.
"Of course!" 'Dumbledore' replied firmly. "Defying fate doesn't mean rejecting its power or ignoring its gifts. It means heeding the call to adventure it brings. Step into it, child, and magic will grant you the strength to resist."
"You need extraordinary courage, wisdom, ambition, and compassion!"
Tom devoured every word, thrilled beyond measure. Dumbledore was guiding him personally—pure bliss!
He treated each sentence as gospel, eager to glean his own insights and impress Dumbledore.
Never before!
Dumbledore had never spoken to him this much.
Sniffle…
It was overwhelming.
"Child, remember: love and beauty aren't meant to fight cruelty and malice. They're just the other side."
"Lacking either makes us incomplete."
"It weakens your will's greatest strength."
…
Outside the 'Dumbledore'-penned Gryffindor girls' dormitory, the scene warped into Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. The illusion was now indistinguishable from the real chamber, down to the moss in the wall crevices.
There, a Boggart, transformed into a massive Dementor-like corpse, pinned the Basilisk, preventing its escape into the Slytherin statue's mouth.
The Basilisk resisted, feeling drained. Its cold, dangerous eyes dulled with exhaustion.
Hiss…
It was dying!
Please, just end it!
For the first time, the snake feared the call of Parseltongue.
But soon, its body stiffened, soul gripped by terror, frozen like a statue.
Nearby, a golden-haired figure—Lockhart—rolled his eyes, signaling the Boggart to drag the creature to its proper place, awaiting Lockhart's return with his 'assistant,' young Tom.
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