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Chapter Twenty-Two: The Magic Wand and the World Cup
A few days before the Quidditch World Cup, Lockhart arrived at Ollivander's wand shop as promised.
"Little Gilderoy! You're looking more and more like your father every time I see you!"
Ollivanders Wand Shop had its usual atmosphere of reverent calm, almost like a library. Lockhart greeted him politely.
"Good evening, sir. It's been a long time since I bought my first wand here with my father."
He drew his wand and offered it to the old man with both hands.
"But my wand seems to be acting up lately. It feels awkward—almost as if it's… resisting me."
Mr Ollivander received the wand gently, almost lovingly.
"Mahogany, unicorn tail hair… Little Gilderoy, do you remember what I told you? It isn't the wizard who chooses the wand, but the wand that chooses the wizard."
"Yes, sir," Lockhart said, though he'd never entirely believed it. "So—has my wand abandoned me?"
"The wand does not change," Ollivander replied quietly. "The wizard does."
He raised his pale eyes, staring at Lockhart as though he could see straight through him and the shop door behind him.
"Gilderoy, you've grown into a powerful wizard. This wand can no longer keep up with you. You need something stronger. Try these—they're all crafted from dragons killed only recently. Each one carries immense power."
Lockhart tried several wands, but none felt right. Then he picked up the next one—and relief washed over him. Warmth. Ease. A natural fit.
"That one," Ollivander breathed. "Century-old cypress, with dragon heartstring. A fine match. Let's say… eighty Galleons. Quite fair, considering—" his voice dropped to a whisper, "—this was made from the very dragon you saw slain. And most importantly… it hasn't been registered with the Ministry yet. But I trust you won't use it for anything improper?"
Lockhart understood instantly. He paid without hesitation and stepped out of the shop feeling a surge of confidence.
Perfect. With a wand like this, he might even manage to kill Barty Crouch Jr. during the World Cup. If he couldn't avoid the plot entirely, he might as well sabotage it himself.
A few days later, Lockhart arrived at one of the officially designated entrances to the World Cup via Floo powder.
The suffocating pull of the fireplace faded, replaced by the chill of a dark forest. It felt surreal to have stepped from his sitting room into unfamiliar woodland. All around him, wizards appeared out of fireplaces—dressed in the most bizarre, mismatched imitation of Muggle clothing.
He followed the gathering crowd out of the trees—and emerged into a sprawling sea of colourful tents stretching as far as the eye could see.
A simple tent nearby looked familiar. Lockhart paused in front of it just as a bald head popped out.
"It's you! Morning, Gilderoy!"
Arthur Weasley looked exhausted, then disappeared back inside. Lockhart walked around to find him crouched beside a small pile of firewood, matches scattered everywhere.
"Arthur, what are you doing?"
"Just lighting a campfire. Oh! Look! It actually works!"
He struck a match and stared at it in pure wonder. By the time he remembered to hold it to the firewood, the flame had burned itself out.
"Blast it! I'm not sure I can light another one. How do Muggles get these things to work every time? They must have some trick to it."
Lockhart was about to kneel down and help when a bright, familiar voice rang out.
"Professor Lockhart!"
"My dear Hermione, lovely to see you again!"
He turned, smiling brilliantly.
After a month apart, Hermione looked even prettier—hair tied back, her expression fresh and full of energy. Harry and Ron stood behind her, both a touch taller and more mature-looking.
"Professor, where's your tent? I'll take you."
Hermione ran over, took his bag with affectionate familiarity, looped her arm through his, and led him away from Arthur's tent.
Fudge had already arranged accommodations. Lockhart walked Hermione straight to his tent, lifted the flap, and stepped inside—
Only to find someone already there.
She had fair skin, bright emerald-green eyes, glossy chestnut hair, and delicate features. Her figure was slender, youthful—undeniably lovely.
What's this?
A gift from Fudge? A honey trap?
Lockhart looked at her suspiciously.
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