October 2, 1992, Friday.
I had just finished my last class of the week, and with a few hours left before dinner, I decided to indulge in a bit of personal improvement, or as lesser men might call it, training.
Most professors would spend this precious time marking essays or complaining about first-years. Not me. No, no, I had a date with greatness.
After a full month of research, trial, and what I humbly describe as visionary experimentation, I had done it. I had taken the humble Illusion Mist Charm, a dusty, second-rate spell that merely clouded rooms in shapeless fog, and elevated it into something truly worthy of my name: the Light Illusion Charm.
The difference was night and day, literally.
My version produced no mist, no haze, no clumsy veils of smoke. Instead, it bent and shaped pure light into vivid, tangible illusions. One could walk through them, touch them, believe them, and that, dear reader, is the essence of magic.
Naturally, I had to show off my genius to Professor Flitwick, who nearly dropped his wand in disbelief. Poor man, when I taught him the new spell he struggled to conjure a single illusion of a teacup, while I, with an elegant flick, summoned a ballroom filled with chandeliers, waltzing silhouettes, and a ceiling painted with starlight.
He said something about "unprecedented precision in light manipulation" and "unrealistic magic efficiency," but I was far too busy admiring how dashing I looked reflected in the mirrored floor.
Talent, after all, is not something one should ignore. Since illusions are now my specialty, I've decided they'll be the cornerstone of my combat repertoire. Gilderoy Lockhart never simply duels, he performs.
Granted, while my illusions can be touched, they aren't resilient enough to inflict pain or cause damage. But that's where Transfiguration comes in. I've begun weaving transfigurative elements into the framework of my illusions, turning illusionary blades into real ones, phantom walls into solid barriers.
It's a fascinating process, and perfectly aligned with my persona. The world already sees me as dazzling, mysterious, larger than life, and now, my magic will quite literally embody that.
With a grin, I raised my wand in the empty classroom. The faint hum of magic vibrated in the air, like the tension before a curtain rises. "Lumen Figmentum!"
Light blossomed from the tip, swirling into shapes, first abstract, then refined, until the room transformed into a sunlit courtyard surrounded by marble pillars and roses. A gentle breeze (entirely my doing, thank you) brushed against my hair.
I walked through my creation, every footstep echoing lightly against a floor that didn't exist.
"Flawless," I murmured. Then, with a playful smile, added, "though perhaps a touch more lavender in the sky next time."
With another gesture, the courtyard dissolved, replaced by something far more thrilling, a dueling arena. Phantom opponents shimmered into existence, faceless but poised. They raised their wands, ready to strike.
"Let's see how reality feels when illusion bites back."
The first spell came, a flash of red. I sidestepped, wand twirling, and conjured a marble statue between us. It looked solid enough to stop a curse, and for half a second, it was. Then I dissolved it into light particles and reformed it behind my opponent, a transfiguration-illusion hybrid strike that made even me gasp.
"Magnificent!" I declared, ducking another illusory blast. "If only the Ministry would create a dueling category for artistry."
My illusions danced, shimmered, and changed seamlessly between mirage and matter, a performance of light and wit.
But soon, the phantom foes faded, and silence filled the room again. I moved my wand like a maestro ending his symphony, breathless only from the brilliance of it all.
Still, beneath the satisfaction, a small ember of ambition burned. I wasn't just improving, I was creating my own field of magic.
If I can make illusions real… who's to say I can't make reality itself a little more… illusory?
The thought made me smile.
…
I was still admiring the afterglow of my handiwork, quite literally, since faint ribbons of golden light still floated lazily in the air, when a sharp knock came from the doorway.
"Gilderoy?"
Aurora's voice.
I spun around, wand still raised. "Aurora! You startled me, though I must say, you make quite the vision framed by the door like that."
She stepped inside, taking in the glimmering remnants of my illusion with one arched brow. "I thought you might still be here. You missed dinner."
"Did I?" I glanced at the clock and winced. "Ah, how time flies when one is redefining the boundaries of magical art."
Aurora crossed her arms, amusement flickering in her eyes. "You also happen to be missing the staff meeting. It started ten minutes ago."
I froze. "Meeting?"
She sighed. "Monthly progress review. Student performance, curriculum updates, Quidditch rosters, first-years adaptation, the usual."
"Ah. Yes, that meeting."
I waved my wand with a flourish. The illusion collapsed into a shimmer of light and dust, leaving the classroom bare once more. "Lead the way, Professor Sinistra. I wouldn't want to deprive my colleagues of my brilliance for another moment."
The staff room was already full when we arrived. Candles floated low over the long, oaken table, their flames steady despite the draft from the open window. The faint scent of tea and parchment filled the air.
At the head sat Albus Dumbledore, twinkling as always, hands folded over a steaming cup of lemon tea. Beside him, Minerva McGonagall looked less twinkly and more like she was one sigh away from assigning detentions to half the staff.
"Ah, Gilderoy, Aurora," Dumbledore greeted cheerfully. "So glad you could join us. Please, take a seat."
Aurora gave him a polite nod and sat beside Professor Flitwick, who was chatting animatedly with Pomona Sprout. I, of course, claimed the seat nearest to the window, enjoying how the breeze made my hair flutter.
Across the table, Severus Snape gave me his usual look of withering disdain, the sort of expression one might reserve for something unpleasant discovered in one's shoe.
"Professor Lockhart," McGonagall said, her tone deceptively mild, "so glad you decided to grace us with your presence. We were just discussing punctuality."
I offered her my most winning smile. "Then my timing is impeccable, isn't it?"
A few quiet chuckles rose from the table, mostly from Flitwick, who always appreciated a bit of levity.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Now that everyone's here, almost everyone," he added, glancing at the one empty chair. "Professor Binns sends his apologies. He says he was… delayed in his classroom. By eternity, I presume."
A faint ripple of polite laughter circled the table.
"Let's begin," McGonagall said briskly, shuffling her parchment notes. "First-years appear to be adjusting reasonably well, though we've had a few minor incidents, a cauldron explosion in Potions, a mishandled Levitation Charm in Charms."
Flitwick chuckled. "The poor boy managed to lift himself instead of the feather. Quite the unexpected success, really."
Snape's lip curled. "Success is not a word I'd associate with dunderheads who manage to set themselves on fire."
"Ah, but enthusiasm, Severus," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "A most combustible quality in youth."
Across the table, Madam Hooch leaned forward. "Speaking of combustibility, Quidditch training schedules are set, but I'll need tighter supervision on Gryffindor practices. Wood's been flying them half to death again."
McGonagall sighed. "I'll speak with him."
Pomona Sprout chimed in next, beaming. "The Hufflepuffs have been wonderful this term! Though I must say, someone's been sneaking Puffapods into the corridors, and I hope to find them before someone gets buried in flowers."
"Noted," Dumbledore said. "Professor Kettleburn?"
The grizzled Care of Magical Creatures teacher grinned, missing another finger since last month. "Lost a kneazle, gained a new baby manticore. Call that a fair trade!"
Aurora murmured, "Remind me never to visit his paddock again."
I nodded solemnly. "Tragedy follows that man like an autograph request follows me."
A snort escaped Flitwick before he covered it with a cough.
Then McGonagall turned toward me. "Now, about the Weasley twins' incident in Hogsmeade."
I adjusted my cravat. "Ah, yes. Creative lads, aren't they? Boundless imagination, entrepreneurial spirit…"
"They broke into the village without permission," she said sharply. "And caused such a disturbance that Madam Rosmerta nearly banned students altogether."
"I did give them a proper talking to," I said defensively.
"A talking to?" she repeated, incredulous. "Professor Lockhart, I asked you to assign them detention, not give them a motivational seminar."
"Well, in fairness," I said with a grin, "it was quite motivating."
Even Dumbledore chuckled softly behind his teacup. "Let's call it an unorthodox approach to discipline," he said diplomatically. "Still, I would appreciate it if, in the future, detentions focused less on… self-branding."
Snape muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Peacocking imbecile," though I chose to hear it as "charming innovator."
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Very well. Moving on."
Professor Vector presented Arithmancy updates, Sybill Trelawney offered a vague warning about "tremendous upheaval in the near future" (which turned out to be Hagrid accidentally releasing a clutch of salamanders), and Charity Burbage lamented that her Muggle Studies class had mistaken fax machines for a form of divination.
Eventually, Dumbledore leaned back, folding his hands together with that serene gravity of his. "Now, before we adjourn, I'd like to hear how our first years are settling in. Transitions can be difficult, especially for those who come to us from less… magical backgrounds."
Professor Sprout beamed. "The Hufflepuff first years are adjusting well. A few homesick tears the first week, but nothing a bit of greenhouse work couldn't fix."
Flitwick nodded. "Ravenclaws are thriving academically, though I've had to confiscate three enchanted quills already. Clever, but perhaps too clever."
Snape gave a noncommittal hum. "The Slytherins are… adapting. Some faster than others."
McGonagall gave a small nod. "The Gryffindors are lively, as always. The Weasley twins have been setting their usual example of chaos. But the first years are doing fine."
Dumbledore's smile warmed. "Excellent. Let's continue to watch over them all, every student deserves to feel at home here."
There was a hum of agreement around the table. I, of course, took the opportunity to adjust my hair's reflection in a silver teapot, then chimed in lightly, "Rest assured, Headmaster, I shall continue inspiring them all equally."
McGonagall groaned softly. "Merlin help us."
The laughter that followed was the warm, familiar sort, the kind that made the old castle feel truly alive.
By the time the meeting concluded, even Snape looked ready to flee.
Dumbledore stood, eyes twinkling still. "Excellent work, everyone. Hogwarts thrives under your care. And remember, our students look to us as examples of composure, intellect, and… responsibility."
He looked briefly at Kettleburn, who was rewrapping his bandaged hand.
Then his gaze fell on me. "And confidence, of course. Thank you, Gilderoy, for reminding us all of that."
I preened just a little. "Always happy to inspire."
As the professors began to disperse, Aurora caught my arm. "You nearly gave Minerva a heart attack, you know."
"Ah, but think of it as cardiovascular exercise," I said with a grin. "Keeps her young."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Come on, genius. Let's swing by the kitchen so you can get your missed dinner."
…