Saturday morning dawned cold and bright, the kind of crisp October day that made the castle's ancient stones gleam like polished slate. Most of the students were still sleeping in or gathered around breakfast in the Great Hall, but I had other plans.
Today was for practice, and not of charming smiles or witty autographs, but of something far more difficult, occlumency.
At first I had planned to give Ravenclaw's diadem to Dumbledore to deal with. But after thinking about it better, I decided to keep it for a while longer, and also take advantage of its seductive powers to train my occlumency.
I'd sealed the artifact within a rune-protected chest, buried behind a tapestry in my office. I drew the chest from its concealment, fingers tracing the runes of containment. The lid opened with a faint hiss, revealing the diadem nestled on a bed of velvet. It was breathtaking: silver and blue, delicate as moonlight, and yet it radiated power that prickled against my skin.
The air thickened as I gazed upon it.
A voice, smooth as silk and cold as winter, slipped into my mind.
"So… you return. You crave it, don't you? The brilliance, the perfection. You could be more than this, more than parlor tricks and flattery."
I clenched my jaw, focusing my breathing. "You'll find, my spectral friend, that I'm quite satisfied with who I am."
A low, serpentine chuckle echoed through my thoughts. "Are you? You pretend to charm others, but you crave to be adored, to be remembered. Don't deny it. You could carve your name into history, if you only wore me."
My fingers hovered inches from the crown. I could feel it tugging at my will, whispering promises of power and recognition, every word a mirror held up to my vanity.
"Imagine it, Gilderoy Lockhart, the man who uncovered Hogwarts' greatest relic. The wizard who restored Rowena's lost wisdom. They'd build statues in your honor. Even Dumbledore would have to bow."
I forced my eyes closed, summoning the mental techniques I'd been practicing. Layered thoughts, calm seas, and a single, focused flame at the center of my mind.
"Not today," I murmured. "You won't get in."
The laughter grew louder, pressing against my skull. Images flashed unbidden before my mind's eye: me standing on a golden stage, cameras flashing, the entire wizarding world chanting my name. I felt my resistance waver, and immediately slammed down on the thought, replacing it with cold logic.
"You're clever," I said through gritted teeth. "But I've built my life on appearances. I know better than anyone how false they can be."
The voice hissed, angry now. "You think yourself strong? You're a fraud wearing courage like perfume."
That stung more than I cared to admit. I steadied my breath again, tracing the wards on the diadem's chest with my wand tip. Each rune glowed briefly, forming a ring of light that pulsed outward like ripples on water. Slowly, the pressure in my skull eased.
The voice retreated, not defeated but retreating with the cruel patience of a serpent. "You'll come back," it whispered. "Ambition never sleeps."
When the last whisper faded, I slumped back in my chair, sweat cooling against my temples. My mind ached, but I felt… steadier, thoughts a little clearer.
I poured myself a glass of apple juice from the tray the house-elves had left and raised it in mock salute toward the sealed chest.
"Thanks for the training," I said with a breathless chuckle. "You nearly had me, but you'll find that Gilderoy Lockhart is a much tougher nut to crack than he looks."
Still, as I sat there in the morning light, I couldn't shake the faint echo of its laughter lingering behind my thoughts.
And for the first time in a long while, I found myself wondering, just how much of my brilliance was truly mine?
…
The night had draped itself over Hogwarts like a velvet cloak, scattered with diamonds. The towers stood against the indigo sky, their silhouettes outlined by the pale shimmer of the waxing moon.
When Aurora sent the note inviting me to "observe a rare celestial occurrence," I'd expected another lesson, something about stellar alignments or the trajectory of Mars, but I found myself intrigued nonetheless.
After all, who was I to deny the stars my presence?
When I arrived at the Astronomy Tower, I immediately sensed something was… different. The telescopes were pushed aside, and instead of parchment and quills, there was a small table set with two glasses, a bottle of deep red wine, and a plate of honeyed figs and soft cheese. Candles floated lazily around, their flames flickering golden in the breeze.
Aurora stood near the railing, her dark hair loose, catching the moonlight like strands of silver thread. She wore a midnight-blue shawl embroidered with tiny constellations; subtle, elegant, and utterly disarming.
"Well," I said, adjusting my robes and trying not to sound as surprised as I was, "this is definitely the most romantic stargazing lesson I've ever attended."
She smiled without turning. "Who said anything about a lesson?"
For once, I was caught off guard. "Ah. Then it's… a date?"
She finally looked at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You sound uncertain, Gilderoy. I thought you were never uncertain about anything."
"On the contrary," I said, moving closer, "I'm frequently uncertain. I just make it look good."
Aurora laughed softly, a rare, rich sound that melted some of the evening's chill. "Sit down before your confidence freezes solid," she teased, pouring the wine into two crystal glasses.
I obliged, taking a sip. It was full-bodied and spiced, with a warmth that spread pleasantly through me.
For a while, we stood side by side at the railing, the castle below us lit by the glow of distant torches. The Black Lake shimmered faintly, reflecting the constellations above like a second sky.
"You know," Aurora began, voice quiet but clear, "I've always loved this hour. When the students are asleep, and the world feels… still. It's the only time I don't have to be anyone but myself."
"Ah, yes," I said, leaning just a bit closer, "I know that feeling well. Though in my case, being myself is rather exhausting, brilliance is a full-time occupation."
She gave me a look. "And yet, somehow, I think there's more to you than the smiling author with perfect hair."
"Oh? Dangerous words, Professor Sinistra. Keep that up, and you might start ruining my reputation."
Her lips curved. "Maybe that's what I'm trying to do."
A silence stretched between us then, not awkward, but charged. The wind caught her hair and brushed it across her cheek, and before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear.
Her eyes met mine, dark and steady. "Gilderoy," she murmured, "you don't always have to perform."
The words hit harder than I expected. For once, I couldn't think of a witty retort. So I simply smiled, a real one this time, small and unpolished, and whispered, "Maybe I just don't know how to stop."
She leaned in then, closing the distance. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a comet's first flare in the sky, and then deepened, warmth blooming between us under the starlight.
When we finally drew apart, she rested her forehead against mine. "You see?" she said quietly. "Even the brightest stars look better in pairs."
"Hmm," I murmured, grinning again. "But between us, I must insist, I'm clearly the brighter one."
She laughed, smacking my arm lightly. "You're impossible."
"Yes," I said, wrapping an arm around her waist as the candles flickered low, "but apparently irresistible."
We stayed there long after the candles had burned to embers, the world beneath forgotten, the heavens above watching silently, and for once, Gilderoy Lockhart felt no need for an audience.
…
The following morning arrived far too cheerfully for my taste. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows of the Great Hall, scattering golden patterns across the long tables and cruelly reminding me that I'd gotten about three hours of sleep.
Not that I regretted it, of course.
I had intended to enter with my usual swagger, robes immaculate, smile dazzling. Instead, I made it about halfway through the doors before realizing I was smiling far too much and had buttoned my vest incorrectly. A rookie mistake, really.
The staff table was already half full: McGonagall reading The Daily Prophet with her habitual air of grim disapproval, Flitwick humming cheerfully beside a mountain of toast, and Snape glowering into his tea like it had personally insulted him.
Aurora was there too, serene, elegant, and utterly composed. She looked like the very picture of professionalism. Not a hair out of place, not a single glance my way.
I, on the other hand, had apparently forgotten how to sit down like a normal person. My chair screeched across the floor as I pulled it out, earning me a sharp glare from McGonagall and a raised eyebrow from Snape.
"Rough night, Lockhart?" Snape drawled, his tone as smooth and poisonous as ever.
I cleared my throat. "Just, ah, burning the midnight oil, old chap! Lesson planning, you know. A man of my talents must keep up appearances."
"I'm sure you do," Snape said dryly, taking a slow sip of his tea.
Across the table, Aurora hid a smile behind her cup. I caught the faintest sparkle in her eyes, the kind that said she was enjoying this immensely.
Flitwick looked up cheerfully. "Did you manage to finish those lesson plans, Gilderoy?"
"Oh, yes," I said quickly. "Quite a productive night, actually. Stars were aligned perfectly."
Aurora nearly choked on her tea.
Snape's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to make me sweat.
Before I could dig myself in deeper, Dumbledore entered the hall, his eyes twinkling like he'd just overheard a private joke from the universe. He gave me a knowing smile as he took his seat. "Ah, good morning, everyone. I trust the night treated you kindly?"
"Exceptionally," Aurora said smoothly.
"Indeed," I added a bit too quickly. "Exceptionally. Very educational."
McGonagall's fork paused midair. "Educational?"
I coughed. "In the academic sense, of course."
There was a long pause. Then, mercifully, Dumbledore began discussing the upcoming Halloween preparations, and all eyes turned away, except Aurora's.
As I buttered my toast with unnecessary vigor, I felt her gaze linger on me. When I risked a glance, she gave me the smallest, most maddeningly knowing smile.
And that was when I knew: I was in trouble.
Not from the staff, mind you, I could charm my way out of that. No, this was far more dangerous.
Because for the first time in a long while, Gilderoy Lockhart wasn't the one doing the charming.
For the next few minutes, conversation turned to more mundane Sunday topics, owl post, lesson planning, and Madam Pince's ongoing feud with Peeves. I nodded and smiled in all the right places, though my mind was elsewhere.
Every so often, Aurora's hand brushed the edge of her teacup, her fingernails glinting in the sunlight, delicate, precise, beautiful. And every time she did, I found myself remembering the warmth of her hand in mine, the quiet laugh under the stars, the way her lips had tasted faintly of wine and night air.
Merlin's beard, I was in trouble.
When breakfast ended, the professors began drifting away to their various Sunday routines. As I rose, Aurora caught my gaze, her expression unreadable.
"Good morning's work, Professor Lockhart," she said with the barest hint of mischief. "I hope you find your next research session as… inspiring."
"Always do," I said, managing a grin that didn't feel half as confident as it should have.
She walked past, brushing my shoulder ever so slightly, and I swore the entire castle tilted for a moment.
Flitwick tugged at my sleeve as he passed. "You seem distracted, my boy. Everything all right?"
"Oh, perfectly," I said quickly. "Just, ah, pondering celestial mechanics."
"Good, good," he said cheerfully. "Just don't fall into orbit."
Too late for that, I thought grimly, watching Aurora disappear through the doors.
…