October 31st, 1992, Saturday
Hogsmeade weekends had a way of turning into glorified babysitting sessions.
And, as fate (and Professor McGonagall) would have it, this one had my name written all over it.
I cornered her in the staff room that morning, determined to protest with all the righteous indignation of a man unjustly punished for his own popularity. "Minerva, surely there's been some mistake. Me? Alone? The students adore me, yes, but someone else ought to…"
She raised one eyebrow. Just one, and I wilted.
"Professor Lockhart," she said crisply, "you are perfectly capable of supervising a few students for one afternoon. I'm sure your… charm will keep them in line."
There was something in her tone that suggested she doubted it entirely.
And so, one hour later, there I was, standing on the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, again, wrapped in my most dashing blue cloak, trying to look like I wasn't freezing. Students streamed past me, laughing and chattering, while I maintained a professional smile that was at least eighty percent genuine.
"Another day, another chance to inspire the youth," I muttered, mostly to myself.
It was going smoothly enough until, inevitably, I spotted them.
Fred and George Weasley. The twin menaces of Hogwarts.
They were standing in the middle of the street, whispering conspiratorially over a suspiciously bulging paper bag that crinkled every time one of them moved.
I strolled over with the easy confidence of a man who'd seen this movie before.
"Gentlemen," I said, smiling as they jumped slightly. "Planning something… festive, are we?"
Fred grinned, far too innocently. "Just enjoying the holiday, Professor."
George added, "Pumpkin fizz and Honeydukes, sir. All above board."
"Indeed?" I arched an eyebrow. "Because the last time you two enjoyed the holiday, from what I hear, professor Flitwick had to repair a corridor ceiling and an unfortunate number of eyebrows."
Both of them tried, and failed, to look chastened.
I leaned in slightly, dropping my voice. "Now, Messrs. Weasley, this isn't a good time for mischief. Don't look now, but there's a certain tabby cat keeping a very close eye on us from that rooftop to my left."
Their eyes widened. "McGonagall?" Fred hissed.
"The very same. Watching me like a hawk disguised as a house pet," I whispered back. "And I, gentlemen, have no desire to spend another afternoon being scolded by her for 'negligent supervision.' So," I tapped the brim of my hat, "save your creativity for another day, hmm?"
They looked torn between laughing and obeying, but in the end, even Fred had to concede. "Fair enough, Professor. We'll be… model students."
"See that you are," I said pleasantly, and watched them slink off toward Zonko's instead of setting the village aflame. A minor victory for law and order, or, at the very least, for my professional reputation.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough. Students shuffled between shops, and I made a few strategic rounds, shaking hands, offering smiles, signing the occasional book for adoring young fans. One must, after all, maintain good public relations, even while chaperoning.
By late afternoon, the pull of warmth and good company led me, quite naturally, to The Three Broomsticks.
Madam Rosmerta was behind the bar, radiant as ever. "Well, if it isn't Professor Lockhart," she said with a smile that could melt frost. "You're looking far too polished to be babysitting schoolchildren."
"One must suffer for one's art," I said gallantly, sweeping off my hat. "Butterbeer, please, and perhaps a smile from you to go with it?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "Flattery will get you your drink, Professor. But if you're planning to charm me into a free refill, you'll have to try harder."
I leaned on the counter, grinning. "Oh, I never try hard. It just happens naturally."
She rolled her eyes, but poured me a generous mug nonetheless.
For a little while, it was pleasant, the crackle of the fire, the chatter of students, the golden light of the lamps reflecting off the mugs. I listened to a group of third-years brag about sneaking extra sweets from Honeydukes and smiled quietly to myself. Let them have their little victories. I'd earned mine too.
When the shadows grew longer and curfew loomed, I finished my drink and gathered the stragglers for the walk back. The castle rose against the dusky sky, windows glowing with candlelight, like a great sleeping beast waiting for its night of festivities.
By the time I reached the Great Hall, the Halloween feast was in full swing, floating pumpkins, bats fluttering beneath the ceiling, and enough sweets to kill a troll. I took my seat at the staff table, accepting a plate of roast duck from a hovering platter.
McGonagall glanced down the table at me. "No incidents, I trust?"
"None at all," I said smoothly, raising my goblet in salute. "Every child accounted for, every shop intact. A flawless performance, as usual."
She sniffed, clearly unconvinced, but didn't press further.
And that, in my opinion, counted as a victory.
As the hall buzzed with laughter and chatter, I caught my reflection in a golden goblet, the practiced smile, the perfect hair, the picture of composure.
"Still got it," I murmured to myself, before biting into a caramel apple and pretending that I didn't feel just a little lonely amid all the laughter.
…
I was in the middle of regaling Professor Flitwick with a dramatic retelling of my last lesson with the seventh-years, when the candles suddenly flickered. A faint tremor of unease rippled through the students.
A moment later, the doors to the Great Hall slammed open.
Percy Weasley burst in, his face pale, his prefect badge glinting under the candlelight.
"Everyone! Come quickly! Something's happened!"
The noise in the hall died instantly. Even Dumbledore rose from his chair, his expression grave.
And because I, Gilderoy Lockhart, have never been one to stand idly by when danger calls, I was among the first to follow the boy out.
The crowd surged through the corridors, students whispering and craning their necks. As we approached the first-floor landing, a chill crawled down my spine. Something was wrong.
The walls glistened, wet. The torches flickered strangely against a dark stain that stretched across the stones. And there, in large, dripping letters, were the words:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
My stomach dropped.
For once in my life, I had no words ready, I had completely forgotten about this incident.
Gasps echoed behind me, and someone screamed. My eyes followed the sound, and there, hanging by her tail from a torch bracket, was Mrs. Norris. Stiff as a board, her eyes wide open.
"She's been murdered!" someone shrieked.
"No one move!" Dumbledore's voice thundered from behind us. The crowd froze as he stepped forward, robes sweeping across the wet floor.
I followed him, keeping a careful distance from the puddles, the last thing I needed was to slip dramatically in front of everyone. Still, I knelt beside the cat, frowning thoughtfully, as if I knew exactly what I was doing.
"Strange," I murmured. "Completely rigid, eyes fixed… remarkable preservation of color. I'd say she's been Petrified."
McGonagall gave me a sharp look. "You recognize the symptoms?"
"Oh yes," I said quickly, adopting my most knowledgeable tone. "Happened to me once, dreadful business, I was tracking down a wily witch in Ouagadougou. Managed to reverse it, of course."
Her expression suggested she believed precisely none of it.
Snape, who had appeared silently behind us, gave a low, skeptical hum. "Indeed, Lockhart? Perhaps you should take over the investigation, since you're so well-versed in these matters."
I smiled, unbothered. "Well, I am rather good under pressure."
Before Snape could reply, Dumbledore spoke again, calm but firm. "Argus," he said softly. Filch, trembling like a leaf, stepped forward, his eyes wild.
"She's dead!" he croaked. "You've killed her!"
His finger jabbed toward a group of students: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger, who had been the first on the scene.
"You!" Filch shouted. "You murdered my cat! I'll have you expelled!"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Dumbledore raised a hand. "Argus, she is not dead." Filch froze mid-rant. "Wha-what?"
"Merely Petrified," Dumbledore continued. "No damage done that cannot be repaired."
I nodded sagely, as though I had been about to say exactly that.
McGonagall exhaled sharply, relief breaking through her rigid composure. Snape, however, was watching Potter with an expression that could curdle milk.
Dumbledore turned to him. "Severus, I think we should move this somewhere private. The feast can continue later."
And just like that, I found myself swept along with them, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Filch, and the three students, into Lockhart's office. Mine.
As they filed in, I hastily cleared my desk of the pile of signed portraits.
Filch was still muttering curses under his breath. Hermione looked terrified. Ron was pale. Potter, the boy who lived, just looked confused.
"She was like that when we found her," he said quickly. "We didn't do anything!"
Snape's eyes glinted. "Perhaps not. But what were you doing in the corridors at that time?"
Before Potter could answer, I stepped forward, clapping my hands lightly. "Now, now! Let's not jump to conclusions, Severus. If I might say so, clearly, we're dealing with an advanced magical curse here. Complex stuff, really. I'd be happy to lend my expertise…"
McGonagall's look could have felled a troll. "That won't be necessary, Professor Lockhart."
I cleared my throat and stepped back. "Of course, just offering."
Dumbledore, mercifully, ignored my embarrassment. He studied the children carefully, eyes distant, and finally said, "I believe them."
Relief flooded the room, all except Filch, who muttered something about "wizards protecting their own."
At last, Dumbledore dismissed them, promising Mrs. Norris would be restored once the Mandrakes matured.
The others filed out one by one, McGonagall still bristling, Snape gliding away with his usual poisonous grace, and Filch dragging his stiff, petrified cat after Dumbledore promised she'd recover.
The door clicked shut, leaving only the Headmaster and me standing amid the smell of melted candles and damp stone. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I folded my arms, gaze still fixed on the corridor. My voice, when it came, was low and even. "This is very worrying, Albus."
Dumbledore glanced at me, those pale eyes sharp and unreadable.
"This was clearly not the work of a wizard," I continued, stepping closer to the door to study the lingering traces of magic in the air. "The energy's wrong, too primal, too old. This was definitely done by some creature."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "You're certain?"
I nodded slowly. "Quite. And I only know of two beings capable of producing such a petrification effect."
"A gorgon," Dumbledore murmured, half to himself, "and a basilisk."
Our eyes met. For once, I didn't try to smile. "Indeed," I said quietly. "And since gorgons have never been seen in Britain…"
He sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to pull the warmth from the room.
"I had hoped…" Dumbledore began, then stopped himself. "Thank you, Gilderoy. You've been most observant."
"Just doing my duty, Headmaster," I said, though my voice lacked its usual theatrical flourish.
He nodded, his expression distant. "Be careful, my boy. If it is what we think… the school will not be safe for long."
When he left, the silence that settled over my office was heavy and ancient, like the castle itself was holding its breath.
I turned once more to the open corridor. A basilisk, a shiver ran through me, though I couldn't tell if it was fear or anticipation.
I knew exactly how to solve this problem, just take the diary from Ginny and destroy it with Fiendfyre. Simple, clean, decisive.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
If I wanted a chance to complete Gryffindor's mad ritual, I needed the story to play out the way it was meant to.
A pang of guilt twisted in my chest at the thought of the little girl clutching that cursed book. I was letting her carry a burden no child should ever bear, all because I told myself it was necessary.
Necessary to grow stronger. Necessary to stop what was coming and prevent so many tragedies.
Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself.
…
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