"Gilderoy Lockhart?" Regulus repeated the name, tasting its unusual mixture of flamboyance and forgettability. His brow furrowed in concentration. Eleven years of self-imposed exile had severed him from the mundane gossip of the wizarding world, but the name still tugged at the frayed edges of his memory.
He rubbed his temples, trying to place the ghost from his Hogwarts years. "It's infuriatingly familiar. Who exactly is this man? A Ravenclaw, wasn't he? A few years behind me. I recall an exceedingly loud boy, perpetually adjusting his robes. Talents? Mediocre at best. He was nothing more than a show-off who desperately chased attention at the expense of actual study."
Sebastian offered a smug, knowing smile, enjoying the setup immensely. "Ah, Regulus, you missed the essential detail! A crucial lesson in applied strategy: the most effective tools are often the ones others dismiss as worthless. Here's a clue: remember the wizard at Hogwarts who made you roll your eyes so hard you nearly sprained them? The one who believed that his charm could substitute for knowledge? He is the man in question. Very, very special."
"The show-off Ravenclaw," Regulus confirmed, shaking his head. "I remember thinking he'd end up selling novelty items in Diagon Alley, not running a global media conglomerate! You claim he possesses literary talent and a rare talent? I must have been severely blinkered."
"You only observed his ambition, not his method," Sebastian countered, his smile widening. "His ambition for fame is a limitless fuel source, and his 'rare talent' is arguably the most insidious and effective piece of magic for our purposes. But that discussion is for another time. It's late, and I have a wife who appreciates punctuality, even if she married a time-traveling professor."
Sebastian pushed his chair back and moved toward the fireplace, but paused to impart a final, crucial piece of information—a strategic temptation designed to ease Regulus's corporate anxiety.
"Before I leave, a final reassurance: remember the Lockhart's rumored specialty? Memory magic is extraordinarily malleable, Regulus. If you ever face opponents—Ministry officials, overly curious Muggles, corporate spies—who simply refuse to capitulate to logic or economic pressure, I have an expert asset. We could have Lockhart pay them a discreet visit and implant a highly persuasive, non-traceable suggestion right in their subconscious. Something simple, yet powerfully effective, like: 'I must dissolve this lawsuit immediately and focus on the sheer, overwhelming genius of Swann Media.'"
Regulus's eyes gleamed at the sheer audacity, but he instantly regained his Muggle-businessman composure. He stood and steered Sebastian firmly toward the Floo grate. "Go! Go home! I'm going to solve this using superior Muggle legal and financial strategies first. But I am not an ideologue. The moment a disgusting ethical roadblock appears, I will be dialing your private number for some 'Lockhart intervention.' Now, get out before Mia sends an actual Howler."
Sebastian emerged from the green flames of his own fireplace and, instead of heading toward his awaiting wife, retreated instantly to his study. He retrieved a carefully folded, pink-hued sheet of parchment—a missive he had received from Lockhart the previous week—and reviewed its florid, self-congratulatory contents.
He found Gilderoy Lockhart to be a fascinating, if utterly exhausting, case study in human vanity. His initial instinct—that Lockhart should have been a Slytherin due to his avarice and ambition—had been correct in terms of motivation, but wrong in terms of methodology. Lockhart sought fame through acclaim, not power. He was a peacock, not a predator.
Sebastian had spent years tracking him. He knew Lockhart's academic failure was due not to a lack of magical talent, but a refusal to expend effort on anything that didn't directly advance his personal legend. He was pathologically driven to be the most talked-about person in any room.
Sebastian's memory flashed back to the moment of recruitment. Lockhart had finally graduated and, true to form, began his career of fraud and theft. Sebastian's agents tracked him to a remote village in Armenia, where Lockhart had just cornered a venerable, elderly wizard whose sole contribution to the community was having actually defeated a dangerous Boggart in his youth.
Lockhart was preparing to hit him with a powerful, career-making Obliviate and steal his life story when Sebastian appeared.
Sebastian had employed a strategy he dubbed the "Alchemist's Conditioning." He had not simply fought Lockhart, which the younger wizard would have loved for the ensuing publicity. Instead, he had thoroughly, publicly, and humiliatingly unmasked Lockhart's methods in front of witnesses, using precise, non-damaging magic to expose the man's genuine cowardice. It was a severe 'spanking' of his ego.
Then came the 'sweet treat.'
Sebastian didn't offer the thief an alternative career path; he offered him a guaranteed platform for limitless, safe fame. He offered Lockhart a role where he could leverage his only true, secret talent: the ability to write a story so exciting, so gripping, and so flawlessly paced that it completely masked its fraudulent origins. Lockhart didn't just steal stories; he made them better, more marketable, and more sensational. He possessed an innate genius for narrative construction.
Under Sebastian's mentorship, Lockhart had been immediately redirected. He was now the world's most famous wizarding author, the proud, if still deeply confused, head of Swann Media, responsible for launching their inaugural cinematic project. It was a volatile partnership, but Lockhart was the perfect, flamboyant shield for Sebastian's operations.
Sebastian felt the dull throb of an impending headache already. Lockhart was a self-obsessed time bomb. Ignoring him for even two months risked him starting a blood feud with the Daily Prophet over the placement of his latest photograph.
The next morning, Sebastian Apparated directly to the opulent, aggressively gold-themed offices of Swann Media—a space Lockhart had decorated entirely with self-portraits and testimonials.
Sebastian found Lockhart not behind his desk, but in the middle of a massive, sun-drenched space, reviewing proofs of his latest publicity materials.
"Sebastian!" Lockhart bellowed, spinning around and striking a pose that strained the seams of his shimmering turquoise robes. "The single greatest literary and cinematic mind in the entire world has come to greet you! I trust you feel suitably privileged to be in the company of the winner of The Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award, six years running!"
Lockhart then executed a flawless three-quarter turn, ensuring the sunlight perfectly caught the angles of his preternaturally white teeth.
Sebastian bypassed the performance and marched straight into Lockhart's gilded office. "I'm here to discuss the status of A Walk with Werewolves. You personally adapted, directed, and starred in the production. Is it wrapped, or are you still insisting on an eighteen-minute montage of you dramatically staring into the middle distance?"
Lockhart, already bounding into the office behind Sebastian, launched into a breathless, frenetic speech, completely ignoring the seated figure. He paced wildly, hands gesticulating with theatrical enthusiasm.
"Wrapped, my dear Sebastian! Wrapped, edited, polished, and ready to redefine wizarding television! I personally took that mundane little pamphlet of a story—that mere walk with werewolves—and transformed it into a stunning, thirty-six episode cinematic epic! I didn't just direct, I mastered! I didn't just act, I personified! Once this hits the magical network, I will be the most desired, most talked-about, most must-see star the world has ever known! No one will remember that dreary, stuttering old Armenian wizard; they will only remember my heroic brow furrowing against the menace of lycanthropy!"
"Stop! Stop! Sit down!" Sebastian commanded, raising both hands in a defensive gesture. The sheer velocity of Lockhart's monologue was physically exhausting. "Breathe, Gilderoy. Just sit and speak like a functioning adult. I need an update on post-production. And what is this about promotional posters?"
Lockhart immediately complied by diving onto the sofa, only to spring up a moment later. "Editing is in the final stages of color correction—my skin tone must be perfectly luminous. As for the posters… Ah, yes! I have been creating options for the global media blitz. Tell me, honestly, which one best captures the Gilderoy Lockhart essence?"
Lockhart then launched into a series of poses:
The Towering Hero: He stood ramrod straight, chin jutted out, pointing dramatically at the ceiling. "Does this make me look tall, ruggedly handsome, and intensely capable of defeating dark forces single-handedly?"
The Lonely Brooder: He adopted a melancholic, slightly pained expression, one hand resting lightly on his hip. "Or perhaps the audience prefers the lonely hero—the man burdened by his own overwhelming brilliance and destined to save the world, but misunderstood by the simple minds around him?"
The Irresistible Charm: He leaned into the light, giving Sebastian the full, blinding power of his award-winning smile. "Or should we simply rely on the undeniable power of my charisma? The smile itself is a selling point—a visual promise of adventure and romantic interest!"
Sebastian watched this private fashion show with a growing sense of internal agony. He had seen Lockhart pull this act hundreds of times, and the prejudice was real: despite Lockhart's undeniable physical attractiveness, the sheer, relentless narcissism made him appear utterly grotesque.
Suppressing a sigh, Sebastian forced a dazzling, equally false smile. "Gilderoy, they are all… breathtakingly handsome! Truly stunning. Pick the one you feel best represents the narrative, but a word of advice: for the sake of the supporting cast—and to avoid the appearance of… well, outright self-absorption—ensure you make several poster versions. Some where you look amazing, and some where the other actors look merely adequate. We need the illusion of an ensemble effort, even if the reality is far more centered on your brilliance."
"A brilliant political move!" Lockhart cried, clapping his hands. "A strategic concession to the minor players! I knew you'd understand! The audience will undoubtedly be impressed by my generosity."
The enthusiasm instantly evaporated, replaced by a deep, tragic sadness. Lockhart's face crumpled into an expression of theatrical despair.
"But Sebastian," he pleaded, dropping to his knees with a sudden, dramatic flourish, "It's all a lie! A profitable, brilliant lie, but a lie nonetheless! The names I use—'Professor Periwinkle,' 'Sir Reginald the Dauntless'—they are fictional pseudonyms! That old Armenian wizard got a massive Galleon settlement, and he got to keep his genuine, if boring, life story! I want the glory, Sebastian! I want the reality of the fame!"
Lockhart clasped his hands together, his blue eyes wide and glistening with manufactured sincerity.
"I need your help! I want the world to believe Gilderoy Lockhart isn't just a powerful writer. I want the world—Muggle and Wizard alike—to believe I am a genuinely powerful wizard who actually performed those legendary feats! I want my fame to be so large, so undeniable, that no one would dare question the truth! I want more fame, Sebastian! I demand to be a genuine, immortal legend!"
Sebastian leaned forward, meeting the desperate, hungry gaze of his greatest tool. The challenge wasn't the logistics; it was the management of this volatile talent. Lockhart was asking for the final piece of the Glorious Loop of Lies: the moment when fiction became reality.
This, Regulus, Sebastian thought, is why you will never be bored.
"Lockhart," Sebastian said, his voice quiet and firm, holding the man's gaze. "The difference between a powerful wizard and a legend is the quality of the narrative. You have the narrative. Now, let's talk about how to sell the illusion that your brilliance is the truth, without risking the entire operation…"