Sebastian merely stared down at Gilderoy Lockhart, who was still kneeling by his desk, eyes wide and glistening like a well-fed Niffler presented with a diamond bracelet. Lockhart's desperation wasn't feigned; it was an authentic, raw hunger for validation that Sebastian both despised and strategically valued.
"How many times must we revisit this, Gilderoy?" Sebastian asked, rolling his eyes so dramatically he felt a slight crick in his neck.
"Are you determined to run through your entire repertoire of histrionics this morning? You plead for power you don't possess, fame that requires a moral spine you've conveniently misplaced, and risk exposing the single greatest asset you bring to the table."
Sebastian leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, warning hiss. "The arrangement is simple, and it is non-negotiable. Any problem that can be solved with Galleons is not a problem at all. We provide the substantial, life-changing compensation; they provide the genuine, terrifying life-or-death experiences. You take those raw, unpolished, genuinely heroic accounts and craft them into literary gold. It is an artistic transaction. You gain fame and fortune honestly—or at least, fairly, given the exchange of capital."
"You are celebrated, rich, and shielded from the consequences of actual combat. What more, honestly, could a man who panics at the sight of a slightly aggressive Kneazle possibly desire?"
Lockhart scrambled to his feet, discarding the posture of supplication for the posture of indignant ambition. He slammed his fist onto Sebastian's desk—a sound muffled only slightly by a stack of signed glossy photographs of himself.
"It is not enough, Sebastian! It is simply not enough!" Lockhart's voice cracked with genuine, unrestrained anguish.
"I am the most handsome, the most charming, and the most talked-about man in the entire wizarding world! Yet, I have never been awarded a single Order of Merlin, First Class! My name is not etched into the annals of history! When they speak of the great wizards of this age, I am a mere footnote—a popular author, not a powerful icon! I demand a page—a full, indelible, glorious page—in the history of magic!"
Sebastian sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Here we go again. The quest for historical permanence. He had to deflate the ego before it caused a catastrophic PR incident.
"Gilderoy, let us speak plainly, as one ambitious Slytherin—and one tragically misguided Ravenclaw—to another," Sebastian stated, his gaze piercing.
"Power, true power, is not something you can write into existence; it cannot be faked with a clever turn of phrase. I speak of the ability to alter reality with a wand. You would not want to risk that meticulously cultivated reputation being shattered, would you? The day you are publicly exposed as a fraud—a memory thief—your page in history will be a single, unforgiving line: 'Gilderoy Lockhart: The Imposter.'"
A visible shiver—a genuine one, for once—raced down Lockhart's perfectly coiffed spine. The horrific image of public disgrace sobered him instantly. He collapsed into his executive chair, the earlier energy leaching out of him. "You promised... You swore that if I followed your directives, I would achieve unparalleled fame—in both worlds..."
"And I will honor that promise, Gilderoy," Sebastian said, his voice regaining its guiding, manipulative warmth.
"But like all great achievements, it requires patience and strategic maneuvering. The Muggle world? That stage is not ready for you yet; we must complete our cinematic foundation first. However, achieving something truly indelible in the magical world? That is entirely possible right now."
Sebastian leaned back, crossing his legs and adopting the demeanor of a patient mentor. "Let's start with a foundational question, Gilderoy. Look beyond the superficial posing and the hair maintenance. What is the one thing, in your arsenal, that you demonstrably do best?"
"My smile? My tailoring? My ability to—"
"No, you magnificent fool, your writing!" Sebastian snapped, slamming his palm flat on the desk, startling Lockhart out of his vanity spiral.
"I've read your school work, your essays from the early years—before the fame corrupted your focus. When you were forced to apply yourself, your compositions were logically structured, persuasive, and displayed a natural gift for narrative pace and descriptive language. The only reason your current works are ridiculous is that your actual knowledge base cannot keep pace with your natural writing flair."
Sebastian stood, walking over to the window, adopting a contemplative pose. "It pains me to say it, but I have observed a genuine, systemic flaw in our hallowed institution. Hogwarts. Specifically, the first-year students are catastrophically unprepared for the rigors of academic essay writing. They arrive from Muggle or less academic wizarding homes and are immediately expected to compose complex papers—a task they simply haven't been trained for."
Sebastian turned, his expression now one of calculated, sorrowful seriousness. "Therefore, I am initiating a small, highly prestigious educational reform. I plan to establish a dedicated, two-month Foundational Writing Course at Hogwarts, specifically tailored for incoming first-year wizards to equip them with the basic mechanics of academic composition and style."
Sebastian's gaze drifted pointedly back to Lockhart, underlining the next word with heavy implication. "As for the Professor to lead this crucial initiative... a man must be found who possesses a rare talent for captivating narrative, a mastery of language, and a burning desire for the highest levels of scholastic prestige. Someone who understands how to make dry material utterly irresistible."
Lockhart, whose eyes had been widening with every word, now leapt from his chair, scattering the photographic proofs with joyous abandon. His earlier despair was instantly annihilated by the scent of fresh, uncontested glory.
"Me! Me! Me! There is no other! Who else could possibly transform the tedious subject of essay structure into a course of unparalleled charisma and life-changing literary guidance? A Professor at Hogwarts! A guide for the next generation! Even if it is only for two months a year, the Hogwarts Professor Gilderoy Lockhart title will generate infinitely more prestige than ten more memoirs!"
He straightened his robes, snapping to attention. "Done! I accept the post! Consider it handled. A minor chore, but a crucial step in cementing my academic reputation!"
"Hold your Bludgers, Gilderoy. The position is granted a priority to you, not an outright guarantee," Sebastian corrected, subtly leveraging the word. "Before I can elevate you to such a venerable position, you must prove you can exercise sustained, disciplined responsibility under pressure. To prove your immense, undeniable talent, you must first complete a single, demanding task."
"Name it, brother! I will risk life and limb for you!" Lockhart thumped himself so hard on the chest that a small, framed picture of his profile nearly toppled off a shelf.
Sebastian's eyes narrowed, all humor gone. "Swann Media has been operational for over half a year, yet it remains overshadowed by that dusty old rag, The Daily Prophet. I require you to execute a complete, hostile takeover of the wizarding media landscape. Within the next six months, I want Swann Media to utterly eclipse The Daily Prophet—to render it obsolete, pushing it firmly into the historical dustbin."
"Simultaneously, you will not neglect the cinematic arm. You must ensure that our inaugural film and television slate—both the quantity of content and the quality of its production—is unassailable. Can you be a media mogul and a creative director simultaneously? Are you confident you possess the focus to deliver this?"
Lockhart initially hesitated, the scale of the operation briefly daunting him. To conquer the Prophet was to challenge the established order of the wizarding world. But the image of himself—Professor, Author, and Media Mogul—was too potent to resist. He gritted his teeth, the vanity giving way to genuine, commercial cunning.
"The Prophet is slow, predictable, and obsessed with old grudges. We will be faster, fresher, and more sensational," Lockhart declared, his eyes burning with strategic fire. "I have a plan. I will postpone the release of A Walk with Werewolves."
He paced the room again, but this time his movements were sharp and focused. "We will set the official launch date to coincide with the Hogwarts Christmas Break. Why? Because we target the captive audience: the young wizards. They return home, bored and excited, and immediately introduce our thirty-six episode series to their parents. We will broadcast two consecutive episodes every night, beginning sharply at 8:00 PM—a prime family viewing slot."
"Furthermore," he added, snapping his fingers, "we cannot neglect the unfortunate few students who remain at Hogwarts over the holidays! We will ensure a Magical Television—a state-of-the-art model, of course—is installed in the Great Hall. Their boredom is our immediate loyalty-capture mechanism."
"We will create a massive, instantaneous, and loyal viewership base in a single holiday season, cementing our superiority over the Prophet's dreary morning headlines. And our slogan? It is highly memorable, irresistible, and perfectly keyed to the excitement of a new phenomenon: 'We're Riding with Werewolves—See You Every Night at 8:00 PM!'"
Sebastian watched the spectacle of Lockhart's rapid-fire strategizing with a profound, almost detached sense of admiration. For all his crippling flaws—the vanity, the intellectual dishonesty, the cowardice—Lockhart possessed an undeniable, terrifying engine of success. He never stopped moving. He never surrendered to the inevitable negativity or roadblocks.
He realized his own success, and the success of others like Regulus Black, was not simply due to superior intellect or access to future knowledge. It was fundamentally about this relentless, indomitable will.
Sebastian had observed countless young wizards—scions of powerful families, gifted with natural talent—who became complacent. They would encounter a minor setback, attribute their failure to the unfairness of the world, and settle into a state of comfortable, entitled mediocrity, their potential draining away in a tide of complaint.
Lockhart, the mediocre-graded, self-obsessed charlatan, was the antithesis of that complacency. When a door closed—the door to genuine heroism—he didn't mourn; he immediately started building a louder, more gilded door labeled 'FAME' right next to it. He never gave up on pursuing his specific version of success. He adapted, he pivoted, and he leveraged every unique (if morally dubious) talent he possessed.
In this life, Sebastian mused, gazing at the man still practicing his signature for the new contract, everyone possesses a unique vector for success. It might not be a powerful spell or a groundbreaking discovery. It might be the sheer ability to craft a riveting narrative, or the ruthless discipline to manage a financial portfolio, or the unstoppable drive to be the most charming person in a room.
Talent wasn't static; it was the dynamic ability to find and fully exploit your own inherent value. Lockhart had found his.
This thought brought a slight smile to Sebastian's lips. He didn't just need powerful wizards; he needed driven men. And Lockhart, in his own ridiculous, high-maintenance way, was one of the most driven men Sebastian had ever encountered. He was a perfect, shiny tool, and now, he had been pointed directly at the heart of the wizarding world's media.
"It's a strong plan, Gilderoy," Sebastian finally admitted, his voice full of an approval that was half genuine respect, half calculated manipulation. "Six months. Let us see the Prophet crumble. Now, I have actual work to attend to. Ensure your next report includes weekly viewership projections and your preliminary syllabus for the Hogwarts Foundational Writing Course."
Sebastian stood, gave a curt nod, and exited the gilded office, leaving Lockhart beaming in the center of the room, already mentally selecting the font for his new Hogwarts stationary.
The war for the future was beginning, and its first, most visible general would be a man utterly obsessed with his own reflection.