A few days before the Quidditch World Cup, Lockhart arrived at Ollivander's wand shop as agreed.
"Little Gilderoy! It's only been a month, and you're looking more and more like your father!"
The shop carried its usual sacred, library-like quiet. Lockhart greeted him respectfully. "Good evening, sir. It really has been a long time since I first came here with my father to buy my very first wand."
He drew out his wand and handed it over with both hands. "But recently, something feels off. It's as if… it's becoming more and more incompatible with me, as though it's drifting onto a path opposite mine."
Mr. Ollivander took the wand with care. "Mahogany, unicorn hair… Gilderoy, do you remember what I once told you? The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around."
"Yes, sir," Lockhart nodded. "So… has my wand abandoned me?"
"The wand never changes. People do." Ollivander looked up sharply, his gaze almost piercing through Lockhart. "Gilderoy, it's clear—you've become a far more powerful wizard. This wand can no longer serve you. You need a stronger one. Here—try these. All made from a dragon slain not long ago. Each one is exceptionally powerful."
Lockhart tested several wands, but none felt quite right. Finally, when he picked up another, a sense of perfect harmony flowed into his hand.
This was the one.
"Ah, cypress wood, dragon heartstring core—an excellent match for you! Let's say 80 Galleons. A fair price," Ollivander said, lowering his voice. "After all, it's made from a dragon killed right before your eyes. And most importantly… it hasn't been registered with the Ministry yet. But I trust you won't use it for anything improper, will you?"
Lockhart understood immediately. He paid without hesitation and left the shop with his new wand.
Now, his confidence had grown even further. During the Quidditch World Cup, he planned to attempt killing Barty Crouch Jr.
A few days later, Lockhart used the Floo Network to arrive at one of the official World Cup entrances.
The pressure of transportation quickly faded. He looked around—dim surroundings, unfamiliar woods replacing his living room. It felt strange. Wizards in all sorts of mismatched Muggle clothing appeared around him. Following the sparse crowd out of the forest, he saw a vast field filled with colorful tents stretching as far as the eye could see.
A shabby tent looked oddly familiar. Lockhart paused in front of it. A balding head popped out.
"Oh—it's you. Morning, Gilderoy," Arthur Weasley said weakly before ducking back inside.
"Arthur, what are you doing?" Lockhart walked around and saw him crouched by a small pile of firewood, surrounded by scattered matches.
"Nothing, just trying to light a campfire. Oh! Look! It works!" Arthur struck a match, but became so fascinated watching it burn that it went out before he could use it. "Blast! I'm not sure I can light another one! How do Muggles manage to light every match? There must be some trick."
Lockhart was about to help when a cheerful voice called out:
"Professor Lockhart!"
"Ah, my dear Hermione, we meet again!" Lockhart turned with a bright smile.
After a month, Hermione had grown even more beautiful. Her bushy brown hair was tied back, giving her a lively, youthful look. Harry and Ron stood beside her, both looking more mature as well.
"Professor, where's your tent? I'll take you there," Hermione said, running over. She took his bag and linked her arm with his, leading him away from the Weasley tent.
Fudge had already arranged accommodations. Lockhart led Hermione straight to his assigned tent. Lifting the flap, he stepped inside—
—and saw someone already there.
Fair skin, emerald-green eyes, smooth brown hair, delicate and radiant features, and a youthful, graceful figure. She was unmistakably beautiful.
What was this supposed to mean? A honey trap from Fudge? What was he planning?