Dumbledore's gaze softened considerably.
Professor McGonagall even cracked a slight smile, saying outright, "Having Lockhart, who's traveled the world, come to teach will be a fantastic opportunity for the young witches and wizards to broaden their horizons."
Perfect!
McGonagall, with a spring in her step, led Lockhart to the professor's quarters assigned to him. She mentioned the time for the students' arrival and the start-of-term feast that evening before heading off—she had plenty more to do.
Lockhart kept his dazzling smile plastered on as he saw McGonagall to the door. The moment it closed, he let out a heavy sigh, slumping against the door and sliding to the floor, exhausted.
Gasping for breath, his face turned an unhealthy shade of pale, sweat beading heavily on his forehead.
"Ugh…"
He clutched at his robes, letting out a stifled groan.
Just moments ago, he'd been frantically sifting through the jumbled mess of memories in his mind, making the already chaotic swirl of thoughts even more tangled.
Memory is a peculiar thing.
Especially for someone like the original Lockhart, who was a master of the Memory Charm to an almost frightening degree.
You see, even when it comes to the same object, person, or event, different people hold different memories. Those memories are colored by personal biases, perspectives, emotions at the time, and the broader influence of one's worldview and values.
Right now, the memories of a dozen powerful wizards were clashing so fiercely in his head that it felt like it might drive him mad.
It was as if a dozen voices were chattering, shouting, and twisting in a chaotic uproar inside his skull.
What could he do?
He didn't know, and neither did the original Lockhart.
Was this a side effect of crossing into this body, or was it a hidden consequence of the original Lockhart's reckless overuse of top-tier Memory Charms?
"Bloody hell!"
Lockhart let out a huge breath, finally catching himself, though his face was still clouded with worry. "I'm not going to end up like the Lockhart in the books, turned into a complete idiot, am I?"
The original Lockhart was impressive in his own way—taking down a dozen powerful wizards in just nine years with ease.
But he was also pathetically weak in some areas. His understanding of magic was shallow. Those powerful wizards he'd outwitted might've been strong in practical magic or real-world applications, but their academic knowledge was barely worth mentioning.
And now? He had no idea how to fix his own problem.
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…"
Lockhart stood, walking to the window to gaze out at the castle's sprawling grounds, murmuring to himself, "Maybe I can find a way here?"
Sure, he'd bragged to Dumbledore about how practical folk magic was, claiming academic magic was too rigid and dogmatic.
But deep down, he needed that academic magic more than ever.
Luckily, he was now at a magic school for a whole year.
Lockhart slapped his cheeks lightly, trying to shake off the tension, then casually unpacked his luggage and stepped out of the room.
Wallowing in despair over a situation he couldn't change was pointless. Doing something productive felt far more grounded.
Spending time digging through the library's resources was one option.
Asking other professors for help was another.
Hogwarts' professors were undeniably some of the best in the wizarding world.
Severus Snape's potions.
Filius Flitwick's charms.
Pomona Sprout's herbology.
Sybill Trelawney's divination.
Rubeus Hagrid's care of magical creatures.
Madam Pomfrey's healing expertise.
The list went on—too many to count. Building a good relationship with any of them could help with his current mess or any future problems life might throw at him.
As Lockhart strolled through the castle, he soon caught a whiff of an odd smell.
It was sweet, a bit spicy, with a hint of something fresh.
"???" He blinked, baffled. "Did I just cross into another world again? Why does it smell like someone's cooking hot pot here?"
And it seemed like *seafood* hot pot, no less!
Following the scent down the corridor, he arrived at a slightly dim room. Peeking inside, he realized, *Oh, it's just potion-brewing.*
He quickly sifted through his memories to identify the figure before him. It wasn't hard—the greasy, shoulder-length hair was unmistakable.
"Hey!"
Lockhart lightly knocked on the open door, flashing a brilliant smile. "Snape, my old friend."
Severus Snape was four years his senior at Hogwarts, and they'd had some interactions back in the day.
Snape, at the time, had been close to some pure-blood students who admired the Dark Lord but hadn't gained much from it. He was often isolated, especially when up against the likes of Potter and his crew.
As a rising star among the students, Lockhart had, of course, stepped in to speak up for him.
Naturally, he was far cleverer than Snape. He'd chosen a moment when only the weakling Peter Pettigrew was around, publicly calling out their bullying in front of a crowd, earning the praise of many classmates.
*"Snape, my friend! Remember, I'm the only one in the whole world who's ever stood up for you!"*
That moment had felt glorious.
For Snape, though? Not so much.
When Snape turned and saw Lockhart, his face soured instantly.
"Snape, old pal," Lockhart's grin widened as he sauntered in, throwing an arm around Snape's shoulders like they were best mates. "Remember me? Your dear old friend Lockhart."
Snape's eyes narrowed, glancing at the hand on his shoulder before saying coldly, "Of course I remember. When someone carves their name into the Quidditch pitch with magic, each letter twenty feet long, it's hard for anyone at school to forget them."
Wait, what?
The original Lockhart was *that* flashy?
Lockhart quickly rifled through his predecessor's memories and found this wasn't even the worst of it. The guy had once mimicked Voldemort's Dark Mark, projecting a glittering image of his own face into the sky.
Okay, okay, he could understand the appeal.
Ask anyone in the Middle East with a white headscarf—they'd tell you how thrilling that kind of stunt was.
"Hahaha…"
Lockhart laughed heartily, smoothly removing his arm from Snape's shoulder.
Because he'd noticed Snape had already grabbed his wand from the table.
"It's great to work alongside you, old friend!" he said, gazing wistfully out the window at the school's scenery. "This place is still so beautiful, brimming with wisdom. And best of all, no more of those annoying Potter types around."
Snape's lips twitched into the faintest smirk as he lowered his wand.
"You know," Lockhart continued, turning back to him, "I've told people about you. About how, out of everyone I know, Severus Snape is the greatest potion-maker around!"
He rattled off a list of at least ten renowned potion masters—Arsenius Jigger, author of *Magical Drafts and Potions*; Libatius Borage, author of *Advanced Potion-Making*; Evans Aven, author of *Powerful Potions*…
Then, with a raised eyebrow, he asked, "So, what do you think, Snape? Who's the best?"
Snape just shook his head calmly. "I don't care what others think."
"Oh, come on," Lockhart grinned. "Every master in their field has a pride that can't be questioned. Maybe you're still young—only thirty-one, right? You haven't yet tasted the joy that fame brings. Proving yourself…"
Snape's patience was wearing thin. He turned back to his cauldron, stirring the potion with his wand, his voice dry and tinged with annoyance. "I don't need to prove anything. If you've got nothing important to say, get out."
But Lockhart, as if he hadn't heard, pressed on. "History shows that any master who proves their success makes their rivals look like villains by default. You know, like Dumbledore and Grindelwald…"
Snape let out a cold laugh. "You should let Dumbledore hear this. His new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor badmouthing him behind his back."
Lockhart didn't miss a beat. "Or, say, you and Potter's gang."
*Clink.*
The wand stirring the cauldron froze.
Snape stood motionless, his back to Lockhart, radiating a dark, brooding aura.
"Prove you're the one who's right!" Lockhart said passionately. "You know I was the only one who stood up for you back then. I get it. But most people don't. You need to prove yourself. That's the magic of fame. Your incredible achievements will make those who bullied you look like fools."
The wand lifted slightly, a drop of crimson potion sliding down its length.
Snape slowly turned, staring daggers at Lockhart. "What exactly are you getting at?"
"Write a book, Snape. Create your own potions masterpiece. Let the world see your brilliance." Lockhart gestured to the bookshelf on the wall. "Like all the great potion masters—have your work taught in every magical school."
"And if you don't know how to make it a bestseller, I can help. Trust me, no one knows how to market a hit book better than I do."
With a flick of Snape's wand, an eerie force sent Lockhart flying backward. It felt like he'd been squeezed into a tight, warped space before being spat out just outside the door.
*BAM!*
The door slammed shut, leaving Snape in the shadowy room.
"Hey, Snape, I saw that spark in your eyes—you're intrigued!" Lockhart called out. "Why shut me out? Open the door!"
Yeah, he'd definitely seen it—Snape was tempted.
His plan to bond with the professors using his knack for selling books had been solid. So why had Snape kicked him out?
Not exactly the warm and fuzzy type, was he?
Maybe he should try Hagrid instead. Someone a bit more… cuddly.
Perhaps that old friend of the Dark Lord would enjoy making some fun picture books for his "little darlings"?