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"I admit," Tom Riddle said, his voice a smooth, cultured whisper. He was still marveling at his new, semi-solid hands, a look of profound, almost religious awe on his handsome face. "Your abilities are… beyond my comprehension. But I still don't understand. Why help me? What is your true purpose in all of this?"
"My purpose?" Hermione echoed, a small, dismissive laugh escaping her lips. "I just don't like the way the wizarding world is run. It's stagnant. It's boring. It's ruled by old men with even older ideas. It needs… a change."
It was the truth. Or at least, a very compelling fraction of it. She conveniently left out the part where she saw him, a being of pure, unadulterated magical genius, as her own personal, unpaid, and infinitely valuable research and development department for the Dark Arts.
Tom looked at her, at this small, terrifying girl who had tortured, liberated, and empowered him all in the span of an hour. He, the master manipulator, the one who played on the hearts and minds of others like a virtuoso, finally understood. He was being bewitched. And the most terrifying part? He didn't even mind. In fact, her cold, brutal, and power-focused logic was the only thing that had ever truly made sense to him.
"So," he finally asked, his voice now that of a co-conspirator, "what is our first move?"
"Our first move," Hermione said, her lips curling into a predatory smile, "is to give the wizarding world the 'Heir of Slytherin' they're so terrified of." She looked at the unconscious, pale-faced Draco Malfoy, who was still lying on the cold, stone floor. "And I think his father, with his obsessive, idiotic pride in his pure bloodline, would be simply delighted to learn that his son has been chosen for the honor."
Back in the Dueling Hall.
"Professor Lockhart."
Luna's soft, dreamy voice cut through the man's terrified, whimpering paralysis. He had been huddled on the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible, ever since Hermione had dragged him into this nightmare.
"I… I really must be going," he stammered, his eyes darting toward the exit. "Detention… so many letters to sign…"
"I suggest," Luna said, her wand now pointed steadily at his chest, "that you listen to what Hermione has to say."
Lockhart froze. He finally, truly understood. He was not a hostage. He was a prisoner.
"Professor," Hermione began, walking toward him, her face a mask of sweet, reasonable concern. "Luna and I, we need your help."
"My help?" he squeaked, his voice cracking. They're going to kill me, he thought. They're going to kill me and feed me to the giant cat-snake.
"Yes," Hermione said, her smile widening. "Now, as I see it, you have two choices." She held up two fingers.
"Option one," she began, her voice taking on the rhythmic, compelling quality of a storyteller, "is this: You, Gilderoy Lockhart, driven by a heroic sense of duty, discovered the truth behind the petrification incidents. You realized it was the work of the Dark Lord, Voldemort. You bravely, and alone, ventured into the Chamber of Secrets to save the students."
She knelt in front of him, her eyes shining with a false, adoring light. "Down here, in this dark and terrible place, you fought a thrilling, heroic battle against the ancient, terrifying Basilisk. You slew the beast, you destroyed Voldemort's dark artifact, and you single-handedly rescued Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Ginny Weasley from the jaws of death. You will be a hero, Professor. The savior of Hogwarts."
Lockhart's terrified, shallow breathing began to even out. His eyes, which had been wide with fear, now began to gleam with a familiar, greedy, narcissistic light. This… this was a story. This was his story.
"Of course," Hermione continued, her voice turning serious, "all of this comes at a price. After such a heroic, world-changing event, a simple teaching post would be… beneath you. You would be forced to resign, your duty to the students now fulfilled, in order to answer a higher calling."
"A calling?" he whispered, completely hooked.
"The Ministry of Magic," Hermione said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "The people are corrupt. They are weak. They need a true hero to lead them. With this story, with your fame, with our help behind the scenes, you could be the next Minister for Magic."
Lockhart was mesmerized. He was already imagining the press conferences, the adoring crowds, the regal, gold-embroidered robes.
"And the second option?" he finally managed to ask, though his heart was already sold.
Hermione's smile vanished. Her voice became as cold and flat as a tombstone.
"The second option," she said, "is that I am the hero. I slew the beast. I saved the children. And you, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart… you were a tragic, cowardly fool who tried to abandon his students in a moment of crisis. The monster got you. You died heroically while trying to run away. A sad, pathetic footnote. But don't worry," she added, a chilling, almost cheerful brightness in her tone, "we'll be sure to give you a very moving, and very public, funeral."
Lockhart stared at her, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. He looked at her cold, unblinking eyes, at the girl standing beside her who looked like a dreamy, homicidal angel, and at the still-smoking pile of ashes that had once been a sixty-foot Basilisk. He had no doubt—not a single, solitary shred of doubt—that she would do it.
"I choose the first one!" he yelped, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a frantic rush. "The Ministry! Hero of Hogwarts! That one!"
"A wise choice, Professor," Hermione said, her warm, friendly smile instantly returning. She had him. He was vain, he was a coward, and he was pathologically obsessed with fame. He was, in short, the perfect puppet. She wasn.t worried about him betraying her. She had just given him a glimpse of what she was capable of. Fear, she had learned, was a far more reliable leash than loyalty.
"Just one thing," Lockhart said, his voice a little shaky as he tried to regain some small sliver of his dignity. "About that… that monster. And Riddle. How am I supposed to…?"
"Don't worry about a thing," Hermione said, patting him on the head as if he were a small, stupid dog. "We'll write the script for you."
She looked over at Tom Riddle, who was watching the entire exchange with a look of profound, almost academic admiration. This girl, he thought, is a work of art.
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