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CHAPTER 59
The stack of documents in Lockhart's hands felt heavier by the second.
What did he see?
He saw the list of every person he had ever used the Memory Charm on, their current circumstances, and—worst of all—the stories he had stolen from them.
He flipped faster and faster, the pages hissing like dry leaves in a storm, as though the sound could drown out the panic pounding in his chest.
If this ever came out…
He wouldn't just fall from grace—he would be destroyed. Overnight, the Wizarding World's shining hero would turn into a fraud, a thief, a parasite. His newest "heroic deed," already suspicious, would be dismissed outright.
When he reached the final page, he froze.
A single sentence stared up at him, written in dark, steady ink:
"Take care of yourself."
For a moment, Lockhart was lost in the words. A deep, calm voice echoed through his mind—old, powerful, and unmistakably familiar. A thunderclap of fragmented images followed: the floating, cursed diary…
Dumbledore's overwhelming magic in the Chamber…
His own limp body…
Hermione's frightened face…
Malfoy offering him whiskey…
And then he snapped back.
Why… why would Dumbledore give him the credit?
His mind raced. The reporters earlier—too eager, too coordinated. Something was off.
And then it clicked.
Dumbledore's reputation was already at the peak. If he defeated the basilisk? Everyone would nod and say:
"Oh, of course he did."
But if Lockhart did—
A man famous for books and smiles
A man of uncertain ability
A man who "sacrificed everything" in the process—
Then the Wizarding World would erupt. Passion. Gratitude. Awe.
The more Lockhart considered it, the more he trembled at how deep Dumbledore's plans ran.
A battle barely noticed when fought by a legend became a miracle when done by a flawed hero.
And Lockhart was the perfect flawed hero.
Even better, the student saved—Hermione—was Muggle-born. A pure act of self-sacrifice for a Muggle-born would send shockwaves through the conservative families and Bloodline Purists.
Dumbledore's political message would be unmistakable.
Peace. Coexistence. Equality.
Lockhart—idiot, liar, shameless plagiarist—found himself respecting the old headmaster more than ever.
Of course, he conveniently forgot the most likely truth:
that he had been manipulated by the diary,
and that Dumbledore might have adjusted his memories.
Either way, Lockhart knew this:
His fate depended entirely on Dumbledore's mood.
So on the stage, Lockhart stepped back and gestured politely.
"You should let the Headmaster answer, Ron. You said yourself—this was only a rumor."
Dumbledore rose with a twinkle in his eye.
"Ron, you are well-informed," he said, stroking his beard. "But you seem mistaken about one thing. Some magical creatures are far more dangerous than Basilisks."
A murmur spread. Right. Basilisks were magical creatures. Their Magical Creatures professor needed to be tougher than someone who couldn't cast spells anymore.
Heads drooped.
"But," Dumbledore continued, "the retirement rumor is true. Our dear professor is old, and wishes to spend more time with his beloved creatures. Therefore, next year you will have a new teacher—someone many of you may know. Please wait patiently."
Ron collapsed into his seat.
Harry slumped beside him, pounding the table.
No more chance of watching Snape get humiliated again, then.
Lockhart resumed his grand storytelling. Imagining Dumbledore's tacit approval, he embellished every detail spectacularly, drawing cheers from the whole hall—except Slytherin.
Each time he spoke of his noble sacrifice, their jeers rose:
"He makes it sound so grand—yet he's the one who lost all his magic."
"What a joke. Wrecking his future over a Mudblood."
Snape shot them a cold look. Silence followed immediately—though everyone assumed it was only for show. Secretly, they believed Snape wanted them to continue to avenge his loss.
Pansy Parkinson sat quietly beside Malfoy. She didn't join the jeering. Her attention was fixed on him, worried his anger might flare. Every praise of the "hero" seemed to deepen the humiliation Slytherin had suffered.
"Enough," Malfoy said suddenly, slamming the table.
Pansy jumped.
But instead of lashing out, Malfoy spoke in a low, firm voice—just loud enough for every Slytherin to hear:
"If we keep on, the Headmaster will let Professor Snape intervene again. A defeat is a defeat. Slandering someone behind their back won't change it. What matters is winning the next time."
His words—so unexpectedly calm and mature—struck every Slytherin silent.
For the first time, the older students truly respected him. Not because his logic was flawless, but because… it felt like a new kind of authority. A strength different from Snape's.
Malfoy's defeat had been humiliating—but honorable.
And his influence in Slytherin soared.
Watching Lockhart bask in applause on the stage, Malfoy could only sigh inwardly.
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