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CHAPTER 60
All gifts granted by fate are secretly marked with a price.
Malfoy remembered the line from a book he once read.
On the stage, Lockhart was basking in applause, glowing with triumph. Everything had begun because of him, yet now he stood there acting as though he had saved the world.
It didn't feel fair.
But in truth, it was perfectly fair.
He had already paid the price.
Because perhaps Merlin alone knew how long Lockhart had left to live.
Even in a world of magic, certain laws remained absolute—Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, for example. These laws echoed principles discovered by Muggle physicists.
The law of conservation.
Ginny had survived because the diary was destroyed. The life stolen from her was returned.
But Lockhart? He might not be so lucky. He had been borrowing against his future for a long time.
In the magical world, Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Grindelwald stood at the very top. Their strength—magical power, spellcasting skill, and experience—placed them in a category that could only be described as "godlike."
The second tier consisted of combat-proficient professors, Aurors, and other veterans. Snape belonged here. In the original story, he dueled Professor McGonagall and briefly held the advantage. When Flitwick joined, he still escaped unharmed. His power was formidable.
So how much would Lockhart have needed to pay to overpower Snape in a formal duel?
Even if Snape underestimated him?
Only Merlin might know the answer.
Even Voldemort, in his youth, used life-draining dark magic to increase his strength. Sacrifice was normal.
Lockhart should perhaps be grateful he possessed at least decent magical talent—or he wouldn't be alive to stand on that stage, stealing glory that wasn't his.
Not long ago—
"Headmaster, I recommend keeping an eye on Lockhart."
Snape's voice had been low and hoarse. A true master never undervalues himself, nor acts with empty arrogance. Snape knew his own power well. He did not care about victory or humiliation the way students did, no matter how pale Harry and Ron thought he looked after the duel. What worried him was the unnatural.
Someone behaving abnormally.
Someone in danger.
So he approached Dumbledore immediately after the Duel Club ended.
The Headmaster's office was thick with mist, silver instruments puffing out thin streams of smoke. Dumbledore was intently tearing open a candy wrapper, as though he hadn't heard a thing Snape said.
"Severus," Dumbledore sighed dramatically, "please help an old man whose fingers are no longer what they used to be. Be so kind as to open this candy for me."
Without looking up, he tossed a wrapped piece toward Snape.
It hit the floor with a sharp clack, the sound crisp enough to declare Snape's refusal.
He would not be distracted.
"Very well, Severus," Dumbledore finally said, sensing the rising irritation.
"You are too suspicious." His voice was deep, calm, and soothing. "We have no reason to fret about a professor's level of skill. From what I know, Lockhart was a remarkable student. Is it not normal for an excellent student to become an excellent teacher?"
"But—" Snape's grip on his wand tightened.
"I know what you want to say. No matter how gifted a teacher is, accidents happen. It was his first lesson. Nerves are only natural." Dumbledore gave him a long look. "Surely even you cannot guarantee Neville Longbottom will never make a mistake in your class?"
Snape opened his mouth again, but Dumbledore cut him off gently.
"Professor Snape, your attention is better spent refining your potions. The Mandrakes will mature soon. We will need you."
His tone deepened with worry, as though thinking of the petrified students.
Snape inhaled sharply.
"Very well, Headmaster. I believe you will be satisfied."
He turned, robe sweeping dramatically behind him, and strode for the exit. But just as his foot crossed the threshold, he paused.
His last words were cold, edged with quiet fury:
"But I trust the next potion you request from me will not require the prefix 're-' before the word 'surrection.'"
The door closed softly.
Silence fell—but beneath it, unseen currents stirred.
"Wastefulness is not a habit worth encouraging," Dumbledore murmured.
He bent slowly to pick up the dropped candy, brushed off the dust, and searched for the easiest place to tear open the wrapper.
Rip.
The wrapper came apart effortlessly.
Unlike earlier—when he'd exaggerated his fumbling like an actor—this time, Dumbledore's movements were smooth and sure.
Whether he had truly been clumsy before, or merely pretending… only the old wizard himself knew.
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