He stood in a silver-white castle in a folded space within an unknown forest, in a luxurious room. Before a tall mirror with a white frame tinged with silver, he gazed at a face he no longer knew if it was his own. A short while ago—or so he remembered—he had been reading a fantasy novel about a man who reincarnated into the body of Gilderoy Lockhart… a man who didn't know a single spell before going to Hogwarts, trying to survive among dangers.
And he imagined: what if, instead of reincarnating into the body of Lockhart who could cast no spell but the Memory Charm, "What if that reincarnator possessed Lockhart's body but with a sequence power from the Secret Master's sequences? A man smart enough to fool everyone?" "And what if instead of his books being full of holes because they were lies and stolen adventures... they became refined tales, because the original content was filled with encounters with terrifying creatures and horrors no one could imagine... horrors that, if published as they truly were, would cause panic and chaos in the wizarding world?"
And now… he was that reincarnator.
The face in the mirror looked both strange and familiar. Thick golden hair glimmered under a faint light, wide blue eyes holding a false glint of confidence, and a wide smile as if carved onto it… but it wasn't his smile. His chest rose and fell slowly; his breaths were heavy, and the air around him felt heavier than he could bear.
"Alright… damn my imagination… I wish I hadn't thought of anything…" He gripped his robe, trying to feel its texture, hoping it would prove to him that all this was real. "Why am I this calm? The old me… I would have panicked… maybe cried… or even pissed myself from terror… This world… it's not the world of Harry Potter I used to read about… No… this is a world with horrors that weren't in the original story…"
His hand trembled for a moment, but then steadied with a strength that didn't feel like his own. "Wait… how do I know this world is full of catastrophic horrors? Lockhart's memories…" He gasped softly, his eyes widening bit by bit. "I've gained his memories… even more… I've gained the sequence power too… That's why I'm calm… as if I truly lived all these years as Lockhart… not just someone who took over his body…"
He touched his face, exploring features that now belonged to him… strange features, but his nonetheless. "Why do I think of it as having Lockhart's memories? Why don't I feel like I've been Lockhart from the start and just gained extra memories? What was my name? What was my name? Damn it… I can't remember…" His fist clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "It's not just possession… it's fusion… Lockhart's will… the will of a wizard and beyonder with immense resolve… it defeated the other will…"
He stared into his eyes, as if trying to see beyond them. "Whose will was the other one? Doesn't matter… what matters… these new memories… they're fascinating… My world was always just a fictional book… am I supposed to feel existential shock now?"
He let out a short, bitter laugh. "Nah… doesn't really matter… Deadpool can break the fourth wall and escape to the real world easily… so I can too if I want… All I have to do is find the right magic…" "This changes nothing… there is fate… there are prophecies… it doesn't matter if the one pulling the strings is fate… or the author."
He spoke quietly but clearly: "Maxidor…"
The house-elf Maxidor appeared at the door quickly, dressed neatly like a head butler: white shirt, gray vest, and silver tie. His serious features and wide eyes followed his master.
"Did you send my book list to Hogwarts as I ordered?"
Maxidor replied calmly: "Yes, sir. As you requested, Death Stares at You from the Shadows was added to the supply lists for first, second, and third-year students. The Full Moon's Terror was added for fourth and fifth-year students. The Temptation of Evil was added for sixth and seventh years. I also sent a letter to the shop in Diagon Alley for printing the copies, with the condition that a signing event will be held during the entire sale period until the school year begins. Printing has been completed, and they're awaiting your notice for when you can attend the signing session to begin sales."
Lockhart nodded slowly. "Very good, Maxidor. Send a message to the shop manager now… Tell him I will start the signing event the day after tomorrow so they can prepare."
Maxidor answered: "At once, sir."
Lockhart stood alone, staring into the void. "Let's see now… will I be able to stay alive… and save the world from things like the horrors of the Aldritch… or will these new memories play a part in my death?"
He turned away from the mirror at last, walking slowly across the polished floor. His shoes made no sound against the smooth tiles. He passed a bookshelf crammed with volumes he hadn't yet dared to open, titles in strange scripts shifting slightly when he tried to focus on them. One book lay open on the nearest table—a heavy, leather-bound thing that seemed to breathe faint wisps of grey mist from its pages. He shut it with a gloved hand, not wanting to read any more today.
He moved to the window, drawing aside a sheer curtain with the back of his knuckles. The forest outside did not look like the Forest of Dean or any other woodland he had read about—it felt deeper, older. Shapes moved between the twisted trunks, shadows without form. He caught himself staring too long and let the curtain fall back.
Behind him, Maxidor lingered silently, waiting for the next command. The elf's eyes flickered once toward the open book before returning to his master's back.
"Maxidor," Lockhart said without turning. "Is the protective circle intact tonight?"
"It is, sir," Maxidor answered. "I have reinforced it twice since dawn. No spirits nor beasts shall cross it. Your safety is certain within these walls."
"Good," Lockhart murmured. He ran a hand through his golden hair and felt a small pang of recognition—how many times had the 'old' Lockhart struck this same pose in front of an audience, pretending to be the hero in his stories? He wondered if he could keep pretending too. Or if the pretending had already ended the moment he woke up in this body.
He paced back toward the mirror, eyeing his reflection again, this time trying out a smile. It fit better than before, though it still felt borrowed. He lifted his wand—a slender thing of pale wood, humming faintly in his grip—and tapped the air beside his temple. A swirl of silvery thoughts drifted into a glass vial waiting on the nearby table.
"File these away with the others," he ordered. "Label them… 'First Night'."
Maxidor snapped his fingers, and the vial vanished with a soft pop. "Done, sir."
Lockhart sank onto a plush chair near the hearth. He felt the weight of the castle press down around him—ancient magic sunk into stone and wood. He wondered if Hogwarts felt this heavy when empty at night, when all the laughter and spells settled into silence and left only ghosts behind.
"Make tea, Maxidor," he said suddenly. "Bring the strong leaves from the northern shelf."
Maxidor bowed deeply, vanished, then reappeared moments later with a silver tray. Steam curled into the cold air, carrying the sharp scent of black tea. Lockhart wrapped his hands around the warm cup, letting the heat seep into skin that felt too new to be his own.
As he drank, he imagined the students back at Hogwarts—children, really—packing trunks, complaining about summer homework, their parents fussing over potions ingredients and owls. None of them would guess what stalked the edges of their world. None of them would read the real truths hidden beneath his stories—unless, one day, he chose to tell them everything.
He smirked faintly, sipping again. "Stories save people from fear," he murmured to himself. "Or blind them to it. Either way… they'll keep reading."
Maxidor's voice broke the thought. "Will you rest now, sir?"
Lockhart did not answer immediately. He finished his tea, set the cup down with a soft clink, and rose once more.
"Rest?" he said at last. "No… not yet. There's work to be done."
He glanced at the mirror again, at the smile that now looked just a fraction more like it belonged.