The True-Name Curse Technique was an advanced branch of Dark Magic. Expecting Lockhart to master it in a week and then challenge Grindelwald was completely unreasonable.
Wizards believed in miracles anyway, and decided to throw a Hail Mary.
But no one knew what the Muggles were planning. If Lockhart died, how many disillusioned wizards would defect to Grindelwald? That would be the start of an avalanche—and the spark that lit full-scale war between wizards and Muggles.
The Human Union Department sent people to Hogwarts, with the Ministry of Magic's special approval.
A group of Muggles dressed like engineers wandered around with strange scientific instruments, never saying a word.
Another group looked glossy and loud—like tropical parrots in human form. They were extremely talkative, but everything they said was scrambled and circular. Even the most skilled Legilimens couldn't pry anything useful out of their minds. Those people existed purely to run interference, so the wizards wouldn't ask what the scientists were doing.
In the end, all the Muggles left in a hurry. Not one of them asked about Lockhart—like he was already a dead man.
Percy swore up and down that the Muggles had decided to abandon Lockhart and start courting Dumbledore instead. As a prefect with a petty little "official" badge, he still had the nerve to thump his chest and praise his own political instincts.
Skyl knew it wasn't that simple. Those Muggles were up to no good. The signs were already there: a carrier strike group was loitering around the Strait of Gibraltar, and there were nuclear submarines beneath the surface. With the range of intercontinental missiles, covering the British Isles wouldn't be a problem at all. It looked like they planned to wipe the wizards out in one net.
If Skyl stood up in the Great Hall and said that on April 1—the day of the duel—a giant metal egg would fall from the sky, that the shockwave and fireball would erase Hogwarts, and that nuclear fallout would wipe out everything living for hundreds of miles, the wizards would just laugh and say he was making things up again. So Skyl only told Dumbledore. The old headmaster nodded tensely; when he saw Skyl wasn't acting too worried, he forced himself to steady down as well.
One week before the duel, Lockhart locked himself away at Hogwarts to train.
After losing his memory, he was cheerful every day—clumsy and useless, like a complete idiot. Maybe Dumbledore's punch had reset his IQ to zero. Still, an idiot was more likable than the original Lockhart.
Right now, Lockhart was a total rookie. He couldn't cast even a basic spell and had to start from level one. That was fine—because the previous Lockhart only really knew a Memory Charm anyway.
If you pictured the headmaster as the head coach of Team Hogwarts, then Professor McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Moonshadow were four legendary assistant coaches, all forced to cram-train Lockhart—the so-called chosen hero—into a miracle worker in a single week, so he could bring down Dark Lord Grindelwald.
Every day, Lockhart followed those four powerhouse professors for private, one-on-one tutoring—treatment not even the "Chosen One" Harry Potter had ever received.
The students worshipped this "hero of justice." Whenever they found an opening, mischievous kids would sneak off to spy on Lockhart's training.
Professor Flitwick taught the first lesson: wand handling and spell practice. The classroom's front door was pushed open by a tiny crack, and the peeking students stacked up one on top of another like a human totem pole. A first-year Gryffindor named Colin even brought a camera, ready to capture the highlights.
Tiny Professor Flitwick told Lockhart to take out his wand.
For using magic, idiot Lockhart had been looking forward to this for ages.
"Let's start with something simple, shall we?" Flitwick flicked his wand lightly and said, [Lumos].
Lockhart copied him, and the tip of his wand lit up—flickering like a loose bulb.
"Hmm. Barely acceptable. Now let's try something more advanced." Flitwick snapped his wrist. "Wingardium Leviosa."
Lockhart went tense. Eyes wide, he mumbled, "Winga-doodle-yo-sa…"
He swished his wand—and a whole troupe of glittering performers burst out of the tip, launching into a full Broadway-style dance number right there in the classroom. An aggressively catchy tune poured out of the recorders they carried, and for a heartbeat it felt like being dropped into Times Square in July. Flitwick yelled, "Finite Incantatem!" and the performers vanished in a puff of foul-smelling smoke.
The classroom door got slammed open by students laughing so hard they were folding in half, like a flock of excited sparrows bursting inside. Lockhart scratched his head and grinned stupidly. Colin's camera clicked nonstop. By the end of the day, Lockhart had earned a brand-new nickname: the idiot wizard.
The second lesson was hosted by Professor McGonagall. She strode in with a towering stack of parchment floating behind her. That stern witch pulled out an endless drill-and-worksheet routine, scaring the peeking students so badly they scattered like startled pigeons.
Lockhart tried to learn seriously, but none of it stuck. McGonagall could only repeat herself again and again at his ear like a relentless drill sergeant—aside from giving him a splitting headache, it didn't help much.
Moonshadow's lesson was "combat wisdom." She floated in midair, breathtakingly beautiful. Every word she spoke sounded like sacred law—but Lockhart just stared at her the entire time, so naturally he learned nothing.
The first three instructors were still relatively patient. When it was Professor Snape's turn, his face was long enough to drag on the floor. His first line was: "Perhaps I should brew you some Wit-Sharpening Potion, so your skull isn't quite so thick." Then he pointed his wand at the doorway—bang—and blasted the spying students into a messy heap.
With Snape, Lockhart was force-fed all kinds of bizarre potions: some for intelligence, some to strengthen magic, some to make the body "adapt" to Dark Magic… and plenty more that Lockhart couldn't even remember afterward.
Most of the potions tasted uniquely awful. Judging by Snape's nasty little expression, he'd probably "seasoned" them too. After that stomachful of sludge, Lockhart turned ice-cold all over, cheeks glowing red like embers, miserable beyond belief. At dinner in the Great Hall, he felt like his belly was about to burst—then suddenly he sprayed an entire table with a batch of weird potion vomit, reeking so badly that a bunch of kids threw up too. Everyone looked disgusted.
Amid the humiliating laughter, Lockhart sprinted away.
In that moment, he wanted to die—but somehow, he survived.
After an exhausting first day, night fell. The idiot wizard wandered the castle alone, crushed. Students and ghosts alike took turns mocking him without mercy.
Then an ethereal old man appeared at the end of the corridor. Moonlight wrapped him in silver, everything perfectly framed—like a guardian angel who'd come to save a lost kid.
When Lockhart saw him, he admitted gloomily that he probably couldn't protect world peace, because he couldn't even use the simplest spells properly.
"Young man," the old educator said, wearing that maddeningly profound, mystic calm, "even if you can't believe in yourself… you must believe in Gilderoy Lockhart."
"Why?" Lockhart asked. "I don't understand why you all call me Gilderoy Lockhart. I don't even know what that name means."
Dumbledore took his hand and led him to a bench. "To be honest, Lockhart's past isn't worth chasing. Everyone's past can be ugly. What matters is whether you can set down the baggage and move forward. Young man—when the entire world wavered before the temptation of darkness, it was you who chose to resist. You are a banner of justice, and everyone on this planet is waiting for your victory."
"Why? Why me?" the idiot still didn't understand.
"Merlin knows." Dumbledore's blue eyes were clear and steady. "But you just happen to be the most famous man in history. You have the power to change the world—understand? Gilderoy Lockhart. A name that shines. Believe in yourself. Believe in that name. Your potential is unmatched. You are destined to be the greatest wizard."
Staring into Dumbledore's calm blue eyes, idiot Lockhart's confusion slowly turned into resolve. He nodded, slowly.
"I understand. I'm Gilderoy Lockhart. I'm going to protect humanity's future."
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