The nameless man woke up.
He was lying in the Hospital Wing, like a skeleton.
Today was March 31. Tomorrow was the duel between light and dark that the whole world was watching. But it had nothing to do with him anymore.
Dumbledore had come to see him. No one else recognized this gaunt, shriveled figure. Voldemort had stolen his name—his everything. Now the nameless man was a phantom with no past, no future, and not even a present worth speaking of.
The Hospital Wing smelled of odd potions. It was spotless, bright with clean windows and strong light, and it made him feel like a piece of rotten wood left out in the sun.
He raised his hand. So weak. This frail body brought an endless, grinding irritation. His stomach hurt—maybe it was his spleen. His lips were split; his tongue scraped his palate, and it was easy to peel off a thin strip of skin. His nails cracked like dry plaster.
All the vitality had been drained out of him. And according to Dumbledore, it was irreversible.
He saw his reflection in the silver cup at his bedside: sunken eyes, cheeks tinted with a miserable bluish cast.
Like a corpse.
The nameless man knew he was going to die.
It was still death either way. He could have died as a hero—but that chance was gone now.
A pitiful pawn. He had nothing: no family, no friends, no savings, no honor, no trace left behind in the world. Even his name had been taken. In a few days, he'd be blown away like a pinch of ash.
Why had he ended up like this? Why could a person be wretched as an insect?
If there were gods in the world, he wanted to ask what crime he had committed to be punished by fate like this.
Pain speared through him like lightning. His whole body felt as if it were burning, and a whirlpool of sorrow swallowed his heart.
He lay still on the Hospital Wing bed without moving. Only the soft hiss of sand in the hourglass kept him company, reminding him that time—and life—was slipping away.
When the worst of the pain and regret finally ebbed, the nameless man found himself thinking again of Gilderoy Lockhart's autobiography.
He stared at the pale ceiling and imagined himself as a child, curled in the warmth of his mother's arms. She would breathe against his ear, press the point of her chin lightly to the top of his head, then lift her wand and point it at the dark ceiling—black as the night sky.
A river of stars would spill from the wand, so clear and beautiful. It ran straight through his childhood, shining forever in every year that came after.
Someone had once loved him like that.
He missed his mother.
Even though he'd long since forgotten what she looked like.
But before he died, he wanted to see her one last time. Just from far away—one glance was enough. He couldn't let her see him like this. She would be heartbroken.
Madam Pomfrey saw the nameless Lockhart climb down from the bed and hurried over to stop him. "You need rest, young man."
"No," he said. "I'm not going to spend the last of my life here. I mean—this is a good place, and you're a respectable, reliable healer, but please understand: someone with little time left would rather die on the road home."
That reason stunned Madam Pomfrey into silence. Slowly, she stepped aside.
The nameless nobody left the Hospital Wing. Hogwarts' familiar beauty dazzled his eyes: students on broomsticks darting between towers and castle walls, their crisp, bright laughter like flocks of birds skimming beneath white clouds. Their carefree faces looked like a dream he could never reach.
Spring still had teeth. His thin body started to tremble.
Someone approached and greeted him.
"Lockhart—why aren't you resting in the Hospital Wing?" It was Skyl. He'd come to visit. In this world, only three people still knew that the nameless nobody was Gilderoy Lockhart: Dumbledore, Ms. Moonshadow, and Skyl.
"Skyl." The nameless man jolted when he saw him. Tears surged into his eyes so suddenly it felt like his life was draining out through them—as if he would die the moment the tears ran dry. But he still spent them anyway.
"It hurts so much," he said.
Skyl's expression was strange—cold, and yet touched with pity.
Anyone would feel the cruelty of fate when looking at a person this wretched, this ghostlike. And the way he had fallen this far was tied, step by step, to the road he had chosen himself.
"All right. All right." Skyl produced a silvery fur coat—light as silk, warm as a stove. "Here. Put this on. You'll feel better."
Once the nameless man pulled it on, the shaking stopped.
"Skyl… you still remember me. I'm so happy. In all of Hogwarts, you're the only one who never mocked me and never used me. If I had the chance, I'd really like to talk with you more—tell you everything I think. But as you can see… I'm about to die."
"…What are you planning to do now?"
"I'm going home." A faint hint of color rose into the nameless man's deathly pale cheeks. "Skyl… I have a request."
"I can take you home," Skyl said with a nod.
"No, not that." The nameless man smiled shyly. "I want to be friends with you. Can I?"
Skyl kept his hands in his pockets and let out a slow breath. "I'm afraid not."
The light in Lockhart's eyes went out. He nodded. "I was too forward. I'm sorry."
"Come on," Skyl said.
They rode a flying carpet to the Lockhart family's old house.
Far below the open sky, the white carpet looked like a smear of cloud. Lockhart leaned over the edge and stared down at the land—fields, villages, towns. He said the world was so small, and people were so small. After that, he didn't speak again for the rest of the journey.
Lockhart's family had publicly cut ties with him last year, then moved away. Now the Lockhart estate had become a tourist attraction.
The place was full of strangers—and vendors, selling souvenirs: fake wands, star-shaped candy, knockoff furniture, as if they were peddling fragments of Lockhart's old life.
"Why did the people here move away?" Lockhart asked an elderly neighbor.
"They couldn't bear their youngest son—Gilderoy Lockhart. You know how it is. He's famous for bringing shame to the family, and their lives were constantly disturbed, so they all moved." The old woman looked him over. "You're far too thin, dear. You should eat more."
Lockhart's expression twisted bitterly. "What do I have left?"
Skyl bought a few souvenirs, then handed Lockhart a puff of cotton candy. They crouched by the roadside, watching the steady flow of cars, and ate it all. By then the sky was dark. Lockhart was exhausted, so they stayed at a local motel. That night, after he fell asleep, he cried for a long time.
April 1 arrived.
Morning was bright. Skyl and Lockhart ate breakfast in the motel lobby while the TV played live coverage of the duel at Hogwarts. The two combatants hadn't arrived yet, but the spectators were already spread across the hills in vast waves—tens of thousands, easily. Tents dotted the slopes like mushrooms after rain. Hogwarts students were up on broomsticks, helping maintain order.
"Skyl… Hogwarts has so many people today. Are they all wizards?"
"They're from all over the world. Most of the spectators are Muggles," Skyl said, sipping instant coffee and chewing bacon and eggs. "But even the wizards among them are a lot—something like seventy or eighty percent of all Europe's wizards are probably there."
"That's so many." Lockhart tightened the coat around himself. He ate bread softened in milk, painfully slowly so he wouldn't throw up.
After breakfast, Grindelwald appeared on the broadcast. The Dark Lord was still thin, but he looked much better—meat on his cheeks, healthier color. Wizards from the German Ministry of Magic clustered around him like a flock of black crows.
On the other side, Gilderoy stepped out through the castle's main gates. The instant he appeared, the crowd erupted like a tidal wave.
Lockhart stared at the other, radiant version of himself on the screen and said with a sour, aching voice, "I should have been there."
"You regret not becoming a hero? Not getting the spotlight?"
"No. It's just… I just…" Lockhart shook his head in misery. "I don't want to die worthless. Without leaving even a trace behind in this world."
Skyl kept his eyes on the screen. Nearby, a few Muggles were complaining—like they couldn't wait for every wizard on earth to die.
"Damn freaks. A whole country of freaks. If only a bomber could drop a payload right on their heads—wipe the freaks out, and the world would be clean, and the world would be peaceful."
They spat the words out.
Lockhart trembled and snapped back immediately. "Wizards aren't freaks!"
"You want a beating, you walking skeleton?"
"I'm telling the truth. You don't have a shred of humanity."
"You're defending the freaks—what, are you a freak too?" The Muggles started closing in.
Skyl didn't react. He kept watching the broadcast.
Lockhart faced a group of strong, grown Muggles alone. He didn't flinch. "You're wrong."
"Sounds like you need a lesson."
Voices rose. Tempers sharpened. The air tightened. Lockhart's frail body began to shake as they shoved him. He was about to topple off the chair—
Then one of the Muggles suddenly shouted, "Look! What the hell is that?!"
"Where?"
"On the TV—look at the TV! Are those planes?"
"Oh—Jesus, Mother of God… those are bombers! They're really going to bomb this damn place!"
On the screen, a blurred line of steel swallows cut across the sky. They dropped hellfire.
After a short, suffocating silence, explosions and burning fuel rained into the crowd watching the duel—turning that grand gathering into hell on earth in an instant.
Things were about to speed up.
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