Autumn 1992, Hogsmeade Residential District
Hogsmeade was the only all-wizarding village in Britain—a place untouched by Muggles and the ideal settlement for most witches and wizards.
In one of the homes tucked into the residential area, sunlight streamed through the window of a top-floor study, bathing the room in a warm glow. A crisp autumn breeze slipped in through the open pane, clearing out the lingering heat.
At the center of the study stood a polished mahogany desk. Behind it lounged a strikingly handsome wizard with long, silky golden hair, reclining lazily in his chair.
What truly caught the eye, however, were the three magical textbooks floating mid-air around him, perfectly aligned with his line of sight.
Directly in front of him, a wine-red spellbook hovered open, its pages turning automatically with a flick of his wand.
The title on the cover was unmistakable:
"Advanced Combat Spells for the Skilled Wizard."
At the far end of the room, a collection of magical creature specimens stood on display like trophies. The bookshelves lining the left wall were packed with spellbooks—some twitching faintly, others semi-transparent, and a few wreathed in thin tendrils of gray mist.
The entire study exuded an air of mystery.
"So, igniting emotion is the key to wandless casting of the Shield Charm..."
Gilderoy Lockhart murmured to himself, eyes gleaming with sudden realization.
Then, as if testing a theory, he placed his wand on the desk.
He adjusted his magical frequency, formed a peculiar gesture with his right hand, and spoke firmly:
"Protego!"
A flash of golden light briefly enveloped him—then vanished—followed by a sharp crack.
The magical backlash sent the chair splintering beneath him, fissures spiderwebbing across its surface.
Lockhart frowned, picked up his wand, and stood. With a swift flick, he aimed it at the ruined chair.
"Reparo!"
Like time rewinding, the cracks sealed themselves in an instant. The chair stood good as new.
Lockhart nodded in satisfaction.
"Even after almost a month in this world, magic still amazes me."
Another wave of his wand, and the bookshelf swung open. The floating books returned to their places with meticulous precision.
He sat back down, setting the wand aside as he stared at it thoughtfully.
Calling the body's original owner useless would be unkind.
After all, through sheer mastery of Memory Charms, he'd deceived the entire wizarding world into believing he was a daring adventurer with a legendary past.
But the man's actual repertoire of spells?
Lockhart exhaled sharply.
Combat magic? A complete blank.
Everyday spells? Oddly refined—even creative.
Take, for instance, "Gilderoy's Gleam"—a self-invented charm that enhanced his complexion and whitened his teeth, making them glow gently in the dark.
There was even an auto-signing charm, and one that played dramatic background music on command.
All his own creations.
Lockhart had to admit—the man had talent. Just… embarrassingly vain talent.
No wonder he was a Ravenclaw.
But as for actual dueling?
Absolutely hopeless.
The man could barely cast a basic Shield Charm, and soon enough, he'd be disarmed by a second-year.
Pathetic.
Lockhart rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache.
Over the past month, he had carefully combed through this body's memories.
His current identity: Gilderoy Lockhart.
Celebrity author. Famous adventurer.
Soon-to-be Hogwarts professor.
The adventurer part, though? That was what really irked him.
Every last one of those "adventures" had been stolen—memory by memory—from other witches and wizards, repackaged for fame and fortune.
And now, with Dumbledore's invitation to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, he'd have to tread carefully. That old man saw more than he ever let on.
As for the Chamber of Secrets, the basilisk—and all the chaos to come?
Lockhart wasn't too concerned.
"A wise man avoids danger before it arises."
With foreknowledge of the threats, a few well-placed precautions would be enough.
No, the real issue was Dumbledore himself.
The so-called "White Lord" of the wizarding world hadn't earned his reputation by being soft. His decision to hire Lockhart—of all people—had to be calculated.
Lockhart wasn't naive. Sure, the position was rumored to be cursed—no professor lasted more than a year.
But most left with nothing more than a bruised ego. Fatalities were rare.
Otherwise, the original Lockhart wouldn't have dared take the job. His plan had been simple: use the prestige, pad his résumé, then vanish.
Frankly, if he hadn't already accepted the post before transmigrating, he would've refused it outright.
But then again…
The thought of Hogwarts' library sent a shiver down his spine.
Over the past month, he had purchased dozens of spellbooks—only to grow increasingly disillusioned by the wizarding world's elitism and secrecy.
Advanced magic? Virtually nonexistent in public circulation.
Most books barely scratched the surface of spell theory.
Want to study esoteric, forbidden, or truly powerful magic?
Unless you were pure-blooded, sworn to ancient oaths, or part of a prestigious legacy… forget it.
And Lockhart? He was a half-blood, with no powerful lineage to back him.
But Hogwarts...
Hogwarts housed centuries of knowledge.
From basic charms to combat magic, Dark Arts, and even taboo arcana—all hidden in plain sight.
And best of all?
Professors had nearly unrestricted access.
The mere thought made his fingers twitch in anticipation.
The deeper he delved into magic, the more intoxicated he became. The power to manipulate fire, shape stone, reconstruct matter, even defy death—it was awe-inspiring.
In his past life, he had been nothing more than a university professor—frail, short-lived, irrelevant.
But now?
Magic offered him power, longevity, endless discovery.
And as a scholar to the core, the pursuit of truth ran through his very soul.
To unravel the secrets of the world through magic—
It was euphoric.
As for the risks?
He'd accepted them the moment he chose this path.
Besides…
He wasn't without leverage.
Lockhart's lips curled into a faint smile as he whispered inwardly:
"System."