I didn't need the Prophet this morning to realize I had become the talk of the castle.
I sat in my usual seat in the Great Hall, fiddling with a silver fork over a plate I hadn't touched yet, while whispers rose from the fourth- and fifth-year tables like smoke that doesn't dissipate.
"He said it was a time-acceleration charm."
"We were in class for two whole hours, but when we left, only one had passed!"
"That's not possible... isn't time manipulation supposed to be extremely secret?"
"I think even Professor McGonagall was stunned."
A smile formed on my lips that I couldn't suppress.
I was used to being the subject of their chatter, but this time it was different — they weren't mocking me, but whispering with genuine wonder.
When I reached the staff table, Professor Flitwick was the first to turn to me, speaking with a tone that carried some surprise:
"Professor Lockhart... may I ask you a question? What exactly did you do yesterday? I've never seen anything like it in my entire teaching career."
I sat down calmly and answered with a smile:
"Just a minor adjustment in the magical structure of the room. I compressed time inside the classroom to flow differently from the outside world."
Professor McGonagall arrived and sat next to us, her tone as sharp as ever, though not without a hint of hidden curiosity:
"Time manipulation is not a common thing, Professor Lockhart. There are no known spells that cause this effect. What you did... is completely unfamiliar."
Professor Sprout leaned toward me slightly and said:
"Is it your own invention? I mean... the formula? I don't think I've even read about it in the Ministry archives."
I lifted my eyes and saw Dumbledore gazing at me with a long look, then he said in his usual calm voice:
"What you did doesn't resemble any known magic. Controlling time is limited to rare tools, like the Time-Turner... which, as you know, is considered unusable outside an extremely narrow scope."
I replied simply:
"I didn't use a device. What happened was purely a precise magical formulation, based on resetting the time field within a closed space. The experiment was entirely calculated."
Everyone went silent for a moment, as if trying to absorb what they had just heard, while I continued sipping my coffee, feeling — for the first time since returning to Hogwarts —
a slight time skip
Headmaster's Office – a conversation between the lines
Dumbledore called to me softly as I was about to leave the hall, and a simple gesture from his hand was enough for me to understand that he wasn't suggesting — he was requesting.
We walked together toward the upper floor, accompanied only by the sound of our footsteps on the ancient stone. He was silent, as usual, when he wanted me to speak… and I didn't.
When we reached the door of his office, he uttered a password I couldn't tell if it was serious or sarcastic — "Lemon Cake" — and the spiral staircase opened automatically, lifting us up without a word exchanged.
He sat in his chair behind the large desk, gestured for me to sit, and then, while pouring himself a cup of tea, said:
"So… you compressed time."
I answered with a steadiness I made sure to maintain:
"Yes. For a brief period, and in a completely limited space."
He nodded slowly, then said without lifting his eyes from the cup:
"You know, Gilderoy, what you did raises more questions than it offers answers."
I stayed silent. I already knew that — perhaps I even wanted it.
He continued in his calm voice, which always hid unsaid things:
"Temporal magic is rare, unstable, and only a few wizards have dared to touch it without documented tools… like the Time-Turner."
"And I didn't use one," I said quietly. "I wouldn't have asked for one even if it were available."
He looked at me then for the first time since the conversation began, with eyes you rarely see — unless you've either erred… or told the truth.
"That's what worries me," he said.
"That I didn't ask?" I asked, perhaps with a smile.
"That you wanted not to ask," he said as he set the cup down. "And that you're confident the magic in your head is enough to bypass laws that have always been beyond an individual's power."
I looked at him for a long moment. There wasn't accusation in his tone — but something else… something like a warning.
I said after a pause:
"I know what I'm doing — more than you imagine, Headmaster."
He paused, then took a slow breath and said:
"Well, if you know what you're doing, then go on. I can't stop you just because I don't understand what you're doing.
But… I told the students you informed me about the spell, and that I approved it.
How will you repay me for that?"
I smiled, then pulled a small box wrapped in elegant paper from my robe pocket and pushed it across the desk to him.
"Noisettes. Or truffes, to be precise. Fine French chocolate. I made sure it's the kind you prefer."
He raised his eyebrows slightly and said with a light tone:
"Hoho… it seems you know me well."
Then he simply said:
"Thank you for your generous gift."
I replied:
"You're welcome, Headmaster. If there's nothing else… I'll be off."
"Alright. Goodbye, Professor Lockhart."
I left the office in a good mood.
A conman's ability in magic, eloquence, and mental manipulation… those really are my favorite powers — after theft, in this political world.
And as I walked through the corridors leading to my room, with calm steps and the echo of my thoughts ahead of me, I found my mind occupied with something bigger than a successful lesson or imported chocolate.
The Horcrux.
Tom Riddle's diary was in my hands — with half a soul still alive, hiding.
I had to assess its condition… his condition.
Was it still conscious? Could it be summoned? Could it be dominated… used?
Voldemort must die.
But not before I take from him everything that could benefit me.
I entered my room and closed the door tightly behind me.
I sat at my desk and took out the diary.
I began analyzing it piece by piece.
I could feel it more than read it.
It was nothing but a mass of dark magic, composed of an unseen substance: negative emotions.
Rage, hatred, fear, and a lust for murder… all violently compressed within the words, pulsing beneath the ink and hiding behind the lines.
But what truly intrigued me wasn't the energy… but the mechanism.
How was the soul severed?
How is the will pulled from the living being and imprisoned within a material object?
The answer, as I began to see it, was terrifying in its simplicity.
Killing an innocent soul… truly innocent, without doubt or ambiguity… is what halts — if only for brief moments — the original soul's instinct to remain whole.
That fleeting moment, that temporary pause — mere fractions of a second — is what allows the wizard to apply his magic by will, extracting a piece of his soul and consciousness, and imprisoning it in solid matter.
The most astonishing thing… is that this piece isn't connected to the original mind.
There is no spell, no hidden power, that forces it into obedience or submission to the original soul.
It is independent… free, theoretically.
And if released from its prison, it could rebel.
But why doesn't it escape?
Ah… here lies the genius.
When the soul is placed into material, the new body treats it as if it were in its original body.
Its instinct for survival and cohesion awakens, preventing it from fleeing.
It clings to the object it now inhabits and becomes fixed within it.
And to separate again, it must perform the Horcrux ritual itself… which is impossible.
It has no body, no life, and no means to act.
But… what if it were given a body?
What if it could move again?
Yes… then it could perform the rituals — and complete rebellion — as happened at the end of second year, when Riddle tried to regain a body through Ginny Weasley.
I can't help but admit, despite everything, that Herpo the Foul…
He who invented this magic centuries ago…
Was a genius.
Smart… evil… and sadistic.
But the deeper I delved, the more it became clear that true sadism wasn't in severing the soul… but in imprisoning it.
Herpo didn't settle for inventing a barbaric ritual — he insisted that the fragment of consciousness remain eternal in darkness, with no escape, no hope.
A constant scream no one hears.
And there, amid that stagnant hell, my idea sparkled.
Maybe — just maybe — I could turn this cruelty against Voldemort.
I now had the best way to use this diary — and the soul trapped inside it — to kill Voldemort forever.
Not just destroy his body or ruin his plans… but kill his name, and erase all trace of "Voldemort" permanently.
And then I would gift the wizarding world — something no one expects.
Then I smiled to myself, the book still resting quietly in my hands.
Oh… I'm quite excited to see Dumbledore's expression then.
Will he be shocked?
Will he rejoice?
Will he get angry?
Or perhaps… attack me without warning?
I smiled wider.
Oh yes… I'm really excited.
But before I begin…
I need to know — and find — the components.
I took out my notebook to jot things down.
Not because anyone will read after me, but because magic — when shaped by words — becomes more disciplined.
And I like thinking with pen and paper, simply put.
About the Rituals
They won't be evil rituals,
but rather a barter with magic — offering things with symbolic meaning.
A price paid with care, not just blood… but what blood represents.
❖ Components of the ritual, as I understand them:
Father's bones.
Not for the bone itself… but for what it represents.
The father is the root of identity, the one to whom the son is attributed.
The mother gives the body, but the name, the shadow, the identity… come from the father.
Thus, using the father's bones affirms who you are — even if you're dead.
Servant's blood, taken by force.
The blood must come from someone who served you in life — not a mindless slave, but a follower who knew you and followed you.
But it's not given — it's taken.
Why?
Because a wizard who wants to impose his influence even after death must prove his impact still exists in the hearts of the living — against their will.
Enemy's flesh, offered willingly.
Not the blood — but the flesh… the living, conscious part that's only given in trust.
Your enemy must give you a piece of himself willingly.
Because this proves that your influence in the world of the living was not pure evil.
That you left behind someone who trusts you — even if he was a foe.
Then I wrote at the bottom of the page:
Identity, impact, and forgiveness.
That's what these three components create.
And I paused a moment… then added in smaller but sharper writing:
And this ritual...
Is not merely a means of revival.
And this ritual…
Is not just a means of resurrection,
But the antithesis of Voldemort's ritual.
If Voldemort was reborn
With the father's bones,
And the servant's flesh given willingly,
And the enemy's blood spilled by force —
Then whoever is born from
The father's bones,
The servant's blood taken by force,
And the enemy's flesh given willingly —
Will not be Voldemort…
Not in the present, nor in the future.
I returned the notebook to the inner pocket of my shirt, hidden by a simple concealment charm.
Then, with calculated slowness, I pulled out something else…
The Horcrux.
But I wasn't fooled by its appearance.
I knew exactly what lived inside it.
I brought out a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote on the first page:
Hello, Tom Riddle.
I waited.
Seconds passed… and nothing happened.
So I wrote another line, without lifting my eyes from the page:
I know what you are, little Horcrux.
What do you say we talk a bit? I have an offer.
But if you're not interested in talking…
Say hello to Fiendfyre.
The quill stopped midair…
Silence.
Then… the ink began to melt, disappearing from the page as if the words had been forgotten on purpose.
And slowly, a new sentence formed in a different hand:
"Who are you? How do you know about me?"
I smiled, and calmly wrote:
"Who I am doesn't matter much right now.
But since you're curious…
My name is Gilderoy Lockhart.
Author of famous books,
Recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class,
Member of the Defense Against the Dark Arts League,
And professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts."
Short silence.
Then faint writing appeared:
"You recite that intro to everyone who asks you, don't you?"
I chuckled lightly and wrote:
"Of course.
Saves time — and keeps annoying people away."
"I bet it does…"
Pause… then:
"How do you find time to be a teacher at Hogwarts, with all that going on?"
I leaned back in the chair and answered:
"True, I'm a busy man,
But I can always find time to teach children…"
Then I paused, and looked at the page with a sideways smile:
"…And sometimes, to chat with old soul fragments
Buried in tattered journals."
"I doubt you have the time — but… it's your time, do what you will.
By the way, what's the date?"
"It's 1992, little Tommy.
Why? Someone you want to ask about?
Your origin, maybe?"
"1992? More than 500 years have passed?!
Of course I want to know about my origin…
But I bet he's living a retired old life by now…"
"By the way, is this… the Kingdom of England? Or another country?
Is the Kingdom still around?"
"Hmm, yes… still exists.
Though now it's called the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."
"Ah… that's comforting.
That my homeland still exists."
"And who is the Head of Wizards, by the way?"
"If you mean the Minister of Magic… his name is Cornelius Fudge."
"Minister? What ministry?"
"Hmm… you could say it's a governing body of the magical world, instead of the royal crown system.
The minister is elected by the Council of Noble Houses."
"Strange system…
But who am I to judge, oh people of the future…"
"Anyway, you meant something else, didn't you?
Who's the strongest wizard in this age?"
"Ah, I see what you mean.
His name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."
"…Dumbledore?"
"I know… long name. But we're used to it.
And by the way — there was a dark wizard once named Voldemort.
But he was killed by a baby… barely a year old."
"Killed? By a child?"
"Yes. He's now called 'The Boy Who Lived'.
His name is Harry Potter.
And I suppose you don't like him much…"
"Potter…!"
I paused a little, then looked at the page again and wrote:
"By the way — could you stop trying to leech off my life force, little Voldy?
I assume you've realized by now… it's impossible."
Silence.
Then, in clear handwriting:
"What do you want from me?"