Categories > Books > Harry Potter

Magical Me by Gilderoy Lockhart

by Marsredrust 1 review

The absolutely true story of how Gilderoy Lockhart (Order of Merlin 3rd Class, honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, and undefeated record holder of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile a...

Category: Harry Potter - Rating: PG - Genres: Fantasy,Humor - Characters: Gilderoy Lockhart - Published: 2017-07-26 - 4897 words

1Original
Author’s Preface

Salutations!
By Merlin’s beard, I was so busy writing another bestseller, I swear I almost didn’t see you there... drifting along in the dreary shadows of life looking for the slightest glimmer of the spotlight. But alas, not all of us have what it takes to make the world a brighter place, for it requires a special something if you will, that Je ne Sais Quoi! But don’t despair dear reader, for this is your chance to finally live vicariously through one of the world’s most accomplished wizards. And not just any old haggard Auror, but a wizard of the Order of Merlin 3rd Class, an honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, and the undefeated record holder of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile award! You might ask yourself who might this accomplished and handsome wizard be?
Why... it’s none other than me- Gilderoy Lockhart!
And I hereby modestly submit my humble self for your illumination, contemplation, and companionship in a way I would never choose be bothered with in real life. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? But you might be wondering- “Why would Gilderoy Lockhart take time out of his busy and important schedule to submit his experiences for me to mull over with my glazed, droopy, and lack-luster eyeballs?”
Because, you silly Grumpkin, the thing to keep in mind, is- I do this, not for fame, or fortune, or for an exclusive private dining room at the Leaky Caldron, no, I do it for you! Because my only hope in life is that my world famous tales, thrilling adventures, and breath-taking daring-do, help lift you out of your boring, stifling, muggle-like life and inspires you to dream big, go out into the world, and make a difference... by purchasing all of my best-selling novels, and affordable guides to house-hold pests. And don’t just buy them only for yourself, as that would be rather selfish, but also buy them for your friends and your family, since they make great gifts for birthdays, holidays, and even graduations. Also weddings. Oh, and don’t forget anniversary’s, not to mention funerals. (So I won’t, as that would be rude, and more importantly, it would be in poor taste. And I don’t want anyone to say Gilderoy Lockhart has poor taste, cause if you think about it, that would actually be really, really rude. Way more rude than giving one of my books as a gift at a funeral.)

P.S.
One teeny, tiny last thing- In order to protect the innocent, I may have changed the names of just a few characters, in order to guard their identity, of course, and in no way to benefit from their miserable experiences.

P.P.S.
Also, just in case anyone has the audacity to question whether the following stories are anything other that the utmost truth, I implore you to think of all the damage you would be inflicting on all the poor souls out there that would be caught up in your misguided attempt to smear my good name. I mean, talk about an Unforgivable Curse! Please, just take a moment to think of all the sad-eyed children with runny noses and second-hand wands that need a hero to look up to, and how they would be devastated, and in turn would give up on any hope of living a life of importance, and if you think about it, would probably become Death-Eaters or worse! You wouldn’t want that now, would you? I didn’t think so. So banish those fears and doubts that feed upon your soul like a hungry Dementor with my illuminating Patronus-like wit and charm, and may you forget all about “The Boy Who Lived” and begin your travels along with “The Man Who Has Lived it All”! ®

P.P.P.S.
To re-iterate, there’s absolutely no need to investigate what is reported in the following tales and in fact, a much better use of your time would probably be to just go ahead and start your own Gilderoy Lockhart Fan Club! That’s right, think about it... perhaps you could even be president of your own club, and win the adoration of all your friends and neighbors! Why, doesn’t that make you feel better already? I know I do! Furthermore, just think of the past as being something really complicated that was broken a long time ago - Really, really broken, like a million little pieces broken, and it can’t be put back together. So... without further ado, I invite you to light up the old fireplace, sit back in your favorite comfy chair, grab a steaming mug of Butter-Beer, and let my stories whisk you away like so much Floo powder, and know in your heart of hearts that everything in this book actually happened, and every word is completely true, and that none of it is made-up in the slightest.

Not even a little bit.

Sincerely yours,
Gilderoy Lockhart


Chapter 1-
The Once and Future Me

Oh, where to begin, where to begin?
Ah yes, on what seemed to be just your typical rainy grey day in Bristol, England on January 26, 1964, while the rest of the Wizarding World was caught up in a wave of hysteria over old moldy Voldy’s rise to power, a potentially much bigger phenomenon was busy being born, in a literal labor of love that my mother describes as, and I quote, “not horrendously excruciating.”
Indeed, it was your esteemed narrator himself, Gilderoy Lockhart, and I was the third child of the greatest Witch mother and Muggle father a boy could ever want.
But the thing was you see, when I was born, my dear magical mother had just about given up all hope on having any magical children, after my two much older sisters, who are just the about the loveliest squibs you could ever meet (not that there’s anything wrong with that), failed to materialize any magic. My Mother then kept her magical abilities to herself for many years, as she didn’t want to upset the rest of the family, or put them in danger. This strained my parents’ relationship nearly to the braking point; Beetle the Bard never said mixed relationships were easy, that’s for sure.
So, she kept her magic hidden, tucked away as it were; She wrapped up her wand, gave away her owl, and put her old broom in the closet. And when I was born, she had no idea if I was going to turn out to be magical, but she loved me all the same.
Since she wasn’t sure if I was going to manifest growing up, I didn’t even know of her secret power because she never mentioned, or demonstrated it. But then guess who changed all of that? No... not Merlin, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Gamed, or the even the great Gandalf-The-Grey.
That’s right, it was little old magical me who changed all of that!
Because, strangely enough, around the age of six or seven I became fascinated with the idea of “magic”, not real magic, mind you, as practiced by witches and wizards, but the kind practiced by muggle magicians- “magic tricks” on stage. Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but I did indeed love all the classic magicians like Harry Houdini and Harry Blackstone, and followed the comic strips featuring my favorite fictional character, the dapper and metropolitan Mandrake the Magician, who would fight crime by “gesturing hypnotically” to make people believe what he wanted them to see. He also lived in a really fabulous flat, and had a glamorous getaway car with all sorts of magical gadgets. All my family had was an old beat-up robin’s egg blue Ford Anglia, so you could see how exciting being a world famous magician would be to a little one and half-stone, shaggy-haired whippersnapper such as myself.
As I got a little older, I began to practice magic tricks and illusions for my friends and family. At first I was skeptical of my intentions, did I really just want to be the center of attention? Could there be a dark side to magic? I wondered this terrible thought for a brief moment at the end of my first little performance, but then the crowd erupted into delight. They were cheering and applauding, and I thought to myself, “Isn’t making people happy the real magic here?”
Good question... could there be anything more magical than that?
Little did I know, there actually was... like, real actual magic practiced by children at places like Hogwarts, and that my mother was secretly a witch. In any case, I practiced my magical illusions, and they became quite good, impressing friends and neighbors, and I began to book shows at birthday parties and make a little coin of the realm. I began to have dreams of becoming the world’s most famous magician, where I would travel around the globe with a beautiful assistant, and would wow stadiums of crowds. And in doing so, would make the world a better place, a brighter place, where any dream is possible, especially my dream... of making the world a better place... for me.
But then one day, at little Mikey Chabon’s Barmitzha, when I was eight years old, that all changed. As usual, I was thrilling the crowd with my illusions, and was ending with my show-stopping trick of pulling my pet bunny-Alice, out of my hat and placing her on my table where I would then make the rabbit “disappear” in a puff of smoke, while she secretly escaped through a trap door. But when I put the hat back on my head, I felt a plop, plop, plop. I quickly pulled it off, and much to my confusion, another different bunny jumped off my head. Looking into my hat, another rabbit then popped out, then another, and another.
“Amazing,” I exclaimed, “it’s just like magic!”
The rabbits hopped out into the crowd and I tried to chase them down and put them back. The audience went wild, and I tried my best to make it look like it was all part of the show. But I knew it couldn’t be possible, could it? For I had hidden only a single bunny in the secret compartment of my hat, but something else had happened... something magical.
My mother still withheld her secret since she was afraid it had been a merely a Fluke, (The common house-hold Fluke, of course, being a type of mythical Boggart that likes to play cruel tricks on the Squib children of magical parents.) however, after other similar magical incidents, she finally sat me down and told me what had really happened and why. She confessed she was a witch. A real live witch just like Muggles watch on TV shows like Sabrina The Teenage Witch, or Bewitched, or Jeannie from “I Dream of Jeannie”, who I guess was technically a Genie, but seemed pretty much like all the others witches on TV and in the movies, seeing as how she never ran out of wishes, or spells, or whatever.
I couldn’t believe it!
She explained everything the best she could, and told me all about the real history of witches, wizards, goblins, and fairies. She also informed me of the recent rise of You-Know-Who, and how terrible Death Eaters were, and how they hated people like us, which they called Mudbloods. I tried to take it all in, but my mind was reeling, but I could feel deep down what she was saying was true.
“So, magic is... real?” I asked, looking up into her big blue eyes.
“Yes,” she said with the world’s second greatest smile, “But in order to stay hidden and safe, you can’t perform magic tricks for people anymore. It’s too risky and dangerous.”
“What? Can’t I use magic... to be a magician?” I asked, suddenly unsure of all this hocus pocus business, and wondered if she was playing some sort of trick on me herself.
“No... I’m sorry.“ My mother shook her head and gently placed her hand on my shoulder, “Death-Eaters look down on magicians as the lowest form of entertainment. Even worse than... mimes.”
I was devastated.
What kind of monster was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Gamed? From that day on, I abhorred the idea of “Pure Blood”, and being a dirty “Mudblood” myself, I hoped that You-Know-Hoodoo would one day be defeated, and that someday magical and non-magical people could eventually live in harmony. A rather beautiful and deep thought, isn’t it? I know, I know... you underestimate me. It’s all right, I under-estimate myself all the time and then surprise! I once again exceed myself.
Although my mother tried cheering me up by informing me that next year I would be going to the pre-eminent school for wizards and witches- the venerable and hallowed Hogwarts, it was little consolation.
My dreams of being a magician were over, and I wondered to myself, “Who are you Gilderoy, old boy?”
I honestly didn’t know who I really was... but I was determined to find out.




Chapter 2-
The Hoary and Haughty Halls of Hogwarts

That spring, after I gave away my magic box of tricks and illusions, I was rather distraught. But then I remembered, just like the song says, to always look on the bright side of life, stay calm and carrion and all that jazz, and believe it or not, as I began practicing spells with my mother, I slowly cheered up. Despite the unfortunate beginning, those summer months she and I spent together were the best, we practiced everyday, and she said I was the best wizard she had ever seen, and mothers do not lie!
Here I was, a scrawny whelp not nine-years old, and I was already a prodigy the likes of which she had never laid eyes upon. My mother then sent many letters to Hogwarts informing them of my exceptional abilities, and although we didn’t receive a reply (you know how reliable owl service can be), I’m sure word spread around the school like dragon fire.
By summer’s end, I actually started to look forward to my impeding magical studies, and by the time my mother took me to Diagon Alley to pick out my owl, I was hopping around like a baby Hungarian Horntail. Afterwards we visited Ollivander’s Ye Olde Wand Shoppe, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and got goose-bumps all over, as I walked into the small, dark, and dusty shop.
Inside, after my eyes adjusted, I could see a boy with bright red hair gleefully whipping his wand around, and sending bubbles everywhere. His mother looked happy, but slightly nervous, as he kept sending out more bubbles, and now not just spherical bubbles, but cubes, pyramids, cones, and cylinders. It began to fill the whole shop, and she kept telling him to stop, but he just ran around laughing and continued, making more complex forms and figures.
Soon the entire shop was filled to the brim with bubbles of all shapes and sizes, and finally his mother snatched the wand away, and exclaimed, “I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH BUBBLES, ARTHUR!”
He just smiled and nodded, “Yes, Mum!” as she dragged him out
by his red throbbing ear.
As the bubbles slowly dissolved, my mother and I then stepped forward, and I informed Ollivander that I was ready to pick out my wand. But he just smiled, and leaned over and said, “No, no, no, my dear boy, you see... the wand chooses the owner.”
I laughed and looked at my mother who just nodded politely, and I asked, “How could that be?”
“Easy, it’s...” He paused, leaned in close, and whispered, “... magic!”
My mother and I both smiled awkwardly, and I wondered if old Ollivander had maybe sniffed a little too much wand wood glue in his day. After trying out few different wands, I then picked out the one that I liked the best (cherry, dragon heartstring, nine inches, slightly bendy) not the other way around, and I poked fun at the old man’s suggestion that we don’t always choose our fate.
He looked off into the distance, “We shall see, young Lockhart, we shall see...”
Perhaps the old man had a small point, because while I thought I had a pretty good idea of what to expect the following day, it turned out much different. You see, after my dear sweet mother wished me the best of luck, kissed me goodbye, and dropped me off at Platform 9 and ¾’s to board the train to Hogwarts, all of the other students acted like they didn’t care or, as preposterous as it sounds, even know who I was.
Can you believe that?
I marched right up to two older boys. One was tall in a long black overcoat, with brooding eyes, a sharp nose, and a mop of jet-black hair. Next to him stood a rather well dressed boy who had the bluest eyes, and longest, blondest hair I had ever seen.
Doing my best to strike up a conversation, I politely asked, “Cheerio, old boys! Might this be Platform 9 and ¾?”
The blond boy just snickered, and squinted his eyes, “Hmmpf...”
The dark haired boy waited, almost motionlessly, and finally just rolled his eyes, “Ob.....visously.”
They both just stared at me in silence, I believe doing their best to summon the Evil Eye. Seeing as how I had my turquoise Lotus-Hand Charm to warn off the Eye packed away in my luggage, I said, “Well, I say... good day, kind sirs!” as politely as I could, and walked away.
Ooh, that really got their goat... classic English-style!
But alas, as I looked around, I realized what the problem was; the two boys, and the rest of them, must have been intimidated and perhaps a little bit jealous of me. For they must have heard about my wondrous abilities, and sadly enough were envious of my preternatural gift. But don’t worry, I forgave all of them right then and there- I’m no fudge to hold a grudge, that’s for sure!
Anyways, along with the rest of the students, I boarded the train and eventually arrived at Hogwarts. While not quite living up to my expectations, the grounds and school wasn’t too shabby, and all the students lined up in the great hall to eat a sumptuous feast while the faculty introduced themselves. Afterwards, the head-master Albus Dumbledore called all the new students up for the tradition of the Sorting Hat. I had been already informed by my mother of the various houses of Hogwarts, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, and watched other students get sorted with mounting anticipation. After what seemed like forever, Dumbledore finally read out my name, “Gilderoy Lockhart!”
I stepped up as the crowd was doing their best to pretend they weren’t interested, and put on the Sorting Hat. It felt strange on my scalp, like a scratchy and smelly massage.
The Sorting Hat mumbled, “Oh, uh, huh... very difficult... yes. Let’s see, let’s see. Yes, you would do great in... Slytherin.”
The students were doing their best to hide the fact that they were on the edge of their seats, or benches, or pews, or-you get the idea.
I thought to myself, “Please not Hufflepuff, please not Hufflepuff.-”
Finally, the Sorting Hat called out, “Ravenclaw!”
The crowd cheered secretly in silence, and I yelled out, “Yes! Not hufflepuff!” Not that there’s anything wrong with Hufflepuff, of course. Anyhow, as Dumbledore called down more students with odd names like Longbottom, Lovegood, and Lupin, I was kindly greeted by the house prefect, joined my fellow Ravenclaw housemates, and I was comfortable and secure in my chosen house, which is renowned for it’s students’ wit and intellect, just like me.
In the following weeks, once classes commenced, I set out at once to figure out what I would like to accomplish at Hogwarts. How to make my mark, as it were, but not a dark mark, but like... a light mark! I wondered, “Should I concoct my very own Philosopher’s Stone? (What’s that? Hmm? Never heard of the Philosopher’s Stone? Oh, it’s like the Sorcerer’s Stone, but not as gaudy.) Become the head of Gryffindor’s Quittich team, and lead them to a World Cup championship? Or perhaps study the intricate rules of magical law, and become the youngest Minister of Magic ever?”
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, while I had set out to attempt these noble endeavors, I had apparently developed quite a devoted little secret admirer, or perhaps even admirers. For in my third year, I was so focused on my studies researching Nicholas Flamel’s famous stone, that once Valentine’s came, I received not one, mind you, or two or three, but no less than eight hundred valentine letters.
That’s right, eight hundred! That’s probably more than the heart-throb vampire Amarillo Lestoat himself has received his entire undead life! There were so many owls, they had to shut down the great hall they did. By those numbers almost every girl in Hogwarts must have sent me a letter. Lily Potter did always love being my potions partner... um, ahem, may she rest in peace... or, um, whether even the esteemed Dolorous Umbridge sent them herself, I guess we’ll never know!
Anyway, in my fifth year, as I was rising through the ranks of the Ravenclaw Quittich team, my secret admirer then emblazoned my name forty feet high on the Quittich Posts. Can you believe it? Yes, I suppose it is a rather good name... Oh, who can blame them? I sure couldn’t when I saw each resplendent letter sparkling in gold.
I wondered who it could have been? Maybe it was Sybil Trelawny? Did she gaze into that crystal ball of hers and see a future? Perhaps the answer lies in the Department of Mysteries... who knows?
Unfortunately however, despite my record-setting performance, I had to bow out later that season due to a terrible knee injury that still haunts me to this day, for I so planned to take Ravenclaw to the championship that year... oh well, the best laid plans of mice and men...
Regardless, one of my many admirers still continued to try and woo me from afar, because on one chilly night, after some miscreant student cast the Dark Mark above the Owlery, shortly thereafter someone else, I’m embarrassed to admit, then cast my own handsome face in the night sky above it, blotting most of it out.
As it so happened, I was just walking back from the library when I saw a group of students in the courtyard gazing up, slack-jawed at it’s beauty.
The popular James Potter squeezed his swotty little girlfriend Lily Evans close, and whispered, “Can you believe it? Here, at Hogwarts?”
Lily shook her head in awe, “Who would do such a thing?”
I leaned close, smiled and said, “I know... such detail, and so accurate too, they even got my smile!”
Sirius Black shoved me and rudely snarled, “Are you daft, man? We are talking about the Dark Mark! It must have been someone in Slytherin.”
Looking back, it’s obvious now that Sirius was just trying to cover for his allegiance to the Dark Lord, and although I never trusted him, I didn’t suspect it at the time, a real shame too because of happened later, one of my few, if only, regrets from my time at Hogwarts.
Peter Pettigrew then added, “Yes.. must have been someone in Slytherin... perhaps Lucius.”
He was always too trusting... poor Peter Pettigrew. I hope Sirius Black rots away locked up in Azkaban for a good long while.
Anyway, trying to cheer up the morose group, I then added, “Well, whoever did it, my face sure put that drab old Dark Mark to shame, let me tell you!”
They thought about it for a moment, and Remus Lupin just shook his head, stared wistfully up at the full moon, and scratched at his neck, “I don’t know, but I don’t feel... well. We should all get going.” and they quickly walked away, their spirits clearly buoyed by my illuminated visage looking out above them.
“Toodle-oo!” I said.
And really, who knows who did it? Maybe the Dark Mark was merely a distraction? Perhaps a little Veritaserum might get Bellatrix herself to admit she was perhaps more smitten with yours truly, than with old You-Know-Who.
Well, I can only hope the students took solace in my glowing countenance during those dark, terrible times... and really how could they not? I know I did. But around that time, I had begun to wonder about life beyond Hogwarts after graduation. I had not accomplished all that I had set out to do, and so I felt a smidge lost, unsure of what career I would pursue. That all changed a few days later when I was called into the front office to speak to Dumbledore about who had cast my face in the sky that night, despite the fact that I absolutely had no idea at all.
I was waiting outside in the hall, when I saw the up-and-coming journalist Rita Skeeter step into the waiting room and sit down across from me. I recognized her face from The Daily Prophet articles about the Ministry of Magic’s battles with You-Know-Who and his army of Death-Eaters.
“Excuse me?” I said, “Aren’t you the journalist Rita Skeeter?”
She looked up from her Quick Quote Quill and said, “I am, darling. I’m here interviewing your Head-Master for a book I’m writing about him, care to give a quote?”
“Um, yes, I think that... um, Dumbledore is the... best-“
“That’s great, I’ll be sure to use it, darling.” She smiled, and went back to writing.
“Pardon me, but do you enjoy being a journalist?” I asked out of curiosity.
She looked up from her parchment, and thought for a moment, “Well... yes, I suppose I do... I love to write, I get to meet fascinating people, and travel the world. Why, do you want to be a journalist?”
“Me?” I wondered to myself for a moment since I had never really given writing a thought, “Maybe...?”
“Just start writing articles and getting them published, then Poof! You are journalist. Easy-Peasy, darling... and after you graduate, give me a call, I’ll set you up in the mail room at The Daily Prophet, they are always looking for strapping young lads such as yourself.” and she gave me her card, and winked.
Moments after that brief strange and serendipitous exchange, Dumbledore then called me into his office to interrogate me about the Dark Mark incident. He sat at his desk and asked me a series of questions about that night. Finally after nearly an hour, he said, “So you have no idea who put up the Dark Mark... or, clearly more important to you, which one of your many admirers put your face in the sky that night?”
“No, unfortunately I do not.” I answered, completely perplexed about the whole matter, “But... you know, there might be a way to get to the bottom of this.”
Dumbledore stood up, and rubbed his temples, “Oh, yes? How’s that?”
“Well... if we had a school newspaper, we might be able to get students to report on what happened, you know... anonymously. Perhaps they would prefer confiding in a fellow trusted student rather than a Professor, and then that student could write up a report on what they learned. And then-”
Dumbledore just sighed, and walked over to his Pensive, “Alright, fine, just... just get out of my office. I have a headache!”
“Ta!” I said.
I was flattered, for he proceeded to pull out his memory of our meeting, and flung it into his Pensive, clearly to enjoy later without having to lose any wonderful details, and I thought, “Well, well, well, what do you know?” For I had convinced the old codger with my logic and grace after all, and thus began the first student newspaper in the entire history of Hogwarts, as well as my own auspicious writing career.
Soon I was up and running, and issue after issue sold out. Also, as lead reporter, editor-in-chief, and photographer, I receive quite a few accolades for my various in-depth exposes on the founding members of Hogwarts, it’s various ghosts, and it’s unique culinary history known throughout the wizarding world. At last, I had finally found my calling and during my final year, the newspaper became a tremendous success, and the letters column overflowed with praise for my penetrating prose- I was now well on my way to a career in letters.
I then finally graduated from Hogwarts in ’83 at the top of my class, despite the addition of first-year Professor Snape, and his best attempts to fail my in potions class.

Next stop- The Daily Prophet!
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