Gilderoy Lockhart returned to his mansion for Christmas, clutching his little diary. Before the holiday, he had received a letter from Dantes. In it, Dantes demanded that Lockhart act as if he genuinely adored Donna. He promised a future project with a profit margin as high as 500%—but only if Lockhart could win Donna's unwavering devotion soon. If not, someone else would benefit from the venture.
"Darling, dinner's ready!" Donna's overly sweet voice drifted from downstairs.
Lockhart snapped his diary closed, rubbed his weary face, and plastered on his most triumphant smile.
"Coming, dearest!"
He told himself: being nice now—even if it was just for show—would pay off handsomely once Old Avery passed away. Not only did Dantes say so, but Tom Riddle's diary confirmed it, too. Lockhart's resolve hardened.
Perhaps, he thought, after Christmas he'd reply to Donna's letters more sparingly.
Yet this woman was truly foolish: he had ignored her an entire semester, and now she seemed more in love than ever.
Lockhart strolled downstairs to find Donna in an apron, carrying a plate of fried fish.
"Dearest, you're pregnant—don't overexert yourself in the kitchen. What if you get too tired? Dantes just launched that new House-elf Delivery service—you can order in, and the house-elves cook incredibly well."
Her response was ecstatic. "You're so good to me, darling. I love you more every day. I'd even die for you!"
There was no need to die—just help me transfer all Avery family wealth to my name, he mused.
He flashed her a gentle smile.
"Die? How could I bear to let you die?"
He took his knife and fork and prepared to eat.
Donna gazed at him with rapture—then, as the doorbell rang in Lockhart's distinctive manner, she paused, stunned for a good five or six seconds.
"This is the mansion of Gilderoy Lockhart, internationally renowned author, recipient of the Order of Merlin (Third Class), honorary member of the Anti-Dark Arts League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's 'Most Charming Smile' Award. Please ring again—if I'm home, I'll invite you in. If not, perhaps you'd enjoy one of my narrated tales."
Lockhart's story began: "It was a dark and windy night. I walked a country road so thick with fog I couldn't see my hand in front of me. Then—a piercing howl! A werewolf, I presumed…"
Donna finally realized something was amiss. She frowned and hurried to the foyer. The moment she opened the door, a group of male wizards in black robes looked in, heads cocked in admiration.
There stood Kingsley Shacklebolt at the lead, distinguished by his dark skin and small round African-style hat.
"Hello, Lockhart."
The surprise was visible on Lockhart's face, but Donna quickly interjected: "It's Christmas—shouldn't you all be on holiday?"
She swallowed a lump in her throat. She remembered the day the tapestry vanished, John Flint's corpse revived, and Flint's house was suddenly empty when she returned. That burden weighed heavily.
Seeing the Aurors, she thought: my secret is out.
Kingsley spoke: "We have reason to believe Gilderoy Lockhart is in possession of dangerous Dark Arts artifacts, possibly linked to You-Know-Who. The Ministry takes this extremely seriously. We have a search warrant signed by Stirlinger—please confirm you understand."
Donna nearly breathed a sigh of relief—until anger flared at the implied accusation.
"Gilderoy would never!" she protested. "He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts! He couldn't possibly own such things!"
If anyone in that house did, it would be Ollivander Avery—but not Lockhart. She had lived here long enough to know.
"If nothing is found, then all is well—but you must let us search. Refusal would be considered obstruction, and you could be taken in as well."
Choking back fury, Donna stepped aside. With a warrant from Stirlinger himself, she dared not interfere.
"Dearest, who is at the door?" Lockhart boomed from the dining room.
"It's the Aurors, investigating," she replied, forcing composure.
"Oh, how unusual," Lockhart said with excessive cheer. "Perhaps I might assist—haven't written a detective novel yet, and I hear they're quite en vogue among Muggles!"
The Aurors shared wary glances. Could this be a prank? Lockhart did seem… amiable.
But Kingsley wasn't fooled: every Auror had received identical evidence from an anonymous tip—gathered in secret, without notice. The detail was damning, ample human and material proof. The tipster even anticipated the procedure: the Ministry planned to arrest Lockhart and interrogate him for using Memory Charms to steal experiences.
Regardless of guilt, Stirlinger's warrant stood. Soon enough, the search would reveal the truth.
"Search!" the Aurors commanded.
Lockhart remained pale-faced, but amused. He set down his fork and gestured grandly:
"Behold—this cabinet, built in 1756, with a hidden compartment that self-destructs if opened incorrectly. A marvelous place to hide things! Let me demonstrate."
The Aurors followed him around as he proudly revealed cleverly concealed spaces—places they had not thought to look. His smug expression never wavered.
Upstairs, before he could continue his tour, Kingsley's gaze fell on the diary sitting atop a desk.
"There," Kingsley said, voice firm, holding up the book. "Mr. Lockhart, what explanation do you offer for this?"
Lockhart froze. He had nearly forgotten the diary's dangerous power—the unknown steam of control it had exerted over him.
He paused before replying, his confident façade slipping.
"It's just an ordinary diary." His voice betrayed sudden uncertainty.
He knew full well whether there were Dark Arts artifacts in his home. But that diary—Tom Riddle's diary—might be an exception.
"Nancy, bring the Dark Arts trace detector," Kingsley ordered.
Lockhart panicked. "No, Aurors—this is just a normal diary. What Dark Arts item would look so innocent?"
Auror Nancy pressed the detector near the diary before even touching it. Instantly, the device's light flashed bright red.
"This diary is imbued with Dark Arts energy," Nancy declared.
Kingsley nodded. He reverently placed the diary into a metal containment box.
"Lockhart, we'll escort you to the Ministry for questioning. The Ministry has been cracking down on Dark Arts objects. You'll need to explain the diary's origins."
Lockhart forced a shaky smile.
"Can't I… not go?"
Kingsley squared his shoulders.
"Take him away," he ordered. And with that, Gilderoy Lockhart's laughter echoed hollowly through the mansion as he was led from his home.
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