Half an hour later, Dudley emerged from the cell, satisfied. He'd gotten the information he was after—the addresses of the wizards who'd been hit with Lockhart's Memory Charms.
Whether he'd actually find them, though, depended on luck.
As he left, Lockhart had the nerve to try and justify his actions with some nonsense about how "nobody wants to hear stories about old, ugly wizards, so let me spread them instead." He tried to convince Dudley his methods were reasonable.
But Dudley wasn't a kid anymore. He wasn't falling for that.
No matter Lockhart's reasons, hurting others was never justified. He could've handled things more gently—like buying the rights to their stories and giving the wizards proper credit. With enough Galleons and the promise of fame, most would've probably agreed.
Instead, Lockhart chose the low road.
Since the stories weren't his own, he couldn't use them as a selling point. Maybe that's why they wouldn't have drawn as many readers. His greed led to his downfall.
He deserved it. He had it coming.
Letting him out of Azkaban was out of the question—Dudley wouldn't do it, even if he could. But he might push for a slightly reduced sentence. Lockhart was set to spend ten years in Azkaban. Dudley could try to knock it down to five. If Lockhart hadn't lost his mind by then, he could still live a normal wizarding life afterward.
That is, if the wizards he'd cursed with Memory Charms were still alive.
On his way out, Dudley didn't take the direct route. He wandered a bit, passing by other Azkaban prisoners. His Data-Magic Eye scanned them one by one. Years in Azkaban had left them broken—minds foggy, magic weakened, muscles wasting away.
But if they ever got out, they'd still be a dangerous bunch.
Finally, he spotted a man sitting quietly in a corner cell. He looked utterly broken—disheveled hair, a scruffy beard, and lifeless eyes. He radiated despair and decay, so much so that even the Dementors avoided him. No happiness to feed on, no nourishment for them.
As Dudley passed the cell, he "accidentally" dropped a newspaper. It fluttered down in front of the man, the front page showing a photo of the Weasley family winning a prize. Dudley was subtle—no one but the Dementors noticed, and they couldn't talk or snitch to other wizards.
Leaving Azkaban with a list of addresses in hand, Dudley picked the closest one.
"Looks like I've got my work cut out for me," he muttered.
In the wizarding world, nothing beats the speed of magical travel. Muggle airplanes don't hold a candle to Apparition—assuming you know the spell and don't mess it up.
Dudley spent a full week tracking down the wizards on Lockhart's list. It wasn't easy.
Lockhart had written ten books in his series, not counting the Best of Gilderoy Lockhart collection. The nine main books were published over one to ten years, and with the time he spent compiling them, the timeline stretched even further.
That's why Lockhart was such a git. He stole their stories, hit them with Memory Charms, and didn't care how they'd survive afterward. He didn't even bother ensuring they had the basics to live.
By the time Dudley tracked down the addresses, most were either long gone—vanished without a trace—or dead, reduced to dust.
The wizards Lockhart targeted had one thing in common: powerful magic but no fame. They were reclusive, uninterested in worldly glory, living like hermits. Most crucially, they had no heirs. In other words, Lockhart preyed on lonely, childless old wizards.
From the addresses in the first eight books, Dudley found only two still alive. They were from earlier stories, so they were still hanging on—barely. Losing their memories had left them in rough shape, especially since they'd forgotten how to cast spells.
One was an old hag who'd once banished the Wailing Widow, now scavenging for food in the rubbish. The other was a bald wizard who'd defeated a vampire, now starving and lying half-dead in a filthy hovel.
"Lockhart's a real piece of work," Dudley growled.
He arranged temporary care for them, planning to treat them all once he'd found everyone. Normally, a Memory Charm could be undone with a Reviving Charm, but Lockhart's spells were unique. He'd spent his life perfecting that one curse, and he hadn't held back. The spells had damaged the wizards' minds.
A simple Reviving Charm wouldn't cut it. They'd need ongoing potion treatments, and even then, Dudley wasn't sure it would work.
Now, Dudley arrived at the final wizard's location—a small village at the northern tip of Lockhart Town in New South Wales, Australia.
In Wanderings with Werewolves, Lockhart claimed he'd defeated the Wagga Wagga Werewolf in America and restored him to human form. But the real wizard wasn't in America—he was from Australia.
"He's probably over there," a local villager said, pointing Dudley in the right direction.
To be fair, the villagers weren't exactly friendly at first. Some even tried to rob him. But after a "friendly" chat with Dudley, they warmed up considerably.
He followed their directions to a rickety thatched hut—barely a house at all. Pushing open the door, he was hit with a wave of moldy, decaying air. Good thing he'd come prepared with a homemade mask.
The hut was dark, seemingly empty. Dudley pointed his wand forward, casting a beam of light.
The place was small, just one room. Soon, he found the wizard.
On the bed lay a shriveled corpse, its flesh dried out. The wizard had been dead for a long time.
Dudley sighed. "Too late."
Wanderings with Werewolves was written three years ago. Three years without memories, plus old age—it was no surprise the wizard hadn't made it.
What a shame. With his death, the spell to cure werewolves was lost forever.
Lockhart's crimes were unforgivable.
When Dudley got back, he'd appeal to the Wizengamot to extend Lockhart's sentence.
As he prepared to bury the wizard and his hut, his Data-Magic Eye pinged with a notification. Following its prompt, he noticed something near the body—a notebook?
In my version, Lockhart claims he defeated the werewolf in America and restored him to human form. The original text says: "Use your common sense. If I didn't make people think I did those things, the books wouldn't sell nearly as well. Readers don't want to hear about some ugly old American wizard, even if he saved a village from a werewolf."