Chapter Text
I do not own Harry Potter or any of the related characters. The Harry Potter series was created by JK Rowling and owned by Warner Bros. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of the original Harry Potter story belong to Warner Bros. Any names used are a nod to the respective authors I admire so much.
Chapter 1 – The Harmless Fool
Gilderoy Lockhart sat behind an ornate oak table at Flourish and Blotts. The polished wood gleamed beneath the chandeliers, surrounded by towering stacks of Mirrors and Mayhem. His bright blue robes shimmered, golden hair framing his face like a stage-lit halo. Every smile drew delighted sighs from the witches gathered before him.
With practiced elegance, he signed each book. Dedicating with flair, he wrote: To my dearest adventurer, Forever brave, forever beautiful. May your days shine brighter than Bavarian glass. Each flourish flowed effortlessly from the quill.
He laughed at compliments, winked at bashful witches, and shook hands with flushed wizards. Occasionally, he paused to adjust his lapels or ruffle his hair with precision honed over years of performance.
The air smelled of parchment, spellbooks, and sweet perfume. Children darted through the crowd, clutching books nearly as large as themselves.
A mother nudged her daughter forward. Lockhart leaned in, smile warm and conspiratorial.
“And who is this brave young witch?”
“M-Maggie,” she stammered, cheeks flaming.
“Extraordinary name,” he said, tapping his nose. “I can tell. Very powerful. Promise me you’ll write after facing your first haunted mirror.”
She nodded so hard her hat slipped. Laughter rippled through the crowd. He signed her copy and passed it back with a wink.
Next came an elderly wizard in green robes.
“My granddaughter adores you. Would you mind…?”
Lockhart scribbled a dedication and sketched a twirling mask in the margin. “A fine grandfather indeed. Send her my best.”
The man beamed.
From the edge of the crowd, a young woman pushed forward, notebook in hand. A Daily Prophet badge glinted against her robes.
Lockhart straightened and donned a look of amused curiosity.
“Mr. Lockhart,” she began, “care to comment on the allegations that some of your exploits—”
He laughed heartily, tossing his head.
“Allegations? My dear, jealousy lurks in every corner. If my critics had a Knut for every fib, they’d own Gringotts by now.”
Nearby witches leaned in. The reporter opened her mouth again. He offered a regretful smile.
“Modesty forbids me from spoiling too much. But the cursed castle of Marberg? The shattered mirror room? The banshee in the ballroom?” He tapped the stack of books. “All true. And very much mine.”
Applause and whistles followed. Flushed, the reporter backed into the crowd.
He turned to a witch wearing phoenix-shaped earrings. “Exquisite taste.”
“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Lockhart.”
“A phoenix once sang for me,” he said, eyes distant. “Changed my life.”
A teenager nearby blurted, “Bet it sang off-key!”
Laughter followed. Lockhart joined in. “Even off-key, still magical. Unlike my own singing, which clears rooms.”
A woman clutched Magical Me. “Is it true you fought a Lethifold with just a hatstand?”
He grinned. “Hats off to your research. Entirely true.”
The tale flowed effortlessly, every gesture and pause calculated. His audience hung on every word.
By midday, the stacks of Mirrors and Mayhem dwindled. The manager hovered, eyeing the crowd outside.
Lockhart stood, arms raised. “Ladies and gentlemen, I must away! Mirrors don’t misbehave on their own, you know.”
Applause erupted. He bowed, kissed a swooning witch’s hand, and exited through the private door.
In the dim hallway, his smile faded into a satisfied smirk.
His assistant, robed in black, approached with pumpkin juice.
“Another triumph, sir.”
He raised the glass. “To triumphs.”
“The reporter? Shall I discourage future visits?”
“No,” Lockhart said, chuckling. “Let them wonder. Let them talk.”
Outside, the sun blazed. Shoppers bustled. Their dazzling hero slipped away unnoticed, heart pounding.
Legends never rested.
And neither did he.
——Scene Break——
Above the shop, Lockhart’s private suite stood in still contrast to the clamor below. Velvet curtains blocked sunlight, candelabra casting a muted glow. The scent of wax, parchment, and potion ingredients lingered in the thick carpet.
Armchairs surrounded a writing desk. A tall grandfather clock ticked steadily. Lockhart removed his robes and approached the Pensieve on the desk.
He tapped a wall panel, revealing a cabinet of vials. From his temple, he drew a new memory and dropped it into the swirling basin. Scenes of books, fans, and staged monsters unfurled.
Pulling a leather-bound ledger from the shelf, he logged the day’s work. Book counts. The reporter. The illusion mirrors.
He paused, selecting a vial marked Paris Auction House. Uncorking it, he poured the memory into the basin. Chandeliers, cursed brooches, masked guests.
A guard lingered in a reflection.
Lockhart noted it, writing adjustments: spell recalibration, timing, cleaner exit.
A knock at the door.
His assistant entered with tea and treacle tart. Lockhart waved him off. The man set the tray, eyes flicking to the basin.
Caught.
Lockhart turned slowly.
The assistant lowered his gaze and retreated.
Lockhart sipped tea, steam curling around his face. Silence settled.
He retrieved the memory, sealed it, and returned the vial. His hand hovered over Mexico: Temple of the Wind Serpent.
Not yet.
He closed the cabinet and turned to the wardrobe beside it.
A green cloak with silver lining flowed across his shoulders. Gone was the showman. The man in the mirror was sharper, colder.
He checked a hidden pocket. The slim blackthorn wand waited.
Satisfied, he extinguished the candelabra. Shadows stretched long.
He returned to the desk.
The next chapter waited.
——Scene Break——
The Paris auction house shimmered under floating lanterns. Marble floors mirrored the crowd, their robes trailing past velvet-draped displays. Perfume, wine, and old spells filled the air.
Lockhart entered in navy robes edged in silver. He paused, surveyed the room, and glided into the crowd.
Champagne in hand, he chatted with a portly wizard admiring a jeweled dragon egg.
“Exquisite.”
“A relic of Montmartre,” the man replied.
Lockhart smiled. “Claims and relics, inseparable.”
The man laughed. Lockhart moved on.
Across the room, the real prize glinted: a serpent brooch, cursed rubies for eyes.
Lockhart didn’t linger.
Mirrors around the hall flickered subtly. Illusions planted earlier distorted guards created phantom shadows.
He took a tart from a passing tray, fingers brushing enchantments. Still stable.
The auctioneer stepped up. A chime rang. The bidding began.
Lockhart drifted to refreshments, eyes always moving. Guards. Assistants. Timing.
Enchanted mirrors triggered. Guests gasped. A smoke illusion appeared near a hallway.
Guards rushed and confusion bloomed.
Lockhart approached the brooch.
He bumped into the returning server and his tray crashed to the marble floor.
Guests turned.
In that instant, the brooch vanished into his robe. A replica replaced it.
He crouched, gathering glass, murmuring comfort. The server blushed and he apologised in French.
When he rose, the case appeared untouched.
The auction continued and Lockhart eased away.
He paused to praise an enchanted shawl. The owner tittered.
Near the exit, guards questioned guests.
Lockhart slouched slightly. Invitation in hand.
“Did I miss a fire?”
They waved him through.
Outside, Paris pulsed with light and sound. He strolled across the square, paused to admire a gargoyle, then quickened his pace.
A taxi stood at the front of a taxi rank and he climbed in.
Inside, he removed the brooch. Rubies glinted. Runes shimmered.
He placed it in a padded iron box, cast locking spells, and sealed it.
Only then did he smile.
Another fortune claimed.
The taxi rolled into the Paris streets.
Possibilities lay ahead.
And Lockhart always made them real.
—Scene Break—
The rooftops of Istanbul shimmered under moonlight, domes and minarets casting long shadows across the sloped tiles. Warm wind carried the scent of spice and smoke as Gilderoy Lockhart hauled himself over the edge of the Grand Bazaar’s northern dome, clutching a velvet-wrapped relic to his chest.
He landed in a crouch and turned just in time to see her.
“Fancy meeting you here,” drawled Marla Yvette, black leather gloves and a glinting dagger at her belt. Her curls were pinned back, her grin wolfish.
Lockhart raised an eyebrow. “You’re late.”
“I let you do the heavy lifting.”
“I always do,” he said, brushing dust from his lapel.
Marla stalked forward, her boots silent on the tiles. “That belonged to the House of Seljuk.”
Lockhart backed up along the dome’s curve. “No,that was going to belong to the House of Seljuk. It now belongs to… someone with a much more developed sense of flair.”
Marla laughed. “You used the mirror trick again, didn’t you?”
He smirked. “Old tricks are still tricks.”
“I warned you what would happen if you crossed me again.”
“And I told you to pick faster locks.”
They stood a breath apart now, the air between them electric with heat and history. Somewhere below, bells chimed midnight.
Marla stepped close. “Give me the relic, Gilderoy.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You’re not walking out of this city with it.”
“I wasn’t planning to walk.”
From beneath his cloak, Lockhart drew a small bronze disc etched with runes. A Portkey. She lunged too late — his hand twisted, and he vanished in a snap of displaced air and shimmering light.
Alone on the rooftop, Marla cursed in three languages.
Below, the muezzin’s call drifted up through the warm night air.
——Scene Break——
Chicago glittered below, a frozen sea of steel and neon, stretching all the way to the black slash of Lake Michigan. Gilderoy Lockhart crouched on the ledge of the 77th floor of the Grunwald Tower, breath misting in the January air, coat flapping at his ankles. His wand sat loose in one hand, and at his hip, the leather satchel buzzed faintly with residual curse-ward interference.
Behind him, the rooftop access door leaned off its hinges like a drunk at a bus stop. He hadn’t meant to be so loud, but American security enchantments, he’d found, favored brute force over finesse.
Lockhart exhaled, then muttered, “Really should’ve hexed the janitor. Kind of adorable, the way he swung that mop.”
The wind gusted, rattling a loose steel vent and throwing up flurries of snow-dust. Across the street, a taller building pulsed red with digital advertisements. Below, sirens wailed with familiar indifference. This was not a city easily startled.
He shifted on the rooftop ledge, brushing ash and gravel from his boots, then leaned forward to peer down. Eighty feet below, emergency crews scurried around the museum plaza, trying to work out how a “sudden electrical storm” had caused a blackout, disabled the CCTV, and fried every proximity sensor guarding the Etruscan Wing. A shame, really. Their loan exhibition had just opened.
Lockhart tapped the satchel affectionately. Inside, a timepiece the size of a mandrake’s heart ticked away in eleven directions at once. The Chronograph of Euxinus the Doomed. Supposedly it could predict minor disasters and marriages — sometimes in the wrong order. Galleons would flood in from collectors. Or cultists. He didn’t ask questions anymore.
A gust of wind tugged his coat collar, and he wrapped it tighter, muttering a warming charm under his breath. His stomach grumbled.
Right. The pizza.
He stood, rolling his shoulders. “If I die tonight, I hope they put it on my headstone. Here lies Gilderoy Lockhart: Devoured by wards, saved by crust.”
Two hours earlier, he’d ducked into Louie’s on Clark for cover and a meal, only to discover Chicago-style pizza was not food. It was architecture. The pie had arrived like an edible fortress — red walls of sauce, a moat of cheese, and toppings that carried a warning label. He’d eaten two slices. Possibly three. The third might’ve been someone else’s. The table had been large and the lighting poor.
It had been good. Sinfully so. But halfway through disabling the Etruscan alarms, his stomach had begun to protest. By the time he’d dodged a flying axe-head launched by a pressure-triggered defensive rune, he’d sworn off tomato-based meals for a week. Maybe.
“Next time,” he muttered, tugging his gloves tighter, “I steal the pizza. It’s clearly the more powerful artifact.”
Something buzzed in his ear — not magic, but mechanical. A drone? Lockhart froze, wand lifting. Red lights blinked along the east perimeter. A camera sweep, slow but thorough.
He ducked behind the air conditioning unit and whispered, “Ostendo Nihil.” Instantly, the shadows around him deepened, wrapping him in visual silence.
He waited. Counted three heartbeats. No alarm. No sweep. The drone passed on, content with the illusion.
He allowed himself a small smile.
“Still got it.”
With a low whistle, he summoned his broom — a sleek 1924 Starstreak, charm-enhanced, spell-dampened, and glamoured to resemble a shipping drone when viewed from below.
It sailed up from a hidden ledge several floors below and hovered just beside him, tail stabilizers flaring softly in the wind.
He stepped on, one boot after the other, settling his weight and adjusting the satchel at his side.
Chicago yawned beneath him.
He gave the skyline one last glance. The river glowed like a vein of lightning between dark towers. Louie’s sign still blinked invitingly down on Clark Street. Somewhere in the night, a saxophone drifted from a third-floor apartment.
Lockhart sighed, grinned, and kicked off into the wind.
——Scene Break——
The entrance to The Charmed Palate was disguised as a janitor’s closet behind the Rodin exhibit. One whispered password, two unnecessary winks, and a pulse check for latent curses, and Lockhart stepped inside.
The speakeasy unfolded like a velvet-draped illusion, low lighting, murmured jazz, and floating crystal spheres casting liquid gold patterns across marble floors. Tables shimmered with concealment charms, and waitstaff moved like ghosts through silk shadows.
Lockhart adjusted his cuffs. Tonight, he wore dark plum robes trimmed in midnight silk — understated, expensive, and impossible to trace to any country’s registry.
At the far booth, his contact waited.
Myra Kestrel, curse-breaker, art smuggler, and internationally wanted antique flirt, lounged against the velvet seat. Her grey eyes sparkled above a glass of amber mist. Her skin tight dress was black dragonhide. Her smile was full of secrets.
She sipped her drink. “You’re late, and marvelously overdressed.”
Lockhart slid into the booth opposite her, laying the satchel on the table with deliberate care.
“I thought you’d appreciate the effort. Most clients prefer punctuality. You, however, enjoy suspense.”
She grinned. “And what did you bring me?”
He unlatched the satchel and withdrew a velvet-wrapped bundle. With a flourish, he revealed the Chronograph of Euxinus. Its many dials turned independently. A smaller clock-face ticked backwards.
Myra’s breath caught.
“Is that real?”
“It ticks in at least five time signatures, and predicted a kitchen fire at Louie’s twenty seconds before the chef sneezed. I’d say it’s real.”
She leaned in. “How did you get it?”
He smiled lazily. “A mix of charm, planning, and indigestion.”
Myra chuckled. “I always forget how annoying you are when you win.”
She reached into her cloak and withdrew a small leather pouch, setting it on the table. Galleons. The real kind, old-mint, goblin-pressed, trace-free.
Lockhart tested the pouch’s weight with a satisfied tilt of the wrist. “And here I thought Americans only paid in favors and fast food.”
Myra gave him a sideways glance. “Why not keep it? Sell it yourself. You’re not usually this… cooperative.”
Lockhart held up the timepiece, watching it tick in slow spirals.
“Some artifacts are dangerous in the wrong hands, and I have a very firm policy about not dying before dessert.”
“You trust me?”
“No, but I trust your greed not to get you killed, plus you’re one of the better curse breakers I’ve met.”
“Who’s better than me?”
Lockhart smirked. “He has a dragon tooth earring?”
“Asshole.”
“Bill is or I am?”
“Yes.”
They sat in silence for a beat, the hum of conversation and distant laughter wrapping the booth like a veil.
“Care for another job?”
Lockhart’s eyebrow arched.
“Depends, Is there pizza involved?”
Myra tapped her finger against the rim of her glass. “There’s a collection coming in from the Balkans. Private, heavily warded, not on any public manifest. Three items. One of them’s the Codex of Sighisoara.”
Lockhart blinked once. “The codex is a myth.”
“So were you, until about Chapter Four of your last book.”
He leaned back, mind already flicking through maps and museum layouts. “Let me guess. Black tower vault. Anti-portkey seals. Acid fog defense matrix.”
“Close. Top floor of the Drake, west wing. Moving exhibit. Disguised as a healing compendium.”
Lockhart clicked his tongue. “That’s… doable.”
Myra raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”
He smiled coolly. “When has that ever stopped me?”
She reached into her purse, and tossed a folded parchment across the table. Wards, security notes, and a sigil sequence Lockhart hadn’t seen in years. He scanned it, lips tightening.
“It’s tight.”
Myra waggled her hand from side to side. “It’s suicidal.”
He hesitated.
She leaned in, smirking. “Need a partner?”
“No.”
The pause after was too long to be convincing.
She laughed. “Sure. Tell yourself that when the blood-eating vines hit your ankles.”
Lockhart tucked the parchment into his inner pocket, finishing his drink with a single elegant toss. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
“You always need me.”
He stood, cloak swirling behind him, and made for the exit.
——Scene Break——
Back in the borrowed apartment above Louie’s, still smelling faintly of fire chillies and garlic. Lockhart spread the parchment on the table and stared at the layers of sigils, traps, and precision timing required.
Three seconds to disable the runic choke lock.
Two to pass through the mirrored corridor before it reset.
A final sequence that involved either blood type matching… or a second person.
He drummed his fingers on the table.
Most jobs needed guile. This needed coordination. A second wand. Not just muscle, but finesse. Someone who could keep pace, lie well, and improvise when things went sideways, because they always went sideways.
And unfortunately, he already knew just the witch.
With a sigh, he tapped his wand to a nearby mirror. Her face shimmered into view mid-laugh, clearly in the middle of a card game somewhere warm and disreputable.
“Myra,” he said.
Her grin sharpened. “So. When do we steal the codex?”
——Scene Break——
Chicago glittered beneath them—steel and firelight reflecting in a thousand mirrored windows. The Drake Tower’s west wing loomed ahead, all dark glass and charm-woven antennae. The penthouse vault stood at the top, wrapped in layered enchantments and a magical pressure that made Lockhart’s teeth ache from three floors down.
“Still think it’s doable?” Myra asked as they crouched on the adjacent rooftop, wind tearing at her scarf.
Lockhart didn’t look away from the tower. “Everything is doable. Some things are just… mathematically unlikely.”
“You said no one would be on patrol tonight.”
“I also said the Sicilian squid fondue was worth trying. You gambled. You lost.”
Myra rolled her eyes. “Just admit it. We need two.”
“We have two.”
“And that you need me.”
He turned, deadpan. “You’re loud, reckless, and incapable of basic stealth—”
“And you’re vain, underprepared, and allergic to backup plans.”
A beat.
He smiled. “We make a good team.”
The glass gave way under Myra’s cutting charm, opening just wide enough for them to slip through. Lockhart dropped into the observation gallery, landing in a roll, wand already out.
The wards flared.
Myra followed, muttering counter-charms before her boots touched stone. The flares died, suppressed just in time.
“Don’t breathe on anything,” she warned.
Lockhart’s reply was already halfway through his lips when something creaked below.
Footsteps. A security mage. Early.
Myra ducked behind a statue of Galen. Lockhart flattened himself against a tapestry of enchanted flora.
They didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
The guard passed within feet. A second pair of boots echoed behind, twins. New. Myra mouthed change of shift.
Lockhart counted under his breath.
When the corridor cleared, they moved. Past the mirrored corridor. Past the floating scriptorium. Into the final chamber, where the Codex of Sighisoara rested beneath silver runes, suspended mid-air like a heartbeat waiting to stop.
Lockhart knelt by the pedestal. “We have eighteen seconds once I breach the first layer.”
“Seventeen, You’re bad at clocks.”
He shot her a look, then cast the unlocking sequence—runic to phonetic, weaving three counter-charms into one movement.
The runes shattered like glass.
The codex dropped.
Myra caught it in midair.
And the room screamed.
Wards flared red. Metal sang. Stone groaned.
“They updated the curse structure!” she shouted.
“Impossible! The blueprints said—”
“They were six months old!”
A ripple of force surged toward them. Myra shoved the codex into his arms and hurled a spell at the wall. A hidden exit cracked open, half-formed, unstable.
Lockhart didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her hand and dove through as the vault collapsed behind them.
They landed in an office supply cupboard.
He blinked.
Myra sat up slowly, blinking glitter from her lashes. “We were very nearly dead.”
“But we’re not.”
She looked at him.
“You got the codex?”
He held it aloft, slightly singed but intact.
She burst out laughing.
“Next time, I pick the target.”
Lockhart grinned, heart still pounding. “Deal.”
——Scene Break——
The safehouse was a loft above a forgotten jazz bar on the South Side, all peeling brick, squeaky floorboards, and surprisingly effective wards. Myra sprawled on the ratty velvet couch, one boot off, the combat robe draped tossed to the floor. Lockhart sat opposite her, shirt unbuttoned down to mid chest, the Codex of Sighisoara propped between them on the coffee table, still radiating gentle menace.
They hadn’t spoken since the escape. They didn’t need to.
Lockhart swirled a glass of Old Ogden’s. “That was close.”
“Too close,” Myra agreed, wincing as she rolled her shoulder. “But the payout just got better.”
She tossed a folded piece of parchment onto the table. Lockhart snagged it with two fingers, flicked it open and scanned it.
“Sixty percent increase?”
“New buyer. Romanian vault-broker. Private collector, deep pockets, loathes the ICW. Wants it bad.”
Lockhart smiled slowly. “He’ll get it. And we’ll get enough to lie low until next June.”
Myra leaned back, as she assessed him.
“But I want more than to lie low, I want infrastructure. Network. Someone to run point. I’m tired of going into every cursed vault myself.”
“You want a partner.”
“No. I want a team. A real one. Not mercenaries. People who won’t sell me out the second I vanish from sight.”
He didn’t answer immediately. The Codex hummed faintly. Outside, somewhere in the city, a saxophone drifted upward from the alley.
Finally, Lockhart exhaled. “I’ve been thinking, about something stupid.”
Myra perked up. “My favorite kind of thinking.”
He met her eyes.
“What if we took on an apprentice?”
She blinked.
“You’re joking.”
“One. Just one, someone young. Unattached. Teachable. No allegiance to anyone but us.”
“A stray? Like a magical street cat? You got someone in mind.”
“Like someone who could run interference. Get into places we can’t. Learn the business properly, not just the spellwork. Yeah, it’s a stupid idea but I can’t shake it.”
Myra sat up, expression sharpening. “You mean groom the next generation of high-end magical thieves?”
“I mean, we get older with every job. Sooner or later, the gap’s too wide. Someone’s going to catch us or we slip up. Unless we plan ahead.”
A long pause.
Then Myra grinned. “Alright. I’ll bite. You find them. I’ll vet them. But if they so much as spill coffee on one of my cursebooks—”
Lockhart grinned. “They’ll lose a finger.”
Myra raised her glass. “To terrible ideas.”
He clinked it. “The best kind.”
The fire burned low. A train rumbled beneath them. Somewhere out there, the perfect apprentice was waiting.
Lockhart just had to find them.
——Scene Break——
He never got the chance.
They’d barely made it out of Chicago. The Codex was wrapped, hidden, sold, clean. They should have vanished.
But the Aurors had gotten smarter.
They came not with robes and declarations but in Muggle suits and charm-muffled boots. Ministry intelligence. Quiet. Deadly.
Lockhart saw it unfold in the reflection of a street window, three wands raised behind Myra as she crossed the street, Codex payment in hand. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t run.
She turned to Lockhart, made eye contact through the blur of rain, and mouthed one word.
Go.
The Disillusionment charm was already on him. He obeyed. She went for her wand.
She went down fast. Nonlethal, efficient—Ministry-approved.
He didn’t stop to watch them haul her into the van. Didn’t breathe until he’d apparated three counties over, hands shaking, fury rising.
Later, in a new city, in a new face, he raised a glass to her in a quiet pub.
To Myra. To terrible ideas. To never trusting anyone—and to doing it anyway.
He pulled out a map, drew a fresh circle around London.
Somewhere, there was a boy who didn’t yet know what he was good at.
And Lockhart still needed an apprentice.