The year was 2013; the month, September; the time, morning. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had welcomed its students, both new and old, with a grand feast the previous night. It was now filling up their tummies with a lovely breakfast, preparing them for their first classes of the term.
Hogwarts had undergone a lot of changes since the Battle of 1998. Oh, the Great Hall’s ceiling still mimicked the sky’s moods; the house tables were left intact. But it was now more common to see students of different houses sitting on the same table, sharing a pint of pumpkin juice. The Headmaster’s chair was occupied by Filius Flitwick, not Minerva McGonagall, who had retired, while a young, nervous looking man sat on Pomona Sprout’s usual seat. One more chair had been added, which was presently empty. A few students would often stare at their new Herbology professor with interest, as their friends scratched their head over the vacant spot. Usually, they ignored the teachers, preferring to catch up with news, discuss the lessons, or just eat and drink.
Before the previous night’s welcoming feast had commenced, Professor Flitwick had made announcements of what to expect that year, as was the tradition of the school. The race for the Quidditch Cup would happen in due course, points would be won as lost as per the students’ behaviour, and Neville Longbottom--most of the students had gasped at the name--would be taking over the position of Herbology professor. In the tumult caused by this last information, many had missed the final announcement: Hogwarts was offering culinary classes at last, and they’d hired a witch for the job. Interested students could apply for the class anytime they were free the next day. They only had to be in their fifth year or above.
Those who had missed the news had been filled in by their friends, and soon, the excited chatters about a big war hero joining the school were replaced by curious discussions about the new subject and the professor, who’d been absent during the feast. In Hufflepuff, quite a lot of people were planning to apply, since theirs was a house famed for their love of food and merrymaking; in Slytherin, only the most ambitious and most devious of students were seriously contemplating the matter inside their head (for they didn’t want to sound too thrilled about kitchen-work, but who knew what could be achieved with the power of fabulous cooking skills?); in Ravenclaw, most were wary of having to drop a subject for its sake, although they were prepared to agree that delicious food surely added a better flavour to life than, say, Arithmancy; in Gryffindor, those who had made up their mind to take on the subject did so to fulfil a dare. (Timothy Grass had bet Morgan McLaggen that she couldn’t bake to save her life; Morgan had retorted that Timothy couldn’t fry an egg to save his. Supporters of the two pigheaded Gryffindor Quidditch beaters had instantly jumped into the back-and-forth of –you couldn’t fill-in-the-blank-with-some-cooking-related-activity to save your lifeâ€, and from there on, the challenge spread through the common room like Fiendfyre, until half of the hot-headed Gryffindors in the fifth year and above had resolved to show their peers that they could conquer the art within mere weeks.)
That was why Neville Longbottom had to share the attention of the students with the conspicuous absence two chairs to his left. But where was this mysterious addition to the Hogwarts staff?
She was currently trapped in an incredibly deep alcohol-induced stupor at the Three Broomsticks. A cousin of Madam Rosmerta’s, barmaid of the popular Hogsmeade pub, she’d declined to join the welcoming feast at the school in favour of a –quiet†night at her cousin’s. As soon as she’d hugged her cousin, she’d declared, –You need a wine tasterâ€, and in spite of Rosmerta’s insistence that her wine collection was fine and she didn’t need to take the trouble, she’d proceeded towards the cellar and launched into a wine-tasting spree. Hence, the incredibly deep alcohol-induced stupor. Hence, the sharp poke that Rosmerta was presently bestowing upon her arm.
–Mmmpf.â€
Another poke was administered, a little harder this time.
–OW!†she yelled.
–Oi!†cried Rosmerta. –Aren’t you supposed to be at the school?â€
–Oh, bloody hell! Where’s my suitcase? I need to change my clothes. Still in my PJ’s. Oh, Christ!â€
Pronouncements such as these flowed from her mouth in an uninterrupted fashion for the next few minutes. Rolling her eyes, Rosmerta left her to it and went downstairs to make tea, without which--she’d been made to understand--her cousin couldn’t function for the rest of the day. –PG Tips,†she muttered, staring at the packet that had been handed to her the previous evening. –Looks Muggle.â€
Rosmerta’s cousin, who had been selected from scores of applicants for the Hogwarts job, was officially returning to the wizarding world after years of disappearing with the use of disguises. Her erratic and deceitful lifestyle had helped her elude the Death Eaters when they rose again. Having been a loud supporter of Muggleborns and Muggles the last time she’d been living as herself, they’d tried to find her. She’d proved too smart for then, though. It was rumoured that she’d slipped into the Battle to fight the forces of evil. However, no one remembered seeing her, or maybe they did see her but failed to recognise who she was. Calendora, on her part, never brought up the topic in her letters.
If truth be told, Rosmerta had doubted she’d ever turn up again in the magical world, and yet there she was, about to immerse herself at Hogwarts, where thousands upon thousands of witches and wizards gathered. (The math, Rosmerta knew, was somewhat screwed, yet it sounded impressive.) Perhaps, she’d realised she belonged to this way of living, among those who lived with wands. Isn’t home truly where the heart is and vice versa?
–Bollocks,†Calendora said as she finished her tea. –I returned because no one makes Spaghetti Bolognese better than me. Those kids ought to learn from the master chef.â€
As usual, Rosmerta knew she was speaking as she did by habit, her words covering what she had on her mind. As Calendora walked out of the pub, clad in jeans and a T-Shirt that bore the title –Gift of the Godsâ€, Rosmerta suspected the really reasons that had brought her cousin back would remain a mystery.
–We will miss you, Gilderoy.â€
Gilderoy Lockhart was preparing to leave St. Mungo’s. According to the Healers, he now possessed full control of his mental faculties. He could recount each of the adventures that had produced his best-selling books, and had regained his magical abilities. His old personality, however, had toned down to a degree; his teeth, for example, had turned yellowish, due to neglecting his Teeth Whitening Charm for nearly two decades. There was something strange about his eyes too. They seemed to glint with a spark unlike his old confidence. Those who tended to him couldn’t agree on what it could mean. Was it grief? Loss? A desire to return to his heroic days, a desire that burnt with a quiet flame? In the end, they stopped wondering. It didn’t matter what it could mean as long as it gave him that appealing broody look.
–Thank you, ever so much,†he said, flashing them all his most charming smile, the one that had fetched him accolades. –I shall miss you all, too. But, as you know, I must go. Though the last War ended years ago, the dark forces never rest. I must get out and do what I can to eradicate them.â€
–Of course, Gilderoy!â€
Bouquets of flowers and good luck cards were pressed into his ever-ready arms as he left the hospital. His smile nary wavered, disappearing completely only when he was back in his old house. He deposited the gifts, furrowed his eyebrows and poured himself a glass of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky.
There were only four people left who knew about his old secret. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, to whom he had revealed his modus operandi, and their friend, Hermione Weasley, by association. (The marriage of the latter two astounded him when he first read it in the papers. Really?! From what he recalled of his days as Professor at Hogwarts, he considered Hermione to be a sensible, intelligent student, and Ronald Weasley as the meddlesome kid whose Spellotaped wand ruined his career and sabotaged his chance at writing Champion of the Chamber of Secrets--which, admittedly, wasn’t his best title, but would have been the most successful of his wildly popular books.)
How to modify their opinion of him? Gilderoy already had a plan. An elaborate plan that could go wrong if he wasn’t careful. It involved working one highly controversial and dangerous individual. Even so, they wasn’t his primary concern. No, Gilderoy’s biggest fear centred on the fourth person who could expose him. Her.
–Blast,†he muttered.
Potter may have defeated You-Know-Who, and his friends may be war heroes, but it was that bloody witch that made his knees tremble. The three of them were still visible, still within his reach if he so wished to change their memories. She, on the other hand, wasn’t as easy to find. True, she hadn’t bothered him after their last night in the alley, but he was convinced she was out there, somewhere, a living threat to his success. Why had she let him go? Because he was going to teach at Hogwarts. Defence Against the Dark Arts. He hadn’t managed to escape the old curse; he’d lost his job at the end of the year.
Was that a sufficient enough punishment for her? Gilderoy doubted it. Interview with the Inferi was her tale, after all. But who and where was she? Was she even alive?
He finished his glass of the Firewhisky and poured himself another.
Perhaps, he reasoned, the drink pumping in the confidence he sorely needed, perhaps, it didn’t matter if she knew. Back when he’d gone searching for her at the village in Wales, he’d carefully altered the memories of the witches and wizards he’d spoken to, so that, gradually, they had forgotten the role she’d played in banishing the Inferi. Once his plan for Potter and his friends was carried out, they would have no reason to oppose him.
Who would the wizarding population believe then? Famed author, Order of Merlin-awardee Gilderoy Lockhart, or a dizty-looking witch no one had heard of?
Let her come out of her hidey-hole, he thought with some satisfaction. I’ll find a way to get rid of her once and for all.