(Gilderoy Lockhart)
Thursday, September 1, 1994
Time has gone faster than a Firebolt, and another school year is already beginning.
Frankly, I find that mildly offensive.
One moment I was dealing with Ministry politics, marriages, near scandals, and questionable life decisions involving homemade firewhisky, and the next, summer had vanished entirely.
Life has a distressing habit of accelerating when things become interesting.
Still, before we continue, allow me to bring you up to date on several important developments.
First of all, I am now the proud owner of three wedding bands.
An impressive accomplishment, though admittedly inconvenient from a practical standpoint.
There are only so many fingers one can decorate before it begins to resemble poor fashion judgment.
Three separate rings on one hand looked excessive, while wearing them across multiple fingers somehow suggested confusion rather than devotion.
Naturally, I solved the issue.
Alchemy remains one of the most underappreciated branches of magic, mostly because it requires patience, intelligence, and a willingness to explode occasionally.
I fused the three rings into a single band.
An elegant solution.
Now the ring subtly changes depending on which wife happens to be closest to me.
Aurora's becomes silver with delicate runic detailing.
Rosmerta's shifts into warm gold with a subtle amber sheen.
Tonks' version occasionally changes shape slightly, which I suspect is less the ring's magic and more her influence leaking into it somehow.
Quite charming, really.
Nifty, isn't it?
Second, and perhaps far more significant, I finally fulfilled a promise.
I solved Ginny Weasley's lifespan issue.
A matter that had lingered over my conscience far longer than I cared to admit.
There are some debts one cannot simply ignore, especially when they involve children.
And yes, before you ask, the solution was exactly what you suspect.
The Philosopher's Stone.
I am now the proud owner and creator of the second Philosopher's Stone in recorded history.
A sentence I find deeply satisfying.
Not many people can say they followed in the footsteps of Nicolas Flamel.
Fewer still can say they improved upon the process.
The difficulty, naturally, lay in obtaining the primary ingredient.
Newborn magic.
An unusual phenomenon. At the exact moment life ends and the soul departs, it creates a fleeting spark of energy that goes on to become what we know as magic.
Most never notice it. And even fewer understand it.
Flamel had once explained the principle to me in great detail.
His own Stone had been born during the devastation of the Black Death.
Before you judge him too harshly, he did not create the plague. He merely recognised opportunity inside tragedy.
Morally questionable?
Perhaps.
Effective?
Undeniably.
Still, I had no intention of waiting for a catastrophe, nor creating one.
That seemed terribly inconvenient.
Instead, I approached the problem from a creative standpoint.
I created a series of enchanted artifacts capable of absorbing traces of newborn magic at the precise moment of release.
Tiny things, discrete and easy to overlook.
And placed them across hospitals throughout the country to collect the energy over several months.
No rituals beneath thunderstorms.
No sacrificial altars.
Just patience.
An underrated virtue.
It took far longer than I expected. But eventually, piece by piece, enough accumulated.
Enough to create something extraordinary.
The process of making the stone itself required nearly two uninterrupted weeks.
No sleep.
Minimal food.
And an alarming quantity of restorative potions.
There were moments when the laboratory felt less like a workspace and more like a battlefield.
The air shimmered constantly with unstable magic.
Glass cracked without warning.
Metal warped.
At one point I briefly lost my eyebrows.
A temporary tragedy which was thankfully corrected.
And then, finally, success.
A small crimson stone resting quietly in my palm, pulsing with power like a heartbeat.
There is a strange feeling that comes with holding something that should not exist.
Power, yes.
But also perspective.
A reminder that the world still contains mysteries worth chasing.
I used it to brew the elixir of life immediately.
Ginny's condition which had been deteriorating in the last few months stabilised almost overnight.
Her magical exhaustion vanished, the weakness faded, and the shadow hanging over her future simply… disappeared.
Molly Weasley cried tears of relief.
Arthur nearly hugged me hard enough to crack several ribs.
Fred and George attempted to sell commemorative merchandise.
Ron looked suspiciously emotional before pretending otherwise.
Percy thanked me in an overly formal style.
And Ginny herself promised to pay me back somehow, but I told her to simply live her life with no regrets.
That was more than enough.
Of course, there were personal benefits as well.
I am not above honesty.
The Stone replenished what remained of my own lifespan which I had previously sacrificed to save Ginny.
The slow unraveling that had been waiting patiently for me at the edge of the horizon was gone just like that.
Or at least delayed by a very significant margin.
Which means I will not, in fact, be dying this year.
An outcome I strongly support.
I have always believed death should wait until I become genuinely boring.
And fortunately for me, that appears unlikely to happen anytime soon.
So yes.
Life is good.
Complicated.
Chaotic.
Occasionally irresponsible.
But undeniably good.
And now another school year begins.
Which means new students, new disasters, new opportunities.
And knowing Hogwarts…
At least three entirely avoidable catastrophes before Christmas.
…
"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!"
Dumbledore's voice carried effortlessly through the Great Hall, warm and commanding without ever needing to rise.
The usual beginning-of-term chaos quieted almost immediately.
Students settled.
Forks paused.
Conversations died mid-sentence.
Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to dim slightly in attention, the twilight sky above reflecting the fading gold of evening clouds.
I sat comfortably at the staff table, hands folded before me, observing the room with practiced ease.
The first years looked overwhelmed, as always.
Some stared upward at the ceiling.
Some gawked at ghosts drifting lazily through the walls.
Others looked moments away from fainting.
A timeless Hogwarts tradition.
Dumbledore smiled pleasantly over the sea of faces.
"Before we begin the feast," he said, "allow me to introduce you to our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor…"
He paused for effect.
"…Sirius Black."
To my left, Sirius stood.
And chaos erupted.
The Gryffindor table exploded into noise.
Cheers.
Applause.
Whistling.
Several students actually stood.
The loudest section, unsurprisingly, came from the concentrated cluster of red hair occupying a good portion of the table.
The Weasley family contingent appeared particularly delighted.
And Harry, seated among them, applauded with such enthusiasm one might think Sirius had just won a war personally.
Sirius gave a lazy wave, looking deeply amused by the reception.
There was something annoyingly natural about the way he occupied attention.
Infuriatingly effortless.
"Yes," Dumbledore said mildly, and instantly, the room quieted.
No shouting.
No repeated requests.
No magical amplification.
Just one word.
I watched with reluctant admiration.
Remarkable.
He was not even trying.
Authority simply followed him around like an old cloak.
"Now that introductions are complete," Dumbledore continued pleasantly, "tuck in."
He clapped his hands once. And immediately, the tables filled with food.
Golden platters appeared in flashes of magic.
Roast chicken, potatoes, steaming vegetables, fresh bread, pitchers of pumpkin juice.
An entire roast boar that briefly startled a first year girl.
The Great Hall transformed into organised chaos.
As Sirius sat back down, I leaned slightly toward him.
"I still cannot believe they allowed you to become a professor."
He smirked without looking up from his plate. "If you can, why can't I?"
I gasped softly, placing a hand over my chest. "Excuse me?"
I turned dramatically toward him.
"Before becoming a professor, I was already an internationally recognised figure. A celebrated author. An accomplished duelist. A respected member of the Dark Force Defence League."
I gestured lightly toward myself. "It was only natural they would offer me a position."
Sirius calmly cut into his steak. "I was recognised too," he said.
He took a bite. "Probably more than you."
I stared. "Absolutely not."
"My face was posted all over the country less than a year ago."
"You were a fugitive," I said sharply.
"That is the complete opposite of fame."
Sirius barked a laugh. "Still counts."
"It absolutely does not."
"You're just jealous."
"I am offended by the suggestion."
"You sound jealous."
I narrowed my eyes.
Across from us, several professors were amused by our interaction, but when I looked, they immediately pretended not to be paying attention.
Sirius shrugged, entirely unbothered.
"Honestly," he said, "I don't care much about teaching."
That surprised me slightly.
He glanced toward the Gryffindor's table and his expression shifted.
"I just wanted to be close to Harry."
The humour faded from his voice.
"We got along well during the holidays."
He paused.
"But I still feel like I owe him more than that."
His knife rested against the plate.
"A few months a year isn't enough to make up for a lifetime of absence."
The words landed with unexpected weight.
For a brief moment, Sirius looked older.
Not physically.
Something else.
Regret, perhaps.
Aurora, seated on my other side, visibly softened.
"Oh," she said warmly, almost melting into the sentiment. "That's actually incredibly sweet."
I nearly choked on my wine.
I turned slowly toward her.
"You are praising another man at dinner."
She blinked innocently. "I am acknowledging emotional maturity."
"Dangerous behaviour."
Sirius snorted into his drink.
Aurora rolled her eyes affectionately and reached over to pat my back.
Then she leaned in and kissed my cheek.
"Don't worry, dear," she murmured. "You are even sweeter."
Immediately, balance was restored.
"Ah," I said, satisfied. "Much better."
Aurora shook her head, smiling faintly to herself.
It truly required very little effort to maintain my happiness.
A compliment.
Minor reassurance.
Occasional admiration.
Simple things.
People overcomplicate relationships unnecessarily.
Nearby, Sirius watched the exchange with clear amusement.
"You really are absurdly easy to manage," he said.
"Not true," I replied.
Aurora raised an eyebrow and I considered.
"…I am selectively cooperative."
"Mm-hm."
I ignored the skepticism.
Around us, the Great Hall buzzed with energy.
Students laughed.
Cutlery clinked.
Candles floated overhead.
The enchanted ceiling darkened slowly into a star-filled night.
Another year at Hogwarts.
Another year of unpredictability.
And judging by the atmosphere alone, this one already felt promising.
Dangerously promising.
Which, admittedly, tends to be when life becomes most entertaining.
…