Our story begins – as does so many others – with the arrival of a mysterious letter. As my devoted readers will understand, I am no stranger to letters. Indeed, due to the extreme success of my previous books, I have become somewhat of an expert on the subject. Most letters I receive contain either gushing praise, requests for autographs, suggested romantic encounters, or a combination thereof. However, as the reader by now realizes, the heroic characterization of my person suggested in my works is not universally accepted. Every so often, careful readers come to the – albeit true – conclusion that my stories are fictitious. While most are civilized enough to refrain from commenting upon their discovery, some particularly brutish individuals find the need to divulge their findings to the world. In the most extreme cases, such dissidents often find it necessary to assail my letterbox with insults – often of the most vulgar and unimaginative sort.
It is to this category that the aforementioned mysterious letter belongs. As the observant reader will no doubt have realized, the mystery of the letter does not lie in the rather mundane content. Were the letter merely another expression of discontent, it would hardly be out of the ordinary. No, the mystery of the letter lies in the form. As might be expected from the uncivilized nature of my critics, the standard for such letters is vulgarity, incoherence, and an absolute disregard for the English language – mostly, a physiologically impossible request that I shove various appendages into a certain orifice. The mystery letter, however, did not subject me to such ungentlemanly torments. Rather, it contained a polite request that I meet the penman at a small pub in London, carrying a certain amount of galleons – that is, if I did not desire the exposure of my dubious character to the general public.
Naturally, I felt that such a letter required closer investigation. As my talents for memory magic were at that time not common knowledge, it was my hope that the mystery penman would underestimate my abilities and allow a careful examination of his arguments at wand-point. It was with this expectation in mind that I found myself sitting at a table in a seedy London pub on a Tuesday night in the middle of august, 1992. I had expected my villainous accuser to be easily recognizable, as most wizards of questionable intelligence are when travelling the muggle world. When no such person showed up at the agreed-upon time, I reassessed that expectation and began to look for an inconspicuous man or woman well-versed in both worlds. When I still after an hour found myself alone, I conjectured that the penman had in a stroke of luck found himself too afraid of my personage to appear. For a brief moment, I entertained the fancy that my newfound position as a teacher at my old alma mater had given me an air of credibility – then I remembered that I had not yet announced my acceptance of the position. Little did I know that the mysterious penman not only knew of my tenure – he had the year before held that very same vocation, he knew of my acceptance, and he intended to exploit it!
By now, those of my readers familiar with the exploits of Harry Potter will have realized that my mysterious correspondent was none other than the Dark Lord himself, the incorporeal spirit of Voldemort. How he managed to write a letter remains a mystery to me – although I often since attempted to persuade the tale from his lips.
Alas, I had not at the time realized the gravity of my predicament. As such, I decided upon a rather ill-advised course of action. Since I had been led to a pub, I opted to avail myself of a particular delicacy provided in such places. Being a wizarding celebrity naturally means that forays into the muggle world are short with long periods of time in between – partially since I have no fans in the muggle world, and partially because of my tight schedule (I cannot bring a Quick-Notes Quill to muggle pubs; as such, I find it hard to sign autographs there). There is one area in which the expertise of the muggles tops that of any wizard – the arts of brewing and fermentation. As many of my readers are aware of, the wizarding world sorely lacks good ale. Muggle pubs, on the other hand, overflow with such delicacies. In order to report on the quality to my readers, I was naturally inclined to taste every brew. Sadly, the rest of my evening is somewhat of a blur – as if I had performed a less-than-perfect memory charm on myself. I remember charming an attractive (and somewhat inebriated) muggle with my perfect smile, and I remember being led by the hand to her apartment. I do not remember being possessed by Lord Voldemort, although it must have happened some time during the night.
When I awoke the next morning, I noticed two things – I was not in my own bed, and I had the worst headache I have ever experienced. Ascribing the headache to my copious alcohol intake the night before, I resolved to address the former issue first. After an exchange of pleasantries, I left the apartment and apparated to my own in Diagon Alley. During my normal morning routing in which I naturally study my hair in the mirror, I was met by a most disturbing sight. Rather than the perfect, golden locks that usually cover my head, there was a red-eyed, snake-like face protruding from the back of my head! Once I was past the first shock, the face opted to give me another. It introduced itself to me in a rasping voice that would absolutely ruin my image if it was ever heard coming from me:
"Good morning, Gilderoy Lockhart. As you may have realized, I have possessed you."
Startled, I thought it best to converse with the entity. While talking, I searched my mind for the presence of an intruder.
"Um… Hello? Who are you?"
Clearly, this was the wrong question to ask. The entity spent the next minutes shouting crucio at the full capacity of his (my?) lungs, luckily with no effect. In the meantime, I managed to isolate the intruder in my mind and erect an Occlumency wall, keeping our personalities separate. When the apparition became somewhat calmer and more coherent, it continued the introduction.
"I am Lord Voldemort. You, my servant, shall carry me to Hogwarts were you shall aid me in a series of events that will lead to my eventual rebirth."
I needed time to think – after all, possession by a petulant dark lord could have a rather negative effect on my image, and as such it needed to be avoided. I did the only thing I could: Stall. A complaint towards his poor skin complexion and a request that he take better care of himself if we were to share a body sent him into another fit of hysteria, mostly semi-coherent ramblings of a better time when imperio was enough to control a "foppish fraud" such as myself. This gave me the interlude I needed to assess the situation. From the strength of his mental probes, I knew that he could force himself past my Occlumency barrier if he wished to. However, the ensuing mental struggle would leave me in a vegetative state – counterproductive both to my image and his plans of global conquest. Similarly, I could not force his presence from my mind if he were to struggle. As such, mental combat between us was to be avoided at all cost. I briefly considered a magical struggle – if, perhaps, I could hit the Dark Lord with a good memory charm, I might have a chance. However, if I lifted my wand to my head, he would surely take offence and initiate the discussed mental struggle. Thus, the only logical solution seemed to somehow reach an accord.
I aired this conclusion to the parasitic enemy of perfect hair. After a few seconds of wild crucio's, he seemed almost impressed.
"As much as I hate to admit it, your observation is astute. What do you want? I can give you power… Knowledge… Fame, perhaps?"
I quickly dismissed his meager attempt to tempt me – after all, he was trying to sell fame to expert on creating it? The acquisition of power and knowledge were obviously unimportant when I already possessed a perfect sense of fashion and an intuitive flair for style. Thus, I could not be tempted – he had to agree to my demands.
"First of all, you cannot proceed to live in the back of my head – after all, how can I be expected to maintain a perfect hairstyle if I have to account for the extrusion of a parasitic Dark Lord? Can you not move to a less conspicuous place like my knee?"
Lord Voldemort proceeded to explain that he could either protrude from the back of my head or the middle of my chest. I was given the option of choosing. Although it pained me to deprive the witches of Hogwarts the opportunity to witness a reenactment of my shirtless brawl with a werewolf, I opted for the chest – after all, I had to protect my hair.
Of course, Lord Voldemort had demands of his own – when he required it of me, I would help him facilitate certain events at Hogwarts. Just in case his exorbitant screams of unforgivable curses had not managed to instill a certain degree of fear in me, he then proceeded to explain the many reasons I should obey him.
"Naturally, Gilderoy, you will obey me. As you so intelligently reasoned, discord between us is unwise. That is not to say I could not survive finding another host – far from it. You are convenient, but not expendable…"
"I realize that; do consider, however, that I cannot be seen to behave erratically. Not only would my image suffer, my devoted fans would notice the change."
"I will only rarely acquire your services. Another agent has been placed at the school. You – or should I say we – are a failsafe. It goes both ways, however – act erratically, and I kill you."
Obviously, any deviations from my previously set upon path were less than acceptable; indeed, they could lead to a corruption of my image. Therefore I agreed, on the condition that accidents happening to my hair – fire, frizz, so on – could constitute emergencies. After a few minutes of screaming, the Dark Lord accepted. As such, we seemed to have reached an agreement.
Finally, complacent Dark Lord resting on my chest, I began to brew a hair regrowth potion. I had only four days before I needed to appear at a book signing in Diagon Alley – and Dark Lord or not, my golden locks would be no less than perfect.