September 1980 - Wagga Wagga, Australia

He awoke with a start - exhilaration coursing through his veins. He was a conqueror, a protector, a hero. Slowly realization began to wash over him as he took in his surroundings: The corner of some hovel provided to him out of charity because he had nowhere else to go. Tears started to burn his eyes. How had he fallen so far? This was not how he imagined his life turning out.

He had come to Australia four years ago with his friend, Quirinus. Gilderoy promoted the trip as an adventure to a new, unfamiliar country, but his main motive had been wanting to leave Britain because of the threat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

After a few weeks of travel, Quirinus had returned to Hogwarts to prepare for his new teaching position, and Gilderoy had remained in Australia - planning to find his fortune in the Outback. Instead, his livelihood consisted of washing dishes in a grungy pub and sleeping on a pile of hay in the cellar.

He thought of the grizzled old Warlock he met earlier that day with his toothless grimace and repulsive looking empty eye socket. That Warlock had killed a werewolf and saved a village. Jealousy and malcontent brewed under Gilderoy's skin.

"It should have been me," he whispered hoarsely as he let his frustration and disappointment fill him. "IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!"

"Why did you want to meet out here instead of at the pub?" The warlock asked. His grizzled face showed a bit of impatience from having to leave his beer behind.

"Oh, I just… ahem," Gilderoy's voice wavered a little, "I… ah… wanted to see where the battle took place. You know, get a sense of the atmosphere and your surroundings."

The warlock turned around and pointed to a copse of trees not far away. "Well, there wasn't much to it actually. You see, the werewolf was already pretty beaten up - maybe encountered a hippogriff or something - and old too, by the looks of it. When he came after me, it was really only a half-hearted attempt, I think. I just used a simple stunning spell. Pitiful thing never woke up."

Well, that didn't make a very good story, thought Gilderoy as he rolled his eyes.

The warlock turned toward the village seeking out his favorite pub. "Well, I guess that's that," he said, his back to Gilderoy. "I still don't see why you think anyone would want to actually read about this." He took a step toward the village.

Gilderoy slowly pulled out his wand. His hand shook slightly, and his heart hammered against his chest. If he was going to do something, he'd better do it quickly. Soon he would lose his opportunity. But could he really do this? This wasn't just a harmless story he'd be writing. These were someone's memories, someone else's achievements that he would be stealing. Soon all sound was muffled behind the blood rushing in his ears. The Warlock took another step toward the village then started to turn around.

"Aren't you com…"

"OBLIVIATE!" Gilderoy cried hysterically as he flicked his wand. His breathing was wild and erratic. His eyes wide with fear.

The warlock paused, his one eye going out of focus, then he looked up at Gilderoy with confusion. He pressed a hand to his forehead and then took in Gilderoy's frantic condition. "Hey mate," he said slowly, "are you all right?"

Gilderoy looked at the warlock with wide open eyes and then glanced over to his wand, still held aloft. He slowed his breathing. "Yes..." he whispered. He gulped and put his wand away. "Yes... I've just... killed a werewolf."

The man twisted round in fear, his entire body becoming tense, "Merlin's beard!" He exclaimed. "Are there any more about?"

By this time, Gilderoy had begun to master himself again. "No… no…," he put his hand on the other man's shoulder. "I have eradicated the problem and in so doing, saved the village." He took a deep, cleansing breath through his nose. "Come now, let's get you safely indoors."

Later than night, Gilderoy put quill to parchment:

Frothy mouth of dripping fangs. Fetid breath.

Woman in a torn dress protects her child from the creature.

He thought it was an excellent start.

November 1981

Rita Skeeter peered into the fireplace, "Gilderoy Lockhart! It's been far too long, my friend. Come in and sit a spell!"

"Oh I wish I could, I'm just getting ready to leave for a banquet being held in my honor. I don't know if you've heard of my accomplishments of late, but I've been helping to eradicate dangerous beasts in foreign locales, rescuing villages, that kind of thing. It's very rewarding work, but it does take a lot of my time," he mused.

"Well that is fascinating, to be sure, Gilderoy. Have you ever thought of writing any of your adventures down?"

"Now that you mention it, I have been keeping a notebook of my memoirs… for posterity of course."

Rita tapped her quill against her spectacles for a moment. "Oh Gilderoy, this is just the kind of thing the public wants to know about! With the recent fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, people are just itching for a great, heroic story! Send me your manuscript, and I will see what I can do."

Gilderoy's floating head chuckled softly in the green flames of the fireplace. "Oh, you flatter me, Rita. But I do just happen to have an extra copy of my memoirs," he said as he held out a heavy bag of parchment scrolls through the flames. "Please do take care with them."

A few weeks later Gilderoy received an owl.

We're looking at a Christmas release of Wanderings with Werewolves! -RS