Gilderoy Lockhart and the Legend of Victini

A Harry Potter / Pokémon Story

Note: As I am neither neither Rowling or one of her licensees, or a licensee of the Pokémon Company, this is hardly an authorized tale, nor one that is likely to ever be authorized, due to the unorthodox nature of it. Yet, for all that, it is a tale with a life of its own, which stole into my mind and demanded to be written. And as one knows, I've always had a weakness for a tale…

Summary: In the wake of his disappearance from the Chamber of Secrets, most in the Wizarding World remember the late Gilderoy Lockhart as a fraud. A pitiful, fame-obsessed man who stole the achievements of others for his own, and fittingly met his end when a stolen wand exploded in his grasp. Few remember the boy he once was, the child consumed with the desire to become the very best, like no one ever was. Even fewer remember the young Ravenclaw who worked and studied alone, throwing himself into his schoolwork with a passion few had ever seen – until the day he simply stopped, broken by the bitter realization that he wasn't good enough. That he would never be good enough - that even on his best day, he would never be more than merely above average. And none would have suspected that in the moment of his undoing, what little remained of the boy cried out for a second chance – or that worlds away, that wish would be granted.

Chapter 1. Dies Irae

When he came to, opening his eyes to look upon a new world for the first time, Gilderoy Lockhart found himself laying on his back, nauseous, in great pain – and more than a little confused.

'Where am I?'

Wherever he was, it wasn't Hogwarts. At least, it wasn't any part of Hogwarts he remembered, as whatever was under him didn't feel like stone, and the smell…it wasn't the earthiness of the castle, but something far more acrid and metallic.

'Like something burning.'

Not that he could see a fire anywhere. Or anything at all, really, save for a nigh impenetrable wall of black and purple fog that swirled all around him, so thick he couldn't see even a meter into it, much less what lay beyond – if there was anything beyond.

But…if he wasn't at Hogwarts, how had he gotten here? One couldn't Disapparate while inside Hogwarts, and the last thing he remembered – one of the only things he remembered – was a wand exploding in his…

'Oh,' he realized, closing his eyes as his body went limp. 'That's it then. I'm dead.'

With that realization came a surge of disappointment as well as a strange sense of…relief? Yes, relief. It had been hard work deceiving most of Wizarding Britain into believing he was one of the world's greatest adventurers, and particularly so this past year, when he'd foolishly accepted the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts.

The offer had been a trap, he now knew.

'No, that's wrong.'

He'd always known it was a trap on some level, given the high turnover rate for the position and Dumbledore (who'd never cared much for him) going out of his way to point out that becoming the mentor of the Boy-Who-Lived – known for defeating the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world – would only bolster his own reputation. He'd just…

'I saw what I wanted to.' Gilderoy would have chuckled, save that he couldn't, not when his life was flashing before his eyes, every lie he told himself revealed for what it was – just as the lies he told would no doubt be exposed in Britain now that he was no longer around.

He wondered if Rita Skeeter would write a book about him, like she had about Armando Dippet, Dumbledore's predecessor as Headmaster of Hogwarts, and a number of other personages.

'What would she title it? The Life and Lies of Gilderoy Lockhart, perhaps?' he mused whimsically, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. 'Or maybe there will be a play. Yes…the Tragedy of Gilderoy Lockhart, a cautionary tale for young witches and wizards. Or…'

The man sighed, what little levity left to him falling away as he looked at himself – really looked, now that there was no need to lie.

'No…there won't be a book or a play,' he thought soberly. 'There probably won't be anything, except for an article in the Prophet, if I'm lucky. In the end, everything I worked for, everything I did, none of it matters. If I'm remembered at all, it will be as a footnote in the story of the Boy-Who-Lived.'

Not a hero, or a villain, just a two-bit con man who had been taken in by his own lie, losing his life in the process.

'Not that I exactly expected to live for all that long, really. I always thought that one day, my actions would catch up with me – though I had hoped my end would come at the hands of a jealous husband, an outraged parent, or a professional rival, not…'

Not at his own, with a stolen wand exploding in his hands as he tried to cast his signature spell.

Though…

'It's funny, really. I always thought being dead would be rather less painful than this.'

He supposed that hurting during the business of dying was fair enough, but afterwards?

'It's not supposed to hurt…is it? I mean, haven't I suffered enough?'

Wasn't it enough that he'd seen everything he'd worked for in his life be torn to pieces around him? That he realized that nothing he had done had mattered in the end? That if he was lucky, he'd only be remembered as a minor obstacle to the Boy-Who-Lived, if that?

Apparently not, from how his body felt like nothing so much as an overly bruised potato. There was no part of him that was free of pain, no part that wasn't screaming at him in agony, not even his lungs, which were burning as he breathed in the black mist.

'Why…? Where…?'

"You're in Hell, Gilderoy," came the unexpected answer, as a tall, bearded broad-shouldered gentleman with long, golden-blond hair in a ponytail stepped out of the darkness. "Being punished for your sins, my worthless son."

"Fa-father…?" Lockhart stammered in disbelief, stunned to see the man for the first time in nearly twenty years, wearing the outfit the man who was Professor of English Literature at Edinburgh had worn the last time he had seen him: a white dress shirt and tie under a black vest with matching slacks and a brown overcoat. "How can you…?"

…how could Angus Lockhart be here, looking no different from how Gilderoy remembered him, when it had been so long? Was he…was his father…?

"Yes, son, I'm dead," the man confirmed gravely. "Just like you."

"But…"

His father had always seemed so…healthy, at least for a Muggle.

"What does it matter to you, Gilderoy?" the older man asked of him. "You and your mum ran out on the family years ago, disappearing into that magical world of yours as soon as you were old enough to hold a wand without even looking back."

"That wasn't…"

"You fault? Maybe. More your mother's, true, faithless woman that she was. But tell me, Gilderoy, did you ever wonder what became of us? How were doing? Your sisters worried about you, and if you were doing well, wherever you were," the man continued. "Until the day they died."

"…died?" Gilderoy echoed numbly, as memories of his older sisters and how they used to take care of him came unbidden to his mind. One had been about to go to high school when he left, and the other in middle school, as he recalled. They had seemed so…lively, so vibrant. "How could they be…?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange," came the answer, as Gilderoy's blood froze in his veins.

"Bellatrix…" the wizard repeated, swallowing. "She…"

"The Cruciatus is a terrible way to die."

For once, Gilderoy Lockhart was utterly speechless. Could…could that have really happened? Surely, he would have heard…

'…no, I wouldn't have, would I? Mum might have, but…'

She wouldn't have said anything, not when she'd grown disgusted enough with living as a Muggle that she had taken him away as soon as he could go to Hogwarts, which as soon as the Statute of Secrecy permitted.

It was rather unfortunate that under the local application of the Statute of Secrecy in Wizarding Britain, if a witch or wizard married a muggle who did not already know about magic, they were expected to lock away their wand and live as a Muggle, despite having no applicable skills or training for it, betraying no indication that the magical world existed until it becomes unavoidable.

Having a magical child was one of the few situations universally accepted as it being unavoidable for the muggle partner to be told.

His mother, despite being a Hogwarts graduate, a Ravenclaw, like him, had been unable to make use of her knowledge and skill, living as nothing more than a housewife. In the first years, love – and lust – had made up for the loss of her entire world, but eventually, as passion faded, and flirtation made way for chores and responsibilities, and arguments over secrets she couldn't tell, it hadn't been enough.

Especially when her first two children were not magical, which had no doubt disappointed her, as it meant she had to keep living as a Muggle with no way out – and no excuse for leaving that wouldn't make her a bad person.

Which was why when Gilderoy, her third child, first showed magical potential, he had been her favorite. She had told him of his birthright, of the world she came from – the world he belonged to, a world of color and magic and life. She had called him a hero, telling him that he had brought her a new world, and when he was nearly old enough to attend Hogwarts, she had taken him to the new world.

Yes, she'd walked out on the rest of the family, but she'd said that if Gilderoy was to reach his full potential, he needed to be raised among his own kind.

Among wizards and witches, not among Muggles.

His mum had been so happy to return to the wizarding world, to see old friends, to show him Diagon Alley – to be useful again, to feel like she belonged. And with so many new and wondrous things around him, a whole new world that he had made possible, in his mum's words, he hadn't missed his father or his sisters, not really. He had felt a bit sad that they couldn't see this world for themselves, but his mother had told him that it was a place just for those with magic.

And slowly, he'd come to accept that, taking joy in browsing the shelves of Flourish and Botts, in trying out wizarding sweets, in obtaining a wand, in learning a bit of magic from his Mum, in seeing a side to her that he hadn't realized was there.

A joy that shone as bright as the sun.

That was what he had hoped to see on the faces of others when he went to Hogwarts. Why he had been so ambitious. Because he wanted people to look at him like that, to see him as special. Only, he'd never really succeeded – and even on his best day, had never been at the top of his class.

Just somewhat better than average.

But his father was speaking again.

"Do you ever regret what happened, Gilderoy?" the older man asked with deceptive calm. "Leaving us, going to that magical world of yours? Forcing yourself, when you found out you weren't good enough, to live a lie, just as your mother did once? Or did you just never find the time to think about everyone you hurt."

Gilderoy Lockhart said nothing, but something must have shown on his face, as the other man laughed, a bitter, hollow sound with little mirth in it.

"You grew up wrong, Gilderoy. You always wanted to be a hero, never being content with your lot. And that's why you're here, my worthless son," Angus Lockhart intoned with finality. "In Hell. Like Satan, who was once Lucifer, you will suffer here for all the sins you committed in your short life. That's why it hurts, you know. You carry all the pains and sorrows from your life forward into this land of suffering, or did you think there wouldn't be consequences for your choices?" The man leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "Speaking of which, best get moving, son, unless you enjoy the prospect of burning alive for all eternity. Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n."

With those words – words that had once been said to him to get him out of bed when he was feeling particularly stubborn, Angus Lockhart straightened and turned away, his broad frame slipping into the darkness and vanishing from sight.

'So…I really am dead.' Lockhart reflected, breathing in a lungful of the black mist, and another, finding that it wasn't as bad as the first time, despite the acrid tang of it. 'But...I can't stay here. Not if my father is right…'

If his father's words were right, and not just a quotation from one of the old poems he loved so much, he couldn't just let himself just lie here, stewing in his failures. If he didn't, he'd never get up again.

'And I'll be bloody well damned before I just give up like that,' he thought to himself. Some more critical part of him noted that technically, if he was indeed in Hell, he was already damned, but Gilderoy Lockhart was not much in the mood for reason. At the moment, it was the sentiment that mattered. Sentiment and will, as he poured power into muscles, forcing his arms to prop him up, forcing his legs to bear his weight despite the agony screaming through his nerves with each movement, as if they had all been replaced with wires of white-hot metal.

He shook.

He swayed.

He cursed.

He stood, feeling a surge of exultation even as he trembled with exertion.

'But where do I go from here?'

The direction in which the shade of his father had vanished seemed as good as any, and so, putting one foot in front of the other, Gilderoy stumbled forward on the start of what he told himself was just the start of a great adventure.

He'd heard that somewhere too, though he didn't quite recall from who or in what context.

Still, it felt right.

After a small eternity, the bruised and broken body of Gilderoy Lockhart finally emerged out of the fog, almost stumbling as he saw the scene of devastation all around him. He stood in the center of it, with fires blazing bright through the haze of smoke they produced, stone and metal walls in ruin, containers of glass dashed against the walls.

Dozens of human bodies burning like torches in purple-orange flames.

He always thought it would look less industrial…but then, what did he really know about the afterlife? He was no great scholar. Not even a great adventurer, as much as he deceived an entire nation into believing otherwise for over a decade.

'I have to get out…' he thought, cursing the fact that he had no wand, and then cursing again as he remembered that even if he did, he had let his magic rust away enough that he doubted he could manage the flame-freezing charm. Not that such would likely be any use against hellfire.

So, he peered about, seeing a twisted path through the burning area that was somewhat clear of too much debris, where the fire had not yet touched – though how long it would remain that way, as the world shook around him was another matter.

He made his way as best he could on his own two feet, picking his way forward slowly until he came to a sudden halt as he saw someone laying in his path. A woman, sprawled on the ground, blood and ash staining her white coat.

'Who is she?'

But who didn't matter. Not when he could see she was still alive, if the rise and fall of her chest meant anything at all, and she was looking right at him.

Or she had been, right until her eyes closed and her head lolled back.

Here and now, Gilderoy Lockhart had a choice.

He could leave her behind and try to save himself, knowing that if he did, she would be swallowed up by flames or crushed by debris sooner or later. Or he could try to save her, knowing it would worsen his own prospects of escape.

'Escape? Who am I kidding? I'm already in Hell.'

And if he was dead, if he was in Hell, then the worse fate he could think of was to suffer alone, to never have anyone else who would smile at him, who would ever look at him.

Who would ever acknowledge him?

Yes, the woman was beautiful, with long blue-black hair and delicate eastern features, but that wasn't what mattered.

…or mostly wasn't what mattered, given that he had always had a weakness for a pretty face.

What mattered was that if he left her here, abandoning her to certain death, he might as well just die himself, because it would mean his father – that the world – was right. That he was worthless. That he could never be a hero. That everything he'd done in life had been for naught.

What mattered was that if he saved her…

'Maybe someone will look at me as if I'm worth something.'

More to the point, maybe he could look at himself and not see someone who was a fraud in every meaning of the word.

So, straining with every bit of exertion, he breathed in the mist, crouched and gathered the…scientist in his arms, in something like a bridal carry, before making his way towards possibly illusory safety once more.

'I made it,' he thought to himself sometime later, as he found himself laying on damp grass, as a vast building burned in the distance. Somehow, as much due to luck as anything else, he'd escaped the conflagration with the woman in his arms, as well as a couple of badly burned individuals who had followed him, having found hole that had been torn in the building's side.

The two been wandering about in a panicked daze before he stumbled upon them, with one in hysterics about how the blast door wouldn't open, and how they were all going to die. They'd gone silent as he stumbled upon them though, with the woman in his arms.

"Come with me if you want to live," he'd said to them, and, apparently not seeing any better options, they had.

He'd made it outside, about fifth meters from the building, before his body gave out at last.

And as a strange keening blared in the background, and spots of darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, Lockhart found himself…not unsatisfied. Even if he couldn't go any further, even if he'd never had the chance to learn the name of the one he'd saved, or to see her smile, even if the other two were bickering and wailing once more, he'd proven something to himself.

In the years to come, as he strove to become the very best, a legendary Master like no other, a veritable Hero of Ideals, Gilderoy Lockhart would often look back upon his moment.

Whenever he suffered the sting of defeat. Whenever he failed and was faced with a difficult setback. Whenever he thought himself a fraud for reaching beyond his grasp.

In those times, he would remember that in his first moments in this brave new world, he had made a difference. He would remember that in a moment no one else would have seen or known about, he had not to let someone else suffer certain death, and had somehow found the strength to save her, even when he could barely move. He would remember that in the words of his father, there were consequences for his choices.

'I made my choice in those moments,' he would think to himself. 'Without wand, magic, or much in the way of hope, I chose to be a hero.'

And to at least one other person, that choice made all the difference.