Monday, January 3, 1994
(Gilderoy Lockhart)
Another year had come and gone, and yet, to my great personal tragedy, things still did not bode well for the illustrious Gilderoy Lockhart's marital life.
One would think that a man of my many talents, dazzling looks, and undeniable charm would have found a way to fully recover from one unfortunate Christmas mishap by now, but alas, fate could be cruel even to the most gifted among us.
I had spent New Year with Aurora and Rosmerta, just the three of us, in what I had hoped would be a warm, intimate, and carefully orchestrated effort to make amends for my earlier mistake. I had been attentive, affectionate, and, if I may say so myself, exceptionally pleasant company. I praised the food, helped with the drinks, endured several pointed remarks about my terrible decision-making, and even restrained myself from making more than three jokes about how one accidental holiday misadventure should not define a man. In my opinion, I had done admirably.
Unfortunately, my opinion was not the one that mattered.
When the evening came to an end and it was finally time to sleep, Aurora had still looked at me with those cool, unyielding eyes of hers and shooed me right out of the Three Broomsticks as if I were a stray cat that had wandered in looking for scraps.
Naturally, I had not surrendered without a fight. I am nothing if not persistent in the pursuit of romance. I tried my most charming smiles first, the soft ones that suggested sincerity and regret, then my more powerful seductive stares, beginning with Blue Steel, which had broken hearts across Britain long before some people in this castle were even old enough to spell "admiration."
When that failed to produce the desired effect, I escalated matters and unveiled The Magnum, a look of such devastating magnificence that lesser witches had been known to lose their train of thought mid-sentence. Rosmerta, I was pleased to note, had looked visibly affected. I could practically see her resolve wavering. But Aurora, merciless woman that she was, remained unmoved, as though she had built up an immunity to my beauty through sheer stubbornness. In the end, I had no choice but to retreat with what little dignity I could salvage and spend yet another lonely night in my quarters at Hogwarts.
Still, I am not a man who gives up when the odds are merely unfair. Great men are defined by perseverance, and if there is one thing I know about myself, it is that I shine brightest when given the opportunity to stage a grand recovery. Which is why today mattered so much. Today was Aurora's birthday, and I had every intention of making it the best one she had ever had.
I was not foolish enough to leave something this important to improvisation. No, this required planning, coordination, and a level of theatrical precision worthy of my reputation. So I had recruited help. A great deal of help, in fact. By now, nearly everyone at Hogwarts who could be trusted with even a sliver of responsibility had been drawn into my scheme in one way or another. Some had agreed eagerly, some had agreed out of curiosity, and some, I strongly suspected, had only agreed because they wanted to see whether I would manage to pull this off or fail spectacularly. Personally, I intended to disappoint the pessimists.
The morning had barely begun, and already the castle felt full of possibility. Winter light spilled through the tall windows of Hogwarts in pale golden sheets, catching on the frost at the edges of the glass and making the ancient stone corridors gleam faintly. Students were only just returning from the holidays, and a strange mixture of excitement and laziness still hung in the air, that peculiar mood that always came after the New Year, when everyone felt as though life had paused for a while and was only now beginning to move again. Beneath that usual rhythm, however, I carried a secret thrill that made every passing minute feel charged with anticipation.
Because while Aurora might still be angry with me, while she might still insist on pretending that I had not suffered enough for my mistakes, by the end of today she would have no choice but to admit that I was a wonderful fiancé.
Or at the very least, a memorable one.
And really, for Gilderoy Lockhart, that was often the first step toward victory.
…
Dinner in the Great Hall had begun as normally as any other winter evening at Hogwarts, which was precisely how I wanted it.
The enchanted ceiling reflected a clear, dark January sky dusted with stars, while hundreds of floating candles bathed the hall in warm golden light. The long house tables were crowded with students happily settling back into the school routine after the holidays, their voices blending into a cheerful hum of conversation, clinking goblets, and occasional bursts of laughter. Plates overflowed with roasted meats, buttered potatoes, warm bread, and rich gravies, and the smell alone was enough to make the entire hall feel alive.
Outwardly, everything looked ordinary. Which, in my experience, only made the perfect moment for spectacle all the more satisfying.
Aurora, of course, had no idea what was coming.
She sat at the staff table with her usual composed elegance, speaking quietly with Professor Vector on one side while pretending not to notice Rosmerta, who had somehow managed to look far too pleased with herself all through dinner. I had arranged for her presence, naturally.
For my part, I remained unseen, concealed beneath a powerful invisibility spell and standing near the side of the hall where I could observe everything without drawing suspicion. I will admit, there was something deeply amusing about watching an entire castle unknowingly participate in a plan orchestrated by me while I stood right there among them, unseen and magnificent.
The first sign that something was about to happen came from the Weasley twins, who had spent the entire meal displaying an almost suspicious level of restraint. That alone should have warned anyone paying attention. Fred and George sat near the end of the Gryffindor table, exchanging glances that practically crackled with mischief, and just as the last of the dinner plates began to clear, both of them rose at the exact same moment. There was a beat of silence, the kind that ripples through a room when instinct tells everyone that chaos is about to bloom, and then the twins grinned in perfect unison and pulled something from inside their robes.
The first firework shot upward with a shriek that echoed through the hall before exploding high over the tables in a burst of gold and blue sparks so bright that half the students gasped. The second followed immediately after, then the third, and within seconds the Great Hall ceiling had become a battlefield of color.
Red comets spun through the air leaving trails of silver smoke, green stars burst apart into showers of glittering embers, and a massive purple dragon made entirely of sparks swooped over the Ravenclaw table before exploding into a thousand tiny golden lights.
The entire hall erupted into delighted noise. Students cheered, some ducked instinctively when a cluster of blazing rockets zigzagged low overhead, and even several professors who normally frowned upon this sort of thing seemed unable to entirely hide their amusement. Minerva McGonagall looked deeply torn between outrage and reluctant approval, which, in the case of Fred and George, was probably the highest praise possible.
The fireworks continued for nearly a full minute, each display somehow more ridiculous and elaborate than the last. One burst formed a spinning lion that roared in scarlet flame before dissolving into showers of red sparks. Another became a swarm of glittering green snakes that hissed through the air and sent several Slytherins into fits of appreciative laughter. At one point, a golden firework exploded into the shape of my own face, absurdly handsome even in pyrotechnic form, though it vanished before anyone could comment.
Then, just as the final volley of fireworks exploded above the center of the hall in an enormous blooming sphere of silver and gold, the noise began to fade. The last sparks drifted slowly downward and disappeared before they could touch the tables, leaving behind a hush full of anticipation and the faint smell of smoke and spent magic. For one suspended moment, everyone simply looked upward.
That was when Flitwick made his move.
The stars above, which had until then shimmered in their usual scattered pattern across the enchanted ceiling, began to shift. At first it was subtle, just a slight movement that made a few students point upward in confusion. Then the motion became deliberate. Constellations unraveled, loose clusters of light drifted across the illusion of the night sky, and star by star, line by line, glowing letters formed overhead in clear silver script.
Happy Birthday Aurora!
A collective murmur swept through the hall, followed almost immediately by applause, cheers, and several delighted whistles from the student tables. Heads turned as one toward the staff table, where Aurora sat completely still, her eyes lifted toward the message above her with an expression so openly surprised that I nearly lost my concentration from sheer satisfaction. For a woman who so often carried herself with calm dignity and quiet control, there was something deeply wonderful about seeing her caught entirely off guard.
Professor Flitwick, seated several places away, gave a tiny, proud cough and smoothed the front of his robes with all the smugness of a man who knew he had executed his part flawlessly. I very nearly applauded him myself.
Then Dumbledore, naturally, decided subtlety had lasted quite long enough.
With a merry little smile in his beard, he rose from his chair and clapped his hands once.
The effect was instantaneous.
All across the Great Hall, colorful party hats suddenly appeared on every single head as if conjured from nowhere. Pointed hats, wide hats, hats with ribbons, hats with glitter, hats with absurd pom-poms dangling from the ends. Students burst into laughter almost immediately, some grabbing at their new headwear in confusion while others proudly adjusted them as though they had been waiting all their lives for this exact moment. Even the professors were not spared. McGonagall found herself wearing a tartan monstrosity decorated with tiny dancing thistles. Sprout had somehow acquired a floppy green hat adorned with enchanted radishes. Dumbledore, clearly having planned this in advance, wore his with the serene dignity of a king receiving a crown.
And then there was Snape.
Even from across the hall, I could feel the offense radiating off him like heat from dragonfire. Perched atop his greasy black hair was a violently colorful hat striped in orange, pink, turquoise, and yellow, with a ridiculous spray of glittering streamers drooping over one shoulder. He looked like a man who had been personally betrayed by the concept of celebration. His mouth had flattened into such a severe line that for a moment I genuinely wondered whether he might attempt to hex the hat off his head in front of the entire school. The sight was so magnificent that several students had to lower their faces into their sleeves to hide their laughter, and even among the staff there were a few suspiciously strangled noises that sounded very much like suppressed amusement.
At that exact moment, as though the castle itself had been waiting for its cue, the space at the front of the Great Hall where the podium usually stood began to shimmer. A wave of magic rolled outward, warm and bright, and then with theatrical suddenness, a gigantic birthday cake appeared in its place. There was an audible gasp from the entire hall. The thing was enormous, easily twice the height of a student and decorated with immaculate swirls of pale cream frosting, delicate sugared flowers in shades of blue and silver, and ribbons of edible gold winding around each tier. Floating candles burned all around it like little stars, and the scent of vanilla, honey, and fresh berries drifted through the hall so richly that even the most distracted student immediately turned their full attention toward it.
That, of course, was my moment.
Still hidden beneath my invisibility spell, I cast the illusion with careful precision, layering it over the front of the cake just as I had practiced. The frosting shimmered, the top tier split open with dramatic perfection, and suddenly there I was, or rather, the illusion of me, rising smoothly from the center of the cake in a flourish of sparkling light. My robes gleamed a rich shade of sapphire beneath the candles, my smile was dazzling, and my hair, naturally, was flawless. A perfect performance, if I do say so myself.
I spread my arms wide and began to sing.
"Happy birthday to you…"
For a second there was stunned silence, then the rest of the school joined in almost immediately, the entire hall filling with voices. Hundreds of students, professors, ghosts, and staff sang together beneath the enchanted ceiling, the sound swelling into something warm, joyous, and gloriously excessive.
I kept the illusion perfectly timed to the song, bowing grandly, pressing one hand to my chest, even adding a particularly inspired wink in Aurora's direction when the second line began. By the time everyone reached "happy birthday dear Aurora," the whole hall was smiling, laughing, clapping along, and looking toward the staff table where the birthday witch herself sat caught between disbelief, embarrassment, and something much softer.
And honestly, seeing that expression on her face made every second of planning worth it.
…