Voracious - HP Lockhart SI (yes, really) by Bakkughan

What happens when a harry potter si decides to use legilimency to devour peoples memories, skills and personas inside their mind? Voracious happens

Words: 71k+

Link:

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/voracious-hp-lockhart-si-yes-really.974806/

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13983461/1/Voracious-Gilderoy-Lockhart-SI

(It's the old spiel: man wakes up in an unfamiliar place, in an unfamiliar body. The problem is that said place can be very dangerous and the previous owner of said body was an idiot. Clearly, steps need to be taken. And the fanciful ambitions of his body's previous occupant might just be the stepping stone he needs to become something far better - and far worse - than either side in Magical Britain had ever thought possible. "Hungering for knowledge" has never been more apt.)

Chapter 1

The first thing that greeted me when I woke up was, unfortunately, a foul smell. The smell of garbage, left out in the sun and rain for too long until it ripened into a full-blown nation of bacteria and other micro-organisms with its own aura of uncontested pungency.

As you might imagine, hardly pleasant at all and a far cry of my own bedsheets. It did however manage to startle me into full awareness, a feat not even a full mug of coffee could equal as I shot up, my eyes wide as I glanced around me in shock.

I saw that I was indeed sprawled out across what seemed to be a garbage fill, at the corner end of a darkened and small alleyway, ancient brickwork houses blackened with smog and grime rising tall on either side of me. A mist clung thickly to uneven cobbled stones that sporadically lined the twisting street, puddles of stale water hiding much of the ground from view. It was either becoming dusk, or the sun simply couldn't penetrate the thick, rain-filled clouds looming ominously in the overhead sky, diminishing visibility even further.

Desperate to get out of the foul-smelling sticky mess I was covered with, I flailed about as I tried to stand up, managing to half-stand in an awkward crouch until I slipped on something ('oh, please let it be a banana-peel!') which sent me falling forwards unto the rough and unforgiving cobblestones.

With a groan, I pushed myself up, breathing heavily as I rested on my hands and knees in the filthy back alley, trying to get my bearings. The unfamiliar surroundings, the din of a busy crowd coming faintly from the brighter end of the narrow street, the foul stench stubbornly clinging to my nostrils, it all made my head pound and I let out a pitiful moan as I futily screwed my eyes shut against the ringing migraine currently making itself at home in my head.

'Where… w-where am I?' I think to myself, crawling over the slick stones until I reach the other end of the darkened street, resting my back against the uneven brickwork of the sagging wall of the building opposite the dump I had awoken in.

Glancing up and down the length of the narrow alley once again, the answer rose up unbidden in my (still hurting) mind.

"Knockturn Alley." I whisper to myself in a voice that sounds off.

My eyes blinked sluggishly as my breath hitched, both at the sudden influx of information as well as what that name represented.

'No… impossible… what-?'

Before I could ask myself what was going on and what the hell happened, once more the answer rose unbidden in my mind's eye. This was in fact Knockturn Alley. I knew this, because I had been coming here rather regularly for close to a year now. I didn't live here, thankfully, I rented a room in a little hostel on one of the grungier side streets of Diagon Alley, but I visited this foul place whenever I needed to conduct my business away from prying eyes.

Not that the eyes here were any less prying, not really, but they sure asked a lot less questions.

It wasn't just knowledge that flooded my mind, this wasn't something that someone else was telling me or that I had read somewhere. I remembered coming here, lurking around corners and sitting at rickety tables in disreputable bars. The images were as vivid and as real as the trickle of (what I hoped was) rainwater steadily pouring down my back, soaking my… robes?

'Since when do I wear robes?', I think to myself, holding up one arm in surprise and mild disgust as I see a thick, lilac-coloured fabric clinging to my skin, filth and damp spots covering the entire garish looking garment.

But of course I wore robes? What else would I wear, I have been wearing such clothing ever since I attended Hogwarts-.

I immediately cut off the thought, trying (and most definitely failing) to keep my rising panic in check as more and more memories began flooding into my head. I tried to stop them, tried to focus on anything else (such as the pain I could feel in my jaw and ribs, indicating an attack of some kind), but the innocent thought of my clothing apparently unlocked the floodgates of whoever's mind I was currently connected to.

Images of Hogwarts, not from a camera-perspective, but low on the ground, seen through the eyes of a child filled my view. Visions of life growing up in a world that, until ten minutes ago, I would've sworn was merely fiction, flitted in front of my wild eyes. Memories of a life not my own kept playing themselves over and over again, one unceasingly following the other, a relentless barrage of smells and feels and thoughts and memories-

"Stop! Stop it! Please!" I gritted out between clenched teeth, my strange voice desperate and tinged with hysteria. I kept pushing the palms of my hands against my shut eyes, unheeding of the dirt that clung to them as I tried to stem the tide of this other life trying to worm itself into my thoughts, but it was to no avail.

I fell forwards, trying to crawl away, to escape whatever was going on even as my head felt like it was being split by an axe, even though a rational mind would've recognized the futility of my efforts. Whatever was going on right now, it was happening inside of my mind, and sadly there's no running away from yourself.

Not that I was even remotely rational at that point, still utterly confused and nearly blinded by the pain.

I hadn't even managed to crawl half a dozen meters, black spots filling my vision as I felt something thick and viscous slowly leak from my nose when I came to a halt, barely able to support myself above one of the larger puddles on trembling arms. Glancing downwards through bloodshot eyes, I finally laid eyes on my reflection as the whirlwind of memories tightened somehow, many of them now rapidly moving backwards through a series of images, like a film stuck on rewind. Leading up to something.

Despite the grime covering me and the sweat and blood dripping down my face, what stares back at me from the uneven puddle is undeniably the visage of a very attractive man. Blond hair, now matted but which my memories insisted should be brilliantly wavy, a strong jaw, despite the cuts and scrapes that littered my chin, square and perfect teeth, easily visible as I pulled back my lips in a grimace of agony.

Seeing the strange face staring back at me from the brackish puddle of water, the last trail of memories finally came to their own resolution. A sunny, summer's day. The hooting of an owl. The feel of thick parchment in my little hands as I behold an all too familiar crest, pressed into a wax seal.

The arms of a woman, my mother, coming up to my still child-like face, grasping my cheeks in a warm embrace. Her face, with brilliant blue eyes like mine, staring at me with a proud and enormous smile.

"Oh, my boy! You did it! You got your letter!"

I stare down at the parchment, it feeling ridiculously oversized in my tiny hands, my far too little hands. At the top, in a flowing script, the words resonate with me.

"Dear Mr. Lockhart,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

As I gaze in a dumb stupor at my rippling, beat up reflection, I can still hear his/my mother's words ringing in my ears, the string of memories finally, blissfully fading into the background.

"My little Gil is going to Hogwarts!"

'I'm Gilderoy Lockhart…. Fuck me.' Are the last words going through my numbed mind before I fall flat on my face, barely missing the puddle as I black out.

//

I don't know how long I stayed there, comatose and prone on one of the sidestreets of Knockturn Alley. All I know was that, when I woke up with a thankfully lessened migraine, dusk had definitely turned into night, the shadows seemingly lengthening from every crooked building and looming out of every craggy sidestreet. Instinct and foreign memories forced me to my feet as I began shambling forwards. Knockturn Alley was a dangerous place to be in any time of day.

It was even more dangerous any time of night.

Lots of things tend to come out when night falls. Lots of nasty things.

Many of them with long, pointy teeth.

It was a small miracle that I still had all of my parts I numbly thought to myself, steadying myself as much as I could by keeping one hand on the slick brickwork of the ancient buildings as I staggered to where I knew laid Diagon Alley.

I had already gotten unlucky, my ribs and jaw could attest to that. The fact I could feel that my pockets were empty of both coins and wand meant that I had been mobbed, right after Gilderoy Lockhart had unexpectedly knocked himself out.

From what I could piece together of his memories, Lockhart had come to Diagon Alley to perfect his Memory Charms. He already had had nebulous ideas about how he would propel himself to a life of adoration and fame, displeased as he was by his current accommodations, bought with the pitiful wages he earned writing as a freelancer for the Daily Prophet. While above-averagely intelligent and powerful during his earlier years at Hogwarts (which had made his laziness all the more frustrating for his teachers), Lockhart had in the end coasted by simply by stealing other people's homework and then making them forget he ever took it in the first place.

Why pour in so much effort if someone else would get better marks than him anyway? If they got top of the class, why not turn in what they made instead?

Gilderoy had quickly realized that he could apply the same principle to his own career, but also realized that he needed both more practice with his Obliviate if he wanted to take advantage of some powerful wizards and witches and actually find said wizards and witches in the first place.

That meant test subjects. That meant informants.

And both could be found in Knockturn Alley, though it didn't come without its own risks. Risks I was now exposed to, my ribs screaming at me whenever I slightly bent the wrong way a glaring testament to that. As far as I could tell, Gilderoy had been stalking several of Knockturn Alley's regular residents, showing surprising aptitude for stealth, looking for someone (or something) to practice his Obliviate on.

Unfortunately, the idiot had the monumental misfortune of seeing Hagrid lumber past (probably running an errand for one of his illegal little beasties) and decided to try his hand at Obliviating the gentle (half)giant. He had thought Hagrid rather dim and was convinced that made the Groundskeeper a perfect target to practice his mind arts on.

Completely forgetting that Giants had an inbuilt immunity to magic.

Predictably (and rather ironically) Lockharts spell backfired, completely knocking him out and doing… something to his mind. That's where my knowledge of events ended, because that's where Gilderoy's memories, my memories, simply… stopped.

Best as I could tell, his mind had been removed or destroyed or something, making room for my own to slide into his brain. Why I then still had his memories I didn't know (nor, at the moment, as I was hungry, smelly and in pain, could I really care) but it seemed as for all intents and purposes, Gilderoy had died today… and I had taken over his body.

Unfortunately, the process had taken quite a while, as Lockhart had attempted to assault Hagrid around noon, having recently gotten out of bed (a bad habit we unfortunately both seemed to share, so I saw no immediate change in that regard in my future), yet I only awoke in the garbage fill around dusk. This meant that between Gilderoy destroying his own mind and me waking up in a fictional world several long hours had already passed, which hadn't been good for my health.

As it turned out, falling unconscious in Knockturn Alley was basically a standing invitation for its residents and visitors to kick you around and take both your purse and your wand.

Like I said, a small miracle, all things considered.

I could just as well have woken up inside a Hag's cauldron instead of a pile of garbage.

Still, I was a penniless, wandless, injured wizard in one of the most disreputable places of Wizarding Britain. It still wasn't off the table that I would end up on someone else's table tonight. The night was still young, after all.

Unfortunately.

I could feel several eyes upon my shambling form as I made my way slowly, painfully, but steadily towards the far-off lights of Diagon Alley. I spotted glinting teeth and claws lurking in doorways and in narrow side streets and I very obviously slid my free hand in my coat pocket, pretending to grab my wand.

At the gesture, many (though unfortunately not all) of my hidden onlookers slinked back into the shadows. Clearly wounded and exhausted as I am, a wizard with access to his wand is a dangerous prey nonetheless, and while many of the measures of the corrupt Ministry of Magic were draconian and bordering on (or outright were) racist, I was grateful for them now nonetheless.

I don't think hungering werewolves or thirsty vampires would've been so hesitant to approach me if they could perform magic of their own, not with how battered I looked right now. Thankfully, none of them attempted to accost me due to the hidden threat of reality itself being twisted like a toffy by my wand (it had been rosewood with a dragonheartstring core I suddenly remembered, the image and warmth of it picking me as I stood in Olivander's when I was a lad making me mourn it loss as if it were an old friend, despite having only known of its existence for the past ten minutes).

Still, if I were to fall unconscious in this street once more, then that hesitance would vanish faster than snow before a Fiendfyre spell and that realization spurred me on. Sadly, whatever cursed luck had chosen to haunt Gilderoy this day, it seemingly hadn't left when his consciousness had. My hand suddenly moves from solid brick to thin air and I nearly stumble as I move past the recess of a crooked doorway, the low lightning and the weathered black wood of the door itself making it so it had seamlessly blended in with the rest of the dirtied façade.

A fact it's shabbily dressed occupant had made excellent use of, I note, as a tall shape suddenly stands way to close to my huddled form, one sinewy hand digging painfully into my shoulder as I nearly smack into the gaunt man that had been hidden within the shadows.

Again I see something glinting in the dusk and a solid block of ice begins to settle in the pit of my stomach as I realize it's a knife. I'm no expert, so I couldn't tell you the specific name of what type of knife it was. All I knew (and all that really mattered at that moment) was that it looked rusty, well used and was easily the size of a chef's knife with a blade that was sufficiently long enough to gut me like a fish if the wielder had a mind to.

Glancing upwards in silent shock as I gazed in the weathered face of said wielder, it really did look like he had a mind to, thin lips stretched back in a mocking facsimile of a smile.

"Best watch your step 'round here, kiddo. You don't look too good." He says, his voice thin and reedy, rough with disuse.

He leans closer towards me, heedless of the smell that's clinging to me (not that he reeks any better, mind you), the tip of his knife pressing against my patterned undercoat. Not enough to pierce through the thick cloth, but with enough pressure that I can feel it pushing in on my skin, like a needle poised to strike.

I feel sick to my stomach.

"I can make you look a whole lot worse." He says, and as his grin widens further, I notice more details about the man, close as he is.

The long, black fingernails, the hair on the back of his hands and the patchy beard. The long, thin scars crisscrossing nearly every bit of exposed skin. The yellowish hue to what should've been the white of his eyes. The far too pronounced canines.

A werewolf, I realize.

Whatever faint hope there was of me breaking free and forcing my way out of this situation gets Avada Kedavra'd on the spot. Even without a full moon out, the werewolf is likely far stronger than I am, even without the height difference. No, brute force is definitely out the window. Magical means were out from the get go. But that doesn't mean I'm completely out of options here (just almost completely).

Whatever else could be said for Gilderoy Lockhart (which was quite a lot and most of it wasn't all too flattering), none could refute that the man had a knack for acting.

And so acting is what I did.

Straightening my pointer and index finger as rigid as they'd go, I psyched myself up for my gambit, pulling on all of my pain and fear and frustration as I looked the smug werewolf straight in his baggy eyes.

"A kitchen tool. How cute. Or rather… how utterly ineffectual." I finish with a snarl, before jabbing the werewolf in his stomach with my fingers extended to look like I'm holding a wand inside my coat pocket, completely ignoring the length of steel he still has pressed against my stomach.

For just a split second, the tall man is taken off guard by my unexpected behavior and I immediately capitalize on it. The moment he regains his footing and his anger starts outweighing his confusion, I'm dead. I keep pulling on the storm of swirling negative emotions within me as I address the werewolf through gritted teeth, each word coming out in a rage-fuelled hiss.

"I've had an awful day and right now, I want to go home. I will go home and so help me Merlin if one more mongrel dares to stand in my way! I've already had to step over bodies just to get this far and I won't be accosted so close to my goal by an idiot who thinks a flint of metal is enough to stand against someone who can make him wear his own bloody entrails as a turban for the next three years!"

I don't know at which point I've begun roaring in the stunned werewolf's face, or when my other hand shot up to his collar and pulled him down so that we were almost nose-to-nose, but I do notice the moment the pressure on my stomach disappears and the sound of a knife clattering against cobblestone reaches my ears. Thankfully I'm far too keyed up on adrenaline to sigh in relief and I finish my little bit of theatre, aware of a pregnant silence at my back as my hidden onlookers take in the spectacle.

"So, unless you'd like to know what life is like wearing your insides stuck to the outside of your skin, move out of my way." I finish with a deep growl, before pushing the werewolf away from me.

The lanky man bares his teeth at me… and after a long pause, steps back into the alcove he had been lurking in, until just the glint of his bloodshot eyes remain, fixed on me in a mixture of wariness and loathing.

"Fuckin' wizards… you won't keep getting away with pushing us around…" he spits at me, but my gaze remains unwavering and seemingly made of steel.

"Perhaps. But I will be getting away with it today."

Seeing that he doesn't seem to plan any sudden moves I move forwards again, careful to remain upright and not show any weakness despite the protestations of Lockhart's battered body. Bending over, leaning on the wall or just shuffling my steps would completely shatter the illusion I just created and just invite a retaliation now that my back was turned.

I make it a half a dozen steps before I halt and glance back over my shoulder. I did it to see if he had changed his mind but that would've been seen as a sign of weakness. Instead, my eyes drift towards the darkened alcove once more, where I can still see him standing in place staring at me with a vengeful glare.

"Don't try to follow me." I say in a low voice, though I know that between the suffocating silence and his likely excellent senses, he heard me clearly anyways.

As I began marching forwards again, I threw a parting comment over my shoulder, filled with all the malice I could pour into it.

"I will know if you do."

For however long the rest of the journey down Knockturn Alley took me, I kept straining my ears and holding my breath, at every moment both dreading and anticipating a knife sinking into my back or teeth tearing into my neck. I kept trying to spot the sound of footfalls following my own, kept thinking that at any moment, one of the destitute and desperate of the crime street might call my bluff and try their luck. Yet none of them did. I was completely isolated for the rest of my journey and it caused me to take a deep gulp of relief when I finally emerged onto Diagon Alley itself.

It was only once I emerged on the famous shopping street that the band of iron that had seeming constrained my lungs seemed to lift and the pit of ice in my stomach finally melted and I barely bit back a choked sob when I realized that (for now at least) I got to live to see another day. Taking deep, steadying breaths in attempt to still the shakes that have begun to wrack my body, I take in my new surroundings, trying to figure out what I should do next with the immediate danger to my life momentarily passed.

From my own memories of watching the movies and Gilderoy's memories of coming here as a child, Diagon Alley was supposed to be a wonderful and magical place, and to be fair I could tell that it usually was. The shops were quirky and tall, lanterns threw a warm, golden light over the far better maintained brickwork and cobblestone, the street itself being far wider and more inviting than Knockturn Alley had ever been.

But much of that was lost on me now in the evening, with many of the shops closed and the usual throng of people reduced to merely a few night owls, not to mention how exhausted and in pain I was. I was a mere teenager, Gilderoy having passed his final exams only about 10 months ago in 1982, I had no money, I had no wand, and my clothes were damp from a seemingly perpetual drizzle and covered in filth I had been stubbornly trying not to contemplate since my sudden awakening.

You can dress up a street to be as whacky as you can imagine, it won't matter to a broke teenager leaning desperately against the nearest building as he tries to figure out which way is up. From the corner of my eye, I could see what few witches and wizards were still out at this time of day (or rather, night) giving me a wide berth as they walked around me in a big circle, many of them pulling up their noses at me.

It was only partly due to my shabby state, having lived Gilderoy's childhood told me. The very fact that I had not cleaned myself up with a simple Scouring Charm likely broadcasted to the witches and wizards hurrying past that I couldn't perform such a spell, which either made me a Squib or a Dark Creature.

To some amongst the higher levels of magical society, there truthfully wasn't much of a difference between the two.

The fact that I clearly came out of the infamous Knockturn Alley only reinforced that image as people gave me furtive looks and clutched their bags and cloaks closer to themselves, treating me like I was some sort of mangy mongrel that might lash out at them at a moment's notice.

I was too tired to care to be honest, but a lifetime (or, well, a childhood and teenage years) of having been Gilderoy Lockhart, probably the vainest person to have graduated Hogwarts in a century, meant that on some level the disparaging looks still stung.

Nothing that I could do about it now though. For all intents and purposes, without a replacement for my stolen wand, I might as well be a Squib. Olivander's was closed and even if he wasn't, I had no money on me, and something tells me the Goblins wouldn't let me track mud and filth across their pristine marble floors if I were to try and access my account there. Or rather Gilderoy's-… my mother's account, given that it had been far too expensive for a teenager to get his own vault within the Goblin Bank, not if he wasn't a member of some prestigious House or Family.

I had some money stashed away in my apartment, not much, but enough to buy me a new wand at least. However, even though going there to pick up my little stash (and take a shower. A warm, glorious shower…) was incredibly tempting, there was one problem with it: when whoever it was that came across Lockharts comatose body, had snatched his/mine/our(?) purse, they had inadvertently lifted my key as well.

Which meant I couldn't even get into my own apartment right now. Thankfully, I had a spare key which I kept at my/Gilderoy's (God this is going to be annoying I can already tell) parents' place. While Voldemort had been defeated by Harry Potter during Halloween in my final year in Hogwarts, meaning that officially at least the Dark Wizard had been vanquished nearly two years ago now, my parents were still living in the Muggle World, having left the Magical World behind out of fear of what the Death Eaters might do to my Muggle dad and my two older Squib sisters.

Many other mixed families had done the same and though Tom Riddle himself may have vanished, his spectre still clung to the world, to the point many dared not even speak his moniker, so tight was his grip even after years had passed. The fact that many of his followers had slipped back into the fold without consequence, simply citing the Imperius Curse as their defence, certainly hadn't helped in alleviating old fears either.

Sure, the mad dogs, like Bellatrix and the Lestranges that went on crusades of vengeance in search of their missing master, had all died or found themselves locked up in Azkaban, but in a way those that had managed to keep their cool (and their riches and titles) after Voldemort had gone were a far more dangerous opponent.

At least with a crazy witch like Bellatrix you knew that all she was really capable of was torturing those she could get her claws on. Messy sure, but a problem far from your bed (at least now that there was both an army of Dementors and a tumultuous sea between said witch and bed). But could anyone truly know how far the clutches of the likes of Lucius Malfoy could reach? Were you ever truly safe from a man that had practically bought the Ministry for his own purposes and agenda?

As such, it wasn't just my parents that had refused to move back into the Wizarding World for now, many families with Muggle relatives still warily regarding the haunt of Voldemort and his ilk with a healthy amount of suspicion. A fact that young Lockhart hadn't really minded, considering it had meant a lot of empty housing suddenly opened up in wizarding areas like Diagon Alley. Even as dank and dingy as my new abode was, a few decades ago even that would've been hopelessly far out of my price range.

Unfortunately, I considered with a grimace as the irony struck me, the same was true right now as well, at least until I somehow managed to get back on my feet again.

Literally, as I had sunk to the ground as I leaned against the side of a closed-up Amanuensis Quills, the "shop for all ye olde writing utensils of the feathered persuasion!" as a faded lettering proudly proclaimed on its old façade. Forcing myself to stand back up again with a grunt, I noted with some bitter amusement that someone had dropped a small number of Knuts and even one Sickel at my feet during my contemplation.

Considering the small handful of coins was infinitely more than the literal zero I now had on my person and with pride of little concern given what I had woken up in, I bent down, scooping the odd little coins into my pocket, before looking up and down the magical shopping street with narrowed eyes.

There was only one thing for it I supposed: go see my parents and get my bearings there. I was only a little bit worried about whether or not they'd realize I was essentially a stranger hijacking their son's comatose (or perhaps even dead) body, given that Gilderoy's memories truly felt like my own. The earlier sting to my pride due to the stares of people I ordinarily wouldn't have cared about signified that the foppish boy was still there in my subconscious. No doubt I could act like him if the situation called for it.

Additionally, those very same memories told me that Gilderoy had barely even seen his parents after graduating, head filled with ideas of "making it as a big-time journalist" at the Daily Prophet and pretty much moving straight from his dorm room at Hogwarts to a tiny apartment on Margin Alley. He had written his mother near daily, but never actually left the heart of Magical London, far too preoccupied with realizing his ambitions.

Not that any of those would've panned out, even without me suddenly controlling his living corpse.

Still, almost a year apart should give me plenty of leeway in explaining any odd behaviour should his parents manage to pick up on the slight differences, giving me a safe base to plan my next steps.

Well, my future steps. My next steps were all small, trembling and mainly consisted of the mantra of putting one in front of the other as I walked up the slight incline towards where Lockhart's memories knew lied the Leaky Cauldron. It was a journey he had made each year for the past seven years, and occasionally before that with his mother after he had displayed his first feats of accidental magic (which had been to turn his new shirt a garish lilac). As such the route was familiar, even to me, the path seemingly ingrained into this foreign body, and it didn't take long for me to reach the bricked up back wall of the Leaky Cauldron.

Although, it probably did take a long time, I was just on auto-pilot and barely even conscious for most of it. Whether my fuzzy head was due to the absorption of Gilderoy's memories or the kick some asshole had given to his chiselled jaw when he was lying slumped over in Knockturn Alley I couldn't tell, though I suppose it didn't matter overly much for now.

Questions about healing my body and/or mind would come after ensuring the safety of both right now. I let out a deep sigh as I place both hands upon the rough brickwork in front of me, breathing deeply, before I look up and-

'Oh… crap.'

-and realize I have no wand with which to tap out the secret combination on certain bricks in the wall. In fact, I realize with a start that Gilderoy barely even remembers the combination in the first place, always having come here with his mother when he had to get school supplies for the year where she was the one to grant them access to Diagon Alley, if the wall wasn't open already.

It wasn't as if the vain child had seen any reason whatsoever to travel to the Muggle World during his time spent on Margin Alley after all, residing in what he considered to be the beating heart of Britain's magical society.

Standing so close to safety that I can almost feel the warmth of the hearth inside of the old café, while a steady downpour soaks me to the bone, as a migraine splits my skull and with stench still filling my nostrils, having literally crawled my way out Knockturn Alley itself, only to be barred at the very last moment by a simple wall… it's too much.

Everything, my sudden awakening, the rush of a fictional stranger's memories, the absolutely terrifying encounter with the werewolf, everything comes to a head as I let out a scream of pain and fear and frustration, banging my hand against the rough brickwork hard enough that I tear my skin open.

"PLEASE! LET ME IN! PLEASE! PLEASE!" I can hear Gilderoy's voice, my now teenaged voice, cracking with hysteria and despair.

I'm close to doing something drastic (what exactly I'm not sure yet but it likely would've involved substituting the bleeding fist hammering away at the wall with my forehead) when I hear an aged voice coming from the other side of the brickwork.

"Oi! W-what's the meaning of all that racket?! We don't want no troublemakers 'ere, best be on yer way!"

Hope springs back to life as I try to convince the unseen speaker.

"Please! Please, I'm begging you! Please let me in!"

I can tell the other person is hesitant. As I said, Voldemort may be gone, but the memory of his reign of terror is still very much alive. As such, it was still understandably considered bad policy to open your door to whoever was banging on it in the middle of the night. On the other hand, my voice clearly belonged to a youngster and it would've been hard to mimic the genuine despair in my tone.

I can feel… something happening on the other side of the wall. It's faint and I can't place it, but almost immediately several bricks start moving and shifting out of the way, until in a matter of moments there's a peeping hole at around eye height suddenly inside the previously bricked up wall.

Peering suspiciously through it are two eyes set in a weathered, aged face that quickly track my sullied form up and down.

"Merlin's beard, what happened to you lad?" the old man asks, though his expression remains guarded.

I try to stand up a bit straighter under his scrutinizing look, though my protesting ribs quickly disabuse me of that notion. Seeing no reason not to, I tell the truth. Part of it at least.

"Please, sir. I got mugged. Didn't see who did it, but I just woke up a little while ago in Knockturn Alley. They took my money and my wand sir." I reply, my voice still rough and occasionally cracking and the tears in my eyes are somewhat embarrassingly not faked.

Given recent events though, I feel entitled to some emotional outburst. It's not everyday you wake up in a fictional person's body after all, only to nearly get shanked the very same day.

"Knockturn Alley, you say? Bad folk there, best not to be caught there without yer wand young mister." The speaker says not unkindly, far less suspicious than before.

Briefly, I can see him contemplate something, before he apparently comes to a decision, moving away from the peephole. I hear several faint taps from his end and suddenly the bricks start flowing and moving once again, until the hole has become a genuine doorway, a tall, grey-haired man standing on the other sides.

Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, Gilderoy's memories helpfully inform me.

"Well, come on in then. You'll catch yer death of cold like that, standing out there in the rain." The barkeep says, motioning me inside.

Gratefully I step over the threshold, nearly shivering in delight when I feel warm air instantly envelop my soaked form. I glance out over the warmly lit pub, noticing the low-slung roof made up of thick beams of ancient wood, nearly midnight black due to the centuries worth of smoke stubbornly clinging to them. The floor is made up of rough tiles, many of them worn by countless feet and the tables seem to have been used so often I could've sworn some of the stains seemed to have become engrained in the very wood itself. Much like some of it's more elderly occupants, for that matter. All in all, despite the minimal lightning and the generally churlish expressions on the patrons' faces, the place looks surprisingly homey and welcoming.

Then again, I suspect an abattoir would feel homey and welcoming once you've seen Knockturn Alley at night time. Before I move further towards the inviting warmth and dryness though, I glance towards Tom.

"Ah… about my… well, I realize my clothes…"

"Right! Right, wouldn't want you tracking all… that stuff… over me floors. Just had an Elf come in the other day to get em all nice and cleaned up, dontyaknow." Tom says as he closes up the wall again, before looking at me expectantly.

We stare at each other in confusion for a few moments before I realize what's going on and rather demonstratively turn my coatpockets inside out. Despite the fact that the man just saved me from spending the night out in the cold and rain, I can't quite keep myself from raising my eyebrow at him in question.

Thankfully, the old barkeep catches on and doesn't seem to take offense, slapping his forehead as he lets out an embarrassed chuckle.

"Right! Right, you got yer wand stolen by those ne'er-do-wells. Just a second young mister, I'll get ya cleaned up in a bit." He babbles, before training his wand on me and making a simple motion.

A standard maintenance spell, as the filth is vanished from my person and my clothes are instantly dry. Despite that, I'm convinced I can still smell the foul stench of garbage.

"Best to get a replacement for yer wand as soon as possible lad. Ollivander's got the best ones Galleons can buy, but, eh, he's closed fer tonight. If yer looking for something cheaper-"

Considering everything I've been through in the last hour or so, I really just want to get to Gilderoy's/my parents' house, take a shower and sleep for the next three or four days or so. No matter how genial this elderly barkeep is being, I gently cut him off, eager to get somewhere safe. Out of the rain and liberated from (most of) the filth I had woken up in, I (barely) manage to get my voice under control, making sure to portray the perfect image of a polite youth.

"That's alright, Tom, and thank you. I really just want to visit my parents right now however. They probably have a spare wand I can use in the meanwhile. If I could make use of your Floo? It isn't much, but some passersby gave me a bit of money, just a couple of Knuts. I know it likely doesn't cover the cost-" I start, hand already going towards my pocket, but to my surprise Tom waves me off.

"Bah, don't worry about it young mister. Yer got plenty on yer plate as it is and we make sure we always got plenty of Floo Powder in stock. Easy as pie to do: the stuff only costs two Sickles a scoop! Has been for close to a century now and… ehm… ahem. Just use it when yer ready." The aged barkeep says with a self-conscious smile as he catches himself rambling again as all old folk are wont to do and I give him a grateful nod.

Moving through the dimly lit main room of the ancient pub, skirting through the various rickety tables occupied by grumpy looking witches and wizards as I make my way towards the hearth, I notice that many of the patrons barely give me a second glance beyond noticing my young age, before returning to their tankards.

What a difference your appearance can make.

I make my way over towards the Leaky Cauldron's Floo Station without further incident, taking in the massive old hearth. On the mantle is a rough stone box, holding a generous amount of Floo. Without much hesitation, I grab a handful of the glittering powder and throw it into the flickering flames of the hearth, Lockhart's body having gone through the motions dozens of times before. Immediately previously gently crackling flames easily double in size as they shoot up in height, their hue turning into an emerald green, awaiting my command.

"Glenlockhart Road!" I called out in a strong, clear voice, making sure to get my pronunciation right.

Immediately the flames rose up to completely consume my form, but instead of heat, I merely felt motion instead. It was as if I was stuck in the world's most dangerous rollercoaster, without a belt or even a seat for that matter. Recalling the standard rote of instructions every young witch or wizard is taught, I closed my eyes and tucked in my elbows, placing my faith in the Floo System's delivery.

Despite the feeling of being stuck in a whirlwind, the trip is surprisingly short, taking me from the centre of London to an apartment in Oxgangs, a suburb of Edinburgh, Scotland, normally a 7-and-a-half-hour drive by car.

It's not a location my parents randomly chose when they left the Magical World behind. Or rather, my mother's choice, as it was related to her family, my dad having taken on her name. Several centuries ago in Oxgang there was the Craiglockhart family with their (very small) castle placed prominently upon Craiglockhart Hill and their cousins the Glenlockharts. From what young Gilderoy had picked up from his mother's rants, the relationship had been rather like the Bagginses and the Sackville-Bagginses from Lord of the Rings, with our forebears (the Glenlockharts) acting the role of the Sackville-Bagginses. With the decline of the two families the feud between them had died down as well, though the fact many of the roads and parks here were still named after the Craiglockharts was still a sore point for my mother, which is why she had demonstratively settled along the only street named after our forebears.

Though as a sign of respect to her distant cousins, she had declined to move into the ruins of what was once Craiglockhart's Castle instead, which had been sacked by the followers of Voldemort during the last wizarding war and now still stood empty.

It was probably the fact I could trace back my lineage to an old family (albeit it the lesser branch) that had kept me from being harassed too much by the children of Death Eaters in the years above me at Hogwarts, despite my Halfblood status. Oh, I was harassed alright, but that was entirely due to my own merit, such as when I… cancelled breakfast on Valentine's Day because I had mailed myself over 800 letters, causing entire tables to disappear underneath discarded feathers and owl-shit?

What… what the hell kind of person had I reincarnated into?

"Gil? Gil, is that you- Oh Merlin, what happened to you?!"

Well, at least there was one person in the world who (almost) loved Gilderoy as much as he himself did. His-… no, my mother came out of the adjacent kitchen to see me sprawled out spread eagled across the carpet in the living room, leaving a trail of soot to the merrily crackling fireplace behind me, now once more filled with normal flames.

Before I even had a chance to work myself up back into a seating position again (god, I'm sick of having to do that!), I feel two slim arms envelop me, a wide mane of blonde hair, the exact shade mine now is as well, filling my vision and tickling my nose, finally chasing away the foul smell of garbage and replacing it with… strawberries?

"H-hi, Mom." I manage to croak out, my voice tightening as I instinctively hug the woman back.

I don't know if it is the incredible stress I've been under since I woke up, or the fact that I'm now stuck in a teenaged body, but my emotions get the better of me when I feel my mother tightening her embrace and the realization strikes me that now, finally, finally I am safe.

Sobs rack my body as I pull the stranger I've known all my life closer to me, words failing me.

//

I'm standing on the sidewalk, barely paying any attention to the traffic passing past my back as I pull my coat closer to myself to ward off the early morning fog, it being a surprisingly chilly day for April. In front of me, higher up on a grassy hill, are the crumbling walls of Craighlockhart's castle. From the outside, actually calling it a castle is somewhat generous though, it being a single, squat tower rather than a keep with proper walls and moat. That's what the muggles saw, at least. When it was still a home to wizards it had been far larger on the inside.

Now however, those enchantments had failed, leaving only the same weathered stone that the occasional tourist bothered to snap a picture of.

It had been nearly a week since I had tumbled into the living room of John and Madeline Lockhart and I felt like I had managed to adjust to my new situation quite well during that time. I hadn't explained my true nature to them of course, though I had told them of my experiences in Knockturn Alley, as such a traumatic experience would handily explain away any differences in my behaviour and Gilderoy's.

Madeline nearly had a heart-attack when I described my encounter with the werewolf, while John had gone from cold to a sort of confused distant. The construction worker always had a difficulty finding common ground with his flamboyant, arrogant and (literally) magical son and had clearly thought my endeavour of making it big on Diagon Alley would eventually humble me.

A mugging and near-death experience certainly hadn't been what he had had in mind for me though and I could tell that, despite himself, he was somewhat impressed with the way I had handled the situation, though that was partly because he couldn't quite grasp the true dangers of those who lurked in Knockturn Alley.

"Should've just given him your money lad. Never a good idea to stand up to someone who's pulled a knife on you."

"I didn't have any money left to give him, John." I had said tiredly, seated at the kitchen table and gratefully downing a hot bowl of chicken soup.

"Even better then. If you got nothing for them to steal, then they'll just leave you alone."

"Not in this case. I didn't have any money, but that didn't mean he could still take something else away from me instead. A bite or scratch from a werewolf, even when the full moon wasn't out, would've destroyed any sort of career I'd try to build. I'd become an outcast in an instant and the man seemed angry and vindictive enough to have taken his own sick sense of amusement out of that." I explained, pushing away the plate with a morose look on my face.

I had suddenly lost my appetite.

As John sat in stunned silence, Madeline (who very much could grasp the dangers of Knockturn Alley's denizens) clearly had had half a mind to ground me on the spot, despite the fact that I had moved out already and had immediately gone off to their attic in search of a replacement wand for me.

At the thought, my hand slips in the pocket of my coat, grasping the smooth wooden grip of my new wand. 15 and a half inches, unicorn horn and vine wood, firm. It had belonged to my great uncle Frederic and kept in a dusty box for many decades. Comparing the feel of the wand to my memories of Gilderoy picking up his rosewood and dragonheartstring in Olivander's leaves me with a bitter feeling of disappointment. I know I can use this particular wand, I've tried several simple spells already, but there's not that familiarity or comradery that Gilderoy had with his own wand. I had to put much more thought and effort in a spell than the teenager had needed to do and it didn't sit right with me.

Well, actually, none of this sat right with me, the younger body, the earlier time period, not to mention the fictional universe, but those were beyond my control. But I was a wizard in the Harry Potter universe, I should be able to fulfill my childhood dream and be able to sling spells around like I'm America during the 4th​ of July dammit!

This wasn't just about a childish sense of wish-fulfillment however. Despite the fact that I had finally managed to clean myself up and get my (physical) wounds looked after, one thing I hadn't been able to shake from my experience in Knockturn Alley was the feeling of steel poking into my belly, the painful grip of the werewolf digging into my shoulder. I had been utterly hopeless… and I loathed the feeling.

The realization that I nearly had my life snuffed out, mere hours after getting it in the first place, by something so simple as a rusty kitchen knife, the thought that I only got out of that situation by sheer luck and a bluf… it was galling.

During that first night spent at the Lockhart residence, after waking up in a cold sweat for the umpteenth time, I had promised, no, vowed to myself that it would never happen to me ever again.

Never again would I be caught unawares. Never again would I feel weak.

It wasn't just for my own sake. For all that I hated the nameless werewolf, he had been (somewhat) right: the wizarding world couldn't go on as it currently did. In ten years' time, Voldemort would make his first return. It would take him a couple tries, but he would be back and Magical Britain would fall to him and his minions until the costly Battle of Hogwarts.

It would be a reign of terror that could see my family slaughtered as well. It wouldn't be the first time Voldemort had wiped a Lockhart branch of the map, I considered with a despondent thought, looking at the ruined home of what should've been the castle of my kin. My mother would be killed for being a race traitor, my father killed for daring to befoul a witch, my Squib sisters, Meredith and Penelope, both of them attending the nearby Edinburgh Napier University, killed for failing the wizarding race.

And being killed was the best outcome if any Death Eaters got their hands on them. Some of the stories young Gilderoy had picked up during the final years of the war… I shuddered, the morning chill suddenly feeling much colder than it had before as a tremor went down my spine.

Outside of his mother, Gilderoy hadn't really been able to connect much to his family. Their lack of magic simply made them too different and the boy himself had been too arrogant, causing a wedge between them. Still, they were family, and my more humbled attitude, which the others had ascribed to my mugging (not that they were entirely wrong) was already bearing some fruits, my sisters much more cordial with me after visiting once Madeline had made them aware of the situation.

It wasn't enough to undo over a decade of Gilderoy being a right little shit, but it was a start. There was a chance. A chance that could be ripped away from me in as little as ten years' time.

If I didn't want the cosy apartment, I was staying at reduced to rubble as the ruins I was currently gazing at had been, it's occupants forever silenced, I had to be strong. Incredibly strong, my name and fame large enough to draw most attention away from my defenceless relatives and to be impressive enough that even those who did notice them thought twice about messing with them.

In short, I had to become who Gilderoy would have merely pretended to have been. And I had only ten years to do it in.

So… how?

The question had been milling inside my mind for nearly the entire week once I had found my conviction to become more powerful and I began walking down the street roughly towards Edinburgh's centre, leaving the empty ruin behind.

The simple fact was that Lockhart was above average in terms of intelligence and power, a true Ravenclaw if it hadn't been for his laziness and cowardice. A whole career solely built on coasting by with his Memory Charm had caused his aptitude for nearly all other magical fields and spell to deteriorate. I of course wasn't going to let that happen, but that still left me woefully outclassed against monstrous powerhouses like Dumbledore and Voldemort, or even several of their lieutenants.

Hell, I was fairly certain Harry himself could wipe the floor with me in a magical duel by the time he was my age, diligent training on my end or not.

I needed an edge. A trump card, a way of increasing my power that broke the usual way that wizards increased their power. Dark Rituals were a very last resort though: I had seen what it had done to Voldemort in the future and I was rather attached to my perfectly straight nose, thankyouvermuch.

No, I needed something else. Something (marginally) safer. Something that I was familiar with, something that I knew that Gilderoy was skilled at. Which, ironically, brought me back to Memory Charms.

Except I had a far different, more sinister use in mind for them.

Which I was about to test for the first time, finding myself in one of Edinburgh's more dishevelled neighbourhoods. It was an area of low repute, but after my experiences with Knockturn Alley that notion was almost laughable. The chances that there were werewolves and hags and vampires lurking around here were far slimmer and now I actually had a wand.

A fact an approaching hoodlum was about to experience firsthand. He had been leaning against an old, beat-up car, an oversized hoodie on with the hood pulled low over his face and clearly clenching something in the hands he got stuffed inside his pockets.

The moment I passed him, he shot upwards, one arm grabbing my shoulder, the other pressing the cool barrel of a gun in my back. The sensation immediately brings back uncomfortable memories of a rusty knife glinting in the low light of dusk and I have to swallow heavily, even as I try not to resist as the other man pulls me into a nearby alley.

"Wallet! Now!" he snarls at me as I raise my hands, clearly surrendering.

"A-alright. Just take it easy." I respond, the quiver in my voice not faked as I slowly turn to face him.

"Now! Quickly!" the mugger merely responds, wide eyes flitting between my hands as they go towards my pockets.

They widen even further when I pull them back out again, only to show that in one of them, I'm holding a slim piece of wood.

He looks between the wand and me several times in confusion, before angers fills his expression.

"You taking the piss?!" he snarls, bringing up his gun again, completely disregarding the length of wood as a threat.

Fatal mistake, not that he could've known that. Despite looking down the barrel of a gun, I force myself to remain calm, or at least calm enough that my next word is enunciated as clearly as I can make it. I'd rather not have a buffalo suddenly sitting on my chest after all.

As the mugger opens his mouth to make another threat, showing a set of badly maintained teeth as he does, I interrupt him with a single word.

"Stupefy." I state simply, as if merely commenting on the weather.

There's a brief flash of red light as a line of colour shoots from my wand into the man's sternum and immediately his eyes roll into the back of his head as his entire body collapses, sagging in on itself like a puppet whose strings got cut, his gun clattering across the cracked concrete floor.

I let out a shaky sigh of relief, before leaning down and dragging the man to a nearby wall, propping him upwards in a sitting position.

Now, for the truly tricky part.

I lick my lips, mentally going over all the different parts of the spell I'm about to perform, checking the parts I already knew and double-checking the areas that I had modified. Grasping the unconscious man's chin in one hand in order to steady his head, I place the tip of my wand against his temple.

"Momento Ipso." I whisper in the ridiculous Pig-Latin apparently required for most spells.

Not that I care overly much when I can see the results with my own eyes though. Eerily similar to the way one extracts a memory for a Pensieve, a whispy strand of milky-white stays attached to the glowing tip of my wand as I steadily, carefully, move it away from the man's temple. But where such a Pensieve memory is but a single, flowing strand, what eventually hangs distended from my want if a whole collection of strands, interlocked and of varying thickness and brightness, almost like a twisted together spider's web. The totality of the man's memories and life experiences.

Dismissing said man, I rise to my feet, bringing up my free hand to carefully push the free-floating strands together, exerting my will and power over the nebulously shaped energy. With nothing but my own magic, I force the collection of memories tighter and tighter together without damaging any of the flowing strands or ethereal connections, until it's no larger than a Remembrall, a whirling shapeless ball of milky white smoke.

I take another deep breath, steady my nerves and steel my mind… and then I place that ball against the centre of my forehead. It briefly wells up against my skin… and then seamlessly sinks through it, the misty substance leaving no trace behind as it falls within my body.

Well, no trace other than the sudden splitting migraine that sends me to my knees. It's an experience that's similar to when Gilderoy's memories first flowed into me, but far more muted and distanced, weaker somehow. Instead of it knocking me out, I screw my eyes shut and grit my teeth and ride out the wave of pain and nausea.

It's over far more quickly as well: it can't have been more than ten minutes before the rush of distorted images and seemingly unrelated sensations begin to fade to the background, mercifully taking the pounding head ache with them. Taking several deep, relieved breaths, I work myself up to my feet again, slowly opening my eyes as I wonder whether or not it actually worked or if I screwed up somehow.

I glance down at the limp form of Jack Brown (aged 33, lived in a desolate apartment on Great Junction Street, never knew his dad, mother is an addict, had a younger brother that died in a car crash when they were just teenagers, supports Hibernian F.C. as part of the hooligan Hibs Boys network and had a grilled cheese sandwich from a nearby gas station as breakfast today), before my eyes slid past his slumped over body towards the gun that he had pulled on me.

I pick it up (a Beretta 92, bought off a shady peddler with a literal truck full of illegal firearms at the insistence of someone higher up with the Hibs Boys for over 500 pounds), before smoothly removing the clip and the bullet from the chamber, checking the internals of the gun with a critical eye, all just in a couple of seconds.

This despite never having handled a firearm before in either of my lives.

As I let the slide snap back to its neutral position, a dangerous grin appears on my face, tugging the dangerous weapon in a pocket on the inside of my overcoat. All of the information he had learned all of the skills he had gained over his lifetime, whatever Jack Brown knew or could do, now I knew or could do.

I didn't just have to write about other's experiences: I could live them. Experience them fully for myself, live a lifetime in a day and go through perilous adventure after adventure without ever putting myself in harm's way.

There's a spring in my step as I leave the comatose body of Mister Brown and the filthy back alley behind me, walking towards where usually several of his equally criminally-inclined buddies like to hang out. According to Jack, one of them was a rather skilled mechanic and locksmith.

Always a useful skill to have, even if it was going to be just the first of many, many more.

Better watch out, Wizarding World. I'm feeling… voracious.

//

AN: Hi! So, uhm, yeah. That's the premise. What if Gilderoy didn't just delete the memories of his victims, but actually absorbed him into himself? Becoming a sort of skill-vampire. I got some neat things planned with this fic. I got ten years to fill between this chapter and when Dumbledore approaches him to teach at Hogwarts after all and I intend for both the encountered werewolf and the Craiglockhart Castle (which is an actual thing, by the way! What are the odds, huh?) to have a part to play in firmly establishing this Lockhart as the Wizarding World's version of Indiana Jones/the Witcher. Please let me know your thoughts! Cheers!

Fun Fact(s): J.K. Rowling and Harry share their birthday (31 July), Rowling and Hermione share a favourite animal (the otter, which is Granger's Patronus) and Rowling and Dumbledore share a fondness for sherbet lemons.