Lockhart's expression faltered for a moment, as if someone had flipped a switch in his brain; his blue eyes paused for a split second, then suddenly lit up again.
He blinked, his gaze shifting from blankness to confusion, and then from confusion to an exaggerated, almost theatrical, astonishment.
"Oh, Headmaster Dumbledore, what are you doing here?"
His tone was completely different from before, with a slight upward inflection at the end, as if he were being interviewed by The Witch Weekly, bright and cheerful, as if nothing had happened.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately, but gave him a deep look with his blue eyes.
Lockhart felt a little uncomfortable under his gaze, and his smile froze for a moment, but he quickly regained his signature radiance.
"I was planning... uh... I'm --"
Dumbledore extended his hand.
His movements were slow, but Lockhart's body seemed to be Petrificus Totalus, frozen in mid-air, unable to move.
Dumbledore's fingers slipped inside Lockhart's sky-blue robes.
Lockhart's eyes followed his hand, and his lips trembled slightly.
Then Dumbledore withdrew his hand.
He had a black-covered diary between his fingers.
The cover was completely undecorated, without even a gold foil pattern, and the edges were worn and faded, making it look like an ordinary old notebook.
But Lockhart's expression froze completely in that instant.
The stiffness lasted less than half a second before he immediately resumed his charming smile, speaking casually.
"It was just an accident."
"It was just an accident."
He swallowed hard, his gaze shifting back and forth between Dumbledore's face and the diary.
"I just found it, yes, found it... in the hallway, no, in the office, I..."
"You know, I've always had a weakness for beautiful things; I personally picked out all the book covers for my books—"
Dumbledore disdainful look.
That gaze was calm, even devoid of anger, but the moment it landed on Lockhart's face, all of Lockhart's smiles seemed somewhat forced.
Only useless people would treat it like a treasure.
Lockhart opened his mouth, his expression shifting from stiffness to embarrassment, and then to a disheveled look of trying to maintain his composure after being exposed.
He seemed to want to refute something, but ultimately said nothing.
Dumbledore didn't wait for Lockhart to speak.
He casually let go, and the black diary slipped from his fingers, twirled a few times in the air, and plummeted straight down into the purple sea of fire below.
Its black cover flickered in the firelight, like a withered leaf blown away by the wind.
Then it fell into the Fiendfyre.
The moment the diary came into contact with the flame, the entire notebook seemed to be gripped tightly by something, and it suddenly curled up.
A sharp, piercing scream squeezed out from between the pages.
The voice was venomous and insane, like something being torn to shreds alive.
"No--"
The roars surged within the flames, carrying a hysterical sense of defiance.
The cover of the diary began to burn, and black fragments curled up, revealing the yellowed pages inside.
The pages fluttered in the flames, the writing on them flashing silver, as if making a final struggle.
Then came another roar, weaker than before, but even more venomous.
The flames engulfed the pages, the silver lettering, and the last intact piece of the diary.
The roaring sounds completely disappeared.
Only a clump of ash remained in the flames, swirling in the hot air currents, turning a few times in the air, before dissipating completely.
Lockhart hovered there, looking down at the burning flames.
His face flickered in the firelight, sometimes white, sometimes red, and sometimes turning into an indescribable gloom.
His eyes slowly shifted, and he stealthily and extremely cautiously glanced in Dumbledore's direction.
Dumbledore's gaze wasn't on him, but rather on the still-burning Fiendfyre in the distance, as if he were looking at something that had already been finished.
Lockhart looked away.
He took a deep breath.
Then he suddenly raised his head and looked straight at Dumbledore's back.
His lips began to move, without making any sound; only the shape of his lips kept changing.
A silent incantation slipped from his lips, his gaze grew increasingly focused, and a faint expectation was gathering deep within his pupils.
The embarrassment of being exposed had faded, replaced by a hint of greed.
As the last syllable fell, his gaze suddenly fixed.
He looked at the back of Dumbledore's head with an almost devout expectation in his eyes.
It's as if it's waiting for a seed to sprout.
Finally, Dumbledore turned around.
His face was expressionless, neither happy nor sad; his blue eyes were as calm as if he were looking at a student who had answered a question incorrectly at the podium.
You may not be familiar with the concept of top-level Occlumency.
Lockhart's eyes widened suddenly, his expression shifting from anticipation to astonishment, and then to something that was hard to define as either fear or confusion.
His lips moved slightly.
This time, I really want to say something.
But before he could utter a single syllable, the force that had been holding him suspended in mid-air suddenly vanished.
But there was nothing beneath his feet.
He also doesn't know the Flight Spell.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhh--"
The scream pierced the purple and deep blue backdrop of the night sky, crashing against the stone walls on both sides of Diagon Alley and creating a series of echoes.
His body began to fall.
A gust of wind surged up from below, tossing his golden curls into a mess, and his sky-blue robe billowed in the air like a torn flag.
His limbs flailed wildly in the air, trying to grab anything, but there was nothing in the air except the wind and his own screams whistling in his ears.
He did a few somersaults, gesturing wildly like a fledgling bird thrown from its nest.
Dumbledore hovered in mid-air, his silver beard fluttering gently in the night breeze, his blue eyes behind his Half-moon Spectacles calmly watching the falling figure.
Lockhart's screams grew fainter and fainter.
Bang!
A muffled thud.
Lockhart's back slammed against the Diagon Alley, kicking up a cloud of dust.
A sky-blue robe lay open on the ground, golden curls fell around her head, and her limbs were sprawled out at an unseemly angle.
He lay motionless on the ground, covered in dust, and appeared to be unconscious.