Chapter 143: Self-Awareness - Hogwarts: Muggle Professor

Noon, Great Hall

Melvin finished his morning classes and descended the stairs with a few sixth-year students, chatting about the upcoming Christmas break. In the Great Hall, the students scattered to their house tables, while Melvin, as an elective professor, took a seat at the staff table.

With the headmaster absent, Melvin joined Flitwick, Sprout, and Professor Babbling in conversation, as usual. The topic revolved around the Theseus riddle left at the Ravenclaw Tower entrance the other night. Each professor offered unique perspectives, branching into other fields.

McGonagall listened, occasionally chiming in, while Snape sat silently, uninterested in wasting time on philosophical debates without answers.

Moments later, Lockhart arrived.

As he settled into his corner seat, the more perceptive professors noticed a change.

Normally, Lockhart would have claimed the central spot, interjecting opinions into their discussion with his signature grin. Today, he ate quietly, cutting his steak with knife and fork, his face devoid of the usual flamboyant smile, resembling a composed, seasoned professor.

Their curious glances caught Lockhart's attention. He looked up, offering a puzzled expression.

McGonagall, suspecting or knowing something, probed, "Professor Lockhart… do you remember us?"

Lockhart chuckled. "Quite the joker, Professor McGonagall."

He greeted his colleagues with a measured, polite tone. "My wand's been acting up a bit. I'm just wondering when to take it to Ollivander for a repair—or maybe get a new one."

He resumed eating, staying out of their conversation.

"Strange…" Flitwick muttered, scratching his head.

Lockhart's student days had been a headache for Flitwick, his head of house, who still recalled the antics: carving his name across the Quidditch pitch, projecting his portrait into the sky like a Dark Mark, sending himself eight hundred Valentine's cards, causing an avalanche of owl droppings and feathers that canceled breakfast.

Nearly a term into the school year, Lockhart had been his usual self—until today's sudden shift, which baffled them.

The professors exchanged puzzled looks but said little, quietly observing Lockhart, unsure if he'd genuinely changed or was plotting something grand.

Melvin chewed his tender beef rib, intrigued by Lockhart's transformation.

In the realm of memory magic, particularly the Obliviate Charm, Lockhart was a technical expert. Melvin could only speculate: which memories had the bestselling author sealed away, and which tales of adventure and heroism had he fabricated?

How long would the Obliviate Charm last? Would he deceive himself forever?

Flitwick nudged him. "Melvin, back to the Ship of Theseus. If every part of something is replaced, is it still the same thing?"

---

Classes ended, and after the evening feast, Lockhart returned to his office.

It resembled other castle offices: a desk, a comfortable chair, a walnut bookshelf, and a display for personal items. Unremarkable, except for the walls plastered with his portraits and photos, ensuring his perfect smile was visible from every angle.

The bookshelf held only his books—special collector's editions with gilded titles and ornate covers. The display showcased newspaper clippings, trophies, and medals, gleaming in the candlelight.

For some reason, as Lockhart surveyed the room he'd decorated, it felt less satisfying than usual.

But he brushed it off.

Exhaling, he shed his formal robes, hung them by the door, and sat at his desk. He examined his wand, which seemed fine, yet several spells had failed today.

A simple snowflake charm—what went wrong?

Lockhart couldn't figure it out.

In his memory, he hadn't botched a spell like this in ages. After graduating, he'd traveled, collecting adventure stories and rewriting them as first-person novels, becoming a modestly famous author.

Inspired by his own tales, he embarked on real adventures, choosing a remote Himalayan village.

Recalling those days, he vividly remembered enduring freezing nights, outwitting a yeti through cunning and magic. After nearly three months, with villagers' help, he'd used his spells to give the yeti a cold.

Digging through his memories and drawing on his limited schoolboy magical knowledge, he waved his wand and whispered:

"Fladesco Nix…"

A few cool, white flakes drifted down, sparkling faintly.

A smile spread across Lockhart's face. As the clock chimed, he caught his reflection in a mirror and froze. Buried memories surged into his eyes, flooding his mind.

His smile stiffened as he processed these sealed memories, rediscovering—or reclaiming—himself. The shift was disorienting, almost dreamlike.

Recalling the day, a sweet thrill filled him: students' gasps, young witches' admiring looks, colleagues' puzzled murmurs…

This was what Lockhart had always craved—glory and fame, all gained through altered memories. He waved his wand, scattering ice crystals like stage confetti.

"Even mastered the magic…"

Gazing into the mirror, Lockhart flashed his radiant, perfect smile again.

---

November brought a chill to Hogwarts.

Rain mixed with snow fell.

The Great Hall served more hot soups, and the air often carried the scent of creamy mushroom soup on students' breaths. Cold desserts were less popular, nibbled only during casual chats after fuller meals.

Hermione, with few friends, stayed in the loop thanks to her roommates, Lavender and Parvati.

They grabbed their food, swapped dishes, commented briefly, then dove into gossip about Lockhart.

Lockhart's Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, taught across all years, had drawn complaints for their uniformity. But as his Himalayan yeti saga unfolded, students began learning, and his reputation shifted.

"He said in the Himalayas, your fingers freeze, thaw, freeze again—a few cycles, and they're like chips," Lavender said shrilly, loud enough for nearby tables to hear.

"…"

Parvati stared at her plate. "Can you not say that while I'm eating fish and chips?"

"With ketchup, they'd look even more like it!"

"Ugh…"

A commotion erupted at the Hufflepuff table. Hermione subtly pushed Harry's chips away from him.

"Lockhart's not that bad, right, Parvati?" Lavender said.

"He was awful at the start of term…"

"Maybe his wand wasn't suited. It got damaged in his adventures. Like Neville and Ron's old wands—he didn't need a new one, just a fix."

"…"

The chatter reached Harry, who drizzled ketchup on his chips and ate them thoughtfully. "Is Lockhart really not a fraud?"

As he picked up a fish piece, his fingers suddenly felt icy.

He flinched, realizing Nearly Headless Nick's head had popped through the table. "Nick! Can you come up from above next time? I thought my fingers turned into chips!"

"…"

Nick turned, his expression dazed, eyes vacant.

"Nick? Nick?" Ron called.

"…"

Hermione tried, "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington?"

Nick snapped out of it, ignoring their puzzled looks. "If someone looked exactly like you, thought like you, had all your memories, knew your friends and secrets—would they be another you?"

The trio exchanged glances, unsure what was happening.

Ron scratched his head. "Yes… or no?"

Harry frowned, concerned. "Nick, you okay?"

"Professor Levent mentioned it at the Deathday Party and left it at Ravenclaw Tower. It's a Muggle philosophy question with no answer. Don't dwell on it," Hermione explained. "We know ghosts are wizards' souls."

Nick's eyes brightened. "If that changes, is a ghost still the same ghost?"

They had no answer, watching as he drifted off, vanishing through a wall.

"Ugh…" Ron poked at his ribs with a fork. "It's Levent's fault. The ghosts are acting weird. Hope they're normal by winter."

Hermione opened her mouth but couldn't argue.

Historically, philosophers often went mad, depressed, or took their lives. Ghosts, tormented by time and stubborn, were vulnerable to such questions. Levent tossing them these riddles felt a bit cruel.

---

Snow soon followed the sleet.

Scotland's highlands brought fierce cold. The Whomping Willow's bare branches were soon frosted, and howling winds battered the castle's walls and windows. Most houses coped, but Slytherin's dungeon common room needed constant fires.

Many students caught colds, with weaker ones visiting the hospital wing two or three times a week. Madam Pomfrey was swamped.

On Thursday afternoon, McGonagall roped Melvin into shopping in Hogsmeade for Christmas supplies. Shopkeepers were eager, offering generous discounts while subtly asking if new films would screen over the holidays. Melvin brushed them off.

Back at Hogwarts, the greenhouses were packed with second-years tending frost-sensitive Mandrakes. On the Quidditch pitch, players rode broomsticks in snowball fights. At the frozen Black Lake, students skated, their laughter mixed with wails from those who fell, clutching sore backsides.

In the entrance hall, Melvin spotted two figures in the courtyard—one old, one young.

"Looks like Headmaster Dumbledore," McGonagall said.

"Hm."

McGonagall bristled. The deputy headmistress trudged through snow for errands while the headmaster stood idly, getting snowed on. Annoying.

Dumbledore, in thick gray-white robes, stood tall and lean, snow dusting his shoulders, exuding an ethereal air.

Lockhart, in a blue robe with a flashy white mink scarf, was eye-catching as ever.

Melvin nodded slightly. No Defense Against the Dark Arts class this afternoon, it seemed—this was the perfectly smiling Lockhart.

McGonagall headed to her office to balance accounts, parting with Melvin at the stairs. He wandered into the courtyard, greeting them. "Enjoying the snow? The Forbidden Forest has better views."

Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head. "Too old for the cold. I don't linger outside long."

"Out enjoying merchants' flattery with the deputy?" Lockhart teased, nudging Melvin like an old pal.

"…"

Melvin regretted coming over. He should've followed McGonagall upstairs.

"I was discussing the club with the headmaster," Lockhart said, smugly. "I had a brilliant idea. Defense Against the Dark Arts can't just be theory—students need practice, real combat skills."

"Meaning?"

"A Dueling Club!" Lockhart brandished a notice. "Weekly dueling practice to teach proper wizard duels, preparing them to face dark creatures and wizards beyond school."

Melvin glanced at the parchment, stamped with the headmaster's seal.

As Lockhart bragged, Melvin and Dumbledore stayed quiet, offering only nods or vague hums. Talking to him was dull.

Lockhart pouted, bored, and excused himself. "I'm off to post the Dueling Club notices."

Melvin watched him go, noting a detail: Lockhart's cufflinks were plain copper, unlike his usual gilded or silver ones, now dull and unremarkable.

The impact of memory alteration seemed deeper than expected.

Some changes had crept in, unnoticed by Lockhart himself.

Melvin's gaze turned thoughtful.

Dumbledore brushed snow from his shoulders, breathing in the crisp air, his demeanor lively, shedding his frail, elderly air. "Melvin, I heard you left a riddle at Ravenclaw Tower."

"Philosophical debate. No fixed answers, just perspectives."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Combined with your Deathday Party musings on self-awareness, it's got the Grey Lady and Sir Nicholas stumped. They've come to me, and it's quite the headache."

Melvin nodded. "They'll need to sort it out themselves. No one else can help."

"It's sparked some thoughts for me too," Dumbledore said.

"Go on."

"If someone replicated themselves at different life stages—each with independent thoughts and souls, just varying in memory length: youth, middle age, old age—all existing at once, each claiming to be the true self—who is the real them?"

Melvin looked at the old headmaster, his kind face wreathed in a gentle smile.

Chapter 143 - Chapter 143: Self-Awareness