"You still remember who you are, right?"
Melvin was perched on the chair next to the hospital bed, a half-bust portrait of Lockhart looming behind him like a bad joke.
The patient answered with way too much enthusiasm: "Gilderoy Lockhart!"
"Not your name," Melvin said, leaning in. "Your identity. Who are you? Where's your family? What's your job? What did you do before you ended up in this ward?"
"Signing autographs… for tons of people… so I'm a celebrity?"
"Even if you are a celebrity, what makes you worth liking? What did you do to make people chase you down for a signature?" Melvin got right up in his face, asking questions like he was trying to coax the answer out of a stubborn cauldron.
Lockhart stared into Melvin's eyes and immediately regretted it. Those pitch-black eyes were terrifying—like staring into the bottom of the Black Lake, deep enough to swallow your whole soul.
His mind went blank. Memories he didn't even know he had started bubbling up—like air pockets rising from the depths.
Yeah… why were my autographs such a big deal?
What was I doing before I got here?
Lockhart tried to grab hold of an answer, but all he got were random flashes and sounds—popping bubbles that didn't connect into anything useful. His head started to throb.
"Because I'm handsome!" he blurted.
"Plenty of wizards are better-looking than you."
"They love my smile!"
"Witch Weekly does a 'Most Charming Smile' poll every quarter. You've been snubbed more times than I can count." Melvin shot him down but kept nudging. "Think harder. You've got to have something no one else does."
"I… I don't know. I can't remember!" Lockhart looked like he was in pain, but the second the words left his mouth, he relaxed—like he'd just shrugged off a heavy trunk. He scooted back, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and Melvin, like the guy was a blast-ended skrewt.
"Professor… Professor Levent…" Healer Miriam was wringing her hands. "The patient isn't fully recovered. He needs rest. No more prodding."
"I just want to see how far he's come."
Melvin blinked. His lashes dropped, and the creepy abyss in his eyes vanished.
Legilimency—no one knows who invented it or when. Rumor says a few wizards were born with a knack for peeking into minds, and from that came the spell. It's technically ancient magic, around since the Founders' days at Hogwarts.
Like the Basilisk, the caster channels magic through eye contact to rifle through thoughts, emotions, memories—even stuff the target doesn't know is there. It can also plant fake memories or images.
Salazar Slytherin, Dumbledore, and Voldemort were all masters. Melvin had only skimmed the basics from books—enough to spot panic, big mood swings, or lies.
The real tricks? Those came from his pen pal.
Back when the diary kept trying to worm into his head (and failing, thanks to fake-memory bait), Melvin picked up the advanced stuff. He learned how to flip through someone's memories like a photo album. Not as slick as the old pros, but for a guy with amnesia and brain fog? Plenty.
If Lockhart's mind used to be a murky swamp, Healer Miriam's care and the golden-cup potion had settled the mud. Now there was a clear pool on top.
Old memories were buried in the silt at the bottom. Even with verbal nudges and Legilimency, Melvin could only fish out random, jumbled fragments. Without a bigger push, that swamp wasn't turning back into a memory palace anytime soon.
The clear water up top? Blank space for new memories.
The borderline between clear and silt? Subconscious stuff—like signing autographs or basic spell muscle memory.
Melvin turned to the healer. "You said he's remembered a few little spells. What are they?"
"Let him show you!"
Miriam was practically bouncing. She unlocked the bedside cabinet, pulled out a wand, and handed it to Lockhart. Not his old one—just a standard rehab wand from the hospital.
Oak wood. No core. Ollivander-made. One-size-fits-all.
"Go on, Gilderoy. Show the professor what you can do."
"Let's do some magic!"
Lockhart grabbed the wand and flashed a dazzling smile—like he was eleven again, stepping into Hogwarts for the first time.
Incendio.
Lumos.
Wingardium Leviosa.
Melvin had hoped for something, but the results? A few pathetic sparks, a dim glow, and a cookie that wiggled like it was having a seizure. That wasn't magic—that was what first-years did without wands. No skill. No finesse.
"These basic charms and his autograph habit are muscle memory," Miriam said proudly. "He's still rusty, but give it time. Gilderoy might actually cast them properly soon."
Melvin wasn't holding his breath.
For Lockhart, signing letters, book tours, and fancy parties had been second nature—like breathing. Years of practice made perfect.
But spells? He hadn't touched a first-year charm since graduation. Remembering the incantations at all was a miracle.
"Let's hope," Melvin said to the kind healer. "I'll keep the potions coming. The rest is up to you, Mrs. Strout. I want detailed notes on the potion's effects. I'm very interested in the report."
"Of course."
Obliviate.
A voice came from the bed.
Weak magic sparked from the tip of the rehab wand. Same wand. Same amnesiac patient. But this time? Real spell. White light spread like a memory-sealing fog.
Clang.
A faint metallic hum. The light fizzled out.
Miriam's eyes bugged. She lunged, snatching the wand. "You—you how?!"
"I… I just…" Lockhart looked panicked. He repeated the motion. "It just popped into my head. Felt familiar. So I… did it."
"Were you good with the Memory Charm before?"
"I don't know. I don't remember."
"…"
Melvin watched the rapid-fire Q&A with a smirk. Beginner spells? Clumsy. But Obliviate? As natural as signing his name. Incantation plus muscle memory = instant recall.
He stepped closer. "You remember Obliviate. Do you remember how to extract memories? Or plant false ones?"
Lockhart shrank back from the earlier grilling. Under Miriam's prodding, he lifted his messy head. "Extract memories? False memories? Like… making up stories with magic?"
"You could say that. Lucky for us, I brought supplies." Melvin dug into his coat pocket. It clinked like a portable apothecary. He pulled out a vial—silvery mist, halfway between gas and liquid.
Miriam opened her mouth, then closed it. Hospital rules said Undetectable Extension Charms needed paperwork.
"Memories in your head are chunks," Melvin explained. "Pull them out with a wand, they're threads. Need potion to see them clearly…" He tapped his temple with his wand, drew out a silver strand, and let the mist shape it. "This is from Romania. We were hiking a boring mountain—trees, flowers, blah. Last thirty seconds? Dragon ambush."
He handed the memory-mist to Lockhart. "Try cutting out the boring part. Keep just the dragon."
"Dragon!"
Lockhart's eyes lit up at the flash of scales.
He took the wand again. Hesitant at first, then instinct kicked in. He dipped the tip into the mist, stirred, and—shakily—split the memory in two.
Rough. But instinctive.
Miriam's jaw dropped. No wonder the papers called him a memory thief. This guy was one "Alohomora" away from robbing half of London like Eldon Eskrick.
Melvin grinned. No accountant yet, but he'd just found a pro editor.
"Mrs. Strout, keep looking after Lockhart. I've got a job for him. No closed ward. No Azkaban. He'll work—for the wizarding world."
He waved the mist away with a smile.
…
Out of St. Mungo's, a few streets over, a sharp turn, and there was Charing Cross. The Leaky Cauldron's sign was still a mess. Inside: grimy tables, sticky floors, shiny bar. A few old witches in the corner. Couple of Quidditch fans by the shadow mirror.
Butterbeer scent hit like a hug. Old Tom's eyes were warm and honest. Melvin took a sip—watched it being poured. No spit-in-the-foam tricks today.
"You catch all that about the job?" Melvin asked the middle-aged wizard next to him—the appliance repair guy from a few blocks over.
"Got it. Hire crew, set up assembly line, standardize shadow mirrors. Work with Goof editor and Kettleburn. Bagman too." Wright swirled his butterbeer, sneaking a glance at Dumbledore next to him.
His drink wasn't poured in front of him, but with the headmaster right there? Tom wouldn't dare.
"Strengthen ties with Romania and Budapest. Dragon reserve news—always on deck. Nobody's bored of dragons…" Melvin said. "Ministry news too. Especially Umbridge's anti-werewolf bill. Forced registrations. Big talk."
Business done, they leaned in for a whisper.
"Portkey ready?"
"Relax. Boggin handled it. He's the guy."
"He does Portkeys?"
"Black market Portkeys."
"…"
"Go to the shop. Forty minutes."
"…"
Dumbledore sipped his butterbeer, listening to the Mirror Club's summer plans like it was the most fascinating thing since chocolate frogs. More invested than Hogwarts paperwork.
Plans wrapped, Melvin turned to the old headmaster. "I'm off to Paris. You?"
"Yorkshire. Visiting a former student. Hoping to convince him to teach."
Dumbledore set down his mug, foam on his lip. He sighed. "Posted the Defense Against the Dark Arts ad over Easter. No takers… The shadow mirrors didn't help."
Last two professors? Gone in half a year. Lockhart: amnesiac. Quirrell: ash. Mirrors spread the gossip. Everyone already believed the job was cursed. Now? Ironclad.
The friendly werewolf professor?
Melvin nodded thoughtfully. Back to Remus Lupin.
Timeline-wise, the Azkaban breakout was underway. But his butterfly wings had stirred a hurricane. Harry and Ron's news was old. Scabbers wasn't strutting around anymore. Would Sirius still swim the North Sea?
…
France. Paris. Marne Valley.
32 kilometers from the city center, in Chessy, the Disney France HQ glowed under night lights. Near closing time, the front desk got a weird visitor.
Pretty receptionist, polite smile: "Sir, how can I help?"
"I'm looking for… let me think. Your VP and Creative Director. Claire Raven."
"Appointment?"
"Nope. But we're friends."
Smile still plastered on, she was already planning security. Professionalism won. "Please wait in the lounge. I'll check."
…
He'd be waiting till closing if he went.
Melvin smiled back, just as fake. "Ask now. I'll wait here."
…
Bzzz… bzzz…
Phone rang in the office. Walnut desk, coppery shine. Delicate cup of black coffee. Stack of rosewater scones.
Young VP Claire rubbed her temples, picked up. "Hello?"
"Ms. Raven, weird guy says he's your fri—"
Voice on the line went fuzzy. Like the receptionist forgot what she was saying.
"My what?" Claire asked louder.
"Huh?" The voice sounded lost.
Claire sighed. Even my old assistant was better than this.
She hung up, ready to bury herself in files, when a calm voice said:
"Your old friend."
Claire looked up, blinked hard. Long lashes fluttered.