"Before term started, my parents went back to St. Mungo's for a check-up. The healer who saw us was Miriam Strout. She said as long as they keep taking their medicine, Mum and Dad can live pretty much like normal people.
"Oh, and Professor—Strout asked me to tell you that Professor Lockhart's doing a lot better too.
"He's obviously improved. He reads the paper every day, practices memory charms, but he still insists he's not the same Gilderoy Lockhart from the papers. The healers say he can't accept his past self.
"She wanted me to ask if you know any way to get his memories back."
Neville looked at him hopefully. Melvin just shook his head.
The bell had just rung for break, and they were on the second-floor landing by the rotating staircase. Students rushing to class brushed past—some ducked their heads and sped by when they spotted a professor, others stopped to say hi.
Melvin was honestly stumped.
Memory damage this complicated was partly the patient protecting themselves by walling off the painful stuff. Even the combined efforts of St. Mungo's healers and Dumbledore hadn't cracked it.
On the other hand, dark-magic expert Riddle had suggested using the Cruciatus Curse—just enough torture to break through the mental and magical barriers and dig up buried memories.
Yeah… not super reliable. Especially since the Longbottoms had already been tortured past the breaking point. That's what landed them in the closed ward for the last thirteen years.
Melvin wasn't about to take Riddle's advice straight-up.
Neither of them spoke again. They waited on the landing until the staircase swung around, then stepped onto the bridge. The stairs kept rotating, carrying them toward the opposite tower.
Melvin felt like he was grabbing at puzzle pieces he couldn't quite connect:
"Memories… emotions… the soul…"
They stepped off the staircase and headed down the corridor. The left hallway was sealed—that was Myrtle's girls' bathroom.
The right hallway split. One branch led to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom (marked by the statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch). The other led to the rest of the rooms (marked by a suit of brass armor).
Neville hitched his bag higher, about to say goodbye to Professor Lewent, when Hermione suddenly appeared from the left corridor.
She was lugging a heavy shoulder bag that pulled one side of her body down. A plain gold chain hung around her neck. She looked rushed, forehead damp like she'd just washed her face, and she was heading straight for the brass-armor hallway.
"Hermione! Hermione!" Neville called. "Wrong way! Defense Against the Dark Arts is over here."
Hermione froze.
"Did two months of summer make you forget the castle layout?" Neville laughed. "Good thing you ran into me, or you'd be late for Lupin's first lesson."
"I… no…"
Hermione glanced at Professor Lewent, who was watching them with an amused smile. She stammered, "I didn't get lost. I'm supposed to go this way…"
She was racing to Ancient Runes. Any more delays and she'd actually be late.
But she couldn't just tell Neville that. He'd see another Hermione in Defense class later. If classmates noticed, they'd get curious, and the Time-Turner secret would be out.
She'd promised McGonagall.
Just as she stood there panicking, Melvin spoke up. "Hermione's got something else to do. I need her help sorting a book list. Won't take long. You go on to class, Neville."
"But—"
"She won't be late."
"Okay…"
Neville headed off, still worried, glancing back a couple times.
Melvin almost laughed. Third-years were terrible liars. How had previous students kept the Time-Turner hidden?
Hermione peeked at him, saw zero curiosity in his eyes, and couldn't help asking, "Professor… you know about the… Turner?"
"What Time-Turner? No idea what you're talking about."
"…"
"Morning classes are packed and breaks are short. Why wait till the last second?" Melvin asked as they walked the other way. "Any later and you'd bump into Harry and Ron in the hall."
"I didn't mean to cut it close. Something came up."
Hermione adjusted her bag and sighed under the weight. "Professor Snape was moving a big wardrobe from upstairs to the staff room, and Peeves was making a nuisance of himself. I had to duck into Myrtle's bathroom—and then ran into Myrtle."
"A wardrobe? What kind?"
Hermione spread her hands. "No clue. It was rattling and banging like something was trapped inside. Supposedly it's for Professor Lupin's lesson."
"Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching aid…" Melvin mused, stopping outside the Runes classroom.
Hermione slipped inside, took the front row, and pulled out the shiny chain from under her collar, her expression complicated.
…
The staff room was a long, narrow hall stuffed with mismatched old chairs. A few battered wardrobes lined the walls—storage for special robes like Sprout's gardening gear or Hooch's windproof caps.
Melvin leaned against one of the wardrobes in the middle of the room. When Professor Lupin led his class in, Melvin stepped aside, moving to a dusty armchair by the wall that somehow had no dust on it.
Lupin smiled warmly. "McGonagall told me Snape helped move the teaching aid."
"Yeah, he was here when I arrived," Melvin said. "But he figured one professor was enough to babysit it, handed it off, and went back to his office."
Melvin shifted, revealing the rickety old wardrobe behind him. "I heard you were starting your first Defense lesson with this thing. Got curious, so I'm auditing."
"If you're just sitting in, I'm delighted. But if McGonagall sent you to spy and see if I'm fit to teach, I'll have to close the door."
Lupin met the younger professor's dark eyes. He actually liked Melvin. The last two Defense professors had deserved what they got, and Melvin never listened to Snape's gossip. His reputation among students and staff was solid.
Melvin stepped over to stand with the students, showing he was just here to watch.
Lupin ignored the goofy faces some kids were making and got started. "I bet you're all dying to know what treasure is inside that lured Professor Lewent here to audit."
The wardrobe suddenly rocked, back slamming against the wall with loud thuds.
A few nervous kids jumped. Boys craned their necks trying to peer through the tiny crack. Lavender and Parvati scooted closer to Melvin.
Lupin chuckled. "Don't worry. There's a boggart in there."
"Boggarts love dark, confined spaces—wardrobes, under beds, kitchen sinks… First question: what exactly is a boggart?"
Years of odd jobs and dealing with all kinds of people had made Lupin great at reading a room. He turned the dry textbook definition into stories and questions that kept everyone hooked.
"A boggart hides in dark, narrow places. It can sense human fear and transform into whatever scares you most. Its true form is unknown. Muggles sometimes sense them but think they're hallucinations."
Melvin enjoyed the lesson. The kids kept whispering to him—especially when Hermione answered a question. Lavender and Parvati bombarded him with boggart trivia. Every creepy example made them gasp dramatically.
Neville gasped too. He'd mostly outgrown his old shyness, but he was still a little jumpy—and determined to get braver. He kept shrinking back yet craning to see inside the wardrobe, trying to spot the boggart's real shape through a thumb-width gap.
Melvin stayed quiet, leaning against the wall by the armchair, following classroom rules.
Up front, Lupin moved on to boggart weaknesses: when faced with lots of wizards at once, it gets confused and can't pick a form, ending up a ridiculous mishmash that scares no one.
Then the spell: Riddikulus. Simple words, simple wand movement—third-years could handle it.
Once the class had practiced enough, Lupin looked for a volunteer. He skipped Hermione (hand already sky-high) and called on the slightly spaced-out kid.
"Neville, first things first—what's the thing you're most afraid of in the whole world?"
Neville mumbled for a second, then blurted a name no one expected: "Bellatrix Lestrange."
Most students looked confused. A few had heard it—Draco went pale and scowled.
Melvin stayed calm. Not surprised at all.
Strip away the old insecurities, add his new confidence from drama club and last lesson's talk about expectations and prophecy—Neville had moved past Snape's shadow.
Compared to the potions professor, the Death Eater who'd tortured his parents insane and destroyed his family? That was the real fear.
"Bellatrix…"
Lupin paused. A student scared of a Death Eater was reasonable but tricky. He needed humor to help Neville beat it.
"Neville, have you ever seen Bellatrix?"
"Just in the Prophet—the pictures from her trial."
"Right, probably the arrest photos…" Lupin slowed down, thinking. "Anyone else in your life who's really ridiculous? Zero dignity?"
"Professor Lockhart from last term?"
"I've heard the name. What exactly made him funny?"
Neville wrinkled his nose. "He wore flashy robes everywhere, bragged nonstop about stuff he didn't do, botched every spell he showed off… Now he's in St. Mungo's closed ward practicing his autograph but refusing to admit he's Lockhart."
"Always trying to show off, always messing up."
Lupin smiled. "I never met the guy. Maybe picture some of those ridiculous things on Bellatrix."
Some kids were already snickering, remembering Lockhart getting chased by pixies, knocked flat by Snape in the dueling club, vanishing Harry's arm bones, fainting at the sight of the basilisk, and wiping his own memory trying to steal the credit.
"Lockhart… Bella…" Neville muttered.
Melvin and Lupin waited quietly, patient.
Teaching kids took time.
The room went silent. Neville thought hard. The other students used the pause to picture their own fears—and slap something funny on top.
They cleared a space in front of the wardrobe—the spot where everyone had been standing. It became a little stage. Melvin stood beside Lupin like a teaching assistant.
Neville stepped forward alone, rolled up his sleeves, gripped his wand so tight his knuckles went white.
Showtime.
Lupin flicked a spark at the wardrobe. It burst open.
Out stepped a gaunt witch with sunken cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes, thin lips, and tangled black hair. You could just about see traces of the beauty she'd once had, but mostly she looked vicious and cruel.
Her eyes flashed with predatory hunger. She licked her lips like a beast eyeing prey.
"R-Riddikulus!"
Neville stammered.
CRACK! Like a whip.
Bellatrix stumbled. Suddenly she wore garish purple-red robes, a huge grin plastered on her face, and a purple turban wrapped around her head.
"That's Quirrell's turban!"
The class roared with laughter.
The boggart froze, frantically trying to hide from the laughter.
Just as the demo was going perfectly and Lupin was about to switch students, someone whispered, "Didn't Quirrell have You-Know-Who hiding in that turban?"
Lupin's face changed. He whipped toward Neville—whose face had gone white as paper.
The boggart-Bellatrix snapped her head up. Same manic grin, but when she licked her lips again it was like a snake flicking its tongue—crimson, cruel, and chilling.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.