The late-night reception at Hogwarts had finally wrapped up.
Down below the school's west wing, in the shed where the thestral carriages were parked, a professor in rented dress robes was leading a thestral back to the stables. He carried a sack of raw beef (an extra treat for the hard-working creatures). A younger professor with nothing better to do strolled beside him, staring off into the distance.
It was too dark to make out much of the grounds were just gentle, rolling shadows. The greenhouses looked like giant upside-down bowls, the Whomping Willow's branches swayed in the breeze, and every now and then a pesky Dementor glided too close and got walloped for its trouble.
Back when Remus had been a student, he'd spent every full-moon nights in the tunnel under that violent tree. First-year him had been too short to reach the knot that froze it; he'd had to stand on tiptoe, and more than once he'd missed and gotten thrashed by those flailing limbs.
Madam Pomfrey had noticed the bruises one day, and after that it was always Professor McGonagall who escorted him down the passage.
"That's why I'll always be grateful to Dumbledore… grateful to Hogwarts," Remus said quietly to the younger professor walking beside him. "Death Eaters were already out there causing havoc, and even when we went to Hogsmeade for the weekend we'd hear ugly rumors. But somehow, us kids never felt scared. Hogwarts felt like the safest place on earth. As long as we were inside the castle, danger couldn't touch us."
Melvin kept his face neutral, only half-listening.
Remus pointed toward the covered walkway. "Once James and the rest of us became Animagi, we got even bolder. Sneaking out at night, wandering the grounds as animals, heading out past Hogsmeade, going deep into the Forbidden Forest… never worried about a thing."
Melvin's dark eyes slid lazily toward the forest.
"There was a moment earlier tonight," Remus went on, a little wistful, "when we were talking about school security. Alastor was reminiscing too, about how when he was young there weren't Death Eaters everywhere. Dark wizards stayed skulking in Knockturn Alley; you didn't have to check every trash can for an ambush."
"Tonks says things were pretty relaxed when she was here too…"
Remus opened his mouth to keep going, then felt the stiff rental tag at the back of his neck. His face froze. After a long silence he just sighed, shook his head, and went quiet, focusing on feeding the two thestrals who'd pulled tonight's carriage.
Melvin narrowed his eyes slightly. He was in a hurry to get back and send some letters.
…
Morning in London.
The "Closed for Renovations" sign on the front of Purge & Dowse Ltd. was soaked from the light October drizzle.
The sign had been up for decades (shoddy workmanship, brass lettering). Every shop around it had changed hands half a dozen times (café to clothing to restaurant), but this department store sat prime real estate and stayed permanently "closed."
Herbert Spring, deputy head of St. Mungo's, stood in front of the display window. Rain streaked the glass, washing away grime until it was crystal clear. Inside, the plastic mannequins stood motionless, faint light glinting in their painted eyes.
A car horn blared down the street. Spring leaned in and murmured, "Herbert Spring, Deputy Head Healer."
Melvin added from beside him, "Melvin Lewinter, here to sign a patient out."
One of the mannequins gave the tiniest nod. Magic rippled outward; the glass turned perfectly transparent. The two wizards stepped straight through it and vanished from the rainy Muggle street.
They checked in at reception, climbed several flights, passed the lower wards, and finally reached the locked Janus Thickey Ward on the fifth floor (Spell Damage).
Meleam Strout (Gilderoy Lockhart's primary Healer) was already waiting outside the room.
Through the observation window Melvin could see sunlight slanting in from the skylight, a few hanging plants by the glass. The other long-term patients were resting. Lockhart sat on the edge of his bed flipping through old newspaper photos of himself.
His famous wavy blond hair was a little unkempt now, the calculating gleam in his sky-blue eyes had dulled, but the dazzling smile was still perfect. In place, teeth perfect and white. The plain hospital gown had replaced the flashy robes, and honestly… he looked less insufferable.
"Order of Merlin, Third Class… Most Charming Smile Award five times running… best-selling author…"
They could just barely hear him muttering through the glass.
Spring frowned. "Give me an update. He's still obsessing over old articles about himself. Hasn't accepted the real him yet?"
"Not yet, sir," Healer Strout answered softly. She had the warm, no-nonsense kindness of a classic Scottish witch; the lime-green robes looked motherly on her. "Gilderoy's lost all his memories. Everything he 'knows' about himself comes from what other people wrote."
"That doesn't excuse what he did," Spring said sternly. "Wiping people's minds and stealing their achievements was vile. We're not keeping him in this safe little bubble forever. He's getting discharged today. Time to face the consequences and make restitution to the people he hurt."
"Yes, sir," Strout said quietly, and hurried off to start the paperwork.
Spring turned to Melvin with a tired sigh. "I'm still not sure this is the right thing to do, Professor Lewinter, but I agree—everyone has to own their past, even if they've Obliviated themselves into oblivion. I'll seal the discharge records personally. As long as the Ministry doesn't send inspectors and no reporters catch wind, he should stay off the radar for at least six months."
Melvin actually smiled. "Relax, Herbert. We're not kidnapping him to harvest his kidneys."
Spring gave a reluctant chuckle. "Are you planning to restore his memory?"
Melvin glanced at the vacant-looking man inside the ward, paused, then said quietly, "No. The slick, scheming Lockhart was impossible to trust. This slow, harmless version? Him? Much easier to work with."
Spring didn't reply.
"I'm not going to force the memories back," Melvin continued, "but I'm not going to stop them from returning either. I'm just giving him a job. He'll work for me, and every Knut he earns will go straight to the wizards in those remote villages he robbed of their stories."
…
When Strout returned, she unlocked the heavy door and the three of them stepped inside. The ward was peaceful; every patient was kept calm with soothing potions and gentle suggestions so nobody hurt themselves or anyone else.
Lockhart looked up blankly at the visitors, confusion written across his face.
"Professor Lewinter runs the Mirror Club," Strout told him gently. "He's a very kind wizard. The special potion that's been helping you? He paid for it. You can trust him completely. When you leave today, just do what he says, all right, Gilderoy?"
"Oh… okay," Lockhart said, docile.
He changed into a set of plain, pale-colored day robes and shuffled after the young professor like a lost puppy.
Lockhart had no idea that several urgent owls had left Hogwarts before dawn, or that by first light the Daily Prophet headquarters in Diagon Alley was already bustling. A brand-new editing and post-production department had been created overnight, complete with its own office.
A nameplate already sat on one of the desks (spelled to be invisible to everyone except a handful of people). Editor-in-Chief Barnabas Cuffe would personally oversee the department.
They'd even reserved a staff position titled "Footage Editor" for the Prophet's new wizarding news program.
With a soft crack of displaced air, two figures appeared in the folded space of Diagon Alley. Lockhart blinked up at the three-story building (only a little shorter than Gringotts).
He read the sign slowly, the words both familiar and foreign:
"Daily Prophet Headquarters."
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