London, Charing Cross Road, south side of Diagon Alley. The Daily Prophet headquarters.
A new employee was being onboarded.
Thanks to the fat stacks of Galleons rolling in from Shadow Mirror broadcasts, the Prophet had splurged over the holidays: new decor, new office supplies, and a few well-placed Undetectable Extension Charms so nobody had to sit on anyone else's lap. The desks were gorgeous Albanian oak that caught the candlelight like polished metal, each one buried under rolls of parchment and fresh print proofs.
The staff were huddled in little clusters, whispering about the mystery newcomer.
No interview. No probation period. Not even a real name on the paperwork. The guy had been dropped in from on high, given the quietest office at the end of the loneliest hallway, and told his only job was cutting footage for the Shadow Mirror news program.
The higher-ups were treating him like royalty.
Editor-in-Chief Barnabas Cuffe and Rita Skeeter herself had greeted the visitor (some young professor who'd come with the new hire) and then spilled every secret the Prophet had: ad rates, revenue splits, circulation numbers… everything. Just handed it over like it was nothing.
The regular staff didn't know what to make of it.
The clerks handling the onboarding were so nervous under Cuffe's stare that they finished the paperwork in record time. Morning sleepiness? Gone.
Rita volunteered to show the new guy to his office. Cuffe stayed behind to keep giving the professor the grand tour.
Outside, a soft London drizzle was falling. Melvin Lewinter sat at the conference table in the newsroom, flipping through reports and balance sheets.
He glanced up at Cuffe. "Cecilia's still the main anchor, right? Hogwarts class of two years ago. Took my Muggle Studies elective. Went straight from graduation to hosting."
"She's out in the field," Cuffe said, sliding into the chair beside him. "Her and another reporter are chasing follow-ups on the werewolf bill. Half-blood, raised in the Muggle world, scary good at digging up stories. Wants to be the queen of wizarding journalism. Even talks about starting her own prize someday, something like the Muggle Pulitzer."
"Professor Lewinter?"
The conference-room door banged open. A witch in her thirties rushed in clutching a tiny pearl handbag, rain mist clinging to her cloak. Gold-rimmed glasses, wild curly brown hair, lipstick the color of fresh blood, nails to match. She looked like she was cosplaying Rita Skeeter circa 1993.
"Betty Braithwaite…" Cuffe muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Try not to barrel in like a troll in front of Professor Lewinter."
"Sorry! I just, I really wanted to meet him." Betty's eyes were shining like she'd spotted a celebrity. "Professor, huge fan. The Shadow Mirror is revolutionary. I have so many ideas for the news program I'd love to run by you!"
Melvin gave her an easy smile. "I'd love to hear them, but I can't stay long today. How about you write them up and owl them to Hogwarts? We'll have plenty of time to go back and forth."
"Absolutely!" She practically skipped out.
Melvin watched her go, then turned to Cuffe with a raised eyebrow.
Cuffe sighed. "She idolizes Rita's old style. Thinks clicks and drama are the only thing that matter. Facts are just seasoning."
"Bit extreme," Melvin said thoughtfully, "but extreme doesn't mean useless. Actually… she and Lockhart might get along perfectly."
Cuffe's head snapped up. He didn't like the sound of that.
…
Down at the end of that quiet hallway.
Gilderoy Lockhart stood in front of a wall-mounted Shadow Mirror, wand raised level. Silver mist swirled across the glass, lines and colors forming half-remembered scenes. A faint white glow trembled at the tip of his wand, making the mist tremble in sync.
Rita stood behind him holding several vials of memory-revealing potion. "Still remember how to do Obliviate and False Memory charms, I see."
"I… think so," Lockhart said slowly, feeling his way through the motions. "Obliviate hides real memories. False Memory creates ones that never happened. These memories in my head… they can't be erased, but I can change them."
"That was always your specialty," Rita said dryly.
Six months locked away had sanded off most of her old arrogance. The Dark Mark on her forearm had finished the job. She'd ditched the old bottle-blonde explosion of curls for something sleeker and more subdued.
Lockhart didn't answer. He was too busy concentrating.
He tightened his grip on the wand. A dull ache bloomed behind his eyes, like a crack opening in a dam deep inside his skull. Something started leaking through.
The Mirror darkened. The silver mist turned into a blizzard. A soft, persuasive voice echoed in his ears:
"Tell me exactly how you did it… every detail…"
Details of what?
Flashes of the articles he'd read in the Janus Thickey ward came back. Articles that said Gilderoy Lockhart was a fraud who stole other people's adventures. And he was Gilderoy Lockhart.
Fragments of memory flickered (blurry, first-person views of monsters). A familiar voice said, "The memories you keep shape the person you become."
"Match the footage to the script beside you," Rita was saying. "Your job is to give the story the perfect visuals."
It was the closest thing he was getting to an orientation. Lockhart's muscle memory for memory charms was still flawless. Splicing, shaping, nudging, he picked it up fast.
Half an hour later Rita said she had proofs to check and left him alone in the empty office.
Two hours out of St. Mungo's locked ward. No Healer Medeiros watching his every move. The unfamiliar room made him anxious, but the spellwork calmed him down.
Whenever the silver mist snowed across the Mirror, though, it dragged old images to the surface.
Lockhart didn't want those images. Didn't want to be that man.
So he just kept casting. Over and over. Anything to stay numb.
He clutched his old wand (dragon heartstring core, good for power and courage). It had felt sluggish for years, like it didn't like him anymore. Funny how it worked perfectly again now that he couldn't remember why it hated him.
He shoved the confusing thoughts away and went back to work.
…
"This is Prophet News. I'm Cecilia Haynes."
"Four werewolf attacks along the Scottish border in the past week. Fenrir Greyback attempted to maul the children of two Aurors. While fleeing he reportedly boasted he would infect as many wizards as possible, especially Ministry employees' kids, until there were enough werewolves to take over…"
"The Ministry held an emergency session. Department heads attended. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is under heavy fire. Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge publicly vowed never to bow to 'vile, brutal werewolves.'"
"Will the Anti-Werewolf Legislation be rolled back? Will Undersecretary Umbridge soften her stance in the face of terrorist threats?"
Down in the Leaky Cauldron, Barnabas Cuffe nursed a glass of red and watched the pub's big Shadow Mirror. The place was packed; even the Quidditch fans glued to the wireless had turned around.
It wasn't just the story. It was the footage the new guy had cut.
Even with his memories in tatters, Gilderoy Lockhart still knew exactly what the public wanted to see. He hadn't changed a word of copy, just stitched the visuals together in a way that whispered things the text never said outright. The crowd was eating it up.
Cuffe had approved the segment himself and still couldn't put his finger on what felt off. So he'd come to the pub to listen to real witches and wizards react.
He finished his wine, ordered a cocktail, and planted himself at the bar where he could hear half the room.
The Mirror cut to a graphic about Umbridge: mysterious origins, parents unknown, meteoric rise from junior clerk in Improper Use of Magic to Senior Undersecretary. Then a close-up of her wide, flabby face, mousy curls topped with that sickly-sweet velvet bow, paired with her shrill little-girl voice.
Three seconds and the whole pub hated her.
"She's not backing down, she hasn't got kids of her own!"
"Word is she bought every promotion. That werewolf bill? Just a cash-grab from scared families!"
"I heard she's Fudge's mistress. They're at it in the Minister's office every afternoon…"
Cuffe glanced up. The shot showed Fudge and Umbridge walking side-by-side after the meeting, framed from just the right angle so it looked like the Minister was leaning in to catch every giggling word from the beaming, pink-clad toad.
Classic Skeeter-style insinuation, except pictures hit harder than print.
No question, this kind of "news" sold. More viewers, hotter debates, fatter ad revenue.
But at what cost?
Cuffe set his untouched cocktail down, slipped through the crowd, and left the noisy pub behind.
Inside, the gossip kept rolling.
"No way Fudge is that stupid. Or blind. He goes for women like Rosmerta, not… that."
"Hey, you never know what someone's into behind closed doors…"
…
Late that night, Daily Prophet conference room.
The whole Shadow Mirror news team was there. Barnabas Cuffe sat at the head of the table, flipping through the day's script over and over, the animated crystal-ball logo shimmering on the front page.
They'd been debating the new hire's impact for a while.
"Rough numbers from pubs across Britain, almost half the country watched tonight," Cuffe said calmly. "Twilfitt and Tatting's already wants to raise their ad buy. Short-term, this is fantastic."
Everyone perked up, then caught the "short-term."
The mood soured. Ever since the Prophet launched Shadow Mirror broadcasts they'd been on top of the world, pioneers, profits climbing every quarter. They'd truly believed moving pictures would kill newspapers.
Then this mystery editor shows up, ratings explode… and now the boss was saying it was a problem?
"The audience loves it," Betty Braithwaite spoke up. "Advertisers love it. We didn't lie or hide anything. What's the issue?"
Murmurs of agreement. Nobody wanted their bonuses disappearing.
"You think the public are idiots?" Cuffe's voice cut through the room like a Silencio. He tapped the table hard. "Once or twice they won't notice the nudge. Do it every night and someone will. The Prophet's survived by staying in the middle, never fully crossing the Ministry while still giving readers red meat. Fudge and Umbridge are still in power. One nasty decree from the Minister's office and this whole building could be shut down tomorrow. You all want to go home unemployed?"
Dead silence.
"I spoke to Professor Lewinter. The board's been consulted. Starting tomorrow the new hire is off news and moved to a new program, light educational entertainment pieces."
Cuffe stood, closing the folder with a snap.
"On that show he can insinuate whatever he wants, as long as the magic facts stay straight. Make it as sensational as you like."