Chapter 197. Scattered Memories
After sorting out Harry and Ron, Adrian Wesson yawned and headed for his office.
Just as he was about to push the door open, a burst of scarlet flame flashed before him.
"What is it, Fawkes?"
Looking puzzled, Wesson took a small slip of paper from the phoenix's beak.
On it was written: Come to the Headmaster's office at once.
Before he could react, the phoenix had already seized his shoulder.
In the blink of an eye, he was standing once more in the Headmaster's office.
"At least let me get ready…"
Wesson muttered, looking ahead.
However, the scene before his eyes made him freeze on the spot.
Silvery, threadlike substance floated all through the Headmaster's office, like something out of a fairyland.
In the middle of the room, Gilderoy Lockhart sat on the floor, expressionless, hugging his knees, while silvery threads drifted continually out of his head.
Albus Dumbledore stood beside him with a peculiar expression—as long as he had lived, this was the first time he had seen such a thing.
"What did you do to Lockhart, Professor?" Wesson looked at Dumbledore and asked curiously.
Dumbledore shook his head. "I asked him a few questions. They may have had… a certain effect."
Wesson had no idea what questions could make Lockhart end up like this.
Perhaps Dumbledore's way of asking had been a bit… forceful?
By now, more and more memory-substance was filling the room, and some of it had already begun to dissipate—without a vessel, memories could not be preserved for long.
Dumbledore drew his wand, walked to the Pensieve, and said to Wesson, "Let's gather them all. We can't allow Lockhart's memories to vanish for nothing. He stole a great many people's tales of adventure; perhaps we'll find something useful among them."
Wesson nodded. Indeed.
Lockhart's memories were the evidence of his crimes.
At once the two of them set to work, guiding the silver-white memories, strand by strand, into the Pensieve with their wands.
Memories are fragile. Although Dumbledore and Wesson did their best to salvage them, nearly half still faded into the air.
Soon, all the memories had either disappeared or been collected.
Lockhart sat there blankly; no more strands were issuing from his head.
What becomes of a person who has lost nearly all of his memories?
At this moment, Lockhart was exactly that—an empty shell.
Perhaps only the most basic human instincts remained.
A man who toyed with memories had lost all of his own—truly something to ponder.
"The Pensieve won't hold any more," Dumbledore waved Wesson over, frowning. "I don't even know whether it will still function properly—it has never been filled to this extent. And most of what it has collected is fragmentary."
Wesson came to the Pensieve's side; inside was a blinding, milky whiteness.
"We'll review them together," Dumbledore said.
The memories in the Pensieve were scattered and disorderly. It took Wesson and Dumbledore nearly an hour to scrape together a single useful fragment.
It showed Lockhart on a rickety, mid-sized wooden boat, talking with a very elderly wizard.
Lockhart held a quill, steadily jotting in a notebook, while the old wizard's mouth never stopped moving.
"As you just heard, many things happened on this boat—I'm delighted someone's willing to listen to my hair-raising experiences, especially a celebrity like you," the old wizard said happily. "You'll help me compile them into a book, won't you? Will I really make a tidy sum?"
"Ah, but of course, Mr Wilt." Lockhart patted the old wizard's shoulder warmly. "Haven't I already given you five hundred Galleons? I'm quite sure there will be more to come afterwards."
Hearing Lockhart's reply, the deeply wrinkled wizard looked even more overjoyed.
As long as he could get the sum Lockhart had promised, he would be able to do something for his granddaughter…
"Obliviate!"
Suddenly, Lockhart whipped out his wand. A blinding white light struck the old wizard.
The old man's eyes turned vacant at once, while Lockhart swiftly tucked away his meticulously detailed notes, a smug smile on his lips.
Yes—this was the very scene of Lockhart stealing another's adventures.
And on closer inspection, the contents of Lockhart's notebook closely matched the tales described in Voyages with Vampires.
When they emerged from the memory, Dumbledore's expression was grave as he said to Wesson, "This will do nicely as evidence. I'll extract it and hand it over to the Ministry of Magic. In fact, I know several people whose stories he stole. At long last I can be certain…"
Then came another bout of searching.
By daybreak, they had found several more memories of Lockhart committing crimes with the Memory Charm.
All of these memories had clear counterparts in Lockhart's books.
Wesson had to admit that Lockhart's prose was impressive. Some of the stories were, frankly, mediocre, but after his artistic polishing they became dazzling.
There was a reason Lockhart's books had made him famous in the wizarding world.
As for the rest, there were also some memories of a young Voldemort—very likely "snatched" by Lockhart from Tom. After Dumbledore's verification, those memories were genuine, but most were of little use.
They were merely snippets of Tom Riddle's everyday life at Hogwarts when he was young.
Only one memory—of a conversation with the Basilisk—had any value.
"Looks like we can bring Hagrid home," Dumbledore said, smiling.
Two days after the business with Lockhart, at midday.
Students were chattering away, crammed into the Great Hall.
Only yesterday, quite a few had suddenly noticed that the recently dismissed Dumbledore had reappeared at Hogwarts.
And that morning, another notice had gone up on the bulletin board.
Hogwarts' curfew was cancelled; students no longer needed professors to escort them to lessons; Professor Aurora Sinistra's Astronomy class had been returned to evenings.
Why was the school doing this?
Because, of course, the culprit behind the Petrifications had been dealt with.
Oh, and one more thing.
Their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had once again (and again and again) become Professor Wesson.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry and Ron sat together as usual.
Just as Wesson had said, Ron had awakened on the morning of the second day after being affected by the Basilisk's magic, and Madam Pomfrey had found nothing seriously wrong with Harry—aside from a few displaced ribs.
Ron had already heard from Harry about his battle with the Basilisk and some of the details.
They had just checked the noticeboard and learned that Hogwarts had lifted its state of alert.
Which was why both boys now wore expressions that defied description.
"Why do you both look like that?" Hermione glanced at Harry, then at Ron, and said, puzzled, "Isn't this something to be pleased about? Hogwarts is back to normal; the monster and the 'Heir' must have been dealt with…"
"Wait!"
Hermione suddenly realised something and stared hard at the two of them. "This doesn't have anything to do with you, does it?"
Harry and Ron looked at each other and couldn't help bursting into laughter.
"All right, Hermione," Harry lowered his voice and said to her, "let's find somewhere quiet later—we've got a secret to share with you."
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