Jon Hart quickly adapted to his new life on Charing Cross Road.
He no longer had to hide his wand at the bottom of his suitcase. On the very first day, he tried casting several different spells... Unsurprisingly, no one from the Improper Use of Magic Office sent a letter, and no Aurors came knocking.
Each day, he would shut all the doors and windows in his room, draw the curtains, and hang a "DNDST" (Do Not Disturb) sign on the door.
Usually by dusk, he would drink a vial of Polyjuice Potion, stash his "magical supplies" in the spacious backpack he'd bought over a month ago, and then call the maid to come tidy the room.
Some mornings, he would head to the Leaky Cauldron for breakfast in his "Anduin-Urien" disguise.
At the Leaky Cauldron's entrance, a clipping from the Daily Prophet was posted:
The Ministry of Magic confirmed today that Black is still at large.
Sirius Black, considered the most notorious prisoner ever held in Azkaban, remains uncaptured.
"We are working hard to recapture Black," Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said this morning. "We urge the wizarding community to remain calm."
Some members of the International Confederation of Wizards criticized Fudge for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of Black's escape.
Below the article, someone had scrawled a line in messy handwriting:
"The Auror Office has issued a 3,000 Galleon bounty for Sirius Black."
Three thousand Galleons was no small amount—it was enough to make Jon momentarily consider it...
During breakfast, Jon would quietly observe the other patrons:
There was a young witch from the countryside, in town for a full day of shopping; several chubby wizards were loudly debating an article from Transfiguration Today; shifty-eyed goblins, ridiculous-looking dwarves, and even once, a ghost silently drifting by holding his severed left arm in his right hand.
He saw plenty of familiar faces too.
Like Hannah Abbott, who came in every morning to clean the bar. One time, he even spotted the tall, awkward-looking Slytherin girl, Madeline Yaxley, being scolded and dragged into Diagon Alley by her mother. And of course, Harry Potter—Jon saw him brought into the Leaky Cauldron by Cornelius Fudge one night in early August. He'd been staying there ever since.
Naturally, none of these "acquaintances" recognized him. They all assumed Jon was just another American wizard visiting London.
Aside from gathering information and buying essentials, Jon kept his trips to the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley to a minimum. The bar was nearly as crowded as Hogwarts, and the magical world was full of talented people—he couldn't risk being seen through by someone powerful.
...
For most of August, Jon stayed holed up in the hotel on Charing Cross Road, practicing magic with mice.
Every evening, he would euthanize a few half-dead mice using a cervical dislocation spell, wrap them in plastic bags, and toss them in the bin. Roughly once a week, he'd make a trip to Diagon Alley to restock.
The witch at "Magical Creatures" had clearly grown weary of him.
"Do all Americans have a habit of eating mice before bed?" she remarked sourly.
"Yes, amazing that you know!" Jon nodded with mock seriousness. "We just remove the heads and tails, eat them raw—tastes like chicken, nice and crunchy!"
Seeing her disgusted expression, he cheerfully walked away.
Over the next two weeks, Jon previewed most of the third-year curriculum and reviewed spells he'd already learned—Expelliarmus, Petrificus Totalus, and the Conjunctivitis Curse...
The latter two were especially effective against werewolves and large dogs. Thanks to his recent practice, he could now reliably hit even a darting mouse with his spells—just in case.
But the same problem remained...
No matter what method he tried, he couldn't get even the faintest reaction from the tip of his wand when attempting the Patronus Charm.
He'd even dredged up memories from infancy, hoping for anything that could help.
"Maybe I'm just not meant to have a Patronus in this life," he sometimes thought, half in despair.
There was only one option left—one he had considered long ago.
If he couldn't find a truly happy memory… then he'd just have to create one.
In that white-covered book Gilderoy Lockhart left behind, there was a complete explanation of how to fabricate and erase memories.
But tampering with one's own memory was risky. A poorly cast Obliviate could be dangerous.
Still, altering short fragments of memory was one of the easier applications of the Memory Charm.
And he had no other choice. He had tried all his real memories without success—this was a calculated risk. Besides, he would only be adding a memory. If something went wrong, he could always delete it.
Fortunately, over the past few weeks, he'd tested Obliviate on dozens of mice, and the spell had never failed or gone out of control. He was now confident in using it.
But mice didn't provide proper feedback...
He needed to go further.
...
That afternoon, Jon drank a vial of Polyjuice and transformed into the American persona of "Anduin Urien."
The hotel maid arrived right on schedule.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Urien!" she greeted him.
"Hello, ma'am," Jon said, stepping aside to let her and her cart through the door.
"Sorry about this," he muttered silently, waiting until she turned her back to tidy the bed before quietly raising his wand.
"Obliviate," he whispered.
A faint silver thread flickered from the tip of his emerald bamboo wand and connected to the maid's head... She didn't react at all.
"Did it work?" As the thread faded, Jon lowered his wand and walked over.
He pulled a worn wristwatch from his pocket—the one he'd stopped wearing before Christmas—and said, "Ma'am, I almost forgot. I promised to give this to you yesterday."
"Oh, right!" she said, lighting up. "I remember now, Mr. Urien—you said yesterday afternoon that you bought a new watch last year and were giving me your old one."
She gratefully accepted the mechanical watch.
Jon exhaled in relief—the spell had worked. A successful trial.
The previous day, she'd come to clean the room, and he hadn't said a word to her. That memory had just been implanted moments ago.
Over the next two days, Jon repeated the process several more times on ordinary people.
The memories he inserted were all trivial:
"I saw a spotted cat this morning with markings like a pair of glasses."
"Yesterday at lunch, I saw a big black dog chasing a mouse."
"Last night, I nearly bumped into an old man's nose—he had a white beard and half-moon glasses."
...
After several successful human tests, Jon decided it was time to try the spell on himself.
On the final night of mid-August, he ate several pieces of chocolate to boost his energy, then took a sip of Champion's Potion—a brew that temporarily enhanced spellcasting, though it left one weak afterward.
He thought it over carefully, making sure all risks were accounted for... Then, pointing his wand at his own head, he took a deep breath and whispered:
"Obliviate."
He was simulating the memory Harry Potter used in the original story to successfully cast the Patronus Charm:
"He was called Harry Potter, a boy abused daily by his aunt and uncle, bullied by his cousin... But one day, someone told him he was a wizard—a famous one in the wizarding world—and that he could leave the Dursleys and go study at Hogwarts..."
The memory was implanted without a hitch.
Next, Jon raised his wand again and pointed it at an open area in the room.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Silvery threads flowed from the wand's tip, gathering into a misty mass... but that was all. A cloud of hazy silver vapor swirled in front of him.
"A successful attempt!" Jon said excitedly.
It wasn't a full Patronus—not even a partial form—but the swirling silver mist could at least startle a Dementor. And most importantly, it was his first real result!
It had been over six months since he began practicing the Patronus Charm.
After eating a few more pieces of chocolate, Jon sat down to analyze why his attempt had been so weak.
Part of it, surely, was that his life circumstances weren't truly like Harry Potter's. He had his parents, no abusive relatives—he couldn't fully relate.
And the memory he'd implanted, while "happy," didn't mesh with the rest of his mind. It lacked authenticity.
But there was no helping that—he had to be careful with how real the false memory felt.
If it were too convincing and started affecting him, that would be dangerous.
So the memory had to be obviously distinguishable from his real ones.
...
After a brief rest, Jon was ready to try again.
Next, he would create a truly "happy" memory—and hopefully summon a complete Patronus.
Taking a deep breath, he pointed his wand at his head again:
"Obliviate."