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Talos stared at the chaotic stream of images Hermione had just forced him to see, his body convulsing in silent terror. His mind, the sophisticated, tactical weapon of the Skrull Empire, was being rewritten. He looked at Hermione, his voice coming out as a raw, agonized croak. "What… what did you do?"
"Nothing much," Hermione said, her voice soft but absolute. "Just a little adjustment to your memory."
The Obliviation Charm wasn't enough. She had used Legilimency to probe deep into the core of his being, then used her own knowledge to systematically erase the moments where she was involved. She was replacing them with a narrative that made sense to him: that he, Talos, had orchestrated the ambush, driven mad by the stress of the war with the Kree, and that he had gathered the Skrulls to this location, convinced it was the only way to save them. The subsequent massacre was, therefore, an internal collapse. A necessary, but tragic, result of a traitor's folly.
"You'll forget I was ever here," Hermione whispered, pointing a finger at his temple. "You'll forget S.H.I.E.L.D. was ever involved. You'll forget the name Hermione Granger. The only truth you'll remember is the shame: you destroyed your own people."
Talos's eyes widened, filling with a despair that went beyond mere pain. He understood the cruelty. He would live the rest of his life believing he was the architect of his species' near-annihilation.
"Why?" he choked out, his voice thick with tears. "We are refugees! We have done nothing but run!"
"You misunderstand," Hermione said, her face cold. "You came to a planet, looked at the inhabitants, and decided you were superior. You built a network, you infiltrated positions of power, and you planned a takeover. That is not survival, Talos. That is invasion. And on my planet, the price for invasion is extermination."
She turned from him and raised her wand, the tip glowing with a blazing, white-hot fire. "You won't be leaving a body behind. It's bad for the environment."
Talos didn't even have time for a full scream. The magical fire engulfed him, so hot and so complete that his alien form was consumed in a brilliant flash of light and smoke. Not a single trace of the Skrull remained.
Hogwarts, The Great Hall.
The noise in the Great Hall was muted. The tension was palpable. Professor McGonagall stood on the dais, her face grim.
"Students," she announced, her voice magically amplified, "the unfortunate series of petrification attacks has been concluded. I am happy to report that the mastermind has been apprehended and the threat neutralized."
The students stared, their faces a collective mask of disbelief.
"The person responsible," McGonagall continued, her voice tight with professional duty, "was none other than Professor Gilderoy Lockhart."
A wave of confused whispering swept through the Hall. Lockhart? The fraud? The man who had run away from the Pixie incident?
McGonagall quickly laid out the official cover story: Lockhart, in a moment of unmatched courage and genius, had secretly solved the mystery, confronted the terrifying Basilisk, slain the beast, and destroyed the dark artifact that was possessing Ginny Weasley. He was the hero of Hogwarts.
"Now," McGonagall said, gesturing to the man who was strutting onto the stage, beaming, "a round of applause for Professor Lockhart!"
The applause was scattered, awkward, and profoundly skeptical.
Lockhart, however, was in his element. He waved grandly, his smile shining like a beacon. "Thank you, Professor McGonagall! Thank you, students! It is my honor to tell you all about my amazing, heroic deeds!"
He began his performance, a loud, melodramatic monologue detailing his supposed confrontation with the massive snake, his battle of wits with the mysterious figure who tried to stop him, and the final, glorious moment of victory. He was hamming it up, throwing his arms wide, his voice soaring with false passion. The story was thrilling, completely unbelievable, and wildly entertaining. He was trying to rewrite history, and he was reveling in the adulation.
At the back of the Hall, Hermione just stood with a half-smile, watching her puppet perform. A natural talent, she mused. The man was born for this. This is his final masterpiece.
Harry, Ron, and Ginny, who had only just been released from the Hospital Wing after their own ordeal, found Hermione at the back of the Hall.
"Hermione! You're back!" Harry said, rushing up to her.
"What is going on?" Ron demanded, gesturing furiously toward the stage. "Lockhart? That useless fraud? He saved us? I know he's a liar, but this is a whole new level!"
"And he said he destroyed something called a Horcrux," Ginny added, her face pale. "What is that?"
Hermione looked at the stage, where Lockhart was describing a fake wound he received during the 'epic' duel. She shook her head. "The Horcrux is destroyed, Ginny. The Basilisk is gone. You are safe. That's what matters."
She looked at Harry, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "And as for Lockhart…"
Harry finished the thought for her. "I always feel like something is wrong," he muttered, his eyes narrowing. He knew the real story. He knew she was the one who had entered the Chamber. He knew he had passed out before the fight. And he knew that the absurd, self-aggrandizing fool on the stage was the least likely person in the castle to have saved anyone.
The official story, Hermione noted, had successfully been implanted. But the inner circle—the ones who knew the truth—were now just waiting for her to give them the real details. And she knew, with a chill of satisfaction, that her new, powerful prisoner was now safely tucked away in her grimoire, awaiting further instructions.
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