Lockhart was a fraud and a hack, but almost no one in the wizarding world knew that.
Logically, that shouldn't have been the case. The witches and wizards he'd Obliviated were all fairly well-known and influential.
To hide the truth that thoroughly, he would have needed to erase everyone's memories. The effort involved in doing that wasn't much less than actually living through all those events himself.
"Wandering with Werewolves, by Gilderoy Lockhart. It details the heroic exploits of Gilderoy Lockhart,"
Senior Bruce murmured.
"It mostly tells how Lockhart saved a village from a werewolf. The strange thing is, Piest—who actually lived in that village—remembers it rather differently."
Bruce lowered his voice.
"We've tried to explain some of it, but guess what? Wizards don't want to believe the story of an ugly old American wizard, even if he's the one who saved an entire village from a werewolf.
People always believe what they want to believe. Even the witch who was saved insists, to this day, that the man who helped her was Lockhart.
Little Green, stay far from people's hearts—they're foolish. And also stay close to people's hearts—sometimes they burn very bright.
Do you know what makes the difference?"
Bruce had a depth in his expression Sean had never seen before.
As Sean quietly watched him, he added:
"Obviously, it's who you choose to help. Helping someone as handsome and charming as me guarantees you'll never have those worries."
Then he swaggered off.
He was pleased with himself, but his self-satisfaction was nothing like Lockhart's.
…
The next lesson was Transfiguration, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor together.
Professor McGonagall had them change a beetle into a button. Sean finished the task almost instantly.
In Transfiguration, there weren't many people at Hogwarts who could still walk ahead of him.
In some ways, he'd already gone further.
Soul Transfiguration had allowed him to clearly recognize his own soul-rep, and at the same time strengthened his spiritual control over changing his own "self."
That meant that beyond Animagus form, he could start trying to use his wand to alter his own body—just like Krum turning his head into a shark's during the Triwizard Tournament.
Advanced Transfiguration also mentioned ancient wizards who transformed themselves into bats, but that sort of magic was extremely specialized and very risky.
It probed into a field wizards had barely explored—Sean naturally guessed that field was the boundary realm.
While thinking, he still didn't forget to flick his wand and nudge the stone walls into subtle shifts.
[You practice a material transfiguration at the novice level of the master tier. Mastery +3]
[Material Transfiguration: Novice (90/300)]
[Soul Transfiguration: Novice (110/300)]
Soul transfiguration had already outpaced material transfiguration. Once material transfiguration hit Adept—enough to cause instant, localized terrain changes—Sean would be ready to start studying Basilisk Cookies.
He'd done some, though not exhaustive, preparation: a few small dragons, a few Cerberus forms, a set of light-bending lens-tubes to block the basilisk's gaze, several spells at mid-master level, and a sword he was probably able to draw.
Hopefully, that would be enough…
"Mr Weasley, this is the last time, is that clear?"
McGonagall's gaze shifted away from Sean and she frowned; her own house's student was already on his third beetle.
Up to this point he had either squashed the beetle or let it run rampage over the desk, making the girls around him shriek.
In front of the professor, Sean—who'd just run through five novice-tier transformations—was feeling tired. As he turned his head, he saw Ron's defeated expression.
Ron swung his wand, but it only crackled and spat sparks. Every time he tried to cast the spell, a thick cloud of grey smoke smelling of rotten eggs billowed up and wrapped around him.
If you looked closely, you could see his wand was bound up with a strip of Spellotape. That was probably why it refused to work properly.
The dinner bell rang.
Students filed out of the classroom one after another, until only Sean, Harry, Hermione, and Ron were left. Frustrated, Ron was rapping his wand against the table.
"Stupid… useless… thing…"
"Write home and ask for a new one,"
Harry suggested, just as the wand popped and crackled like a string of firecrackers.
"Yeah, and get another Howler for my trouble,"
Ron muttered, shoving the fizzing wand into his bag.
"'Your wand broke and it's all your own fault—'"
Harry fell silent.
Hermione didn't comfort him either; she stomped away, heels clacking.
She was still angry about their little flying-car stunt.
"I…"
Harry tried to say something more, but Wood arrived, latched onto him, and hauled him away.
"Quidditch practice tonight! Grab some food and go—we're already behind, Harry!"
In the face of a Quidditch maniac, Harry barely had room to breathe, let alone argue.
The Transfiguration classroom sank back into silence. There were lots of cages around, full of rats and beetles for students to practice on; now they were the only ones making noise.
Ron hunched over, his eyes slowly losing focus on the broken wand in his hands.
The last streaks of evening sunlight were fading from the windows, and the room grew dim.
Whenever Ron was "alone," his mind ran wild. He thought about what he'd seen in the Mirror of Erised—himself as Head Boy and Quidditch Captain.
Better than Percy, better than Fred and George.
But reality told him he was the least remarkable Weasley in the Burrow.
"Your wand is broken."
He heard a quiet voice.
"Ah! Sean—"
Ron nearly jumped out of his skin, then reflexively hid the wand behind his back.
"Oh, this, this—yeah, my wand's broken, but it's fine, I fixed it."
He averted his eyes, trying to sound casual.
"You need to go to Ollivander's. Fred and George will show you a secret passageway; Manager Gert will be waiting for you outside the castle, she's there for them all the time. Go on the weekend."
Sean added calmly.
"This, this… it's really not—"
Ron's face turned scarlet, scrambling for excuses; but meeting those steady green eyes, the words died in his throat.
"It's fine."
Sean said.
"It's a big hassle, it breaks school rules… if we get caught—"
Ron could barely hear himself; he knew his voice was shaking.
Sean thought for a few seconds.
"It's fine."
Just then, the last of the amber light slipped past the elm-framed windows and fell gently across Ron's shoulder.
He looked at the boy standing in front of him and, somehow, he felt as though Sean was like a vast, soft, mist-covered sea.
~~~
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