Arthur called this whole line of work mental-type magic.
His evaluation of it was simple: dangerous, but absurdly powerful.
He'd already tested it. Because his own spiritual power could be projected outside his body, he'd created a spell based on that:
"Mental Collision."
As the name suggests, you gather your own mental power and ram it straight into someone else's consciousness.
He'd tried it on the merpeople beneath the Black Lake.
Every single merperson who took a direct hit… turned into an idiot.
In the wizarding world, magic that truly targets the mind is actually rare. The well-known ones are basically:
Obliviate (一忘皆空)
Legilimency (摄神取念)
Occlumency (大脑封闭术)
Arthur's mental spells were different from all three.
Because they were cast using your own raw spiritual power, they all had recoil built in.
Take Mental Collision: if your target's mind is stronger than yours, the spell fails, and your spiritual power bounces back and injures you.
Worst case? You end up just like those merpeople—blank-eyed and drooling.
That's why the most basic requirement of Arthur's mental-magic system was:
👉 you must be able to draw your spiritual power outside your body.
Which meant: what Hermione got from him last chapter… was actually the first, foundational brick of an entirely new magic system.
If someone malicious got hold of it and started developing battle-grade mental spells?
That would be a disaster for the wizarding world.
Because wizards are terrible at defending the mind. There's basically only Occlumency. Maybe the Patronus Charm counts, depending on how it's cast, but Arthur hadn't tested it in this context, so he couldn't say.
The good thing was: Arthur was watching Hermione's research the whole time, so he wasn't worried she'd leak the base technique.
And as for whether someone could reverse-engineer the core from Hermione's final "animal-speech spell"…
Arthur didn't worry about that either.
It's like maths: primary-school addition and university-level calculus both have "+". But if you can't even do 3+5, you are not jumping to complex integrals. Same logic.
With Arthur guiding her, Hermione's project progressed smoothly.
After another month, her spell finally reached prototype stage.
She named it "Heart-to-Heart."
In theory, it could let you talk to any magical creature or mundane animal.
Why "in theory"?
Because this spell builds a bridge with spiritual power. That means one side is letting their mind enter the other's space. Without trust on the creature's side, there's no bridge.
Harry understood that painfully well.
Because guess who Hermione used as the test subject?
Harry Potter.
He tried talking to a bunch of animals.
Without exception—they all rejected him.
He'd even tried to force his way into a test mouse's mind.
Result: the mouse became… vacant.
Harry himself felt a wave of crushing mental fatigue—classic recoil.
In the end, he managed it with exactly two creatures.
Snakes. Harry's Parseltongue already lets him command snakes. Once he made the snake not resist, the spiritual link went through on the first try.
Hedwig. Strictly speaking, this was because of bond. Hedwig trusted him utterly, so she didn't fight his presence. Hedwig was over the moon—her human could finally understand her complaints about cold windowsills and late-night deliveries.
Hermione, meanwhile, went sprinting to the deepest part of Arthur's Zen Garden.
There was a small grove there—Arthur had set it up specially for the unicorn he'd saved last term. Since healing, the little unicorn had refused to leave his garden.
So Arthur built her a quiet, shaded enclosure in the back of the Zen Garden—her favourite environment.
He'd even given her a name:
Claudia.
Hermione's urge to invent an animal-communication spell was, honestly, 70% because of Claudia.
She'd been visiting the Zen Garden every day last term. She and Claudia were already friends.
But she'd never been able to understand what Claudia was trying to tell her.
Now, with Heart-to-Heart, she finally could.
The little witch chattered with the unicorn for an entire afternoon. By the time she came out, she looked like she'd run a marathon.
Mental bridges eat stamina.
Arthur handed her a steaming, clear, refreshing drink. "How was it?"
"Amazing!" Hermione said, eyes shining. "I used to imagine this when I was small—talking to all the animals."
"Good," Arthur said. "Then let's talk about your spell."
"Is… there a problem with it?"
"No, nothing big." Arthur smiled. "I just want to suggest that once you polish it, you publish it."
"Publish it?" Hermione blinked. "Why?"
It wasn't because she wanted to hoard it. She just thought: it's a cute spell, useful, but… nothing world-shaking.
Arthur explained, "In the wizarding world, inventing a spell is a big deal. And yours is way more useful than average."
"Most young wizards keep a pet. Even grown ones have owls. Being able to understand them? That's valuable."
"And your goal is to be Minister for Magic, right? Then start building your name now. 'Hermione Granger, the genius witch who created the Animal Communication Charm.' People will remember."
Hermione was tempted—but she thought of something.
"But the foundational part was your work. I only built the animal part on top of it."
She didn't want to take credit from her cousin. She knew: if Arthur had done it himself, this spell could have been finished… in a week.
Arthur ruffled her hair. "You know I don't care about titles. And you were the one doing all the legwork. The credit is yours."
Hermione's hesitation melted. "Then… how do I publish it? I've only been at Hogwarts two years."
"Ask Professor Dumbledore," Arthur said. "He's a First Class of the Order of Merlin. If you publish this properly, the contribution alone is enough to get you a Merlin Order someday."
"Okay! I'll go when it's fully stable."
That night, Arthur went to Gilderoy Lockhart's office.
He hadn't forgotten that Lockhart had told Filch his Mandrake potion was fake.
Arthur flicked his fingers; the office door swung open.
"Not knocking isn't a good habit," Lockhart said, trying to keep his dignity.
Arthur shrugged. "That's fine. I came here to pick a fight anyway."
"Oh?" Lockhart lifted his brows. "I don't recall offending you. In fact, if anyone ought to be upset, it should be me—about your skipping my classes."
He remembered Arthur clearly—the ringleader of the class's truancy duo.
"So," Arthur said, "I heard you told Filch my potion was fake."
Lockhart instantly knew why he was here.
"And isn't it?" he blustered. "I have extensive experience in potion-making. I don't make those mistakes."
Arthur didn't bother circling. "Do you? I wasn't aware that a man who steals adventures with Memory Charms was also a master of potions."
Lockhart's face darkened. He hadn't expected this second-year to know his real secret.
His eyes flicked to his wand on the desk.
"I wouldn't," Arthur said lazily. "My little basilisk is faster than you."
He raised a hand. A small basilisk coiled around his wrist—green-gold eyes, deadly stillness.
This was his new basilisk—freshly cultivated. It had taken him a lot of work.
Because birthing a basilisk wasn't just "throw a chicken egg under a toad."
You needed a seven-year-old rooster to lay a magic egg under Sirius high in the sky.
A normal chicken lives… six to seven years, tops. Finding a rooster that age was already a quest.
Arthur was lucky—he had the Zen Garden, which let him speed up time for creatures. He grew the rooster, waited for the correct celestial day, then got his basilisk egg.
That one egg had cost him a whole month.
"Okay, okay—calm down," Lockhart said quickly, both hands raised. "Fine, I lied. My actual spellwork is terrible. I can only cast Obliviate properly. So I get people to tell me their adventures, wipe their memories, and publish them as mine. I just… like attention."
Now that was the real Gilderoy: posture gone, vanity naked.
"So," he said, voice small, "what are you going to do? Report me to the Ministry?"
Arthur considered, then asked instead: "Do you want to be actually good at magic?"
Lockhart's head snapped up. "You… have a way?"
"Maybe. But first tell me why your spells misfire."
This was what interested Arthur most. Lockhart clearly could do magic—yet his results were trash.
Lockhart thought back. "It started after I graduated. I set off to travel, to write books. After my first trip, spells just… started failing. Do you know what that does to a proud Ravenclaw graduate?!"
"Your first trip," Arthur said. "Where to?"
"The Albanian forest. Why? Is there something wrong with it?"
Something wrong?
A lot.
That forest was where Helena Ravenclaw hid the Diadem.
Where Voldemort's maimed soul later hid.
Where Nagini, the future cursed Maledictus and Horcrux, skulked around.
What was with that forest?
Why did everyone end up there?
Arthur even suspected there was some curse over that place. People went in… and did not come out whole.
Helena died there.
Quirrell went there and came back a host for Voldemort, then died.
Lockhart went there and came back a half-useless wizard.
Arthur didn't answer him—he didn't know yet himself.
But he'd just added "Albanian Forest Recon" to his to-do list.
For now, there was Lockhart.
Arthur wasn't helping him out of kindness. Lockhart might be weak, but his connections were real, and his public influence was huge.
Arthur had no roots in the British wizarding world. If he wanted a faction, he needed people.
And Gilderoy Lockhart—famous, loud, and desperate to stay relevant—was perfect.
Especially when Hermione soon published her Animal Communication Charm; with Lockhart's help to broadcast it, Hermione's name would soar.
Visit my patreon for more chapters
Advance 30+ Chapters Available
patreon.com/WhiteDevil7554