Once again, I had my classic breakfast of eggs, though this time they were sunny-side-up. To be honest, I was sick to death of omelets—it certainly wasn't a dish I could rotate endlessly like beef steaks with roasted potatoes or chicken with rice. It was a classic, relaxed breakfast with Vespera. She sat opposite me, intently reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. Right on the front page, however, loomed a large, annoyingly winking blond pretty boy.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
It seemed that my tip, which I had passed on to Madam Bones in a letter, would come to nothing after all. Lockhart as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher... Well, worst-case scenario, he would completely "by chance" disappear during the year. Granted, Quirrell had embarrassingly faked a stutter the entire time and taught us next to nothing in terms of practice, but theoretically, he had at least passed on some actual knowledge. Lockhart, however, was an absolute disaster. I seriously didn't know if I'd be able to control myself if that idiot asked me about his favorite color in our first class.
"Looks like you'll have a really high-quality teacher at school this year," Vespera broke the silence with an appreciative smile, turning the page. "He has quite an impressive list of achievements to his name."
I let out a heavy, loud sigh. This prompted Vespera to lower the paper and look at me in surprise.
"Why the sighing and scowling? Those sunny-side-up eggs didn't do anything to you," she smirked at me with amusement as I, in a sudden fit of frustration, aggressively stabbed my fork directly into the runny yolk.
"I've heard a few things about him..." I shook my head in disgust and sighed again. "He looks like a typical pretty boy who's afraid of his own shadow. Just from that moving photo, I can see he doesn't have a single battle scar. No scars, no missing chunks of flesh, no signs of a hard life... absolutely nothing. And this guy writes books about battling werewolves, vampires, yetis, and God knows what else. Either he's magically powerful and untouchable like Dumbledore himself... or something is bloody wrong here."
I had no intention of blabbing to anyone that I possessed knowledge a twelve-year-old kid in this world simply shouldn't have. It wouldn't help in the slightest, and besides—Lockhart's flawless appearance spoke clearly enough on its own. Any sharp person had to see that something was off.
"Looking at him now..." Vespera mused, narrowing her eyes as she closely examined Gilderoy's photo again. "You actually have a point. Every older hunter or Auror I've ever met bore some visible battle scars. But then... maybe he just cleverly hides those scars under his fancy robes."
"Maybe..." I sighed again, skeptical. "Can I read it?"
"Of course," Vespera nodded, already reflexively reaching for her wand to slide the newspaper over to me with magic.
Instead of waiting, however, I simply reached my hand out toward the table and, without a word, summoned today's edition of the Daily Prophet directly into my palm. The newspaper flew through the air and landed in my fingers with a soft rustle, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"That works too," my aunt murmured with an appreciative smirk when she saw my wandless magic.
I thanked her, spread the newspaper on the table next to my half-eaten sunny-side-up egg, and began to read.
GILDEROY LOCKHART HEADING TO HOGWARTS?
By Barnabas Cuffe
The wizarding world's favorite adventurer considers a teaching career.
Few names evoke as much admiration in the wizarding world as Gilderoy Lockhart. Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League; and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award, he has won the hearts of thousands of loyal readers both at home and abroad in recent years.
His thrilling books, depicting encounters with the world's most dangerous creatures and darkest forces, regularly top the bestseller lists. Whether detailing daring expeditions among trolls, fierce battles with vampires, or fascinating adventures with werewolves, Lockhart's stories have captured the hearts of readers of all ages.
Among his bestselling works are:
Holidays with Hags
Wanderings with Werewolves
Voyages with Vampires
Travels with Trolls
Gadding with Ghouls
Year with the Yeti
Marauding with Monsters
Magical Me
According to information from Flourish and Blotts, interest in Lockhart's publications continues to grow. His book signings regularly attract hundreds of admirers, and each new release becomes a major event in the wizarding literary world.
Furthermore, in recent weeks, speculation has been mounting regarding the next step in his successful career. Sources close to the famous author suggest that Gilderoy Lockhart is considering applying for the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"During his travels, Mr. Lockhart has gained experience that could prove invaluable to young witches and wizards," stated one of his associates. "His ability to face danger, keep his composure, and inspire others makes him an ideal candidate for a teaching position."
Lockhart himself commented only briefly on the reports: "Hogwarts will always hold a special place in my heart. If I could pass my experience on to the next generation of witches and wizards, I would consider it a great honor."
Students, parents, and experts alike now eagerly wait to see if these rumors will indeed be confirmed. Should that happen, the upcoming school year could bring one of the most famous and acclaimed adventurers of our time into the classrooms of Hogwarts. One thing, however, is already certain: whatever his next steps may be, the name of Gilderoy Lockhart remains a symbol of courage, adventure, and tireless battle against the forces of darkness.
From the paper, his slicked-back photo kept winking at me idiotically. I snorted in disgust. I hated fake people who parasitically claimed other people's achievements with a passion. Moreover, Lockhart was magically pathetic; apart from the Memory Charm, Obliviate, he was essentially incompetent. A pure, annoying peacock.
So, I quickly turned the page and began flipping deeper into the Daily Prophet. Almost every double-page spread featured some small, medium, or full-page advertisement. Commercialism ruled the wizarding world too. In the end, besides Lockhart, only two specific articles caught my interest.
The first was headlined: Gringotts Boosts Security. The goblins were still desperately searching for the person who had broken in last summer. I smirked in amusement—they were hardly going to find Voldemort and Quirrell.
The second article, however, was far more interesting: Acromantula Overpopulation in the Forbidden Forest Disrupts Magical Ecosystem. To my surprise, by the Prophet's standards, it was a relatively aggressive piece aimed directly at the Ministry of Magic, containing a sharp demand for immediate action. The article also included a detailed encyclopedic sidebar about the beasts. It mentioned that Acromantulas originate from Asia and were artificially bred by some unknown wizard before the ban on experimental breeding. Highlighted in bold red print was their morbid taste for human flesh, and underneath glowed a warning arrow with the text: Massive infestation in the immediate vicinity of Hogwarts.
It kept bothering me. I was surprised that the Daily Prophet was attacking the Ministry so openly. I had lived under the impression that Cornelius Fudge had the entire newspaper firmly in his pocket for a long time, but apparently, I was wrong. The whole political corruption and censorship probably wasn't in as advanced a stage as I had thought, or Fudge simply had other things on his mind at the moment.
In theory, I could have made a fortune hunting Acromantulas; their venom was quite valuable, after all... But that would just be tedious manual labor, and I had completely different plans in mind for acquiring real wealth.
I set the Daily Prophet down next to me on the table and leaned back comfortably against the chair's backrest. Vespera watched me with a soft smile, slowly sipping from her cup. From the aroma wafting through the dining room, I easily recognized it as peppermint tea.
"What are your plans for today?" she asked after another sip.
"Why? Do you have something in mind?"
"We could go visit Elizabeth," Vespera smirked, amused. "I know how much she caught your interest."
"As much as I'd really like to see her..." I returned her smirk, "you can go ahead on your own. I'm heading to London to practice Legilimency, and after that, I'd like to drop in on Sirius."
Vespera smiled at first, but the moment Sirius's name was mentioned, a dangerous glint flashed in her eyes.
"Surely you aren't going to drink with him again, Patrik?" she looked at me with surprising sternness.
"Oh no, no alcohol," I reassured her quickly, raising my hands in a defensive gesture. "Strictly training and then just a talk... I'd like to get some knowledge from him that belonged to my mother's house."
"And you think he'll just give it to you?" she asked skeptically, but immediately sighed in resignation. "Actually... probably yes. He is a fool."
Her bluntness made me laugh out loud. Vespera eyed me up and down again and added, "But remember—no alcohol. And tonight, when I get back, I want to see you at home. Understood?"
"Of course, Aunt. Enjoy your day with Elizabeth and say hello to her for me."
"I will," she nodded in agreement. "Though she would definitely rather see you."
I just nodded with a smile and quickly got up from the table. The chair scraped quietly against the floor as I pushed it back. Without further delay, I turned to leave, gave Vespera one last quick wave, and walked straight from the dining room into the hallway to the Floo fireplace.
Practically, I was completely ready to go. Dressed, wand in its forearm holster, stomach full after breakfast—and I could buy a bite to eat for lunch anytime directly in Muggle London.
A few minutes later, I was already walking quickly through the crowded Leaky Cauldron, my mind whirling with thoughts of where to head first. I planned to test anchoring emotions and memories to achieve exactly the mental magic effect I needed. At the same time, however, it went against my grain to practice on ordinary, and especially innocent, people.
„What if I combine it with something useful right away?" occurred to me as I walked along the pavement just a short distance from the inconspicuous entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Since there was no free taxi nearby, I continued on foot.
"Live practice and making money... I'll kill two birds with one stone," I mumbled under my breath.
It took me another ten minutes to manage to get a ride. The classic black London cab I waved at ignored me completely—it was probably full. But lo and behold, right after that, a car pulled up next to me without any taxi markings. A silver Opel Vectra, an old A-series sedan.
Through the rolled-down window, a driver with darker skin looked out at me.
"Hello, do you need a ride somewhere?" he asked me in English with a soft, sing-song accent.
"Yes, please," I smiled slightly and climbed straight into the passenger seat.
"Where to?" he gave me a polite smile.
I did some quick thinking. If he really was the unlicensed cab driver I took him for, he probably knew the city like the back of his hand—including the roughest parts of it.
"Which neighborhood in the city is currently the absolute worst?" I asked curiously.
"Huh?" he wondered, looking at me in surprise through the rearview mirror. "Probably Brixton or Hackney."
"Brixton is closer, right?" I asked just to be sure.
The driver only nodded in silence, but he couldn't help himself and added with a sigh, "Not that I don't want to drive you there, but for a young, obviously wealthy boy, it's a bit of a dangerous area. Are you sure you really want to go there?"
"Yes," I nodded firmly. "And if you hurry, there's a generous tip in it for you," I added with a smirk.
He shrugged, as if deciding it wasn't worth arguing about, then shifted the car into gear. We pulled away from the curb. During the ride, I learned he was originally from Pakistan, though he had moved to London when he was ten. His English was careful and polite, with a soft, musical cadence to it, but he didn't say much unless I asked. He seemed uneasy about dropping me off in that part of the city—especially after how directly I'd asked about the roughest areas. At one point, without any prompting, he even offered to take me somewhere else instead, at no extra cost. I declined, and after a short pause, he gave a quiet nod and didn't push it further. I still left him a generous tip when we arrived.
The car pulled away, and I was left standing in what at first looked like a sprawling open-air market. There was a strange, relaxed vibe here, but cheap and ugly graffiti defaced almost every wall I looked at. Rhythmic reggae music blared quite loudly from nearby speakers. A large crowd of people milled around the open stalls, and visually it was a real mismatch—right opposite a fresh fruit stall, someone was selling fake baseball caps, and right next to that, I passed a table with cheap costume jewelry. Every now and then, I walked past guys with long dreadlocks whose eyes were bloodshot from a long day, a strong and pungent smell of marijuana trailing behind them.
I walked down the main street and the side alleys, constantly feeling curious eyes on me. Just from my style of dress, I stood out from the crowd quite a bit, even though I wasn't wearing wizarding robes. But nobody bothered or harassed me. Nobody tried to rob me, and actually, it was a fairly relaxed, peaceful walk. If anyone expected junkies and crime on every corner in these parts, they would be quite mistaken.
I did meet a few people under the influence of marijuana, but they weren't my target demographic, even if they might have possessed some interesting information. So, I decided to head straight for a nearby park.
I saw a few homeless people in small clusters, drinking cheap boxed wine on a bench in broad daylight. I didn't pay them much attention and kept walking. There were ordinary people in the park too—a man throwing a ball for his golden retriever, a mother pushing a rather battered stroller, and families out for a walk.
It was an interesting contrast, but it wasn't until the far end of the park that I felt like I'd struck gold. Sitting on a bench ahead of me was a gaunt-looking man. He had a bald strip running down the middle of his head, with only a few greasy strands of hair left at the sides. He wore a relatively clean turquoise T-shirt and yellow shorts—oddly well-kept compared to the rest of him. On his feet were white Adidas trainers, badly worn and heavily taped up, the left one split at the toe, exposing part of his big toe. He was staring down at the ground, his leg bouncing nervously, fingers drumming quickly against the bench beside him.
As I got closer, I caught his smell more clearly—a mix of sweat and synthetic fabric, sharp and unpleasant. I couldn't shake the feeling he might be a junkie going through withdrawal, though to be honest, I'd only ever seen that kind of thing in movies.
When I was close enough, he suddenly looked up. Our eyes met, and he nervously licked his cracked lower lip. He looked completely worn down, like he'd hit rock bottom a long time ago.
"Drugs," I said quietly.
The moment he opened his mouth to speak, I took advantage of the surprise and the eye contact. "Legilimens!"
Without any resistance, my consciousness penetrated directly into his mind. I immediately began combing through his head. Under the influence of my word, his mind instinctively recalled a massive onslaught of drug-related memories, so it took me a moment to navigate the chaos and begin proceeding systematically.
In less than ten minutes, I had a clear picture of his life—his addiction, and how it had started. His name was Adam. He'd been a fairly ordinary man once, maybe even a good one. He worked construction as a labourer, and from what I saw, he was actually skilled at it. It started with a night out with his crew—just an evening beer after work. Someone had the idea to liven things up, to try drugs for the first time. Most of them went along with it. One of them didn't. A guy named Richard just got up and walked away.
His first dose had to be injected by a guy named John—Adam had no idea what he was doing with a needle. He'd been nervous, hesitant, but the moment it hit him, it was pure euphoria. Even though it made him feel sick at first, that didn't last long. He wanted more almost immediately. Over time, he started buying heroin on his own, and it slowly became more important to him than food.
It took me a little longer to push through his memory to the current supplier. A man named Paul. He usually came to the park carrying an elegant black briefcase. It wasn't just heroin inside it. When Adam didn't have cash, Paul was willing to trade a dose for various street "favors."
I had practically obtained all the necessary information, but now came the more important part—the actual training.
Extracting information from him was significantly easier than working my way to the ideal emotional memories I could use for anchoring. It took me about an hour to hardwire the emotions to the memories inside his head so that a deep disgust for his own existence, pure hatred for drugs, and a genuine desire for a better life would take root in him.
Anchoring emotions was relatively equal in difficulty, whether it was hatred, disgust, or hope. The biggest challenge for me was the initial linking of a specific memory with a strong emotional undercurrent. Just figuring that out and learning the correct process in practice took nearly an hour. The second anchoring was considerably easier, though I still failed on the first attempt. The third and final link went completely smoothly—at least as far as a long-term, perhaps even permanent, anchor was concerned.
The moment I broke the connection, Adam jerked violently and leapt off the bench. He stared at me with wide, bulging eyes, as if he had just woken up from the worst nightmare of his life. His chest heaved and fell wildly, while his eyes darted around as he tried to comprehend what had just happened to him.
"Please... please..." he rasped, gasping for breath.
I had no idea what he was actually begging for, but I just shrugged apathetically and calmly nodded my head: "Run."
Adam didn't hesitate for a second and vanished into thin air. Perhaps I had just given him a second chance at life.
Before leaving his mind, I had temporarily anchored intense fear and terror. I wanted him to disappear immediately so I could claim the bench and wait for Paul in peace. From Adam's memories, I knew the dealer would arrive in about an hour, dressed like a respectable businessman. He practically only came here during his lunch break. Was that his plan to blend in with the working crowd and avoid the police?
With a satisfied smirk, I sat down on the cleaner section of the bench that Adam had left behind. The weather had really worked out for us today, I had made huge progress in Legilimency, and the best part of the day was yet to come.
"Beautiful day," I whispered with a soft smile, watching the dogs chasing each other across the lawn nearby.
***
Author's note:
Anchoring memories and emotions is exceptionally difficult—it's basically magical brain surgery, even if Patrik makes it look easy. He is definitely OP. While Voldemort at his age was barely scratching the surface by just detecting lies, Patrik is already rewiring neural pathways like a seasoned pro.
What do you think of his "therapy" session with Adam?
***
Step into the Restricted Section
The shadows are shifting, and the story goes much deeper... If you can't wait for the next update, Advanced Chapters are already waiting for you.
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Upcoming Chapters – Already Written(16):
79. The Casual Intruder
80. The Silent Partner
81. The Black Inheritance
82. The Frequency of Intent
83. Of Blood and Thorns
84. Thorns, Wards, and Sly Foxes
85. As Peaceful and Civilized as Always
86. The Twin in the Shadows
87. Their Addiction, Our Profit
88. Fake Smiles and Sharp Instincts
89. The Path to Invincibility
90. AD: Piña Coladas and Rainbow Thongs
91. Blood Traitors
92. Before the Storm
93. Arania Exumai
94. Favors and Frustrations
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