Chapter 142: Memory Replacement
The castle was exceptionally quiet over the weekend, as students from the middle and higher years had gone to Hogsmeade. The corridors were empty. Lockhart walked along the road, watching the lower years students playing on the grounds and by the Black Lake. A cold north wind blew eerily.
The sound of the Drama Club rehearsal dissipated in the wind.
“Flitwick has the Toad Choir, Lavent has the Drama Club, so they are popular with students…”
The more Lockhart thought about it, the more sense it made: “If I want to increase my influence among the students, to show off in front of the entire school, I need to establish my own club.”
“Wizard Chess, Gobstones, Quidditch, Choir, and Drama Club…”
“These are all ordinary, commonplace activities that can’t showcase my unique talents. I need a stage, something to display my heroic figure, to make them swoon over me.”
Lockhart walked along, pondering and muttering to himself. The more he thought, the happier he became. His perfect smile grew even more brilliant, and he was animated with excitement.
By the time he reached the door of the Muggle Studies Office, he had already decided what to do. Lockhart straightened his collar, adjusted his smile to just the right degree, and raised his hand to knock.
“Knock knock…”
“Please come in.”
Melvin was standing in front of the bookshelf, placing fresh tender tree buds picked from the Greenhouse into a glass bottle, replacing the water in the bottle cap, closing the glass jar, and turning to look at the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor entering the room. He raised an eyebrow:
“Professor Lockhart? Do you need something?”
“Beetles? Melvin, your tastes are quite unique.”
Lockhart glanced at the glass bottle and sat down at the desk with a cheerful laugh: “On my way here, I saw the Drama Club rehearsing. Did you know? They’re planning to use Sir Cadogan’s exploits as the script—the bumbling knight who was supposed to perish in a dragon’s jaws but by chance stabbed the dragon’s tonsils, making the two-legged dragon choke and triggering a dragon breath explosion.”
Melvin returned to the desk and sat down, pouring him a cup of black tea and gesturing for him to continue.
“A clichéd story praising courage through reckless behavior—it’s really quite dull, don’t you think?” Lockhart ruthlessly criticized, then brought up his own story. “But my adventure experiences are completely different, dealing with different monsters using different methods: wisdom, courage, and magic.”
Before he could persuade Melvin, he got excited himself. Amid the steam from the black tea, Lockhart’s face flushed red: “Turned into a serial drama on the Projection Mirror, it would definitely be a huge hit. Melvin, a wizard like you can surely see the potential in these stories, right?”
Melvin swirled his teacup, his face obscured by the mist: “Hmm, Professor Lockhart, we’ve talked about this before. You know, there are some difficulties.”
“I know, I know!”
Lockhart eagerly pulled two small glass bottles from his pocket: “Mrs. Ekko is helping on the Ministry of Magic side. I need to provide detailed memories from the adventures. After our last talk, I’ve been busy with this. You’re right—there’s a lot of content not suitable for public release. So I edited and revised them like your moving picture from last year. Take a look!”
The glass bottles glowed with bright silver, pearlescent sheen, like floating thin mist lightly drifting or liquid rippling and flowing.
Melvin glanced at the glass bottle containing the memory, then at Lockhart’s smiling face, his expression somewhat odd.
It was certain this was definitely not Lockhart’s memory, but experiences he had stolen from true warriors in remote regions. No wonder he had been unusually quiet for the past two months without causing any eye-catching trouble—he had been busy stealing memories.
“Alright, let’s take a look then…”
Melvin summoned the Projection Mirror with a wave and inserted one strand of memory into it.
Silver mist surged, and the mirror showed a village shrouded in wind and snow, with the sound of children crying in the background. Through dialogue from a few passing wizards, it introduced the topic of yetis rampaging. Then the scene shifted, and Lockhart appeared through the blizzard, flashing a brilliant smile…
A standard adventure story, produced by Lockhart imitating last year’s moving picture, even with added background music. But as a novice wizard making his first movie, many shots were handled crudely and clumsily, and the emotional background music was very forced.
Surprisingly, Lockhart’s fabricated memory had no flaws; the splicing and editing were seamless. If Melvin didn’t know the real protagonist was someone else, he would have been fooled by this memory too.
“Worthy of Gilderoy Lockhart.”
Melvin exclaimed in surprise: “I’d say, you really suit this line of work, Professor Lockhart.”
“Just borrowing and imitating.” Lockhart modestly deflected, flashing a sincere, brilliant smile.
“I’ll gather the Magic Mirror Club members to view it as soon as possible, but you know the bar owner’s efficiency—the earliest we can manage is Easter in April.” Melvin vaguely delayed.
Lockhart took a sip of black tea, feeling a warm current flow all the way to his heart, hot and comforting, as if he could already see fame and wealth beckoning him.
“Professor Lockhart…”
Melvin’s fingertips circled the glass bottle in his hand: “Have you heard about the riddle I left at the entrance to the Ravenclaw Common Room?”
“You mean that Ship of Theseus?”
Lockhart was taken aback, calculating how to bluff his way through. “Although in my book Traveling with Vampires, I had a legendary aquatic adventure and know a lot about sailors and boatmen, Muggle and wizard ships are different. Wizard ships are more complex to repair. The Ship of Theseus you mentioned…”
“It’s not about the ship.”
Melvin couldn’t help interrupting. He truly couldn’t understand how this wizard had passed the scrutiny of those old editors at the publisher: “The ship is just symbolic, inspired by something at Nic’s Deathday party. If a ghost’s personality is completely different from when they were alive, how can we guarantee their soul is still the original soul?”
“Oh!” Lockhart showed sudden realization, then adopted the air of an expert. “This is similar to my reflections in Break with a Hag. Some ghosts and hags have extreme personalities and require special measures to deal with them.”
“…”
Melvin had no interest in correcting his nonsense: “What I mean is, if the Ship of Theseus can be replaced, and a ghost’s soul can change, can a person’s memories change their essence?”
“I… don’t quite understand.”
Lockhart frowned, finally dropping the expert pretense.
“As we all know, each person’s unique experiences form unique memories. These unique pasts shape who we are now. Experiences and memories give us knowledge, influence our way of thinking, and form our character…”
Steam rose from the black tea in Melvin’s hand: “Professor Lockhart, if the memories that crucially influence our character are replaced, will we undergo change?”
Lockhart fell into thought, his smile fading. He picked up his teacup and set it down again, repeating the motion several times.
Melvin spoke unhurriedly: “When I was at Ilvermorny, I was scared by a classmate hiding in the attic, so now every time I go upstairs or around a corner, I pay extra attention to blind spots for anyone there. If I replaced the experience of being startled by the classmate, would I still retain this habit?”
Lockhart looked at Melvin, something flashing in his dark eyes—eager encouragement or an ambiguous question?
He couldn’t say.
As a lopsided wizard skilled only in the Obliviate, he distinctly heard his heart racing, unfamiliar thoughts emerging.
“Taking it further…” Melvin paused briefly. “If Dumbledore were willing to share his memories with me, and I voluntarily discarded some of my own memories, would I become a wizard like Dumbledore?”
Lockhart took a sip of black tea, his heart pounding even harder.
He didn’t have Dumbledore’s memories, but he had others—many segments of warriors’ memories.
Replacing memories is a troublesome matter; a slight mistake can disrupt a wizard’s brain and affect self-perception. But Lockhart was precisely skilled in Memory Magic.
He couldn’t help fantasizing: if he possessed their memories, he would no longer be the fraudulent adventurer deceiving readers, but a genuine warrior, a professor enjoyed by students’ worship.
“I just remembered something urgent. I’ll come back next time, Melvin!” Lockhart practically ran out, forgetting to close the office door.
Melvin looked at the open doorway, took a sip of black tea. The steam lingering on the table finally dissipated, revealing expectant eyes.
…
Monday morning, cold winds howled across the grounds.
The bell hadn’t rung yet, but students had already rushed into the classroom, closing the windows and using the fireplace to ward off the biting chill.
The second class of the morning was Defence Against the Dark Arts. Harry thought this class was dreadful, even worse than last year under Quirinus Quirrell.
Lockhart couldn’t conduct normal teaching; the classroom became his stage for boasting and performing. Those nearly ten textbooks were his scripts, and Harry had almost become the golden supporting role in class.
When Lockhart told the story of vacationing with ghouls, he was that weak, silent ghoul.
When Lockhart performed vacationing with a hag, he was that screaming hag. Halfway through the term, he had already performed as a female ghost, troll, vampire, and werewolf.
The only named role left was yeti, because Lockhart planned to save that book for after it snowed, saying the cold atmosphere made it easier to immerse.
As the bell ended, Harry saw Lockhart enter the classroom.
Lockhart was still wearing his sky-blue robe, but with an added layer of cashmere sweater underneath. His expression was calm, not feigned kindness, making him seem much more agreeable. Under his arm was a thick tome; from the spine text, it was Break with a Hag.
Lockhart seemed to notice his gaze, turned his head, thought briefly, and flashed a brilliant smile:
“Harry… so glad to see you.”
“Good morning, Professor.”
Harry couldn’t quite figure out what he meant and watched him go to the podium. He turned to his two little partners: “Don’t you think today’s Lockhart seems different?”
“He really is different.” Ron narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
“Hmm?”
“Today you get to play the yeti!”
“…”
Harry shifted away a bit, putting some distance from the guy. He worried that when he played the rampaging yeti later, he might not resist kicking him a couple times.
“I wonder if the monster in the Chamber of Secrets is a yeti? If it’s one from the books, there’d be ready ways to deal with it, but they don’t have bright yellow eyes.”
Hermione muttered softly beside him.
Harry stayed silent.
In the past few weeks of investigation, they had found nothing. All collectible clues had been gathered, but there was still no useful information. Dobby hadn’t appeared again, and Hermione spent every free moment reasoning and calculating in her notebook, almost obsessed.
“Knock… knock…”
Lockhart tapped the desk twice, drawing the class’s attention: “Good morning, everyone.”
The little wizards in the classroom exchanged puzzled looks, unsure what was happening.
Lockhart saw the confusion on the students’ faces and seemed to feel their vibrant life force, involuntarily smiling. The smile wasn’t perfect but was very kind:
“I’ve covered several dark creatures so far and originally planned to save the yeti for after it snowed, to teach outdoors. But on second thought, that would be too cold, so I’m teaching it now before the snow. I hope after it snows, you can review and verify…”
The classroom gradually quieted.
Lockhart wasn’t doing a play today?
Harry frowned involuntarily. This Lockhart was especially unfamiliar, exuding an old-mannish air—not like Dumbledore’s, but with slow speech and unhurried movements, like Old Tom at the Leaky Cauldron.
“Yetis generally appear in extremely cold regions, like the Himalayan Mountains. When it’s coldest, it’s colder than snowy Hogwarts. At night, no one goes out—not even to the toilet; they handle it indoors. Know why?” Lockhart asked.
Seamus from the back row chimed in: “Why?”
“Because it’s cold—unbearably cold. Fingers exposed outside freeze into cheese crisps in just ten minutes.”
“What does that mean?”
“They snap off with a gentle break, shattering into bits, piece by piece.”
“Eww~”
The little wizards shuddered at the image but grew interested, listening attentively.
“Yetis appear on such snowy nights, up to 15 feet tall, with light fur. They lie on the ground blending into the snow. From afar, you can’t see them—like a small snowdrift. When someone approaches, they suddenly leap up; a dozen wizards can’t stop it…”
The classroom was deathly silent.
Lockhart’s class was completely different. Before, it was boring role-playing full of boastful empty talk with no real content. Now it had suddenly changed—no more self-praise. The scenes were detailed and vivid, as if recounted by a villager who had lived decades in the Snow Village, bringing that world out of the book.
The two-hour class seemed to end in a blink. The students were immersed in that windy, snowy mountain village, in the shadow cast by the yeti—exciting and novel.
“Alright, class is almost over.”
Lockhart closed the book, drew his wand: “I’ll demonstrate a little spell to conjure snowflakes. Watch closely… snowflakes falling.”
Under the class’s gaze, he flicked and shook his wand—nothing happened.
Lockhart frowned, looking puzzled himself as he examined his wand, as if it were the wand’s fault.
Just as he prepared to try again, the dismissal bell rang.
Lockhart waved: “That’s it for now. We’ll continue next class!”
The students filed out of the classroom. Harry, unusually patient, waited for the others to leave, then turned to his two little partners. They exchanged looks, eyes unblinking.
