Chapter 143: Self-awareness
At noon, the Great Hall.
Melvin also finished his morning classes and went downstairs with several sixth-year students, chatting about the upcoming Christmas holiday on the way. After arriving at the Great Hall, the little wizards ran to their respective long tables, and the elective professor came to the high table and sat down.
The headmaster was absent. Melvin, as usual, chatted with Professor Flitwick, Sprout, and Professor Babbling. The topic revolved around the Theseus riddle left at the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower that night. The professors all had different insights and could extend to other fields.
Professor McGonagall mainly listened and occasionally offered her own opinions. Snape remained silent, unwilling to waste time on philosophical speculation without answers.
In short order, Lockhart arrived.
As soon as he sat down at the high table, several perceptive professors noticed his change.
Lockhart sat alone at his corner seat eating his meal. Normally, he would have been at the head seat, casually commenting on their topic, but now he silently cut his steak with knives and forks, without his signature smile on his face, like a calm old professor.
The suspicious gazes of the others caught Lockhart’s attention. He looked up slightly and gave them a puzzled look.
Professor McGonagall clearly knew or guessed some inside story. She suspected something was wrong with Lockhart’s magic and tentatively asked, “Professor Lockhart… do you remember us?”
“Professor McGonagall, what a joker you are.”
Lockhart smiled and greeted his colleagues around him in a mild, appropriate tone: “My wand has a little problem. I’m just thinking about when to take it to Ollivander for repair, or simply get a new one.”
He then buried his head and continued eating, without joining their topic.
“How strange…” Flitwick scratched his head.
When Lockhart was a student, he had made his dean endure ridicule from colleagues. Flitwick still remembered those stupid things, like carving his name all over the Quidditch Pitch, projecting his portrait into the sky like a Dark Mark, and sending himself eight hundred Valentine’s greeting cards, with massive owl droppings and feathers falling into the porridge, directly causing breakfast to be canceled.
Almost a term into the school year, Lockhart’s personality had been the same as during his student days, but today it suddenly changed, which was really baffling.
The professors were all a bit puzzled but didn’t say much more. For the rest of the time, they quietly observed Lockhart, unsure if he had truly turned over a new leaf or was plotting something big.
Melvin chewed on the tender beef ribs, looking forward to further changes in Lockhart.
In the field of memory magic to which the Obliviate belonged, Lockhart could be called a technical expert. Melvin could only speculate on his actions: what memories had this bestselling book writer sealed away, and what memories of adventurer and warrior had he woven?
How long would the Obliviate last? Would he deceive himself forever?
Flitwick next to him patted his arm: “Melvin, let’s continue talking about the Ship of Theseus. If all the components of an object are replaced, is it still the same thing as before?”
……
The day’s classes ended, the banquet dispersed, and Professor Lockhart returned to his office.
This office was similar to other offices in the castle: a desk for work, a matching comfortable chair, a walnut wood bookshelf, and a shelf for personal collection, nothing special. But it was covered with his portraits and photographs almost on every wall, ensuring his perfect smile was visible from every angle.
The bookshelf held only his own works, special collector’s editions with gold-embossed titles and ornate covers. On the display cabinet were newspaper clippings of his appearances, trophies and medals he had won, gleaming under the candlelight.
For some reason, Lockhart surveyed the room he had decorated and felt less satisfied than usual.
But he didn’t care about that.
Lockhart exhaled, took off his formal robes and hung them by the door, sat down behind the desk, took out his wand and examined it repeatedly. As far as he could tell, the wand was fine, but several spell attempts today had failed.
A simple little ice and snow spell—what had gone wrong?
Lockhart really couldn’t figure it out.
In his memory, he hadn’t made such a mistake in a long time. After graduation, he traveled everywhere, collecting many adventure stories and adapting them into first-person novels, becoming a somewhat famous bestselling author.
Inspired by these novels, Lockhart embarked on real adventures himself, choosing the Snow Village deep in the Himalayan Mountains.
Looking back, he clearly remembered how he spent those cold nights, how he outwitted the yeti, fighting wits and bravery… After nearly three months of hard battle, with the help of the villagers, he used his magic to make the yeti catch a cold.
Lockhart dug into the memories in his mind, combined with the limited magical understanding from his student days, slowly waved his wand, and softly chanted the spell:
【Snowflakes falling】
A few points of cool white flakes drifted down, glistening with crystalline light.
A smile involuntarily appeared on Lockhart’s face, just as the clock struck on time. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror, then froze in place as many sealed things surged from the depths of his pupils.
Lockhart’s smile froze on his face as he digested those sealed memories, re-recognizing himself—or rather, finding himself again. This shift in thinking brought a strange feeling, somewhat dazed, somewhat stunned.
Reviewing today’s memories in his mind, a wonderful taste spread through his heart.
The students’ exclamations, the little witches’ admiring expressions, and the colleagues’ surprised discussions…
This was what Lockhart had always dreamed of: honor and reputation, as if all obtained through replaced memories. He waved his wand, scattering many ice crystals, like ribbons falling on a stage.
“Even magic has been learned…”
Lockhart looked at himself in the mirror and once again bloomed with a brilliant perfect smile.
……
Entering November, Hogwarts began to cool down.
It started to sleet.
The school auditorium began serving more soups and hot dishes. Many little wizards’ burps smelled of cream of mushroom soup. Cold desserts were slightly neglected, only paired with casual chat when stomachs were nearly full.
Hermione didn’t have many friends but kept up with trends and knew the hot topics among classmates, all thanks to her two roommates.
Lavender and Parvati got their meals, exchanged a few dishes, commented briefly, and started talking about Lockhart.
Professor Lockhart’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class had no year distinctions; the content was basically the same. Normally, this arrangement was criticized by many students, but as the Himalayan Yeti chapter gradually unfolded, students truly learned things, and Professor Lockhart’s reputation began to turn.
“The professor said that in the Himalayas, fingers freeze stiff, then thaw, freeze again, repeat a few times, and they turn into french fries.” Lavender’s voice was shrill and a bit high-pitched, audible to everyone around.
“…”
Parvati looked at her platter: “Can you not say that while I’m eating fish and chips?”
“Sprinkle on some ketchup and it looks even more like it!”
“Urgh…”
A commotion arose from the nearby Hufflepuff long table. Hermione subtly reached out and pushed Harry’s french fries farther away.
“Actually, Professor Lockhart isn’t that dreadful. What do you think, Parvati?”
“But at the beginning of term, he really was…”
“Maybe his wand didn’t suit him. It got damaged in a previous adventure, like Neville’s and Ron’s before. They didn’t need replacements; repairs worked fine.”
“…”
The conversation reached Harry’s ears too. He drizzled ketchup on his french fries and popped them into his mouth one by one, showing a thoughtful expression: “Could Lockhart really not be a fraud?”
He picked up a piece of fried fish to taste, when suddenly his fingers felt icy cold.
He shivered and realized Nic’s head had emerged from under the long table, his eyes widening: “Nic! Can you come out from above next time? I thought my fingers had frozen into french fries!”
“…”
Nic turned his head, his expression dazed, eyes vacant.
“Nic, Nic?” Ron called twice.
“…”
Hermione tentatively called: “Sir Cadogan?”
Nic gradually came back to his senses, ignoring the little wizards’ puzzled expressions, and softly asked: “If there’s a person who looks exactly like you, thinks exactly like you, has all your memories, knows all your friends and family, knows all your secrets—do you think he is another you?”
The group looked at each other, unsure what was going on.
Ron scratched his head uncertainly: “Is… isn’t he?”
Harry looked at him worriedly: “Nic, are you okay?”
“Professor Levent said at the Deathday party that the ones left at Ravenclaw Tower are Muggle philosophical problems. These problems have no answers. Don’t obsess too much.” Hermione explained, “We all know ghosts are wizards’ souls.”
Light returned to Nic’s eyes: “If all that changes, is the ghost still the same ghost?”
The three couldn’t answer and could only watch the ghost gradually float away, disappearing into the wall.
“Sigh…”
Ron poked at the ribs on his plate with his fork: “It’s all Professor Levent’s fault. Lately, these ghosts have all been acting strange. I wonder if they’ll recover this winter.”
Hermione opened her mouth but couldn’t find words to refute.
Historically, sages who studied philosophical problems either went mad or depressed, and not a few committed suicide. The ghosts had suffered too long, with extreme and stubborn personalities. Professor Levent throwing such problems at them felt a bit unkind.
……
With the sleet, real heavy snow soon arrived.
The cold wave in the Scottish Highlands came especially fiercely. The Whomping Willow’s bare branches soon hung with frost, and the howling north wind battered the castle walls and windows day and night nonstop. The other houses were fine, but Slytherin House, being underground, needed its fireplace burning all night.
Many students caught colds. Weaker ones visited the Hospital Wing two or three times a week, keeping Madam Pomfrey run off her feet.
Thursday afternoon, Melvin was again roped in by Professor McGonagall. The two went to Hogsmeade to buy supplies, preparing for the coming Christmas.
The shop owners were very enthusiastic, generous with discounts, but indirectly inquired if any films were releasing over the Christmas holiday. Melvin could only brush them off.
Back at school, the greenhouse was packed with second-year students in Herbology, tending to cold-sensitive mandrakes. On the Quidditch Pitch, players rode broomsticks in a snowball fight. The frozen Black Lake had a group of little wizards ice skating, their noisy laughter mixed with some crying—that was someone who had fallen and was crying from a sore butt.
Entering the castle foyer, he saw two figures in the courtyard from afar, one old and one young.
“That seems like Headmaster Dumbledore.”
“Mm.”
Professor McGonagall felt resentful. The deputy headmaster was braving the snow on errands, while the headmaster leisurely stood in the snow—annoying just to see.
Dumbledore wore gray-white wizard robes, the padded thick kind. His slender back was dusted with snow, exuding the aura of an otherworldly old wizard just standing there.
The one in the blue robes was naturally Lockhart, wrapped in snow-white mink, glossy and luxurious, eye-catching.
Melvin nodded slightly. It seemed there was no Defence Against the Dark Arts class this afternoon—this was the Lockhart with the perfect smile.
Professor McGonagall headed to the office to tally accounts. Melvin parted from the deputy headmaster at the staircase and went to the courtyard to greet them: “Watching the snow? The view is better from the Forbidden Forest side.”
Dumbledore smiled and shook his head: “I’m old, afraid of the cold. Don’t want to stay outside too long.”
“Out enjoying the merchants’ flattery with the deputy headmaster, eh?”
Lockhart nudged him with his elbow, acting familiar like a fellow insider.
“…”
He didn’t want to respond to either of them.
Melvin felt a bit awkward. He should have gone upstairs with Professor McGonagall—why come over to say hi?
“I was just talking to the headmaster about the club.”
Memory-normal Lockhart showed a smug expression, still in that overly familiar tone: “I had a brilliant idea. Defence Against the Dark Arts is just theory—students need practice, real combat.”
“You mean?”
“Dueling Club!”
Lockhart brandished a notice: “I’ve decided to start a Dueling Club, with weekly duelling practice to teach them real wizard duels, so they can fend off Dark Creatures and Dark Wizards once out of school.”
Melvin read the words on the parchment, which already bore the headmaster’s seal.
Listening to Lockhart’s winking boast, Melvin and Dumbledore both seemed quite silent, only humoring him with a nod or “mm” when pressed. Talking to this kind of person was pointless.
Lockhart pursed his lips and unenthusiastically said goodbye: “Alright, I need to go post the Dueling Club notice.”
Melvin watched his receding figure and suddenly noticed a detail: the buttons on his cuffs were ordinary copper ones, completely different from his previous gold-plated or pure silver ones, looking dull.
The influence of memory seemed more profound than expected.
Some things had quietly changed, but Lockhart was unaware.
Melvin showed a thoughtful expression.
Dumbledore brushed the snow from his shoulders, inhaled the icy air, perking up and dropping the senile pose, his tone lighter: “Melvin, I hear you left a riddle at Ravenclaw Tower.”
“Philosophical speculation—everyone sees it differently, no fixed answer.”
Dumbledore chuckled: “Add your insights from the Deathday party, making the ghosts ponder self-cognition. The Grey Lady and Sir Cadogan were troubled and came to ask my opinion—quite bothersome.”
Melvin nodded slightly: “They need to figure it out themselves. Others can’t help.”
“It made me think too.”
“Go on.”
“If a person copies himself at different life stages, each with independent thinking and soul, just varying memory lengths—some only youth, some middle age, some old age—they all exist simultaneously, each self-centered. Who is the real him?”
Melvin looked up at the old headmaster, who wore a faint, kindly smile on his face.
