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[Marvel's Hogwarts Professor] Chapter 441 - 445
🕑 Added 2025-01-15 01:00:02 +0000 UTCChapter 441
Patronus Charm?
Tom stared in disbelief at the silver-white lion roaring against the black mist. Lockhart, the man he considered despicable, deceitful, and thoroughly steeped in dark magic, had conjured a Patronus.
Tom’s thoughts spiraled as he recalled their earlier encounters. In his Horcrux state, he had witnessed firsthand the depths of Lockhart’s cunning. This man had no qualms about using curses, delving into forbidden magics, or even considering the eradication of entire species like goblins.
By every measure, Lockhart was a dark wizard. If not for Tom’s own existence, Lockhart could have easily claimed the title of Dark Lord.
And yet... here he is, summoning a Patronus, Tom thought, his mind reeling.
The Patronus Charm was an ancient defensive spell, associated with purity, justice, and positive emotions. Dark wizards attempting to cast it risked severe backlash, often summoning dangerous entities instead. Yet here was Lockhart, his silver lion bursting forth with undeniable strength and purpose.
Is there no justice in this world? Tom fumed inwardly.
Unbeknownst to him, Dumbledore had been quietly observing his reaction. The headmaster’s sharp eyes flicked between Tom and the battlefield, gauging the implications of what he was witnessing.
Meanwhile, Grindelwald remained silent, his brows furrowed as he considered the significance of Lockhart’s Patronus.
Among the spectators, Ministry officials and professors exchanged glances of approval. The Patronus Charm held immense cultural and symbolic weight in the wizarding world.
Historically, it had served as a means of identifying heroes and leaders, a marker of moral integrity and strength of spirit. Even in modern times, mastery of the spell often earned wizards positions of trust and authority.
For Lockhart, the conjuration of a corporeal Patronus—a feat many skilled wizards failed to achieve—was a masterstroke. The onlookers couldn’t help but feel a swell of admiration and trust toward him, despite the chaos of the battlefield.
Lockhart noticed their reactions, a satisfied gleam in his eye. Soft power is as important as hard power, he mused.
As the silver lion charged into the black mist, its light disrupted the dark magic, forcing Voldemort’s spell to unravel.
Voldemort scowled as he felt the debilitating effects of the Patronus. The Black Mist Curse, one of his proudest creations, was rooted in his studies of Dementors, making it particularly vulnerable to the light of the Patronus Charm.
The mist recoiled instinctively, retreating from the silver lion’s radiance. Once at a safe distance, Voldemort transformed back into his human form. His pale face betrayed his frustration and weariness.
This stalemate is intolerable, he thought. His Death Eaters were faltering, the werewolves were nearly subdued, and even Tom Riddle was locked in a confrontation with Hogwarts wizards.
"Execute the second plan," a faint voice echoed in Voldemort’s mind.
He gritted his teeth but nodded. "Okay," he muttered under his breath.
At that moment, Dumbledore’s calm voice broke the tension.
"Tom," he said, his tone heavy with meaning, "don’t forget what I told you. Reality has a way of forcing outcomes we’d rather avoid."
Tom’s lips curled into a bitter smile. "Even if you are Dumbledore," he replied.
Dumbledore’s gaze didn’t waver. "Exactly. Even if I am Dumbledore."
He paused, then added in a tone that bordered on wistful, "Tom, perhaps you and your other self should leave. Next time we meet, I hope it’s under better circumstances."
Tom’s expression darkened, but he said nothing.
He understood Dumbledore’s veiled warning. If the battle continued, neither he nor Voldemort would emerge unscathed. The best-case scenario for both parties was mutual destruction—a prospect that neither could afford.
A sudden chill swept across the square as a cold breeze drifted in. Overhead, the sky began to shift.
Pale golden lines appeared, weaving intricate patterns across the heavens. The ethereal chains intertwined with colors representing the elements—yellow for earth, green for trees, silver-white for space, and fiery red for the sun.
The spectacle was mesmerizing, a strange beauty that seemed to call to the very essence of magic itself. Wizards in the audience couldn’t help but stare, their minds inundated with visions and fragments of knowledge.
For the more experienced, like Dumbledore and Grindelwald, the patterns were a revelation. They recognized the structures as the core mechanisms of the secret realm Lockhart had constructed.
But amidst the golden brilliance, strands of black mist began to converge, drawn toward the center as if pursuing something unseen.
"Curse," Dumbledore said aloud, his voice firm. "The black mist is drawn by a curse."
He refrained from analyzing the curse further, instead committing the patterns above to memory. This knowledge might not allow him to replicate Lockhart’s secret realm, but it was a foundation—a potential blueprint for relocating Hogwarts to a safer, hidden space.
Lockhart observed the reactions with a knowing smile. He made no attempt to stop anyone from studying the spectacle.
Let them look, he thought. Knowledge freely given is often the most expensive.
The black mist, however, was another matter. Lockhart knew its origin well: the soul fragment within Hufflepuff’s Gold Cup, one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.
Voldemort’s gaze flicked skyward, a rare smile gracing his lips. The mist was responding, and he could feel its pull.
Lockhart noticed the change in Voldemort’s demeanor. The Dark Lord suddenly lunged toward him, his wand raised.
Voldemort’s attack was sudden, his spells relentless. Black chains formed from mist lashed out, seeking to ensnare Lockhart.
But Lockhart was ready. His wand shone with silver-white light as he summoned his Patronus once more.
Roar!
The silver lion charged, intercepting the chains and forcing Voldemort to retreat.
"You’re persistent, Voldemort," Lockhart said, his tone laced with mockery.
"And you’re insufferable," Voldemort shot back, his crimson eyes blazing.
Their duel resumed with renewed intensity, but both wizards knew the battle was drawing to a close.
A shout rang out across the battlefield:
"Retreat!"
Chapter 442
Above the sky, lines and runes of various colors appeared one after another, intertwining and shifting like a breathtaking, magical rainbow.
Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and other wizards raised their heads in unison, committing the intricate patterns to memory. Each line’s trajectory, each shimmering rune, was imprinted deeply in their minds.
While observing, they pondered the relationship between these patterns and the secret spatial realm they now occupied. This was no ordinary feat of magic; it was a revelation.
Even the most untrained wizards could see that constructing a secret space like Lockhart’s would provide an unprecedented advantage. Privacy, security, and strategic superiority—it was a powerful tool for any wizarding faction.
Grindelwald had already made up his mind. Upon returning, he would begin developing a secret realm for the Saints. The principles were forming in his mind, and with enough research, refinement, and trial and error, it could become a reality. If obstacles arose, he would not shy away from striking a deal with Lockhart.
After all, this knowledge is now in plain view, he thought. The only question is the price.
Dumbledore shared similar thoughts, though he was more cautious.
Meanwhile, Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, was practically giddy with excitement. His mind raced with possibilities. If the Ministry of Magic could move into a space like this, it would secure his legacy.
In his mind, the headlines were already forming: "In 1993, under the leadership of Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, the Ministry of Magic relocated to a secret spatial realm, ushering in a new era of wizarding security and innovation."
Fudge’s face broke into an uncharacteristically wide smile as he indulged in his fantasy.
A low hum suddenly spread through the air.
The black mist representing the curse dispersed, releasing a wave of mysterious energy that radiated outward with astonishing speed.
Voldemort’s pale face lit up with joy. The destruction of the soul fragment in Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup had lifted the lingering curse on him.
"Retreat!" he barked.
The Death Eaters, hearing their master’s command, immediately unleashed black magic to distract their opponents and withdrew from the battlefield. Within moments, they activated their prepared portkeys.
A surge of spatial distortion swept across the square.
The Death Eaters vanished, along with the werewolves.
At the edges of the square, Tom’s allies, the pure-blood Death Eaters, received the signal and followed suit.
In mere seconds, only Tom and Voldemort remained.
Dumbledore and the others watched silently, their expressions contemplative. None made a move to intervene.
Tom raised his wand, amplified his voice, and addressed the crowd.
"Grindelwald, I know you’re here," he called out, his voice steady.
"And you, Headmaster Dumbledore."
He paused, letting his words settle over the audience before continuing.
"The future of the wizarding world has begun to blur," he said. "Good and evil will intertwine, chaos will reign. A great era of upheaval lies ahead, and in its wake, new wizards will rise—wizards like Lockhart."
Tom’s gaze swept the crowd, his tone growing resolute. "It’s time for us to abandon our outdated perceptions. The lines we once drew between us must fade. I look forward to the day when we can sit together as equals and discuss the evolution of magic and the changes shaping our world."
His voice softened, almost wistful. "That day will come, and it won’t be far off."
Lockhart’s intentions, Tom mused, were clear. By harnessing the collective power of the wizarding world, he was pushing the magical system into an era of transformation. Whatever came next, it would undoubtedly be monumental.
Turning his attention back to Voldemort, Tom added, "Lockhart, I suspect we’ll have more dealings in the future. There’s ample time ahead."
Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with malice. Without another word, he activated his portkey and disappeared.
Lockhart stood motionless; his expression inscrutable. When Voldemort’s presence was gone, a faint smile of disdain flickered across his face. He composed himself quickly, stepping lightly onto the high platform where he had begun.
The dark green barrier surrounding the square dissolved as Tom Riddle followed suit, vanishing into thin air.
With their departure, the audience turned their focus back to Lockhart.
Standing on the platform, his appearance was impeccable, his robes unruffled, and a serene smile graced his lips as if the battle had been nothing more than a performance.
Before him, the students had formed neat ranks, their calm demeanor belying the intensity of the earlier fight.
"Everyone," Lockhart began, his voice confident and clear, "the battle is over. Now, let us return to our eveny."
He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the gathered crowd.
"Welcome to Kamar-Taj, a school dedicated to meditation and magic. A place where Squibs can awaken as wizards and where wizards can push beyond their limits to become something greater."
In the dimly lit warmth of the Hog’s Head Inn, the mood was lively and chaotic. Candlelight flickered over rows of crowded tables, the air thick with the aroma of ale and the hum of animated conversation.
"Did you see it?" a red-faced wizard exclaimed, slamming his mug onto the table. "If you missed the Kamar-Taj ceremony, you missed history! The most unforgettable day of my life!"
The wizard next to him nodded enthusiastically, his hands gesturing wildly.
"Dumbledore, You-Know-Who, and even Lockhart! All the great wizards in one place—can you believe it? They’re calling Lockhart the next Dumbledore, you know. And he’s so young!"
Aberforth Dumbledore leaned against the bar, his face etched with a mix of irritation and resignation.
"Albus deserves it," he muttered under his breath.
The door to the bar creaked open, and a young figure stepped inside. Aberforth’s sharp eyes lit up as he recognized the newcomer.
"Ian!" he called out, a rare smile breaking across his face.
Chapter 443
"Good evening, boss!"
Ian’s face lit up with a smile at the familiar sound of Aberforth’s voice. He quickened his pace, heading straight to the bar where Aberforth was waiting.
The older man had just finished pouring a glass of blue, frost-tipped wine.
"Ian, come here," Aberforth called, waving him over eagerly. "This is a new wine I’ve been working on. Tell me what you think."
Aberforth cared deeply for Ian. Over the past five or six years, the boy had become like a son to him. If he hadn’t already had a son of his own, Ian would have filled that role easily. Even raising a stray cat for so many years would have built a strong bond—let alone raising a person.
Ian smiled brightly and took the glass without hesitation. Blowing gently to dispel the white mist curling above the drink, he examined the blue liquid inside with curiosity before taking a cautious sip.
The cold liquid slid down his throat, filling his mouth with a rich fruity aroma that seemed to ignite every taste bud. Ian closed his eyes, savoring the sensation before finally setting the glass down.
"Boss, this wine is excellent," he said, nodding in appreciation. "It’s definitely your work—refined and unique."
"You’ve used blue jade fruit as the main ingredient, haven’t you? And blended it with fruit wine made from other magical fruits," Ian continued thoughtfully. "The aroma is strong, but it doesn’t overwhelm, and it clears the mind rather than intoxicating. It’s incredible."
His tone turned a bit regretful. "But I don’t think ordinary wizards will appreciate it. Most of them prefer drinks that leave them drunk and lightheaded."
Aberforth chuckled. "You’re right, Ian," he admitted, leaning on the counter. "But this isn’t for ordinary wizards."
A mysterious smile crept onto his face. "This is for wizards who practice meditation. Lockhart mentioned during his announcements that wizards practicing meditation should avoid alcohol altogether to keep their minds clear."
Ian nodded in agreement. "Our instructor told us the same thing. Alcohol not only dulls the mind but can amplify emotions, making it harder to focus. For those practicing meditation, it can disrupt the runes formed deep within their minds. That’s why most of us drink tea instead."
Aberforth sighed and shook his head. "Exactly. But, Ian, what happens to bars like mine if everyone starts practicing meditation and stops drinking? If I keep making wine the old way, who’ll come here anymore?"
His eyes gleamed with determination. "That’s why I started experimenting with wines that cater to meditating wizards. Something that enhances their clarity instead of clouding it. If I can get it right, I might even gain more customers than before."
Ian gave him a thumbs-up. "Boss, your vision is as sharp as ever," he said with genuine admiration. "If you perfect this kind of wine, I’ll bring all my classmates here. You’ll have more business than you’ll know what to do with."
Aberforth laughed, his rough voice carrying a note of pride. "That’ll be the day, then," he said.
His expression turned serious as he leaned closer. "Ian, to be honest, I’ve only heard bits and pieces about this meditation method. I’ve tried practicing the basics myself, but it didn’t do much for me. Maybe I was doing it wrong. Is there anything important I should know, especially about what to avoid?"
Pausing, Aberforth added, "And if there’s a meditation method better suited for someone like me, I’d love to learn it."
Ian’s expression shifted slightly at the question, becoming more guarded. As one of Lockhart’s most valued students, he had undergone extensive training in confidentiality. But he also knew Aberforth cared for him deeply and had always supported him.
Aberforth noticed the change in Ian’s demeanor and smiled gently. "If it’s too much to share, don’t worry about it," he said lightly. "I can always ask Lockhart myself when I see him."
The older man’s words made Ian pause. He knew Aberforth wasn’t pressuring him, but his mentor’s training echoed in his mind. After a moment of thought, Ian decided to share what he could.
"Boss, there’s nothing too secret about it," Ian began cautiously. "Once the school officially opens, this knowledge will be taught widely. And I heard my instructor is working on a book about meditation specifically for adult wizards. Once it’s published, I’ll make sure you get a copy."
Aberforth nodded, listening intently.
Ian continued, "The key to meditation is maintaining inner emptiness. Clarity and reason are crucial, especially in the early stages. That’s why drinking is discouraged—it clouds judgment and disrupts focus."
"Additionally, the type of spells you practice matters. Meditation methods are designed to complement specific kinds of magic. Using mismatched spells can cause conflicts, affecting both your meditation and your magic."
Aberforth took in every word, setting aside his wine glass in favor of tea as Ian spoke.
The two continued their conversation late into the night. Wizards came and went, but Ian and Aberforth remained at the bar, their discussion spanning hours and several cups of tea.
As dawn approached, Ian finally rose to leave. He bid Aberforth farewell, promising to visit again soon, and stepped out into the cool night air.
Aberforth watched him go, a bittersweet expression on his face. He poured himself another drink, sipping it slowly.
"Ian’s going to be something special," Aberforth muttered to himself. "But I doubt he’ll have much time for this old bar anymore. Not with Dumbledore constantly meddling."
He sighed deeply. Despite his gruff exterior, Aberforth had always looked out for Ian, but he knew the boy’s path was leading him toward greater things—and away from the quiet life of the Hog’s Head.
With a wry smile, Aberforth muttered, "Maybe it’s time for me to take a break, too. A trip to the States might do me some good. I should visit Aurelius while I’m at it."
Chapter 444
Malfoy Manor stood in an eerie silence, its once-imposing aura now marred by fear and uncertainty. Lucius Malfoy, head bowed low, led the way through his own home like a servant, his every step measured and trembling.
Behind him followed Voldemort, his black robes flowing with an air of menace. His pale, snake-like face was set in cold indifference, though flashes of murderous intent flickered in his crimson eyes as he observed Lucius’s every move.
Lucius had dared to betray him once. Though now back in service, a betrayal was a betrayal, and Voldemort’s rage simmered beneath the surface.
Still, his current thoughts were occupied by something far more troubling—his other self.
The young, calm, and calculating Tom Riddle was, in many ways, an embodiment of Voldemort’s ideals before his descent into madness. Elegant, ambitious, and controlled, this version of him seemed almost a perfected resurrection.
But Voldemort knew better. His own rebirth had left him deeply affected by the effects of dark magic, prone to bouts of mania and anger. Despite the powerful resurrection rituals he had employed, he remained fractured.
His mind swirled with questions, chief among them: Who is the real Dark Lord?
The answer could only come through bloodshed. To resolve the paradox of their existence, one would have to kill, devour, and absorb the other.
But this was no time for impulsive action. Tom Riddle’s strength was equal to his own, and Voldemort wasn’t arrogant enough to attack him in his domain without preparation.
Lucius, however, wasn’t privy to these musings. His heart pounded as he led Voldemort to the study, each step heavy with dread.
Two masters? he thought with despair. One is already a nightmare. Two... it’s unbearable.
He dared not look back. He could feel the malice emanating from Voldemort, a palpable threat hanging over him like a blade.
Opening the study door with trembling hands, Lucius stepped aside, allowing Voldemort to enter.
Tom Riddle stood by the window, his silhouette framed by the pale moonlight. He turned slowly, a calm, almost welcoming expression on his face.
"You’re here," Tom said, his voice smooth and measured. "Come in, please. I’ve been waiting for you." He gestured toward a chair, inviting Voldemort to sit.
Voldemort stepped inside but didn’t take the offered seat. His gaze remained fixed on Tom, wary and calculating.
"I don’t understand you yet," Voldemort said coolly, his voice betraying none of his inner turmoil. "And I suspect you don’t trust me either. Let’s not pretend."
Tom’s lips curved into a faint smile. "Fair enough," he replied, his tone light, almost amused. "Then let’s dispense with the pleasantries. How shall we address each other? Tom? Voldemort? The Dark Lord? Or perhaps Voldemort No. 1 and No. 2?"
The faint mockery in Tom’s voice made Voldemort’s eyes narrow.
"Titles are irrelevant," Voldemort said curtly. "What I want to know is this—how did you come back to life?"
Tom tilted his head, as though considering the question.
"The resurrection ritual left in the Slytherin Chamber of Secrets could never have produced... this," Voldemort continued, gesturing toward Tom. "I know its workings. I designed it. Even in the best-case scenario, it could restore the body but leave the soul fractured."
Tom’s smile deepened, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifted the conversation.
"What are your plans for the future?" he asked. "You know as well as I do that we’re surrounded by enemies. If Dumbledore and Lockhart join forces, neither of us stands a chance."
Voldemort’s expression darkened, his tone icy. "Then we join forces," he said simply.
"Do you think Dumbledore and Lockhart can ever truly be allies? Their goals are incompatible. There is no room for two dominant schools in the British wizarding world. Kamar-Taj will only rise by feeding on Hogwarts’ decline. The conflict is inevitable. We can bide our time and strike when they’re at their weakest."
Voldemort’s eyes gleamed with ruthless determination. "That will be the moment I reclaim everything."
Tom listened, his expression calm, even contemplative.
"What if I don’t want to wait?" Tom said softly.
The words hung in the air, catching Voldemort off guard.
"Wait for what?" Voldemort asked, genuinely confused. "What opportunity are you referring to? We’re in the darkest moment imaginable. Dumbledore controls Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic supports Lockhart, and Kamar-Taj grows stronger every day. This is hardly the time to act."
Tom’s gaze sharpened, his voice carrying a quiet intensity. "You misunderstand. Great changes are coming, changes that will reshape the entire wizarding world. Those who prepare now will rise to power in the chaos. Those who hesitate will be left behind."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning conspiratorial. "Meditation is the key. The backlash of dark magic can be resolved through its principles. We need to develop meditation methods specifically for dark wizards—methods that will redefine power structures. The foundations of power are shifting, Voldemort. Bloodlines will wane, and wizards will multiply like never before. The very concept of magic is about to change."
Voldemort fell silent, his mind racing as he absorbed Tom’s words.
In the Gryffindor Head of House office at Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall sat at her desk, her brow furrowed as she read the latest issue of the Daily Prophet.
The new school year was fast approaching, bringing with it the usual bustle of returning students and new staff. Lockhart had vacated his position, and a fresh Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was set to arrive.
But these mundane concerns paled in comparison to the headline in front of her.
"The Ministry of Magic Authorizes Kamar-Taj to Enroll Muggle Students – Initial Semester Expected to Admit 1,000 Students."
Chapter 445
Afternoon, London—a certain neighborhood.
"Albus, Lockhart's enrollment plan this time is absolutely outrageous," McGonagall exclaimed, her voice sharp with frustration.
"The number of young wizards we typically recruit each semester is only about a hundred, at most. Yet he’s planning to recruit thousands!"
"Can you imagine how we’d manage such numbers? How many professors would we need to teach them? How many staff members would it take to keep things running smoothly? Hogwarts has barely over a thousand students in total, and even that requires meticulous coordination."
Golden sunlight filtered through the trees lining the cobblestone street, casting dappled shadows on the pavement. Dumbledore strolled leisurely forward, his white wizard robes catching the light like spun silver. Beside him, McGonagall kept pace, her dark green robes rustling softly as she gestured animatedly.
"Lockhart has truly lost all sense of proportion! Recruiting students on such a massive scale? Does he even comprehend the logistical nightmare he’s inviting?" she continued.
"It’s not just about numbers—what about the process? How does he intend to bring these students to Kamar-Taj? Are there even enough resources to handle such an influx? The mind boggles!"
She huffed, her sharp eyes narrowing. "When we recruit Muggle-born students, we ensure everything is handled with care. A professor personally visits each family, explains the situation, and helps them navigate Gringotts, acquire wizarding robes, exchange Muggle currency for Galleons, and purchase their school supplies. Even with all that, each professor is typically assigned no more than two or three students at most."
McGonagall shook her head in exasperation. "Even if Lockhart doesn’t expect professors to handle every step, he would still need hundreds of trained wizards just to coordinate this effort. Does Kamar-Taj even have that many? And if they do, will they have time for anything else besides ferrying students back and forth?"
Dumbledore listened patiently, a soft smile playing on his lips. The twinkle in his blue eyes betrayed no hint of alarm. He let McGonagall vent her frustrations uninterrupted, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to her growing agitation. When she finally paused to catch her breath, he said gently, "Patience, Minerva. Today, we will see for ourselves how Kamar-Taj handles their recruitment."
"Lockhart told me their methods are quite innovative—unconventional, even. I asked him for details, but he insisted on keeping it a surprise. He said we would understand once we saw it firsthand."
McGonagall sighed, rubbing her temples. "Innovative or not, I can’t help but feel skeptical, Albus. But I suppose we’ll find out soon enough."
"Indeed, we will," Dumbledore said with a serene nod.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asked, curiosity tugging at her despite her reservations.
"Lockhart said we’d find clues if we simply took a walk through London," Dumbledore replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "So that’s exactly what we’re doing—taking a leisurely stroll and keeping our eyes open."
As they meandered through the bustling streets, McGonagall’s sharp gaze caught something unusual. She tugged on Dumbledore’s sleeve and pointed toward a massive LED screen atop a tall building.
"Albus, surely that isn’t part of Lockhart’s recruitment method!"
On the screen, bold letters and intricate patterns swirled together in a mesmerizing display. The message read:
Kamar-Taj – Admissions Now Open!
McGonagall’s jaw dropped. "Lockhart’s gone completely mad! Does he not realize this could violate the International Statute of Secrecy? Broadcasting this so openly—what is he thinking?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Look closer, Minerva. Those patterns aren’t just ordinary designs."
Squinting at the screen, McGonagall leaned forward, her expression shifting from outrage to curiosity. "There’s a blend of runes and Confundus Charms... and something else. Is that a Dreamwalking spell?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore confirmed with a nod.
As they continued their walk, similar advertisements appeared everywhere: on billboards, bus advertisements, and even the covers of bestselling books. The name "Kamar-Taj" seemed to dominate London’s landscape.
McGonagall frowned deeply. "This is absurd! How has no one in the Ministry noticed this?"
Dumbledore’s voice was calm and measured. "It’s quite clever, really. The enchantments ensure that ordinary Muggles see nothing more than a generic company advertisement. Wizards, however, see the true message. And those with latent magical abilities or Squib heritage might sense something... intriguing. It’s a natural filtering mechanism."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Clever, yes, but it feels far too bold. This is Lockhart we’re talking about—he thrives on grand gestures."
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "That he does. But one cannot deny his ingenuity."
Suddenly, Dumbledore’s expression shifted. He stopped mid-step, his gaze sharpening as he turned his head slightly. "Minerva, follow me," he said, his voice low.
Without another word, he grasped her shoulder, and the two of them Disapparated with a soft pop.
They reappeared in a secluded alleyway near the Ministry of Magic, where Cornelius Fudge and Auror Director Rufus Scrimgeour stood locked in conversation.
"Minister Fudge, this mass use of spells in the Muggle world is reckless," Scrimgeour said sternly. "It may have unintended consequences, and I strongly recommend imposing restrictions."
Fudge waved him off dismissively. "Oh, don’t be so dour, Scrimgeour. Lockhart assured me this is a one-time thing. Besides, he’s been incredibly generous to the Auror Office. Those magical items he donated were invaluable."
Scrimgeour scowled but said nothing further, clearly dissatisfied.
Just then, spatial energy rippled nearby. Scrimgeour’s wand was in his hand instantly as he turned toward the disturbance, his sharp instincts kicking in.
Fudge, oblivious, continued rambling. "Really, Lockhart is much more cooperative than Dumbledore ever was—"
"Minister, look," Scrimgeour interrupted, nodding toward the source of the magical fluctuation.
Fudge turned, his face lighting up when he saw Dumbledore approaching. "Ah, Headmaster Dumbledore! What a pleasant surprise."
Dumbledore greeted him politely, exchanging pleasantries while keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.
Suddenly, a portal shimmered into existence nearby. From its glowing center, a figure emerged: Peggy Carter, wearing Kamar-Taj’s signature blue robes.
"Minister Fudge, Headmaster Dumbledore," she said with a warm smile.
