Magical Me
By Publicola

Published: 7-18-12
Updated: 8-5-13

Day Trip to Diagon

I awoke with a splitting headache, my limbs sore. Why had I spent the night on a wood floor? I lifted myself, grimacing at the pain.

Then the memories returned.

I'd like to think I took it better this time around, but that wasn't really the case. I blame my collapse on the headache. Plus, however disconcerting it was yesterday to find myself in the body of a character I previously thought fictional, it was quite a bit more disturbing to find myself in the same situation for a second day.

Dang it! Either this was the beginning of a long-term delusion, or I'm really stuck here. I'm not sure which is worse.

I wondered idly, if this were real, whether Gilderoy's spirit might not have been transferred to my body the same time I was transferred to his. God, I hope not. That would be awkward, if I ever manage to return. Gilderoy isn't exactly the best sort of person to be co-owning time-shares on my old body.

On the plus side, he's basically powerless without magic, so at least he won't be stealing any more memories. Though, that would also preclude him from dealing with the conflict between two complete sets of memories. So I suppose for the indefinite future my body will be possessed by an amoral scoundrel with a raging case of multiple personalities.

Right. Note to self: the power of positive thinking doesn't seem to help.

Good grief, I'm depressed. My head hurts, I'm lying in a puddle of drool, I haven't eaten since around noon yesterday, and (oh right!) I'm going to be meeting Harry Potter today.

Drearily I called out, "Glitzy." He popped in and almost immediately popped out, squealing "Glitzy will make food for Master!"

I sighed, and called for Glitzy again. He popped back, his arms already mixing a bowl of flour. "Soda bread not ready Master, but fruit be on the table!"

"No, no, Glitzy. Do we have any headache potions?"

Glitzy looked at me oddly, and shuffled his feet. "Potion cupboard has lots of hangover draught. Is that—"

I cut him off. "That would be wonderful, thank you." I'd forgotten how many members of Lockhart's fan club were lushes.

The elf popped away and back with a single vial of some awful-looking gloop. I glared at it distastefully, but threw my head back and downed it in a single motion. Magical hangovers tend to be pretty vicious and so was the cure, but by the time I rose to my feet my headache had gone, my body felt great, and I was really looking forward to the day!

Huh. Evidently the side effects of advanced Occlumency are the same as the side effects of drinking hard liquor all night. Rowling never mentioned that. If I ever get back, we will have words.

But for now, I was up, cheery, and dying for food. Making my way to the kitchen, I cast a quick "Tempus" to find that it's 9:50 in the morning. I knew that I'd start at Flourish & Blotts at 12:30, so that gave me at least a bit of time for shopping.

After eating, I quickly cleaned myself up (though I cut Lockhart's lengthy self-care regimen short by a considerable margin) and dressed in my finest forget-me-not blue robes. I wasn't sure if Ozymandias could take the floo, but I didn't want to chance it, so I told him to fly to Diagon Alley and meet me around noon.

Finally, all that remained was for me to take the floo. I had Lockhart's memories of it, but this would still be a first for me, and Harry's first try was not one I'd care to duplicate. I practiced saying it a few times, then threw the powder down and very carefully enunciated "Diagon Alley."

It was actually a pretty smooth ride. I imagine magical transportation doesn't interface well with a case of severe stuttering. Poor Harry.

The landing would have been quite graceful too, had I not tripped on an elevated paving stone and sprawled onto the street. Fortunately this seemed to be a common occurrence, as I didn't hear any jeering. So far, so good. I picked myself up and went to brush off my robes, but then froze. Casual gestures like that might give me away. I had magic, and most people would instinctively clean themselves with a wave of the wand.

With a quietly muttered "Tergeo," I strode away to the main thoroughfare.

Diagon Alley was precisely as chaotic and colorful as Rowling depicted it. For a second I looked in awe at the simple reality of it, but was soon in danger of being swept away through the crowds.

My first destination was Gringotts. Now, I had read many fics where goblins were warm fuzzy creatures who would fawn over any wizard that greeted them by name, and who offered an almost infinite variety of services. All well and good, but that's fiction, and this was not. What I knew of goblins was the following: they were a race of highly intelligent, highly vindictive beings who dwelt underground, crafted nigh-indestructible weapons, possessed their own form of magic, and were almost universally despised by wizards. Oh, and did I forget to mention that they control the money supply?

Good God, wizards are idiots.

But no matter. I knew goblins respected money, and thanks to my books I had plenty of it. With the addition of my future knowledge, who knew what the future might hold?

Waiting in line, I decided against investing in the muggle world until I knew just how closely the contours of this world mimicked my own. The existence of the Brockdale Bridge proved that not everything was the same here. The fact that my old self didn't exist though my great-great-uncle apparently did showed just how unclear these things could be. Who knows? Perhaps Bill Gates is a gas station attendant in this reality, or perhaps he didn't exist at all. So my future knowledge on the muggle side would remain worthless, and my knowledge of magical business was mainly limited to the Weasley twins.

No, the point of this trip was not to buy and sell stock, but information.

I hailed the now-available teller cheerily. "Greetings, Gornuk, I am Gilderoy Lockhart, and I'd like to visit my vault." I continued in a lower voice. "I also recently came across some information of great interest to the Goblin Nation, and would ask to speak with the management if at all possible."

Gornuk had already turned to wave down a vault assistant when he heard the second bit. He stared at me intensely for a few seconds, only to continue his original motion. I thought he would ignore me, but as I passed him by he murmured, "I will await your return in conference room D."

The vault ride was less thrilling than I anticipated – there were fewer twists and turns, more light, and a lower speed than Rowling had indicated. I wonder if the carts had special settings for particular clients.

Being Muggleborn, my vault had little to speak of besides coin, though I did retrieve a Foe Glass gifted to me by an elderly witch. (The original Lockhart had discarded it for being too utilitarian for his gaudy tastes). After that, all that remained was to refill my mokeskin money pouch. What, you thought it automatically retrieved money from my vault? For one, I have a hard time believing such magic existed, and if it did, I doubt the goblins would willingly permit such a colossal breach in security. No, the magic of the money pouch consisted entirely of an undetectable extension charm with a theft-resistant mokeskin covering.

I rejoined the dour goblin in the vault cart, and we returned to the surface. When I asked for directions, he pointed me to an unmarked door and turned away. Such service.

All right, game face now.

I strode in, trying to convey both confident and cleverness. Given Lockhart's reputation, I doubt I was successful, but I could at least try. The conference room was not large, and the bulk of the space was occupied by a table with several seats. Gornuk was present, standing in deference to an older goblin that I did not recognize.

I nodded in respect. "Sir, thank you for your time, and forgive my lack of familiarity with your customs. As I told Gornuk, I lately came across information of great interest to your clan and Nation. However, I fear the repercussions of this knowledge may put me in danger. I would ask for your word that you will hold this information confidential, and that it will only be disclosed to other wizards after I give my consent."

The goblin replied in an ominous tone. "And what guarantee do we have, that such a vow would be in our interest? Are we to merely believe that the words of a wizard bear truth?"

I grimaced. Damn, this would be easier without the centuries of pent-up hostility. "I would offer a vow of my own then, that the information I bring is true."

The goblin grunted in contemplation. "That is enough for now. Make your vow, and then shall we."

I wracked my mind for the proper form. Wizards were not Freemasons; we did not swear by "so mote it be." Magic bound us to our word, but any statement of intent would do.

I offered my forearm to the goblin, who grasped it with his own. "I swear on my magic that the information I bring regarding the Goblin Nation is true and accurate, to the best of my knowledge. So swear I."

He gazed at me, before speaking. "I, Ragnok Ironshard, agree to be bound on behalf of my clan to hold the information I receive in confidence, to be shared with no wizard save by the consent of the one who provides it. May I be bound by my word."

Wisps of light faded in and out of view over our joined arms. Lockhart had not been an honorable man, and had sworn no oaths that could be avoided. This was a unique experience, for both of my personas.

The goblin Ragnok released my arm, and I sat heavily in the closest chair. Show time. "Has Gringotts determined the party responsible for last year's attempted break-in on Vault 713?"

Ragnok almost shot to his feet in surprise. His expression took on a sly look, as he settled back into the chair. "No, we have not. Though I don't doubt that you somehow have learned this information?"

I grinned. "Indeed."

The fury in his eyes stunned me. "Then why is it, Wizard, that you did not come forward before now?"

I cried out defensively, "I came at the first chance I had!"

The grin that split his face was hideous. "Pity. If you had lied, you would have lost your magic."

I gulped. Damn, I cannot lose my cool like that. These goblins are so vindictive, they'd chew me up the first chance they had. I suddenly had a lot more respect for Dirk Cresswell, who headed the Goblin Liaison Department at the Ministry. No wonder they had a muggleborn fill the position – no pureblood would be intelligent enough to survive a single conversation with these vindictive bastards.

I breathed deeply before I spoke, picking my words with great care. "As you may know, I recently returned from Moldova. While there I heard the usual rumor and idle gossip. However, there was one piece of information that I recently confirmed. It appears that for several years, the forests of Albania were haunted by a wraith." I leaned forward. "A wraith responding to the name Lord Voldemort."

Gornuk gasped softly, but Ragnok's face remained impassive.

I continued. "I do not know the exact dates, but I believe the wraith appeared shortly after the fall of the former Dark Lord, and reportedly remained until last summer, when it mysteriously disappeared."

I paused. "Tell me, are either of you familiar with the name Quirinius Quirrell?"

I could tell Ragnok had responded to my words, as he forced himself to speak very slowly. "I believe his account with us was recently closed, though we were not given a reason."

"That is because he is dead. Shortly before accepting a position at Hogwarts teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell travelled to the forests of Albania, where he encountered the wraith I spoke of. I do not know whether it was by his consent, but the wraith possessed him, and from him learned that Gringotts had stored within its vaults a priceless artifact that would permit his return to life. I am speaking, of course, of the Philosopher's Stone."

I did not expect the response I received, but then, no one ever expects a goblin to collapse in laughter. It was incredibly disconcerting.

Ragnok finally recovered. "You jest! No Wizard would entrust the Stone to our care, when they already resent our control of their money. There is only one Stone, and the Wizard who made it is no friend of the Goblin Nation. No Flamel has been seen in these walls for many centuries. Do you not know your history?"

For several seconds I was stunned, but then I could not hold my laughter. "You mean it was a bluff? The whole thing, a bluff? Oh, that's rich!" I did not remark on how Machiavellian it was – I wanted to get Dumbledore in trouble with Gringotts, and such a remark would only earn their admiration.

At this point Ragnok's face had returned to normalcy, and I struggled to continue. "I'm sorry, it's just… Dumbledore apparently let it be known that the Stone was being kept here, in Vault 713. As you know, it was retrieved by the Gameskeeper Hagrid the very day Quirrell returned to steal it. The fake Stone was then brought to Hogwarts, where it was placed behind various defenses. From what I can heard, at the end of last year, Quirrell attempted to retrieve the Stone and died in the attempt, and the wraith returned to Albania. If I were to guess, I'd say that it was an effort by Dumbledore to draw out the wraith, either to prove its existence or to force it into some sort of confrontation."

Ragnok nodded, his face a strange mixture of understanding and muted rage. "I know from your oath that you have spoken the truth. Yet how did you learn of it, and why were we not informed?"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but my sources are confidential. However, I understand that the manner of Quirrell's death is known only to a few, and they assumed that Dumbledore would inform you. I know both he and Potions Master Snape were aware of Quirrell's quest for the Stone throughout the year, so I assume both were aware of his involvement in the break-in as well."

It was then that I noticed Ragnok's fists were almost white, wrapped around the handles of his chair. He spoke through clenched teeth. "He dares… to withhold evidence in a matter of such import? To say nothing of imperiling the younglings in his care. The audacity of that… wizard!" The last word was spat with such vehemence to startle me.

I grinned internally. My hastily constructed plan had met with some success. In the original books, Dumbledore had ridden roughshod over so many people and groups that I had difficulty sympathizing with him. If I could get him in hot water with the goblins, it might throw a wrench in his other plans. By providing this information to the goblins, I (and with luck Harry) might earn some small portion of good will.

"If I may? If my source is correct, than Dumbledore did more than merely imperil the school as a whole. I understand that when Hagrid came to retrieve the false Stone, he was accompanied by a first-year student, and I heard it said that this same student confronted Quirrell and banished the wraith before it could reach the Stone. I would naturally give little credence to such reports, except I heard it said that the student was the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter himself."

That got their attention. Gornuk's eyebrows shot up, and Ragnok's forehead twitched. The elder goblin had impressive self-control. I continued, "Now, if this is true, I suspect a deeper motive may be at play. Perhaps Dumbledore believes that the boy who once defeated the Dark Lord could do so again, and orchestrated an encounter. However, I wonder at such a cavalier disregard for his protégé's safety."

Gornuk grunted affirmatively. "I believe it was assistant Griphook who accompanied Hagrid that day; he would be able to could confirm the Potter child's presence."

Interesting, I idly noted, how the goblins remember Hagrid but not Harry Potter. The kid would be pleased to learn that some races have more important things to occupy them than Boy-Who-Lived sightings.

Ragnok spoke. "This is troubling news indeed. We thank you for this information, Mr. Lockhart." He lifted himself out of the chair, a clear indicator that the meeting was adjourned. I glanced at the time. I was a few minutes after noon – still time before the book signing.

I smiled and extended my hand to him. "Before I go, may I make a suggestion for your most excellent revenge?" The elder goblin nodded. "By all accounts Dumbledore was responsible for the Potter boy's upbringing. But what I learned disturbs me greatly. The Boy-Who-Lived seems almost entirely ignorant of our society. I do not trust Dumbledore, and it seems to me that the clearest way to act against him is to undermine his efforts with Potter. This would neither violate the confidentiality of this meeting, nor show your full hand against Dumbledore's schemes. But I leave it in your hands."

I paused before turning out the door. "Incidentally, what is Gringott's policy regarding the storage of cursed items in personal vaults?"

Ragnok bit back a swift retort. "If you think—! No. The practice is… strongly discouraged. Is it your wish…?"

I almost laughed. "Oh, heavens no! I merely wished to know." I almost said 'for curiosity's sake,' but I caught myself before the lie. "From the same source I learned that several individuals have acted against Gringott's in this manner. However, I do not wish to accuse anyone without gathering further evidence. Shall I inform you when I have done so?"

The goblin looked at me oddly. "Please, do." He paused. "You are a strange wizard, Mr. Lockhart. It is not often we find ourselves indebted to one such as yourself." He grimaced. "It is a most… unpleasant experience."

He nodded briskly, I bowed my head, and we parted ways. I chuckled inwardly. That went better than expected.

I emerged from the bank into the glare of the midday soon. It was mere moments later, however, that my eyes were shaded by the descending wings of Ozymandias. I let him land on my arm, and greeted him warmly as I wormed my way through the milling crowds to the bookstore.

A gaggle of ladies – women of questionable virtue, crones, schoolgirls, mothers and daughters alike – had already gathered and were pushing to catch sight of the illustrious Gilderoy. Mr. Flourish (the son of the original owner) was looking particularly haggard, trying to corral the group away from blocking the entry to his shop.

I must say, I was never more violated, nor more ashamed to be Mr. Lockhart, than in that moment. He lived for such things. He enjoyed such things! The tugging, pinching, prodding, rubbing – the sheer physicality of his celebrity life was never more apparent to me. I tried to keep the look of disgust off my face, but it was a near thing.

Finally, I was safely seated behind the table of my wares, Ozymandias perched behind me. I got into a rhythm of selling, signing, simpering, and shaking hands. A photographer from the Daily Prophet (his name was Bozo? Seriously?) danced around, snapping pictures and filling the shop with clouds of purple smoke. Colorful, but still obnoxious.

I attached faces to names, a few of which I recognized from the books. There was Mrs. Gladys Gudgeon ("Your number one fan!" she preened and I didn't doubt it. From the books, she was the only fan to keep writing after Lockhart's mind turned to mush). There was Mrs. Smethley, whose letter would be on the pile my first week at Hogwarts. I even caught sight of Rolanda Hooch, my old Flying instructor.

Oddly restrained in a crowd of madness, I met Mrs. Abbot and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, who pointed to Hannah and Justin shopping elsewhere in the store. I made sure to be particularly polite, both in gratitude for their restraint and in consideration of their children, and invited them to stick around for an announcement. It turns out both Hufflepuff families were avid bibliophiles, so they were still in the area when I first caught of glimpse of the distinctive red hair that heralded a Weasley invasion.

I held out my hands, and for the first time the crowd quieted down, just in time for a girlish squeal outside. "…he's written almost the whole booklist!"

My face burned. I can't believe I forgot. How could I have forgotten Hermione's crush on my character? It took her most of the year to get over it, and that was when I was still an amoral bastard. This will definitely complicate matters.

I took a deep breath, and grinned at the crowds. They didn't need to know about my panic attack. "Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary day! What a perfect occasion to make an announcement I've been sitting on for some time." At this point the line had shifted to a semi-circle around my kiosk, and I caught sight of the messy black hair that I'd been waiting for. "When all these students came in to purchase my new autobiography, they had no idea that they'd be shortly getting much much more than my book, Magical Me. Yes, this year, they and all their classmates will in fact be learning from the real magical me. I have great pleasure in announcing that this September I will take the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

Applause broke out all over the store – some polite, but mostly enthusiastic – and I have to say, it felt pretty good. I could understand why Lockhart went for this sort of thing. But it still made me depressed how easily people were deceived by a man who, until yesterday had not a decent bone in his body.

I resumed signing and selling, though this time with the additional distraction of fending off the kind wishes and congratulations from those who had already passed my kiosk by. The Abbotts and Finch-Fletchleys completed their purchases and left the shop, and then it was time for the Weasleys.

You have no idea how unimaginably embarrassing it is to fend off the fawning attention of a middle-aged fan girl when her husband is standing right behind her. I was never much of a fan of Molly in the books, but this was just too much. I brushed her off as politely as I could, and turned my attention to the others. The first faces behind her were the twins. This required careful handling.

"You must be the Weasley twins?"

They nodded.

"I've heard about you. Pranksters, right?"

They grinned.

"Remind me to tell you about the Mauraders sometime."

Their jaws dropped, and their faces took on a look of pleading desperation.

"No, no, not now. I'll be travelling on the Hogwarts Express. Ask me then."

The hook was baited, the fish was caught, and there was no doubt in my mind that I'd made friends for life. I only knew of the Mauraders by reputation – I was a second year when they graduated, and a sixth year when they died and the war ended – but for these two, it was enough.

I was a bit depressed to see the mystified look on Harry's face, though. He had no one to tell him of the past. His father had died, Sirius was illegally imprisoned, and Remus was still nowhere in sight.

I turned to him. "And you must be Harry Potter." He nodded apprehensively, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I gently extended my hand, and he awkwardly shook it. "Thank you. I know you don't remember it, but your parents' defeat of the Dark Lord saved many lives, including mine." It was true. As a muggle-born, even a student, my life had been in constant danger. And while my predecessor hadn't done much with it, I swore to myself to be a better man.

Our quiet moment was naturally interrupted by a blinding flash of light and purple smoke, and I realized that regardless of my changes, he and I would still make the front cover of the Prophet. His face burned, and I nearly snarled at the photographer. "Don't you think that's enough? I mean, Merlin, look at all this smoke!"

Bozo scurried about, took a few more quick snapshots, then hurried away. I turned back to Harry, "I'm sorry about that. Most people don't seem to notice, but I can tell you dislike the whole 'Boy-Who-Lived' thing. Maybe I can help you with that when we get to Hogwarts."

His eyes met mine and I saw in him unfathomable depths of gratitude. Perhaps I was out of character, but I wasn't dishonest. I just knew what buttons to push, what motivated him at this point in his life. I promised pranks for the pranksters, and anonymity for the kid who just wants a normal life. Maybe that won't be possible in the long run, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. And maybe this time Harry will have an adult worthy of his trust.

Ron had at this point fled further within the store – most likely feeling a bit jealous at the attention the others' received. Harry frowns, but I don't mind. He's a twelve-year-old child, whose idea of hardship is living with five older brothers. He's immature, but that's the point. He isn't ready to fight for his life, and it's unfair to ask it of it. Harry needs friends who will fight beside him, and that won't be Ron for many years.

As Harry wandered off, I turn to the last member of the Trio: Hermione Granger. Yes, she looks like Emma Watson; yes, Rowling severely underrated her looks; and yes, she will be an absolute knock-out in a few years. But right now, she's 12, and I found myself more than a little disturbed by the look of puppyish adoration in her eyes. She had a celebrity crush before, but I did myself no favors by being so thoughtful towards Harry.

How the hell do I deal with this? If I'm going to help Harry, I'll probably be dealing with her on a regular basis. Fortunately the perverted part of me was euthanized pretty effectively, but you have to realize, I was basically the same age as Emma Watson growing up. Before, I was the one with the celebrity crush. Now it's reversed. And way weirder.

Game plan: be myself and hope she overcomes it on her own. Also, scrub my mind out periodically.

I introduce myself. "Hi, I'm Gilderoy Lockhart, and what's your name?"

Her voice quivered a bit. "Hermione Granger."

"Ah. You're in the same class as Mr. Potter, then?"

She nodded.

"I heard Minerva mention a muggle-born witch entering Second Year who was the brightest in her class – that wouldn't be you, would it?"

She blushed brightly, but nodded.

"Well, then, I must say I'm looking forward to teaching you. Would you like me to sign your book?"

She could hardly look at me as she passed it forward. I looked up towards a pair of adults standing behind her – her parents, no doubt – and we exchanged soft grins at their daughter's obvious crush. Once I finished signing her book, I passed it back then stood to shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. My curiosity was killing me.

"And you must be her parents. I'm Mr. Lockhart. What are your names?"

Mr. Granger opened his mouth, but before he could answer he was interrupted by loud noises coming from the front of the store.

Damn it!

I rose, "You three can stay here – I'll see what's going on up there."

I strode forward to behold a showdown that wouldn't be out of place at the O.K. Corral. Ron, held back by Harry, was glaring with all his might at a snooty Draco, while Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy stood over their shoulders, like apes posturing for dominance. I stood to the side, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I wouldn't feel right being a bystander at what would soon be a bar fight. But on the other hand, it was at this moment that Lucius would give Ginny the diary, and that had to happen.

So I watched, and waited. The confrontation went down along the same lines as the book. Lucius insults Arthur, Arthur takes it in the chin. Lucius insults Arthur's ability to provide for his family (vis-à-vis Ginny's used book), Arthur has his own private 'Bruce Banner becomes the Hulk' moment. They brawl, Hagrid arrives to separate them, Lucius returns Ginny's book, and the two go their separate ways.

But my attention was diverted to another tussle. After his father lunged at Lucius, Ron pushed Harry away to tussle with Draco. Harry fell backwards in my direction, and I caught him before he could fall. I was struck dumb, however, at the look in his eyes. It went beyond fear. What I saw was unmitigated terror, and I had a strong suspicion as to why.

I raised my hand to rest on his shoulder, and he flinched away. He expected to be hit. I don't doubt that he thought he'd be blamed for the adults deciding to brawl. In fact, I imagine he thought he was to blame for the brawl, that he was somehow responsible for every bad thing that occurred around him.

The books provide a pretty clear picture of Harry Potter's home life. For most of his childhood he lives in a cupboard, and sometimes gets locked in for weeks at a time. His cousin bullies him, and is rewarded for it. He is most often addressed as "boy" or "the freak," and his aunt and uncle withhold meals as a form of punishment.

That's about as clear-cut case of abuse and neglect as you can get. But until that moment I didn't know whether the abuse was physical as well.

I should have guessed. Rowling never comes out and says so, but she paints a pretty bleak picture. Most people wouldn't swear to "stamp" magic "out of him" or talk about how "a good beating would have cured" Harry of his 'freakishness,' unless they had, you know, actually tried to stamp and beat it out of him.

And of course there's the frying pan Petunia swung at him, only a few days ago. She missed, thank God, but the implications are hard to miss.

So there we were, fraudulent celebrity author and abused child savior, standing in near silence as the store around us degenerated into chaos. I didn't do anything besides rest my hand on his shoulder, nor did I say anything as their party left the store.

Damn.

Damn.

Double damn! I didn't get the names of Hermione's parents! I almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but my good humor faded as quickly as it had appeared.

Damn.

Mr. Flourish was already waving his wand to repair the front of the store, as I wandered back to my table. Now what?

In that moment my jaw set and a hard determination entered my eye. I would fix this. I grabbed a piece of parchment and quill, and set down to writing.

Madame Bones,

A situation has come to my attention, and I consider it an urgent matter for yours. It concerns a case of probable child abuse. I am required to remain at Flourish & Blotts until 4:30 this evening, but would ask to meet with you afterwards at your earliest convenience.

Much obliged,

Gilderoy Lockhart

I folded it and addressed it to "Madame Bones, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Offering it to Ozymandias, I looked him in the eye to convey the urgency. Yeah, I had a staring contest with an owl. "Oz, this is urgent. Don't let it go until you've brought it to Amelia Bones." A beat later, and he was away.

The crowds pressed on, and I continued to sell and sign and shake almost by rote. Every minute I looked up for a sign of a returning owl, and every minute I was disappointed.

Until.

Almost an hour had elapsed, and Ozymandias returned, a single slip of paper in his talons.

Mr. Lockhart,

You have my attention. 5 o'clock. My office.

Bones, DMLE.