Magical Me
By Publicola

Published: 3-26-2014

In-Patient Interviews

"One last thing, Andromeda. Remember that there's another Healer involved in the Potter case, one who overlooked the obvious signs of abuse. If Madame Pomfrey can't be trusted to do her job, we'll need to replace her with someone who can. Right now, Amelia and I agree, that's you."

"I… I honestly hadn't expected that," and her wide-eyed expression confirmed it. "And if I'm not interested?"

"Then find someone you trust, and trust to keep a secret, and bring them up to speed."

She nodded once, and absent-mindedly turned and began to walk out the door.

Her husband looked rather amused at this. "Honey? Forget something?"

"Hm?" Mrs. Tonks stopped. "…Oh. Right. Mr. Lockhart: sometime tonight you'll suddenly feel very tired – make sure you're in bed when that happens, because that's your magic warning you of the impending coma. I'll write up your case notes in case you need help from the ward nurse, but that should… be… all." She nodded, mostly to herself, and turned again for the door.

"Before you go—!" She turned back at my words. "As you see, I'm in no condition to attend Sunday evening Mass. I wonder if you know of a Catholic priest who ministers to the magically infirm?"

She looked at me blankly, and it was Ted who answered. "I believe most wizards tend to attend muggle services if they're so inclined. That's what we do. I can't say I know any church that ministers specifically to the magical world."

Andromeda corrected her husband. "Actually, I do recall seeing an Anglican priest who visits patients here if requested. It's rare, though. And I've no idea what's available for Catholics."

I wryly noted. "You'd think there would be, though. It is Saint Mungo's, after all."

Ted stifled a laugh. "True." He glanced toward his wife. "We'll see what we can scrounge up, and let you know what we find. Coming, Dora?"

And with that, they left.

For a minute I rested, wondering how I would occupy my time while convalescing. Then I smacked my head. "Glitzy!" Duh.

Pop! "Yes, Master?"

"Glitzy, please bring my post box along with some writing materials. Oh, and the Hogwarts staff handbook."

Pop!

I'd already put some thought into it during my sessions with Filius, but now it was time to finalize my lesson plans for the year. The date was Sunday, August 16th, which gave me a little more than two weeks to go before the Hogwarts Express.

Glitzy popped back in with my requests. First things first, I scratched a note for Filius to let him know about my condition, and to cancel our pensieve viewings for the foreseeable future. Then I flipped open the Hogwarts booklet Minerva had given me some days before, and got to work.

About an hour later, I received a letter from the Prophet reporter, scheduling our interview for Tuesday morning. I responded:

Mr. Carneirus,

Tuesday morning will work splendidly. Unfortunately, I overexerted myself preparing for my time at Hogwarts, so I'm currently recovering in St. Mungo's. You can find

I stopped mid-sentence, realizing I didn't actually know where he could find me. I also wondered if it'd really be a good idea to let the Prophet know of my injury, lest they publish it in the morning paper. I put the note aside.

Two hours later, I'd nearly finished the handbook when my post box let out a muffled "whumph," causing the table beneath it to creak.

This was... concerning.

I cautiously reached over. Even as I pried open the latch, parchment began spilling out, practically a ream of it. I caught a few sheets and discovered that this was the Wizarding Examination Authority paperwork for the OWL exams.

Tofty had delivered! Though I wished he hadn't delivered it all at once.

Sorting the papers as best I could, I soon uncovered an envelope in the middle of the pile. Tofty had attached a note to the rest, stating with no small degree of gusto that 'Of course I'd be interested in working with you and the parents of Hogwarts students in this vital endeavor,' that 'it would be a tremendous pleasure to assist in any regard whatsoever,' et cetera ad nauseam.

Evidently, waving the flag of education reform in front of a real educator dealing with an abysmal school prompts the same reaction as presenting a teat to a nursing infant. They latch on and make it their own.

I finished what few pages remained of the Staff Handbook, then turned by attention to the OWL exam for DADA, perusing each page and taking careful notes.

It was shortly after dinner – I'll take house elves over fast food any day – that I received two notes in quick succession. The first bore Flitwick's condolences and indicated his desire to visit later that week to see how my recovery progressed. The second was from Ted Tonks.

Gilderoy,

I found a priest for you; the key was inquiring with Barty Crouch's department, if you can believe that. Father Dewi will explain when he visits you shortly. Also, Dora forgot to mention that she'll be coming to check on you tomorrow morning, and you'll see her at least once a day 'till you're discharged.

From the desk of:

Edw. Tonks, Esq.

It was another half-hour of note-taking before I heard the awaited knock on my door. "Come in."

The man who entered was so inconspicuous he could have been overlooked in a crowd of two. Neither tall nor short, neither pudgy nor thin, his only distinguishing feature seemed to be the thin wire-frame glasses perched on his (neither snub nor aquiline) nose. That, combined with the wrinkled black cassock he wore, gave him a faintly professorial air.

"Hello?" He ventured quietly. "May I inquire… is this the room of Mr. Lockhart?"

"Indeed, it is I. And you are Father… Doo-wee?" I grimaced even as I spoke; I knew I'd butchered his name somehow.

"Yes. But… pardon, it's pronounced 'Deh-wee.' Father Brendan Deodatus Dewi, at your service." He shuffled into an awkward little bow, and for a moment I felt pity for the poor fellow. "You wish to receive communion?"

"I do. I should thank you, Father, for coming on such short notice. Mr. Tonks mentioned… he found you through Mr. Crouch's department?"

"Yes. They keep a copy of my credentials on file."

"Your… credentials?"

"I thought it… pardon, I shall explain. I am the Papal legate to Magical Britain. In most cases, such an office would be given to a Nuncio, but where there exists no formal diplomatic arrangement with a magical community, as here, Rome is usually content to attach a deputy to its non-magical delegation. My title, then, is Internuncio."

"Ah. Is this common?"

"More or less. Magical Britain is not alone in its treatment of the Papal States, but Rome makes it a policy to commit at least one envoy for every country with a magical hospital, no matter the diplomatic situation. We may safely thank Henry the Eighth for making such a mess of this situation, though."

I chuckled knowingly, but soon stopped. "Wait – Papal States?"

"Naturally. The Statute of Secrecy, you recall, was signed well before the unification of Italy, so Garibaldi's march passed us by entirely. Not to say nationalism didn't spread to wizards, only that it took a bit longer and was nowhere near universal." He looked at me askance. "I'm well aware Binns is a woeful educator, but surely any map could have taught you that Venice and Rome remain independent?"

I grinned ruefully. "I'm afraid that class quashed any enthusiasm I might have had for the subject. And the only maps I've seen sold were muggle-made."

"Hm. You never had occasion to visit the Department of International Cooperation? There's a very impressive map hung in the lobby."

"No, sadly, can't say that I have. But you mention Binns – you were British-born, then?"

"Yes, but… pardon, Welsh, actually. But yes, I attended Hogwarts, Ravenclaw of '68."

"Before my time, then. What made you decide to," I waved my hand at his cassock.

"Join the priesthood? I suppose it's a long story, but I always felt a calling, even before I got my letter."

"Oh. You were muggle-born then?"

He nodded. "Cradle Catholic."

"If you don't mind my asking, how did your family respond to your… abilities?"

"Well, at first it was disbelief, as you'd expect, but in the end…" he smiled warmly in reminiscence. "Well, my brothers were naturally quite jealous, but they were all proud of my gift. 'We always knew he was special' – you know how mothers are."

I shifted. "Actually no, I don't. My mother was… not especially maternal."

His smile vaporized. "And your father?"

"Never knew him." This conversation had taken a steep dive. I tried to change the subject. "So your parents didn't have religious objections to you having magical powers?"

"Not really. The whole idea of a magical world flummoxed them for a bit, but any religious scruples were dealt with once McGonagall clarified that spells were incantational, not invocational."

"What now?"

"Oh! Pardon, I should explain. Invocational would be if magic involved calling forth the demonic to power each spell. What we have is incantational magic – each spell is powered from within, and what words we use merely mold how that magic is expressed. It's more comparable to technology using a natural resource, than anything we find condemned by Scripture."

"That… makes sense, I suppose. But what about Leviticus – 'suffer not a witch to live'?"

"Technically the term used is 'necromancer'." Here he offered a wan smile. "And we don't."

"Oh. ...Oh." How do you respond to something like that? "Really?"

"Yes. The Church's campaign to eradicate black magic from the mainland still ranks among its greatest successes. There may be occasional pockets of activity – someone tried to re-engineer the vampirism curse, just the other decade – but nothing that lasts."

Wait. "If vampirism is a dark curse, then why are vampires still around?"

He sighed. "First off, it's not dark, it's black. There's a difference. And second, it's the curse that's black, not the soul it afflicts. You wouldn't punish a child just because it was victimized by an abusive parent, would you?"

Damn if that point didn't hit home. But he wasn't finished.

"There's a reason magical Transylvania has a higher density of Catholic priests than anywhere outside of Rome itself. There are always a few, of course, who would use their powers for evil, but most vampires just want to live their lives in peace."

Well, now I felt comprehensively rebuked. "I'm sorry, it was wrong of me to speak so… prejudicially."

He grimaced. "It's sadly understandable; Bram Stoker has a lot to answer for. It's not as much of an issue in the southeast, but he gave a big boost to the anti-vampire crusaders in northern and western Europe."

I reflected in silence for a few moments. It sounded like vampires were getting as much of a raw deal as the dwarves, though at least they'd kept their homeland. My thoughts soon returned to my original line of questioning. "I wonder – sorry to change the subject on you – but I was wondering how you and your family dealt with magic outside of spell-casting. What about astrology? Surely they'd have issue with your studying that."

"Not as much as you might think." He chuckled. "Put it this way: we know that wizards can be affected by how much and what type of magic is around them. We also know that the ambient magic of Earth is affected by celestial movement, just as tides are drawn by the moon. So the alignment of planets is in fact a natural cause, which makes astrology a science. Nothing heretical about that, any more than it's heretical to study pharmacology because drugs can affect behavior." He paused to look at me keenly. "Your concern for my family's conscience is admirable, but I wonder how many of these doubts are for yourself?"

I looked away. "I suppose so, at least partly. I can follow your logic, but never felt comfortable with the subject to ask. You really have no objection to astrology?"

"I didn't say that. The real problem with it isn't that it's heresy, but that it's bad science – too often given to vague, overreaching, or self-fulfilling predictions impossible to replicate or falsify. The centaurs have been at it a lot longer than wizards, but you won't find such pseudo-scientific fluff among their star-gazers."

"Really?" I'd been nodding till the end. "I don't know about centaurs – 'Mars is bright tonight' sounds awfully fluffy to me."

"Mother of—!" He gaped at me. "When did you hear that?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "Centaurs are specialists, so of course they have a specialized vocabulary. 'Mars is bright' means war is coming, but to say 'tonight' means it would be triggered by something occurring before that planet set on the horizon."

Oh. "Oh!" Clearly that was a line from the books I shouldn't be citing. Time to obfuscate. "It was just something I heard."

"But if the person you got it from heard it from a centaur—"

"No, I don't believe that's the case. When I heard it, I thought they'd made it up." Technically true, for when I first read the line. I didn't imagine one day I'd find myself living in Rowling's constructed world, after all.

"Ah." Father Dewi conjured a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. "I don't mind admitting that's quite a relief."

Of course that led me to feel a goodly dose of Catholic guilt for lying to a priest. Yeesh. "How about this: I'll be teaching at Hogwarts this year. Why don't I check with the centaurs and let you know if I learn something."

"I would appreciate that, thank you." He said gratefully. "Now, I think we may have moved a bit far from my original reason for coming here. You know of no impediment to your receiving the Eucharist?"

I nodded, though uncertainly. "I… it has been a long time since my last Confession. Would it be possible…?"

"Of course." He waved his wand and the door behind him closed. "Grace and peace to you from God our Father, and from the Lord Jesus Christ. Blessed be God forever."

"Amen. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…"

I made sure to exchange Floo addresses with Father Dewi before he departed. I could think of any number of situations where I might want or need his help, and besides, he'd provided a positive wealth of information.

I didn't have much else to occupy me, so I kept working on lesson prep for the rest of the evening. At some point my vision became a bit blurry, though I didn't think much of it until I developed a tremor in my hand. Oh. So this must be the second coma Dora had warned me about.

I carefully put away the paperwork and settled into bed. As I waited for the inevitable, I mentally reviewed my earlier conversation with the Father.

Wait.

Why had I said my mother wasn't maternal? Why did I tell him I never knew my father? That was true for Lockhart, of course, but not for me. But I hadn't even considered the difference; I'd spoken by instinct.

As shadows began to swarm my vision, I bolted upright in the bed. "Oh. My. G—"

Darkness.

"Morning, sunshine. Time to wake up!"

"Grond." Yep, I sounded like an orc. Felt like one too – you know, dirty, miserable, and hungry for man-flesh. Then of course there were the steady-beating drums in my head providing a soundtrack for the occasion.

"Up you go. Let's see how you're doing."

In time, the orcish mood passed and I cracked open an eye to see Andromeda Tonks waving her wand over me.

"…Excellent." She met my eyes. "Mr. Lockhart, I'm pleased to tell you your oath's been cinched and the magical drain's been capped. Nothing unexpected, so your recovery shouldn't be delayed any further than what I told you yesterday. You should be well enough to return home later this week – maybe Thursday. Any questions?"

I knew there was something I'd forgotten, so tantalizingly close to my memory's reach I could almost taste it. My brain was taunting me, I knew it.

Saint Francis of Assisi was once so frustrated by his body's weakness that he addressed it as 'Brother Ass.' I don't know if he was referring to a braying donkey or a braying fart, but either way, it fit.

"No, no questions, for the moment at least. I should thank you for yesterday, for saving my magic, and for getting me in touch with Father Dewi as well."

"I only did was any Healer would do," she demurred, "but thank you. I'll pass your compliments to my husband as well – I'm glad he was able to help, because I'd no notion of where to start."

"Oh?"

"I'm…" she shifted, "not sure how much to say, though perhaps my maiden name will suffice. You see, Mr. Lockhart, I was born Andromeda Black."

I assumed a puzzled expression.

She slumped. "Like most purebloods I was raised… I suppose you could call it pagan, thought 'druidic' would serve just as well. My sister Bella was the only one of us to take to it; I put that world behind me when I married Ted. I still attend the occasional service – enough to make Ted happy – but I've never been particularly fond of anything like religious ritual."

"Understandable. Though I'm still sorry to hear it."

At the lull in the conversation, she seemed to straighten. "Well, if there's nothing else…. Be sure to eat regularly and consume lots of fluids. Magic keeps us healthy, so you'll need to work extra hard at it while your magic recovers." Her eyes narrowed as she glanced around the room, noticing for the first time the piles of paperwork by my side. "How did these come to be here?"

"My house-elf's a marvel." I grinned unrepentantly.

"Good Merlin. Give the poor creature a break. You're dealing with enough trouble without your elf exhausting itself as well. And anyway, St. Mungo's always has one or two on call if you need the extra hand." She shook her head with another "Good Merlin," then moved to the door. "Let the elves know if you'd like me to check up on you at the end of my shift. If they ask, I'm Dora from the Third Floor."

That of course reminded me that I didn't actually know what floor I was on, let alone what room. I asked.

"You're kidding! I didn't say?"

With a sheepish look, she told me, and at last showed herself out.

Sadly, my forgetfulness persisted even after her departure, so I resigned myself to continuing my preparations from yesterday. First, though, I pulled out the unfinished letter.

… recovering in St. Mungo's. You can find me in the Gwyneth Tyrian Ward for Magical Corruption and Fatigue. I promise to explain more fully when we meet tomorrow.

Lockhart

"Glitzy!" He popped in as I sealed the note and addressed it 'M. Carneirus, Daily Prophet.' "Please give this to Ozymandias. And if you could bring that dairy I'd purchased, that'd be swell."

"…Yes Master."

My elf returned a minute or so later, book in hand. Another minute and I handed it back to him, having prompted it for Riddle's memories from Third Year.

And then, to work.

It was mid-afternoon by the time I set aside my note paper and shuffled the last page of the Defense OWL into a pile of its fellows. I glanced over at the crumb-filled plate beside my bed – when had I eaten? I could hardly remember, though I suppose I was grateful Glitzy had brought it. Or was it a Mungo's house-elf?

I shrugged.

Checking my post-box, I found that Tofty had sent me a hefty package with the NEWT Defense exam. I set that to the side for later, and picked out another envelope, this one from Cresswell.

As I suspected, the goblins had confirmed that the Evans Scholarship Trust had been set up by the Potter estate, but were leery of providing any further details. Cresswell was terribly apologetic, but I certainly couldn't hold it against him.

Tofty,

Wondering if you could solve a mystery for me – one of the parents I met with mentioned something called the 'Evans Scholarship for Muggle-born Students.' I asked Dirk Cresswell to inquire, and the goblins confirmed that the monies came from the Potter estate (Harry Potter's mother, you recall, was named Lily Evans) but they were either unable or unwilling to say more. If you have information, or know others who might, please let me know. I'm copying this note for Cresswell, so please keep him informed as well.

Lockhart

Of course, it was only after I'd written this that I remembered that 'copying this note' was no longer a matter of simply waving a wand. Still, my magic-free Lorem Ipsum only took a minute or two, and I set both notes aside for delivery.

Then it was time once more to buckle down, now for NEWTs.

When my stomach sounded the dinner tuba some hours later, I unconsciously called for Glitzy before recalling Andromeda's warning earlier. But there was nothing for it. I didn't want to insult my elf while bothering another, so Glitzy went to work preparing my meal.

It was shortly after dinner that I developed a cramp in my hand, and had to set the quill down as I stretched, flexed, and soothed it. A trifle restless, I arose to wander the halls for a bit.

I was in for a surprise. Though from within my room was quite standard-issue for a private hospital room, I soon discovered that walls from without appeared to be thin-looking curtains enclosing a space no bigger than a hospital bed. The ward was filled with them, a string of enclosed curtains from end to end, as though every sick person were desperate for sleep. Nor could I tell how many of these rooms were occupied, or by whom, though I didn't doubt that the staff had some way of identifying them.

I strolled toward the door and out the corridor, eyes flicking between the portraits of famous Healers that lined the walls. I was in Ward 48, near the end of the hall, far from the windowed double-doors that marked the beginning of the Fourth Floor: Spell Damage. I turned away, but was stopped short by the sign on the next door further down the hall.

Janus Thickey Ward: Long-Term Care

So, here it was: the Ward that in another future I might have called home. Within were the beds where the Longbottoms lay, their minds long since shredded by Lestrange's Cruciatus Curse; within was the bed where Unspeakable Bode would have one day been strangled to death.

I grimaced. Something about that story rubbed me the wrong way. Bode was in St. Mungo's to recover after a botched Death Eater Imperius made him believe himself to be a teapot. The summer before, however, a muggle Junior Minister named Herbert Chorley had been brought in to be treated for a failed Death Eater Imperius that made him think himself a duck. Yet Bode was dumped in the Long-Term Care Ward while Chorley was not, despite the clear signs of the Unspeakable's recovery. It didn't made sense.

Something was wrong; this Ward felt… off. Perhaps it was due to the oddities relating to Bode. Perhaps it was due to the sight of the doorway in front of me, locked and barred and warded so potently, I could almost feel the magic around it, even in my enfeebled state. Or perhaps it was due to the small handwritten card below the sign:

Healer-in Charge: Miriam Strout
Trainee Healer: Thorfinn Rowle

I made a beeline for my room.

This was bad. I knew that name – Thorfinn was a Death Eater, and not some low-level punk either. Thorfinn fought alongside Bellatrix in the first battle of Hogwarts, alongside Dolohov in Tottenham Court. He'd held the chain to keep Hagrid down, when Harry had walked into Voldemort's sights in the Forbidden Forest. And I'd bet a thousand portraits of my gallantly-posing self that it was Thorfinn who had smuggled in the Devil's Snare and killed the convalescing Unspeakable. He'd even gotten a promotion out of the deal – Miriam Strout was put on paid leave for failing to protect those in her care, placing her former Trainee in charge.

Was St. Mungo's just another pawn in the Death Eater's game? I doubt it'd be anything overt, but behind-the-scenes could be just as bad. Didn't Lucius Malfoy make a 'very generous donation' to St. Mungo's, that one time in Harry's Fourth Year? Malfoy père was no philanthropist – what other perks might he have accrued, besides the free seat with Minister Fudge at the Quidditch World Cup?

What if the entire Long-Term Care Ward was a front?

St. Mungo's was founded in the late 1600's. Janus Thickey was briefly famous for faking his death – but that was in 1973! So, was a pre-existing Ward simply given a new name, or had it only recently been brought into existence? If magic could cure almost anything short of death, why would there be a need for long-term care in the first place?

Janus was the Roman god of gates and time, but better known for being the two-faced god. Janus Thickey faked his death. The Janus Thickey Ward was jointly supervised by a Death Eater. Rowling was never particularly subtle with her names, and this looked to be no exception.

I didn't get much sleep that night.

"Rise and shine, Goldilocks. Time to greet the day!"

Damn it, this lady was way too cheerful for such an ungodly hour of the morning. "Dora," I groaned.

"And hello to you too. Now, let's look you over."

This segued into her usual wand-waving and some mumbled mumbo-jumbo. Soon her examination was over. "As I suspected. Your magic is recovering quite nicely. You didn't call me yesterday, so safe to say you haven't noticed anything of concern?"

My brow furrowed. "Now that you mention it…"

"Yes?"

"Can magical exhaustion affect memory? I had some trouble with mine last night." In the end, I'd just made notes of what I'd learnt so I'd be sure to follow up on it in the morning.

She frowned. "Affect memory? No… I'd say it wouldn't, I haven't – wait." She met my eyes. "Have you been learning Occlumency? Exhaustion could easily affect that."

"Ahh." I nodded. "That must explain it."

"I don't recall you mentioning you were an Occlumens."

"It's a recent development," I tried to explain.

"Oh?"

"A near-miss with a magical aphrodisiac. I realized that self-defense applied as much if not more to my mind as it does to my body."

"Good for you. Though I hope the person who attacked you will face justice?" She not-quite asked expectantly.

I snorted. "Not bloody likely. I spoke with Professor Flitwick, and he said that it's almost impossible to prosecute love potions in a court of law. It seems they're pretty widely used among couples, and it's hard to prove the absence of any pre-existing relationship."

Her frown grew more severe. "I hadn't considered – my specialty is potions, but I work mostly with plant-induced injuries. I never considered the legal challenges involved in proving ill intent with what you're talking about."

"And so Gwenog Jones gets off scot-free."

"I'll check with Ted, see what he has to – wait, Jones? As in Hestia's sister?"

"Yes, although" I chuckled. "I imagine Hestia's more used to being called Gwenog's sister. Why do you ask?"

"I got a letter from her yesterday – Hestia, I mean – to set up a meeting in the next few days."

"Glad to hear it, she's a good Hufflepuff."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She looked indignant.

"I mean she's loyal, hard-working, and an invaluable ally. What did you think I meant?"

"Oh. I hadn't thought –"

"Yeah, Hufflepuffs do get a bum rap, don't they?"

"…A what?"

Dang. "Rap. Like… reputation?"

"Oh. Sure. And yes, they do."

"So you'll check if there's anything I need to know about it – my Occlumency, I mean?"

"Of course. If you only started recently, though, you'll probably want to start over once you're recovered. Shouldn't set you too far back, right?"

"Right." I answered automatically, my mind racing. Who was I kidding? That would be catastrophic!

"But I'll get back to you later with the details. A pleasure as always, Mr. Lockhart." And with a smile, she swept out of the room.

Calling Glitzy for breakfast and new clothes, I pulled out my post-box and got to work.

Dirk,

I didn't mention it earlier, but I'm recovering at St. Mungo's after slightly over-exerting myself in my enthusiasm to prepare for this year as a teacher. I don't want to exhaust our good-will with Gringotts, but I wonder if it'd be possible to gather any financial records relating to the hospital. I could be wrong, but I suspect we'll find a number of donations corresponding to policy changes or wing and ward expansions at St. Mungo's. Let me know what you find.

Lockhart

Filius,

As I mentioned, I'm currently in St. Mungo's with a severe case of magical exhaustion. My healer – Andromeda Tonks, if you know her – tells me I should be fully recovered by the first of October, partially recovered around mid-September. What concerns me is that I've been having trouble concentrating and remembering things, which (I'm told) may be related to what little practice I got with Occlumency since you told me about it. Do you have any other information, on how and why it might affect me?

Lockhart

Bill,

Please play this close to the chest, but I came down with a fairly severe case of magical exhaustion, mainly due to the magical oaths I made while bringing more allies into the fold. Publicly, it's because I over-exerted myself in preparing for this upcoming year. However, this has left me without my magic for the foreseeable future – I should be fully recovered by October. I was hoping you might be able to help, at least with the replica diary, as I'm not sure how long the charms on that will last. Many thanks,

Lockhart

I managed to put in perhaps another hour and a half on my lesson plans before a knock on the door warned me that the reporter from the Daily Prophet was here.

Though I did wonder how he managed to knock in the first place, when the walls were actually curtains.

I shrugged it off. "Yes? Who is it?"

An astoundingly thick Hispanic accent resounded from without. "It is I, Mauricio Carneirus, and I am come to proclaim your name and feats to the whole of Wizarding Britain!"

Um… okay. That was different. "Sure. Come on in."

My first glimpse was of a thick and hair-thatched arm that held the door in an oddly delicate grip as he pushed it open. My second glimpse taught me that the arm was a microcosm of the whole. Mauricio was short but thickly built, tanned to a Moorish bronze, long hairs streaming over head and arms and open-collared shirt. Yet for all that, he moved like a dancer, light on his feet, fingers dexterous and features expressive.

"Ah! It is good that we meet, Lockhart, King of Gold, for reports of your marvelous adventures have spread to all corners of magical Europe, as have my own humble writings. Yes! I, your servant, Señor Carneirus, I have written for publications as remote as the West Indies and Antioch of the Holy Lands!"

I bowed, suppressing a laugh. "Pardon, Señor, but I think you may be mistaken – the name Gilderoy is Gaelic, not French. I believe it means 'son of the red-head,' not gold-king." Though damn if I wasn't sorely tempted to use his translation instead.

"Ah, alas!"

I could not help but let a chuckle escape. "I thank you. Are you originally from England?"

"Alas no! My ancestors hailed from Grenada, the western reaches near the magical university and district of Murcia. But they were forced to flee in the face of Reconquista and Inquisition. They settled like most magical émigrés in the the Moroccan Rif, between the Berber magical district at Fès and the old Roman enclaves around Melilla."

This impromptu history lesson fascinated me. "How then did you arrive in England?"

"Ah! In poverty my dear grandparents relocated to the province of Flanders, that other refuge of scattered magical Spain. My parents, my siblings and I each in turn attended the Academy of Beauxbatons, and to this day my family plies our wares in the Alley at Lyons. But I! I left to make my fortunes abroad, and now work in merry Albion that one day my words might be circulated, yea, unto the very ends of the earth!"

Good grief. I could have listened to this man talk all day.

"But enough of me and mine! I am come that your story might be told, Señor Lockhart, and I shall not rest until the task is completed! Come, sit, make yourself comfortable." He conjured a magnificently cushioned chair for himself and looked at me expectantly. "Now, I trust you would not find it at all amiss if I made use of a Dicta-Quill?"

A/N: So, a lot of everything this chapter: history, geography, and a dose of fridge horror as well. The University of Murcia is the thirteenth oldest university in the world, established by King Alfonso X in 1272, but discontinued in the mid-1300's. In this continuity, Murcia was a magical center, and the Spanish magical community was forced into hiding many years before the Statute of Secrecy was put into effect worldwide. Unable to withstand the sustained fury of the Spanish court, they later fled and established new communities in modern-day Morocco and Belgium.

If you're interested, I posted a 'Map of Magical Europe' – the link is on my profile, but you can find it at imgur . com / a / r9XnQ. It's still a work-in-progress, but it should give you an idea of how magical borders are drawn and where the schools and major magical districts are located.

Finally, I would like to draw your attention to the Discussion Forum I started for readers to share their feedback for my stories, and for me to share my responses to them. Your reviews, both encouraging and bitingly critical, are a big part of what keeps this story going, and there are many cases where story-lines or plot elements appear in this fic that were directly inspired by readers' comments or brainstorming. The link is again on my profile, or you can type in:

fanfiction . net / forum / Stories-by-Publicola / 150993

Thank you for reading.