Harry stood on a deserted street in London, staring at his classmate's face. He didn't expect to run into Sam Brightwood here, a muggle-born boy with dark hair and a serious expression. Harry was still amazed at how quickly Sam grasped the materials on Defense Against the Dark Arts. Now they stood in London, amidst an extraordinary situation, with the entire magical community on the brink of being discovered by muggles.
"Well, I have to say, Sam, you really excel at studying and grasping things quickly," Harry said, looking at Sam with pride.
"Thank you, Harry," Sam replied modestly, but with a gleam of satisfaction.
They gazed at the dilapidated building with the sign "Clean and Sweep Limited" when Sam suddenly clenched his fist and turned away.
"Something wrong, Sam?" Harry asked, feeling that an awkward pause had settled in.
"Um... I think I need to get home quickly," Sam replied, hastily pulling out his magic wand from his jacket pocket.
"Sam, are you alright?" Harry asked, noticing that the muggle-born wizard was tightly gripping his wand.
"My older brother," Sam said, barely holding himself together. "The selfless genius enlisted in the army, and now he's patrolling the streets with the other soldiers... Harry, how do I help him? How do I protect him? He's just an ordinary person, like everyone else... a muggle! And I'm a wizard!"
Sam gestured desperately as he spoke, and finally dropped his face into his hands.
"I understand, Sam! I'm glad, very glad, that I've touched this world of wonders and can dive into this magical fairy tale at any moment. Millions of people around the world would envy me for living with one foot among great wizards and incredible miracles! But with the other foot, I live here, and here a catastrophe has been unfolding over the past months, and its roots go deep into the world of magic."
Harry looked at Sam sympathetically.
"It will be alright, Sam," he reassured his classmate. "We're here, we're with you, Sam. The entire Ministry is with us, and so is Dumbledore – the great man I've always feared and couldn't defeat Voldemort. Give me your hand, Sam!"
Sam complied, looking at Harry with red eyes, and Harry placed his hand on top of Sam's.
"Don't worry about your brother. He will be fine. The entire magical world is working to defeat Voldemort."
Mr. Weasley occupied a bed at the far end, near the window. Harry was relieved to see that he was half-sitting, propped up by a few pillows, and reading the Daily Prophet under the only ray of sunlight that fell directly on his bed. He looked up from the newspaper and, upon seeing who was coming towards him, smiled cheerfully.
"Hello!" he said, setting the newspaper aside. "Molly, Bill just left for work, but he promised to drop by later."
"Well, how are you, Arthur?" Mrs. Weasley leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and anxiously looked at his face. "You still don't look quite well."
"I feel great," he replied briskly, extending his healthy hand to embrace Ginny.
"If they would just take off these bandages, I could go home."
"Why don't they take them off?" Fred asked.
"The wounds haven't healed completely yet, and they're still bleeding a bit, but otherwise, everything's fine," Mr. Weasley explained cheerfully, reaching for his wand lying on the nightstand. He waved it, and six chairs appeared. "Guess I got lucky."
"So, will you tell us what happened?" Fred asked, pulling his chair closer to the bed.
"Well, you already know, don't you?" Mr. Weasley smiled meaningfully at Harry. "It's quite simple. I got tired during my shift, dozed off, and someone sneaked up on me. Strangely enough, I don't even remember who it was. And when I woke up, I was already somewhere else, and she was there," he nodded towards Masha.
Feeling awkward, she lowered her head.
"Is there anything about it in the Prophet?" Fred pointed to the discarded newspaper.
"No, of course not," Mr. Weasley said with a smile tinged with bitterness. "The Ministry doesn't want the public to know what's happening over there. And there was even a riot there last night."
He cast a meaningful glance at Jeanne, but she didn't bat an eyelid - she just stood there with her usual self-satisfied expression.
"Where were you when this happened?" George asked.
"That's my business," his father replied, smiling slightly.
He grabbed the Daily Prophet, unfolded it, and said, "When you came in, I was just reading about the arrest of Willy Widdershins. Turns out, he's the one behind those summer incidents with the toilets. One time, his spell misfired, and the toilet exploded, and they found him unconscious amidst the debris, covered from head to toe in..."
"When you say you were 'on duty'," Fred whispered softly. "What were you actually doing?"
"You heard your father," Mrs. Weasley whispered. "We don't discuss that here! So, what's going on with Widdershins, Arthur?"
Several days passed by like this. Harry and his friends would come to visit Mr Weasley in the hospital every day and happily note how his wounds were healing. Mr Weasley never lost his optimism and boldly tried new medical practices, including allowing a local trainee healer to stitch up his wounds.
Deciding not to interrupt the lively family discussion about Mr Weasley's chosen methods of treatment, the group decided to visit the buffet.
They walked down the corridor, passed through several double doors, and found themselves in front of a rickety staircase adorned with portraits of stern-looking healers. As they made their way upstairs, the healers shouted at them, giving them strange diagnoses and suggesting gruesome treatment methods. Ron was genuinely offended when a medieval wizard yelled that he had a severe case of the spotted plague, and he pushed his way through six more portraits, brushing aside their inhabitants.
But upon stepping onto the landing, Ron froze in his tracks. His gaze was fixed on a door labeled 'SPELL DAMAGE', beyond which the ward corridor began. Through a small window in the door, a fair-haired curly-haired man with bright blue eyes looked at them and smiled with a senseless, radiant smile, showing off his white teeth.
"Wow!" Ron exclaimed, staring at the face.
"No way!" Hermione gasped. "Professor Lockhart!"
Their former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher pushed open the door and stepped onto the landing, wearing a long lilac robe.
"Welcome! I see you want my autograph?" he said.
"Not much has changed," Harry whispered, and Ginny, standing next to him, smiled.
"Oh, how are you, Professor?" Ron asked in a slightly guilty tone.
His faulty wand had damaged Lockhart's memories, landing him in St. Mungo's Hospital. But since it happened when he was trying to completely erase Harry and Ron's memories, Harry didn't feel much sympathy.
"I'm perfectly healthy, thank you!" Lockhart enthusiastically exclaimed, pulling out a rather worn peacock feather from his pocket. "So, how many autographs do you need? You know, now I can write with letters!"
"Thanks, but we don't need any right now," Ron said, turning to Harry with wide eyes.
And Harry asked, "Professor, is it okay for you to be walking in the corridor? Shouldn't you be lying in your ward?"