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I looked at the newspaper in my hands and tried to comprehend what was happening. Too unreal. Strange. An illusion? A drug?
Putting the newspaper on the table, I look around the room. A wardrobe enchanted with a weak space expansion charm, a luxurious gold-colored canopy bed, an oak desk, a couple of chairs, a chest with a more serious charm, a coat rack by the entrance, two doors, one of which is slightly open and behind it you can see a washbasin with a mirror. And a photo collage. Dozens of moving images of a vaguely familiar man with gold-colored hair and a pearly smile. And judging by them, he did not suffer from obvious delusions of grandeur, he enjoyed it. I point my wand at the chair and use one not very popular spell from transfiguration, turning an object into an arbitrary harmless form. Essentially useless, it had a couple of features that a Polish transfiguration master told me about. The first feature is that the spell does not work on an enchanted, cursed or living object, and the second feature is that the wizard casting it must be of sound mind. Looking at the avant-garde work that resulted from the chair, I frowned even more.
- Finita
Returning the chair to its normal state, I close my eyes and sniff. The smells of perfume, wood, clothes and many other things reached my nose. Too detailed. So it's not a drug, not an illusion based on self-hypnosis, since I'm seeing this room for the first time, not an ordinary illusion or a memory trap, since such a level of complexity and elaboration of such a large-scale illusion that does not conflict with the interacting spells is closer to miracles, not magic. Sighing, I look at the hand with neatly trimmed nails holding a magic wand. Not my hand and not my magic wand. And judging by the magical background, which in recent years in the world has been no different from the same in some burial mound or crypt, then someone has clearly played with space and time. Well, and with souls, mine and that poor guy whose body I occupied.
I trace a few patterns with my wand, casting a permanent version of Protego and a couple of other protective spells around the bed, then lay my body down on it. I begin to breathe slowly, remembering the meditations of Tibetan magicians, who could give many a run for their money in terms of working with the soul and its connection with the body. Just getting to that knowledge was a real pain in the ass. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The sensations of the body recede, at some point leaving only the perception of the surrounding magic, developed over years of creating magic. I focus on myself, feeling a tingling sensation. A familiar tingling sensation. I had the same thing when the Dementor almost ate my soul and it spent the next few days reestablishing its connection with the body. Fortunately, this time everything is going much faster.
At some point, memories of the previous owner of the body began to emerge in my consciousness. I dive into them, since the most important thing for me now is information.
Five hours later, I look into the mirror with a grimacing face. A blue-eyed blond man looks out from the reflection with a hostile, but at the same time handsome and even somewhat charismatic face. Gilderoy Lockhart - writer, wizard, idol of hundreds of witches and a swindler. The one I have now become. I smooth my hair with non-verbal wandless magic and straighten the collar of my shirt. And I freeze. For the last two years, I frankly did not care about my appearance. The ghouls around me valued my "inner world" more, and the survivors valued strength. Therefore, seeing my current body not in the role of a "lumpen a la survivalist" I felt a refreshing feeling. I was beautiful.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I banged my head against the wall and looked at the mirror with irritation. The adaptation to Lockhart's memories had gone too well. In no small part due to a certain similarity in our personalities. A certain. The moment when young Lockhart at Hogwarts sent himself eight hundred cards for Valentine's Day came into my mind.
- Oh, whore.
Although I have a slightly narcissistic character. But this... this Narcissus is beyond good, evil and magic. There are no equal people. There are only fans, future fans and problematic people. That's it. This paradigm of thinking in a wizard whose knowledge of magic barely exceeds the school level was simply freezing. Although no, he is not very fair here. In the field of charms and potions related to grooming, he really had no equal. As well as in masterful possession of the oblivion spell - obliviate. And I myself know about this wizard from memories before the cataclysm. One of the few British wizard-writers whose fiction was spread throughout the world of magic. And I even liked his books. Excellent description of landscapes and cultural features of countries with an unusual disclosure of the characters. The only downside is the fascinating, but far from reality, description of the magic used in the fights. Before the resonant exposure at Hogwarts, I treated this downside with understanding, since truly powerful wizards do not reveal their fighting style to the whole world, as well as knowledge of some semi-legal spells. Now, having mastered the memories and even some of the traits of this adventurer, I felt... offended. For him. Although he did not have great magical powers, he could really become as strong as in his books. After all, in magic, sometimes it was not the strength of the wizard that played a big role, but his will and personality. Lockhart's pride and arrogance, taken to the point of absurdity, allowed him to create spells in which he was sure that he was really the best,sometimes amazing things. Hair care charms and straightening out wrinkles in clothes? Sometimes performed by sheer willpower, in addition to their direct functions, they could temporarily transfer a bit of the natural charm of the veela to clothes or give hair the properties of some magical animals. Even at Hogwarts, he could create and modify spells. Thanks to his character and some kind of animal sense of danger, he created connections with many people. The experience of being a half-blood at Hogwarts, a school full of purebloods and aristocratic children, allowed him to understand his weaknesses and strengths. Because of this, after graduation, he knew how to make a good impression on strangers. What really limited his potential was little patience and, surprisingly, an inferiority complex. Lockhart quickly lost interest in areas of magic in which he could not achieve perfection in a short time, due to his perfectionism. Only because he was sure that his appearance should be the best, he was closely engaged in the study of charms and potions related to the influence on the appearance of wizards. As for the spell of oblivion ... At the time of my arrival in Lockhart's body, he had already written two books. "Encounters with Vampires" and "Spirits on the Roads". The "ideas" of these stories were borrowed from a Russian Auror or, as the Russians used to call him, an Auror and a French mage-zoologist. And, having carefully checked the memories of the moment the Briton used Obliviate, I was impressed. These memories once again showed me the influence of feelings and emotions on magic. Envy ... A disgusting feeling, called one of the seven sins by Muggle Christians. Together with the spell of oblivion, it creates an unusual synergy. The spell itself is based on the processes of forgetting inherent in people, which are necessary for the better functioning of the brain and the memory itself. Obliviate allows you to find the desired memory and speed up this process for it. More skilled magicians can replace the memory with another, sometimes even verbally saying what "actually happened." In this way, hammering a mental attitude into a person. For Muggles and weak wizards, it is effective, but already at the average level of strength, some more attentive magicians can notice the oddity. High-level wizards, usually involved in Occlumency in one way or another, can directly overcome Obliviate. The modification of the oblivion spell created by Lockhart could have made him the best Obliviator in any Ministry of Magic. If, of course, it had not been banned, and the creator himself had not been buried or locked in the dungeons of the same Unspeakables. After all, no matter how you look at it, Obliviate itself always leaves even the slightest trace in the mind of a person, and with rough or frequent use it disrupts a person's mental activity. Lockhart's oblivion spell was free of these shortcomings. Modified and strengthened by envy, it could now ignore many standard protective charms, and the erasure process itself became something akin to hypnosis or self-hypnosis.The "object" simply did not believe the erased memories and, using its own associative chains, composed for itself the "most probable" memory. In essence, the magician does not disrupt the mental activity of the "object", he simply accelerates the natural process of forgetting, and the "object" will figure out what the memory was about and what it was like. Only when the volume of the erased memory exceeds a certain percentage relative to the rest of the memory will some Legilimens be able to determine its use.
Which makes it all the more offensive that such potential was squandered by Lockhart himself. Never fully developed. But his body and personality can still serve me.
Knock. Knock.
I turn to the front door of my hotel room. I wave my hand, tidying up the things in the room. The wonderful symbiosis of a robe and a light-colored coat on the hanger falls onto my shoulders. Thanks to the better connection between soul and body, weak household charms no longer require words or wand waves. I cast a transparency charm on the door. The door began to dissolve, revealing a blonde girl impatiently tapping her index finger on her purse. The visitor's green eyes looked around the hotel corridor and the door with irritation, and she herself was clearly unaware that she was being looked at too.
I cast the usual post-cataclysm protective spells on myself and dispel the transparency spell. I hide my wand in my sleeve and approach the door. The usual Lockhart smile appears on my face.
- Good afternoon. How can I help such a beauty?
The girl standing behind the door smiled sweetly.
Hearing the voice full of goodwill and looking at the sunny smile of her new victim, erm, that is, respondent, Rita Skeeter involuntarily felt embarrassed. However, this did not prevent the experienced journalist from taking control of her body.
- Sorry to bother you. My name is Rita Skeeter, and I am a journalist for the Daily Prophet. I would like to interview you about your latest book, Spirits on the Roads.
The girl spoke in a sweet, joyful voice, taking an unnoticeable step into the room. Green eyes quickly looked around the part of the room visible behind the young man standing there.
- So you are interested in my latest book? That is so wonderful. Don't worry, I am ready to give you my interview. Let's go downstairs and go to a cafe I know where they serve excellent tea for leisurely conversation.
And the already bright smile became even brighter.
- No need to bother. We can easily talk in your room.
The journalist tried to take another step into the room, but a male silhouette blocked her path.
- As a true gentleman, I must take care of the lady who decided to keep me company. And an unmarried girl should not be in a room where a man usually sleeps.
Rita had no choice but to nod and hide her irritation behind slightly narrowed eyes. When talking in a public place, some of the "conversation details" that the journalist could "mention" in her future article are automatically dropped. When the increasingly popular writer left the room and closed it with a casual spell without words or gestures with his wand, the girl concentrated completely.
"But he is not simple."
Following the confidently striding man, she shot him a flirtatious glance.
- Do you invite every girl you just met to a cafe right away? Is the money you get from selling books really enough for every girl you know?
Gilderoy Lockhart gave her a smile.
- And do you strive to get into every man's room, what does an interview give you?
The journalist laughed with a ringing laugh, which is so popular with men who are confident in their "inimitable humor."
- You're a joker, Mr. Lockhart. But don't forget that it's my job to ask questions here. And you agreed to give me an interview.
- I agreed to an interview about my second book. Everything else is our pleasant conversation.
The smiling blond shook his head. At this point they finally approached the café "Chai Paurelyo". Having sat down at one of the tables on the street, the couple waited for the waiter. Having looked at the notepad hovering nearby with a briskly writing pen, the girl ordered her favorite type of tea and the most expensive dessert here. At this the man only smiled mockingly.
- So, why did you decide to visit France, and as a result of which you took part in the events that you describe in your book?
- Oh, that's quite an interesting story. At that time, I decided to visit this country rich in history in order to meet several famous potion makers. This area of magical art has attracted me since my first years at Hogwarts...
The couple spent the next half hour in a "nice" conversation. Riding the "wave", Rita Skeeter smiled while "new" details were written down in a notebook to the quiet squeak of a hovering pen.
- Thank you for the interview and the pleasant conversation. I think my future article will attract a lot of attention to you and your book.
The fair-haired journalist smiled businesslike, her green eyes flashing slyly as she stood up. Lockhart, who had risen, mirrored the smile.
- I will hope for a good evaluation of my work.
Walking along the stone pavement, the girl picked up a notebook. Most ideas for an article usually come to her mind during or immediately after an interview. And now she wanted to check what she had written with a quick-writing pen, so as not to miss a single detail. Quickly flipping through the pages, she suddenly froze on the last one. In a beautiful handwriting that was not hers , the words were written there:
"Some exotic insects have their own unique beauty, which sometimes inspires me. But this will not stop me from crushing them if they make an annoying chirp.
Your good friend,
Gilderoy Lockhart."
Sharply grabbing the pendant that was supposed to provide protection from Legilimency, the girl looked at the notebook with a pale face.
Looking at the leaving journalist with cold eyes, I quietly cursed in Czech.
- Bitch.
I turn around and go to my hotel. Now I need to properly adjust my mental defense, taking into account new circumstances like a new body, memories, partial change in character as a result of adjusting the connections between body and soul, and other little things. And later I will think over a plan for further action. What I lack most now is information.
If... if I did go back in time, then I should be in Germany at this time, performing purification rituals for the places where Grindelwald and his Muggle pawns once had their concentration camps. Which means... that means my wife is... alive.
- Maria