Harry Potter: Westeros’s Plant Life
0195 Return

After ensuring that both Harry and Ron were safely settled for the night, Adrian felt the weight of exhaustion settling over his shoulders. The events of the evening had drained him, and all he wanted was the bed. He walked through the corridors and a wide yawn came from him as he finally reached his office door.

But just as he was about to push the door open, the corridor suddenly erupted in bright crimson flames

"What's wrong, Fawkes?" Adrian asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Fawkes pushed one foot toward Adrian where a small piece of parchment clutched. Adrian accepted the note with puzzled curiosity, and unfolded it to read: Come to the headmaster's office immediately.

Before Adrian could even begin to ask questions about this unexpected summons, Fawkes had already grasped his shoulder. The world around him dissolved into a swirl of flame and movement, and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he found himself standing once again in the familiar chamber of the headmaster's office.

"At least a moment's warning would have been appreciated," Adrian muttered under his breath, still adjusting to the effects of phoenix transportation.

However, when he lifted his gaze to survey the office, his words died in his throat, replaced by stunned silence.

The headmaster's office had been transformed into something that belonged more in the lands of dreams than reality. Silvery thin substances filled the entire circular chamber, floating and drifting through the air like ethereal spider silk caught in an otherworldly breeze.

At the center of this, though he bore little resemblance to the man who had once charmed witches across Britain. He had drawn his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs as if trying to hold himself together. His face was completely blank—not peaceful, not troubled, but utterly empty, as if someone had erased all expression and emotion from his face.

The most disturbing sight was the continuous stream of silvery threads that flowed from his temples.

Dumbledore stood beside him with a strange expression—having lived for so many years, this was the first time he had witnessed such a situation.

"What did you do to Professor Lockhart?" Adrian looked at Dumbledore and asked curiously.

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, his eyes reflecting both confusion and regret. "I asked him several questions about his activities. Perhaps the psychological pressure of confronting his crimes was more than his already stimulated psyche could bear."

Adrian found it difficult to imagine what kind of interrogation could have triggered such a complete mental breakdown from Lockhart.

Had Dumbledore's questions been particularly harsh? Or was this simply the inevitable result of a mind that had spent years manipulating and stealing the memories of others, finally collapsing under the weight of its own contradictions?

At this moment, more and more memory substances existed in the room, and some of them had already begun to dissipate— proper vessels or preservation spells, memories cannot be preserved for long.

Dumbledore observed this gradual loss and moved toward his Pensieve.

"We must collect them all," He said to Adrian. "These memories represent evidence of Lockhart's crimes, yes, but more than that—they contain the stolen stories of dozens of brave witches and wizards whose adventures he seized. We cannot allow their experiences to disappear without a trace and perhaps we can also find some useful information from them "

Adrian nodded, understanding immediately. Indeed, that was the case.

The two immediately began to act, using their wands to guide the silvery memories strand by strand into the Pensieve.

Despite their best efforts, the task was extremely difficult. Memories are among the most fragile magical substances in existence, and many of the strands crumbled to glittering dust at the slightest mishandling. Others simply faded away as they watched.

Although Dumbledore and Adrian were doing their best to rescue them, nearly half still dissipated into the air as for every memory they successfully saved, at least one other dissolved beyond recovery.

After probably thirty minutes, the last of the memory strands had either been collected or lost to the void. The office, which had been transformed into a shimmering fairyland of consciousness made visible, returned to its normal appearance.

Lockhart remained exactly as he had been throughout the entire process: hugging his knees, staring at nothing, his mind now almost completely empty. No more memories emerged from his temples.

What would a person become after losing nearly all their memories?

Lockhart at that moment was perhaps the closest thing to a living answer to that question. He had become something barely recognizable as human—a biological shell containing only the most basic instincts necessary for survival.

It was truly ironic: the man who had made his living by stealing and manipulating memories had ultimately lost his own.

Dumbledore gestured for Adrian to join him beside the ancient Pensieve, his expression troubled as he studied their collection. The stone basin, which had never been designed to hold such an enormous quantity of memories, was filled nearly to its brim with a swirling mass of silvery-white substance.

"I fear the Pensieve may not function properly under such strain," Dumbledore said, frowning as he observed the way the memories churned and mixed together like an agitated sea. "It has never been filled to such capacity, and most of what we've collected appears to be fragmented or incomplete."

Adrian gazed into the basin and saw immediately what Dumbledore meant. Instead of the clear, coherent memory strands they were accustomed to working with, the Pensieve contained what looked like a chaotic soup of consciousness.

"Nevertheless," Dumbledore continued, "we must examine what we have."

Entering the overloaded Pensieve was like diving into a storm-tossed ocean of human experience. The memories swirled around them in chaotic patterns, making it difficult to maintain their focus on any single recollection for more than a few moments.

They spent nearly an hour struggling through the disorienting maze of fragmented consciousness before finally locating something clear enough to examine in detail.

It was a scene of Lockhart on a modest-sized broken wooden boat, talking with a very old wizard. Lockhart was holding a pen, constantly recording something in a book, while the old wizard kept moving his mouth.

"Just as you heard, many extraordinary things have happened on this boat," the old wizard was saying. "I'm delighted that someone—especially a renowned author like yourself—is willing to listen to my experiences. These stories have been in my memory for decades, waiting for the right person to help them find their way into the world."

Lockhart sat across from him with quill over a notebook. His golden hair caught the sunlight, his charming smile never wavered, and his entire demeanor showed nothing but fascination with the old man's tales.

"You mentioned you'd help me organize these stories into a proper book," The old wizard continued, his voice brightening with hope. "Do you truly believe they could earn enough money..."

"Absolutely, Mr. Wilter," Lockhart enthusiastically replied with what appeared to be sincere enthusiasm and patted the old wizard's shoulder. "Haven't I already provided you with five hundred Galleons as an advance? I assure you, this is just the beginning. Your stories will make you a wealthy man."

The wrinkled old wizard's expression became even more joyful upon hearing Lockhart's reply. As long as he could get the money Lockhart promised he saw an opportunity to ensure his granddaughter's future.

"Obliviate!"

Suddenly, Lockhart swiftly drew his wand, and a dazzling white light struck the old wizard.

Mr. Wilter's eyes, which had been bright with hope and gratitude few seconds ago, immediately became vacant and confused.

Lockhart, meanwhile, was already tucking away his detailed notes. The smile on his face was no longer charming—it was predatory, satisfied, utterly without conscience or remorse and smug.

Yes, this was exactly the crime scene of Lockhart stealing others' adventure experiences.

If one looked carefully, one could see that the content of Lockhart's notes was very similar to the stories described in his book "Voyages with Vampires."

After emerging from the memory, Dumbledore looked serious and said to Adrian, "This is good evidence. I'll extract it and hand it over to the Ministry of Magic. In fact, I know several people whose stories were stolen by Lockhart. Now I can finally confirm..."

Next came another round of searching.

Over the course of several more hours, working until the first light of dawn began to filter through the office windows, they uncovered several additional scenes of Lockhart's crimes.

All of these memories could find their prototypes in Lockhart's books.

Adrian found himself impressed by one aspect of Lockhart's abilities—his skill as a writer and storyteller. Many of the original adventures, while genuinely heroic, were not particularly fascinating in their raw form.

But Lockhart had an undeniable talent for taking these rough gems of experience and polishing them. He knew how to emphasize the dramatic moments, how to eliminate the boring passages, how to structure events for maximum emotional impact. His books were popular not just because of their adventurous content, but because of their skillful presentation.

One could only say that there was a reason why Lockhart's books became famous in the wizarding world.

As for the others, there were also some memories of young Voldemort—probably "snatched" by Lockhart from Tom. After Dumbledore's identification, those memories were all real, but most of them were useless.

Those memories were all about Tom's daily life at Hogwarts when he was young.

Only one segment of memory—a conversation with the basilisk—had value.

"It looks like we can let Hagrid come home," Dumbledore's face showed a smile.

Two days after the incident with Lockhart's mental collapse, Hogwarts Castle was buzzing with excitement and relief.

The Great Hall, which had been quiet and tense for months, was once again filled with the cheerful chatter and laughter that should be in a proper school environment.

The changes had begun yesterday, when students started noticing that Professor Dumbledore who had been dismissed by the Board of Governors had somehow returned to the castle. His presence alone was enough to restore confidence, but the official announcements that followed were even more encouraging.

That morning, a new notice had appeared on the bulletin board in each common room, written in Dumbledore's handwriting and bearing the official seal of Hogwarts:

*By Order of the Headmaster: The curfew imposed during the recent crisis is hereby lifted immediately. Students no longer require professorial escort during class transitions. Professor Sinistra's Astronomy classes will resume their traditional nighttime schedule.

Additionally, due to unforeseen circumstances with Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Professor Adrian Westeros, will also now be teaching the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. *

The answers were clear to everyone: the monster had been terrorizing the school was gone, the mysterious "Heir of Slytherin" had been dealt with, and Hogwarts was safe once more.

At the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Harry and Ron sat together in their usual spots.

Just as Adrian had said, Ron had awakened the morning after his ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets feeling perfectly normal, though somewhat confused about the gap in his memory. Madam Pomfrey's examination had revealed nothing more serious than some residual magical exhaustion, and Harry's own medical check had found only minor injuries—a few displaced ribs that were easily healed.

Harry had spent considerable time bringing Ron up to speed on everything that had happened: the basilisk, Gryffindor's sword, Fawkes's heroic intervention, and their narrow escape from death in the depths of the Chamber.

Ron had listened with wide eyes and growing amazement, struggling to believe that such extraordinary events had occurred while he lay unconscious.

They had just looked at the bulletin board and learned about Hogwarts cancelling its alert status. So, both of them now had indescribable expressions.

"Why do you both have such weird expressions?" Hermione asked, looking back and forth between her two best friends with suspicion. "This should be wonderful news! Hogwarts is back to normal, the monster has been dealt with, and whoever this 'Heir of Slytherin' was, they've been stopped. Shouldn't you be celebrating?"

Her sharp mind, always quick to detect when her friends were hiding something from her, had immediately noticed their strange behavior.

"Wait just a moment," She said, her eyes narrowing as she observed their faces more carefully. "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with you two, would it? Please tell me you didn't do something impossibly dangerous and heroic without telling me about it."

Harry and Ron exchanged a look. Unable to maintain their serious expressions any longer, both boys burst into laughter.

"Alright, Hermione," Harry said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to ensure their conversation remained private. "Let's find somewhere private after lunch, somewhere we can talk without being overheard, We have secrets to share with you."

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