Chapter 18: Honour.  

(Note: I dedicate this chapter to Fruits and Spice, two of my favourite readers. And am not saying it because fruit kidnapped me and forced my to write this chapter...absolutely not.)

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-Magnus POV-

Words have power.

No, I'm not thinking about the fancy incantations that accompany the wand-waving of us, wizards and witches. But rather about the ability the most mundane of words have to change the world, when arranged with enough elegance and put on paper.

Gilderoy Lockhart is a worthy example of this maxim, for all of the poisonous narcissism and vicious buffoonery he doubtlessly has.

The man, while abysmal in the use of magicks beyond the less than noble memory charm, was a good narrator with a fine quill and finer advertisement skills. His books would be outstanding works, if he presented them as fiction.

But he did not, and the wizarding world for all its wonders was lacking in logic, and so his words were taken for granted. The veracity of his tales never questioned, when Witch Weekly itself testified of his skills. He is now a celebrated adventurer and powerful wizard with a far-reaching reputation and non-negligible influence if he cared about power as much as did about his fan club.

And just like that, I found myself with a relatively dangerous, largely incompetent, doubtlessly criminal fool as defence professor for the second time in two years.

How wonderful!

I sighed, throwing back my head on my seat as the train finally sets off. The crowd of families sending off their children never failed at irritating me, and the vitriol I dedicated to my newest teacher only acerbated the feeling.

'It doesn't matter.' I thought, shaking off the offending emotions 'I just have to self-study again, and the Duelling Club might be beneficial.'

I took out one of my favourite tomes, Curses and Counter-Curses by Sir Vindictus Viridian. The man explained the workings of many minor and dark curses along with their counter-spell, it was thus a great help in both duelling and curse breaking.

Someone knocking on the doors of my compartment prevented me from immersing myself in the intricacies of the dark arts, and how to overcome them.

'If it's Terry Boot who's afraid of spiders, I'm cursing him.' I thought, as I summoned my wand from its holster with a flick of my finger, undoing the locking charm I cast some time ago.

"You may enter."

Instead of a backstabbing little shoe, I found two loyal badgers standing before me. It was good to see them, even if it meant I wouldn't get some early practise.

"Magnus! We were looking for you." Said the pig-tailed puff, her eyes twinkling ominously.

A quick look at Susan was enough to see that the ever blushing red-head had the same malignant, most evil look in her eyes.

'Oh, please no.' I thought, for once hoping I'd be wrong.

"We will be taught by Gilderoy Lockhart himself!" exclaimed the pink-faced lass, confirming the veracity of my thoughts.

'They are fangirls.' I repressed a shiver as I readied my wand once more. These creatures were vile abomination with neither logic nor mercy, they would do anything to satisfy their dark designs.

"Did you know that he won witch weekly seven times?" Asked the once adorable miss Bones.

'This calls for drastic measures, politics be damned.' I prepared myself for the battle to come, for they would not see reason, of that I was certain.

"I don't know Susan, his books seem a bit exaggerated" I said, attempting a subtle, diplomatic approach to prevent a blood bath.

"What do you mean?"

(…)

'It went better than I expected.' I thought, looking at the two puffed up badgers stomping away. Logic was unlikely to work. It was much more efficient to give them the truth at the cost of their displeasure, and wait for them to realize I was right all along and come back crawling.

If I put more work to convince them, I might succeed in a few days. But this way, I do not have to trouble myself with them and will receive even more goodwill and favour. Which serves the only goal this 'friendship' gives me; political networking.

Troubles with the Wizengamot? Abbott vouches for me.

I am being charged of something? No way! The head of the DMLE's own niece can testify about my integrity. Some pureblood bigots are dumb enough to try and bully me? My circle is too powerful for them to take the risk, and they are unlikely to be bribed or blackmailed to leave my side.

This is the only way a mudblood pariah with abnormal competence can live a good life, especially in later years when bullying and blood supremacy became much more apparent.

'Granger can thank Potter for being her political meatshield.' I chuckled, as I left the carriage I shared with some third-year claws I didn't bother remembering.

Hogwarts was as glorious as ever. Towers piercing the skies and courting the cloud with the castle's magical serenade. Mighty walls of stone, enchanted with so much power they might as well be alive. Crude Statues, weapons and suits of armour by the thousands, showing long history and brutal culture of the less civilised ages.

It was a wonder by no other name.

And as we entered the great hall, way before the arrival of the first years, I watched the enchanted sky; my new insights showing me once more how amazing that magick was.

A bit of nostalgia hit me, as I made my way to my house's table and sat by Padma Patil, with whom I shared little more than polite smiles.

'Last year, I was one of those little ducklings, about to discover the wonders of magic for the first time.' I mused, waving to the stern professor McGonagall and an excited Flitwick.

'But now, I can conjure the elements, charm my way to power, defend my mind from intruders and brew my own freedom.' I looked at the twinkling eyes of the headmaster, daring him to glimpse at my thoughts.

'Yet I still have so much to learn.'

For the first time, I looked at the mind-flaying fool who I have the 'great honour' to call my defence professor.

A rather good-looking man in his last twenties, with curly blonde hair and an unnaturally shiny smile which mirrored his dreadfully flashy purple robes. He looked oddly happy, not the good sort of happy though.

'As if he spiked my drink and knows he's about to have the time of his life.' I repressed the unwanted thoughts, focusing on other matters such as the unholy amount of beauty spells he uses.

I identified at least a dozen different charms, and I'm not even interested in such vain magicks beyond the simplest of preening spells.

That man was a fraud, here, i said it. He is naught but a lying, mind-fucking, worthless piece of incompetent naturally curly hairs. He grew up with one silver spoon too many, and as such developed the Draco Malfoy syndrome of inflated self-confidence with no skill to back it up.

Don't believe me? In Hogwarts, where he sadly was a Ravenclaw, he once sent himself hundreds of valentine letters, by owl. I repeat, he mobilised hundreds of owls to satisfy his own misplaced ego and effectively ruined breakfast by cause of crap on the food.

His achievement included mimicking the dark mark, which was synonymous with pain and death and all kind of awful deeds committed by Riddle's monstrous little girlfriends, though Lockhart made it in the shape of his own face; which might be worse.

The fool could have made something with himself, became someone. He had a family, a measure of talent and with some hard work he could've become truly great, a man worthy of praise. Yet he had the most fatal flaw of not trying unless he was sure of his superiority, which led to pathetic grades and becoming an effective waste of magic.

It translated into a mastery of the memory charm, to mind wipe the worthy and steal their tales of glory. Which is how he built his influence and popularity among the naive masses who lacked common sense, amassing wealth and power and fan mail, lots of fan mail.

Even the richer pure-bloods, who had no lack of silver suppository, were in awe of the lying fool!

'This man has issues, and I don't need foreknowledge to know that.' I thought, looking at him winking at some older and not so older female students. 'Though i might find some enjoyment out of the situation.'

The same way I didn't need my foreknowldge to know the two, lightly injured students who actually came to school on a flying car would find themselves in no end of troubles. I should be thankful no eccentric elf is trying to save my life, shouldn't I?

Well, nope, Dobby is a good elf. Change my mind.

"Hi Penelope." I smiled at the prefect, as she waved me before going on to guide the first years.

The male Ravenclaw prefect was an insufferable fool with broom up his ass and the teacher's dick up his throat, not someone who cared about duties. He never stuck around and mostly put everything on Penelope's shoulders.

'Inconsequential.'

What wasn't though, was the young red-haired Gryffindor girl who will soon need a mind healer. She followed her fool of a brother with other uninteresting first-years as he guided them toward the Gryffindor tower.

Her eyes shone with the proper marvel all wizards should have when contemplating the magical wonder that was Hogwarts, as well as the trepidation common to the new students who knows not of the magicks they would learn and their complex intricacies.

Yet there was something more. Visible only to the eagle-eyed, which I was in more than one way. A darkness, corrupting and parasitic lurking below her brown eyes.

The eyes were windows to the soul, and from hers I saw a disgusting, mud-like filth not worthy of the most sacred name of magic. It was an unnatural deviation of what should be, made solely to offer this world one more evil.

Her eyes were those of someone who dabbled in the darkest arts. Or failing that, the eyes of a possessed vessel of a most evil wraith.

The same eyes Quirrell had, the same eyes Lucius Malfoy doubtlessly had and the one Snape would have if not for the lily shaped spark of good lurking deep inside him.

'There's no way in hell I wouldn't interfere.' I concluded, my eyes darkening as I went to the tower.

Pragmatism is a virtue that serves me well, of that I have no doubt. But to let a young girl holding such filth inside her be overtaken by a malignant spirit, to let a little girl die in what might be the worst kind of death because of something as pathetic as fear; false expectations appearing real…that was no pragmatism, that's cowardice.

No amount of foreknowledge could justify a lack of interference. My skill in the mind arts was enough to resist a memory charm, let alone passive Legilimency.

If you wished to know what it takes to make a twice-lived exceptional wizard with a lonely streak interfere in what would be some of the most dangerous ventures of his already thrilling life? The answer is the total mind-rape of an eleven-year-old girl by a seventy-year-old noseless psychopath.

I have more than one plan to rid this world of the diary, but most of them are highly dangerous. Regardless of that, they would have to do. Though more planning would not hurt, would it? Failure was not an option, after all….

'It's a matter of honour.' The voice of my grandfather echoed with my own thoughts.

(...)

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Hey guys! It's Uncle Sheo! Wanna spill your guts on the floorboard?

Here's a new chapter, on Magnus's POV this time. It's less plot heavy than i'd like, but it allowed me to establish his slightly deranged inner voice and separate it from my own, wholly madsome one. It's hard business, ya know, but schizophrenia helps out.

Magnus decided that not interfering in the literal mind-flaying of an eleven year old girl was a bit too much, even if she's a ginger. He saw Lockhart, he hated Lockhart. Lockhart is likely to suffer.

How do we deal with a noseless bugger inhabiting the mind of an eleven years old without killing her, dying or learning fiendfyre or the killing curse? Magnus will likely show us how.

Peace and Cheese!