https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-412-Gellert-Grindelwald-Give-me-your-Wand/13685425/
Chapter 413: The Hogwarts Invitation Letter
As soon as work ended, Lockhart leapt up with uncontainable eagerness. Garr, meanwhile, vanished from his Hospital uniform like lightning, stripping off the outfit in under three minutes. Within moments, the two were sprinting out of the hospital building.
Apparition back home would have been convenient—but using magic in such a manner left unmistakable traces. The Ministry of Magic’s elite Aurors were masters of specialized detection spells designed to catch such violations. And using magic in areas where Muggles gathered was a clear breach of the Confidentiality Act. The Ministry would respond instantly: sending official letters, dispatching agents, and then—shockingly—discovering two nationally wanted fugitives hiding in plain sight. That would inevitably lead to the summoning of Aurors… and possibly even the hundred-plus Dementors.
The horrifying consequences made Lockhart and Garr instantly abandon any thought of shortcuts. They resolved to completely avoid any form of magical shortcut, instead choosing to behave as ordinary, unremarkable Muggles.
"Let's just hail a cab—faster!" Lockhart instinctively stepped onto the sidewalk, raising his hand. But Garr yanked him back sharply.
"No, no, no—take the bus!" Garr’s brow furrowed with caution and deep thought. "Think about it—what if we run into those Dementors? The more people around, the easier it is to slip away."
Lockhart retracted his hand, nodding in grudging admiration. "You’re right. You really do think things through."
They reached the nearby bus stop and stood shivering in the cold wind for over ten minutes before the bus finally arrived, delayed and groaning.
Lockhart dashed onto the bus first—but found no seats available. He paused, then stood beside a middle-aged woman. When she glanced over, he flashed his trademark dazzling smile.
The Muggle woman regarded him with the look of someone assessing a madman, shifting slightly inward on her seat and turning her head away with clear disdain.
Lockhart: "..."
He glanced at his reflection in the window—his golden hair was duller than before, his once-handsome face now slightly off: eyes too small, nose slightly crooked, teeth jutting out, skin oddly darkened. He looked tired, worn down, even ugly.
His smile—once so charming—now seemed sleazy, almost predatory.
Tears nearly welled in his eyes. He regretted bitterly that he’d never properly studied human Transfiguration. The outcome was this—nothing short of a disaster.
He muttered to Troke, voice low: "Ungrateful, unseeing Muggles… If it were the old days, my fans would’ve filled an entire street."
The moment Lockhart had squeezed past, Garr, who’d been bumped in the process, let out a cold chuckle. "Too bad they’ve all seen your real face now. You’ve got no fans left."
Lockhart turned green with anger. "We’re comrades! How could you so cruelly rub salt in my wound?"
Garr snorted. "Comrades? You were fighting me over a single seat!"
They stared at each other in mutual disgust, then both turned away sharply.
A few feet away, Mabel stood gripping the seatback, pulling her hood lower over her face as she stared at the grimy underside of the bus.
—Dementor… Hogwarts… Muggle…
Yes, these two were definitely wizards.
Since her escape, Mabel hadn’t encountered a single wizard. She didn’t know if the Ministry had sent hunters after her, nor did she know what had become of Haley and Luke.
When she’d overheard the two men discussing magical topics inside the hospital, she’d instinctively followed them. Though they were wizards, they were still working at the hospital, still riding the bus—clearly, their magic skills weren’t particularly strong. Mabel judged them low threat—but out of caution, she kept her distance, never letting them see her face.
The bus swayed to a halt. After a long, standing ride, Lockhart and Garr finally stepped off.
Just as the door was about to close, Mabel hurriedly jumped down.
They were now wanted fugitives—but to Muggles, they remained oblivious, as dismissive as wizards always were. They didn’t notice the small girl trailing behind.
The street was silent.
As Lockhart stepped off, he noticed the flap of his companion’s trousers flaring open, both pockets bulging with strange lumps. A chill ran through him.
"Did you steal blood bags from the hospital again?" Lockhart demanded, catching up and grabbing Garr’s arm.
Garr immediately clamped a hand over his pocket, eyes darting nervously. "They were expired! They were scheduled for disposal! I just… changed the method of disposal!"
"You’ll get us exposed!" Lockhart hissed, panic rising. "That kind of thing leaves traces!"
"Come on," Garr mumbled weakly, then quickly regained confidence. "Some Muggles steal blood too. And you eat every day—why shouldn’t I?"
"Stop making excuses!" Lockhart snapped. "You could eat normal food! Your uncle even bought you live chickens!"
"Enough chicken blood to feed a mouse!" Garr licked his lips, then suddenly turned to Lockhart with a mischievous glint. "To avoid suspicion… why don’t you give me some of your blood?"
Lockhart leapt back, clutching his neck. "Absolutely not!"
"Fine… fine… don’t get so worked up," Garr said, waving dismissively. "Just kidding."
Lockhart fumed—but after two seconds, they resumed walking side by side.
He needed Garr’s street-smart experience. His current shelter was in Garr’s uncle’s home. And Garr needed Lockhart’s magic to conceal their presence, to avoid detection by the Ministry.
Without each other’s help, they never would’ve survived this long, living a life that, for fugitives, was almost normal.
They reached the house and stepped inside.
There, Ryan Troke sat before the fireplace, holding an envelope, his face clouded with worry.
"Uncle Ryan," Garr asked nervously, "Is the Ministry coming to search?"
"Idiot," Ryan sighed. "If they were coming, they wouldn’t send a letter first. And I haven’t spoken to your father in over a decade. They wouldn’t suspect you were here. This… is a letter from Hogwarts."
"Hogwarts?" Lockhart, mid-change into casual clothes, spun around in panic. "Did Dumbledore find us?"
Ryan stared blankly. "…These two act like scared mice. How did they even escape Azkaban?"
"Professor Dumbledore doesn’t know everything," Ryan said. "He’s just inviting me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Lockhart’s face twitched. "So the Defense class changed again?"
"Yep. The last professor—apparently had personal matters—returned from holiday and immediately resigned."
"Resigned?" Lockhart blinked. "Just… resigned? No death? No prison?"
"Of course not," Ryan said, raising an eyebrow. "He didn’t do anything wrong. Heard he was doing a great job. Why would a good professor go to prison?"
"Listen, Uncle Ryan!" Garr spoke seriously. "That class at Hogwarts has been cursed! No one’s ever lasted more than a year. Now they’ve had three professors in two years! The curse must be stronger. Don’t go!"
Lockhart silently nodded, heart aching. If only he’d known this earlier, he wouldn’t have become a fugitive from the very fame he’d built on best-selling books.
"Curse or not," Ryan said calmly, "many professors—like Professor Abigail—have finished their year and left peacefully. As long as I follow the rules, don’t break laws, don’t harm anyone, the Ministry can’t just throw me in prison."
Lockhart sank onto the sofa, clutching his chest as if shot. He didn’t have the strength to speak.
After a long silence, Garr asked, "Uncle Ryan… do you want to go?"
Ryan exhaled, looking around his home—television, carpet, fireplace, kitchen with oven, coffee machine, refrigerator humming softly. The only object in the room connected to the magical world was the copy of The Daily Prophet on the table.
"I know Muggle life is good," Ryan said softly. "But… I don’t want to drift too far from that world."
"Why are you so worried, then?" Garr asked. "If you want to go, why hesitate?"
"Back in the old days, I’d have accepted without a second thought. But…" Ryan sighed. "I’ve heard Dumbledore’s training an army at Hogwarts. Preparing to remove Fudge from power. Getting involved in such a conflict… I don’t know what the consequences might be."
Lockhart, sipping tea, nearly spat it out. "Wait—Dumbledore needs an army to remove Fudge?"
He was asking genuinely. But Ryan heard the answer.
"Yeah… you’re right. Dumbledore doesn’t need an army."
Ryan stared at the letter again, then made up his mind. "I’ll write him back right now. There’s pizza in the oven—help yourselves."
Ryan hurried up the stairs to his study, disappearing into the shadows of the staircase.
Only then did Garr pull out a blood bag stolen from the hospital, slit the corner with his teeth, and begin to drink carefully—never daring to let his uncle see.
Lockhart fetched the pizza, placed it on the table, set out cutlery, and laid a napkin neatly. He was just about to sit down and read the paper when he noticed: the stack of The Daily Prophet was gone.
"Garr, did you take the newspapers?" Lockhart asked.
"What?" Garr, still hiding the remaining blood bags, didn’t hear clearly. He looked up, confused.
"The newspapers! They’re missing!" Lockhart insisted.
"I didn’t take them. Ask Uncle Ryan!"
"Never mind," Lockhart grumbled, turning on the television.
On screen appeared a thin-faced girl with cynical eyes.
The news anchor introduced her:
"Reports confirm that Mabel Roland, a teenage girl accused of killing multiple adults, is currently on the run across Britain. She is extremely dangerous—stay away. Anyone who provides valuable information leading to her capture will receive a reward of one thousand pounds."
"Killing so many adults… at such a young age," Lockhart muttered. "Terrifying…"
---
Meanwhile, the girl in question sat cross-legged in the attic of Troke’s home.
She didn’t dare turn on the light. Instead, she read by the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, slowly deciphering the words—struggling through unfamiliar terms, guessing meanings as she went.
She read every recent issue of the paper.
No article mentioned Haley or the other children.
But in the corner of the news section, she spotted a familiar name: Rita Skeeter.
Could she find Rita Skeeter and ask for news?
But she didn’t know where the newspaper’s editorial office was. And journalists weren’t always at the office.
Mabel’s fingers traced line after line across the page—until they stopped at another name she recognized.
"Breaking News! The Alchemist’s Newest Masterpiece—Communication Pea—Reveals a New Era of Connection!"
"Say goodbye to handwritten letters and expensive two-way mirrors. The Communication Pea lets you talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere—no matter the distance!"
"Lightweight, sleek design, multiple vibrant colors, stable and efficient connection. A revolutionary product, a bridge to the future!"
"To celebrate the launch, Aslan Magical Workshop is offering a limited-time discount—supplies are limited, first come, first served!"
"Available from December 23rd—launching simultaneously in fifteen countries. Find us at: Britain—London, Diagon Alley 118, Aslan Magical Workshop; America—New York…"
---
In a closet space, Wade sat crafting a new magical puppet.
Under Transfiguration magic, the clay swirled upward, forming a small, hunched figure—sparse, yellowish hair clinging to a bony scalp, sunken eyes, pale skin. Though still a lifeless object, those round eyes seemed ready to roll at any moment.
The figure slouched, draped in tattered rags like a sack, resembling a homeless beggar—or a large, upright rat.
Wade tapped it with his wand, adjusting the nose to a slight upward tilt, then gave a nod.
It looked just like the memory.
“Ding-dong… Master, you have a visitor.”
The golden bell on the wall chimed, then spoke.
Wade paused his work, suppressed the closet space, and descended the stairs.
At the same time, Harry had already opened the front door.
"Remus!" he exclaimed, surprised.
Wind-blown and weary, Remus Lupin stood at the entrance, holding a box, smiling warmly at them.
(End of Chapter)
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