Harry really had grown up a lot. A telltale sign was how he would unconsciously knit his brows now and then, wearing that thoughtful look. Even the way he spoke had slowed down—his shoulders held straight, his wording careful, as if he'd rather take an extra beat than say something careless. Among the many students Skyl had taught, kids from poor backgrounds often ended up like this, especially left-behind children.
Everyone goes through that stage.
Ron and Hermione were still railing at the Dursleys' meanness and coldness, but Harry said it was simply fate. He was starting to accept it.
Harry had realized the root of his miserable childhood wasn't just "bad people being bad," but something bigger—a structural kind of tragedy. Even if he hadn't been sent to the Dursleys and had been fostered by some other Muggle family, he might have fallen into the exact same situation.
Misfortune in this world always comes with a thousand strange reasons.
Harry was oddly optimistic about it. "I'll make up with them," he said, "but only after I move out and live on my own. Maybe distance makes the heart grow fonder. If I'm far, far away from them, I might even start missing them."
Ron and Hermione just stared, stunned.
"Harry, you've changed so much," Ron said, part sigh, part inexplicable urgency. "You talk like an adult now."
"It's not like that… Oh, right—apparently we've got a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor this year," Harry said, deliberately changing the subject. "And it sounds like she's a member of the High Tower Compact."
Hermione nodded quickly. "Yeah. Moonshadow."
"How do you know?" the red-haired boy asked, fascinated.
"We added each other," Hermione said, pulling out her phone. Her contacts list was packed full. "She even said she wants to stay at my place for a few days."
Skyl could more or less guess what was coming next. Moonshadow would be at Hermione's house, learning how to adapt to modern life. Hopefully she wouldn't cause any disasters. Back when Skyl had taken the Finger Maiden in hand and taught her basic life skills, it had been like being both dad and mom at once—he'd had to teach her even how to get dressed. Luckily the Finger Maiden was obedient, otherwise it really would've been a nightmare for a pure-blood virgin like him.
After returning to the Harry Potter world, Moonshadow had called several times, insisting she wanted to live with Skyl for a while. The reasons she gave were sweet as honey: new place, doesn't know anyone, needs a kind-hearted person to help her settle in. She acted all pitiful, but Skyl rejected her every time.
Moonshadow was absolutely up to no good. She wanted to ambush him—his seventeen-year-old, young-and-tender self—and Skyl had blocked it every time. Traditional witches and wizards believed in knowing when to stop; if you kept pestering, that was just bad manners.
Like most teenage boys, the moment Ron heard the new professor was a young woman, he got excited and started grilling Hermione about what she looked like.
Hermione got fed up and shoved her phone at him. "Look for yourself."
"Whoa—whoa… whoa!" Ron hunched over the table, swiping like his eyes wanted to crawl into the screen.
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. "Hey, you're so childish. She's just a pretty woman. Can you not be a little more mature—like Harry? Could you try having a bit of gentlemanly dignity?"
Harry nodded with restrained composure—then, without meaning to, flicked his gaze at the phone on the table. The mature, steady expression on his face immediately shattered. He went wide-eyed, wearing the unmistakable look of: how is something this huge not the first thing you told me?!
In the blink of an eye, both boys were sprawled over the table, making appreciative noises at Moonshadow's selfie posts, cheeks burning bright red. Proof, as ever, that men are boys until the day they die.
"Is she really that pretty? You're practically drooling," Hermione huffed, cheeks puffed up. Then she saw how calm Skyl looked, and immediately beamed. "Mr. Skyl, I knew you weren't like them."
Skyl shrugged and said honestly, "I've seen Moonshadow's photos a long time ago." In his view, it was like an old crone trying to strike a maiden's pose—so ridiculous it circled back to funny.
Hermione wilted. After that, she didn't say another word, thoroughly despairing at this face-obsessed world.
After ice cream, everyone gathered at Flourish and Blotts. Gilderoy Lockhart's new-book signing was absolutely packed. The man lived for fame—selling himself, tricking people, wrapping himself up in slick charm and a shiny smile that middle-aged and elderly witches adored. His autobiography told one thrilling adventure after another, and it was written with such "solid detail" and convincing little touches that countless readers truly believed Lockhart was a real adventurer.
The truth, of course, was that those adventures had been stolen from other people. He'd taken their stories and then used a Memory Charm to wipe the original owners' memories. Just like that, piracy became "original work."
A shameless freak like that had almost been hired as a Hogwarts professor. If Moonshadow hadn't taken the post instead, Lockhart would've strutted right onto campus and made a mess of everything. In the original story, he ended up backfiring his own Memory Charm, landing in St Mungo's Hospital, sharing a ward with Neville's parents.
Flourish and Blotts was a sea of people. The line for books and signatures coiled like a giant snake. Mrs. Weasley had arrived early and was near the front, constantly fixing her hair and makeup to look a little more radiant—just a tiny bit of fan-meeting fussing.
Skyl and the others squeezed into the crowd and spotted the Weasley men wearing utterly resigned expressions. Every man who's ever had to accompany women on a shopping trip has worn that same weathered face. The twins' eye-rolls, if translated into Morse code, could've filled a two-foot essay.
"You're finally here," George and Fred yawned. "Mum insisted on dragging us over early to queue."
"Tragic," Skyl said with a grin and a wink. "I'll go see what new books we need this year."
That one sentence was enough for Lockhart to notice him. Skyl's exotic-looking face stood out in a crowd like this.
"Oh—why, if it isn't Skyl!" Gilderoy Lockhart burst out from behind the signing table, grabbing Skyl by the arm and trying to haul him to the front of the crowd. When he realized he couldn't pull him an inch, he immediately switched into performance mode. "Ladies and gentlemen—perhaps this name, this handsome face, is unfamiliar to you. But once I tell you who he is, you'll be astonished!"
The bookshop gradually quieted.
Skyl stood there, his expression… strange. He saw Harry and the boys fighting laughter. He saw the Weasley women vibrating with excitement. He saw even more witches and wizards lighting up, and the Daily Prophet photographer raising a camera—click, click, click—white flashes bursting in the air as the magnesium smoke drifted upward.
"…As we all know, I myself was awarded the Order of Merlin, Third Class, for bravely combating dark creatures!" Lockhart declared grandly. "And the young man beside me is a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class—hailed as Hogwarts' youngest Transfiguration master: the extraordinary Skyl!"
Thunderous applause shook the shop. Lockhart leaned in and whispered into Skyl's ear, "Smile, young man. You'll be famous. Trust me." His breath carried a nauseating blend of minty tooth powder and the sour tang of fermenting food.
Skyl's expression grew even more complicated. The crowd's cheers crashed over them like waves, and the twins nearly laughed themselves to death.
"This brilliant young man has come into my shop to buy my new book, Magical Me," Lockhart went on. "And I, of course, am delighted to give him a copy entirely free!"
He snapped his fingers for a clerk to bring one over—then his gaze began to sweep across the crowd like a great shark scenting blood. And then, he found his prey. His eyes lit up.
"Look who it is! Harry Potter!" Lockhart released Skyl in an instant and pounced, grabbing the Boy Who Lived out of the crowd like a tiger leaping down a mountain. "Everyone! Everyone! What a momentous occasion—our humble bookshop is honored by a truly remarkable guest! The boy who survived! He, too, has come to buy my new book! Today must be his lucky day—I shall gift him a full set of my autobiographies!"
The flashes that had been aimed at Skyl instantly swung to Harry Potter. The crowd's cheers rushed after them too, swarming the savior all at once.
"Oh, poor Skyl," Percy said, stepping up to bump Skyl's shoulder with a grin that was downright wicked. "According to my authoritative statistics, you held out for an impressive twenty-two seconds in the 'Who's the Heartthrob' challenge. Now let's see how long the famous Harry Potter can last."
Lockhart posed Harry like a celebrity cardboard standee. The clerk holding Magical Me had it snatched away, and Lockhart stuffed the book into Harry's hands.
Skyl shrugged. "Looks like I won't even get the freebie."
"Skyl, we've got to show this Lockhart a thing or two," the twins said, united after they finished laughing. "This is just shameless."
"Aren't you worried Mrs. Weasley will be furious?"
"That's exactly why he needs a lesson."
Skyl nodded. "Alright. Then we'll play along."
As he spoke, he took out Mora's Book.
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