From the moment Dumbledore and the others boarded the plane, the No-Maj gentlemen from the Human Union Department never stopped dropping hints that they were eager to cooperate.
In truth, the arrest of Lockhart had only ever been a move to lure out more wizards—like fishing. Hold the bait in your hand, and the school will come.
Whether Lockhart lived or died didn't really matter. If he died, the mainstream modern nations would treat it like purging poison, and within a week or two they'd crush his influence down to the absolute minimum. Capital would squeeze out one last wave of profit from the heat of his death, using it to sell products.
But if the wizarding world stayed unmoved and refused to take a clear stance, then Lockhart would have to keep living.
Dumbledore stepping forward was exactly what they wanted: a fish biting willingly. He politely refused every request for him to take a No-Maj position.
"To be honest," the No-Maj minister of the Human Union Department said with striking sincerity, "Lockhart is only a trivial person in the wizarding world, but you are the greatest wizard of the twentieth century. In this chaotic era, we hope you can take command of the situation and shoulder the responsibility of communication between wizarding society and all humankind."
"I'm very old," Dumbledore replied, just as firm as ever. "I only wanted to come and see my student. Even if he's foolish, even if his record is disgraceful—if there's even the smallest chance he can still be saved, I will seize that hope."
"You believe he's innocent?"
"There is no evidence that proves he is guilty." Dumbledore looked the high-ranking No-Maj straight in the eye. "You won't get what you want from me."
After the first day of the tribunal ended, representatives from the Human Union Department came again.
"Mr. Dumbledore," the official said with a broad smile, "it seems you've changed your mind? You've completely abandoned Lockhart's defense."
"Lockhart's charges are something you stitched together yourselves. I acknowledge your skill."
"But your student isn't worth saving."
They led the wizards into a small monitoring room. On the screens was Lockhart's cell.
At that very moment, Lockhart pulled a plastic dinner knife from beside his bed, hands shaking as he fumbled at his clothes.
The camera was aimed right at him. Lockhart knew perfectly well it was there to watch him, so he deliberately turned his body toward it.
"What is he doing now?"
"He's self-harming. Trying to delay the trial." The monitor operator let out a scornful laugh.
Dumbledore watched Lockhart struggle to jab the plastic knife into his stomach until it finally scratched a small cut and drew a little blood. Then Lockhart stood up, pressed the wound toward the camera like he was presenting it, and began to cry theatrically, fishing for sympathy.
A wizard, at this moment, looked more pathetic than a circus clown.
"Enough." The headmaster shook his head.
The Human Union Department representative heard the grief in Dumbledore's voice and immediately pressed the advantage. "Magic will enter the mainstream sooner or later. When it does, there may be war—tens of millions will die. The world needs a leader, a standard. If a clown like that guides the world, what kind of consequences will follow? If you just nod, we can release him immediately."
Dumbledore held his ground. "I don't have the ability to guide the world. You simply want to buy me—to make me your mouthpiece while you expand into the wizarding world, the way you do in the Global South: manufacturing disaster and war."
"No-Maj sir, we usually call it democracy."
"Then keep it for yourselves. I'm going back." As he said, Dumbledore chose salvation.
On the second day, court opened on time. The final judgment that would decide Lockhart's fate began.
In front of televisions around the world, humanity fell silent.
The camera found the defense counsel: Dumbledore, hair and beard gone white.
The vast, diverse ecosystem of human civilization gathered in that hall. Across an Earth of five hundred million square kilometers, it was nothing more than a cluster of multicolored dust on the tip of a needle, deciding the life and death of another speck of dust.
"My client, Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart, does not refute any of the charges you have ruled against him," the old headmaster said evenly. "He confesses to all of them."
The courtroom erupted—gasps, shouting, furious murmurs. The judge hammered the gavel and shouted, "Order!" but it did almost nothing. The noise only surged.
"Dumbledore, you bastard!" Lockhart screamed and thrashed under the restraint of No-Maj soldiers. "You rotten old corpse! You son of a—mmph! Mmph!" His mouth was stuffed shut.
"Order! Order!"
The chief judge was nearly panting. Just as he prepared to deliver a sentence, Dumbledore spoke again.
"Your Honor, I have only one question. If you can give me a definite answer, then my defense ends here. My question is this: will these charges you have woven for the defendant be enacted as written law and promoted internationally? If these charges exist only to destroy Mr. Lockhart, then this verdict contains no justice at all."
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
No one could answer Dumbledore's question. In the end, everyone accepted what that silence meant. On legal grounds, the trial against Lockhart was declared adjourned indefinitely.
Lockhart's face changed instantly. The man who'd been screaming obscenities a moment ago now clung to Dumbledore's arm with intimate warmth.
"My dear Dumbledore, I knew you'd save me. I never doubted your brilliance. Truly—please forgive my earlier nonsense. None of that was real. Ha! Your reasoning was magnificent. Why didn't you bring it out from the start? I mean… honestly, I'd already thought it through myself."
Dumbledore gave him a look. "If you had truly thought it through, you wouldn't have ended up here. Lockhart—what did you do that made the entire world notice you?"
"Haha, nothing," Lockhart said, dodging sideways. "Oh, I should go now, shouldn't I? I can leave, right?"
That day, New York was bright beneath a flawless sky.
Delegations from every country—dressed in all manner of strange formal wear—filed out of the doors, followed by Gilderoy Lockhart and the British delegation.
Lockhart's smile had never looked as natural, relaxed, and hearty as it did today. He stepped forward on his own, faced the cameras, and greeted the audience of the world. The crowds waiting in the streets and plazas roared for him, shouting, "Long live Lockhart!"
A Human Union Department staffer, standing beside the minister, asked unwillingly, "We're just letting this bastard off that easily? I swear this disaster has something to do with him. Everything about him screams ulterior motives."
"We can only let him go," the minister said, light and pleased. "But it's fine. We didn't land the big fish, but we've secured a fertile nest. Countless fry will swim in on their own. Starting today, treat Lockhart as the world's uncrowned king—respect him from the heart, and use him without the slightest hesitation."
"But can we control him?"
"He's afraid of something. Haven't you noticed?"
"That student from the magic school. There has to be some dirty secret here!" The staffer suddenly understood.
"Exactly. Perhaps we should speak with the child. Perhaps we'll learn something interesting."
"I'll arrange it."
At the front of the plaza crowd, Lockhart walked up to Skyl. Just like he had once done at Flourish and Blotts, he put on a show of intimacy and slung an arm around the young man's shoulders.
The flashbulbs recording the moment were brighter than the sun.
"Ladies and gentlemen! You may be unfamiliar with this handsome face, but if I tell you where he comes from, you'll be shocked. As everyone knows, I was awarded the Order of Merlin, Third Class for bravely fighting dark creatures. And the young man beside me is a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class—hailed as Hogwarts' youngest master of Transfiguration, the astonishing Skyl! A truly remarkable young wizard."
"Skyl! Skyl!"
"Wow, Second Class—that's incredible!"
"Little wizard, show us something!"
Tens of thousands of people were cheering for Skyl. It was the sort of scene that could make anyone float.
"Young man," Lockhart murmured into Skyl's ear, his breath carrying a faint, sour stench of spit, "believe me—we're going to be famous. Fame is influence, and influence is power. This world belongs to me, but it belongs to you too. Think about it. I'll make sure your name is remembered forever, all over the world. You'll be the next me."
There was one sentence he didn't say.
Unless Skyl exposed the truth—then they would both be remembered in infamy.
Threats and temptations, all folded into that casual whisper.
Skyl, of course, wasn't going to expose anything. He replied calmly, "Mr. Lockhart, don't forget—you still owe me an autobiography."
At the time, Lockhart was baffled, convinced it was nothing but an offhand remark.
Act Two, complete.
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