The moment the plane touched down, they were surrounded by reporters.
The British delegation descended the airstairs, with Dumbledore at the very front. The old wizard cut a graceful figure, like a soft purple cloud drifting along.
For the Magical Congress of the United States of America, the twentieth century's greatest wizard was naturally a top-tier priority. But for the Muggles (called No-Maj in North America), the excitement was even more explosive.
This was only the second wizard ever to step fully into the public eye—and, by reputation, the most powerful living one at that. If the wizarding world was an iceberg, then the No-Maj had just caught sight of the deepest, sharpest point beneath the waterline.
To cater to what No-Maj imagined a "real wizard" should look like, Dumbledore deliberately dressed in an old-fashioned style: a long purple robe, a silver scarf Gandalf had given him wrapped around his neck, and a blue pointed hat perched on his head. Among the reporters there were Lord of the Rings fans, and one blurted out excitedly, "I knew everything Tolkien wrote was real! Wizards really dress like that—Middle-earth is real too!"
"So he's a purple-robed wizard? Don't make me laugh."
There were still three days before the trial began. The delegation stayed in a hotel arranged by the No-Maj authorities. During that time there were no sightseeing breaks, no leisure activities, nothing even remotely recreational—either meeting in the hotel, or meeting somewhere else. On the second day they went to the prison to visit Gilderoy Lockhart.
The man looked radiant.
When the delegation reached the door of the visitation room, a wave of reporters had just finished filing out. Judging by their energized expressions, Lockhart had probably fed them something sensational again.
From inside came Lockhart's voice: "I'm tired. No more interviews. Don't bother calling me out for anyone. I have nothing to say."
Dumbledore walked in at an unhurried pace.
A glass window separated them—Dumbledore on this side, Lockhart on the other.
"Professor." Lockhart looked startled at first, then broke into a beaming, smug smile as he sized the old man up. "So you're my defense counsel. You must get me acquitted. I may have a few… moral blemishes, but I'm still an upright, innocent, decent man."
Dumbledore gave a thin smile and shifted two steps to the side, revealing Skyl behind him.
The instant Lockhart saw Skyl, his entire body started to tremble. Even his world-famous charming smile couldn't hold itself together.
"Y-you… hello! Long time no see! I mean—how have you been lately? Is your studying going well?" Lockhart raised his voice and poured on the sweetness, trying to win Skyl over. "Young man, I pray to Merlin every day that you'll stay healthy and safe."
They all knew Lockhart's real crime wasn't that he'd used the Memory Charm on other wizards.
It was that he hadn't managed to use it on Skyl.
As long as that witness pointed him out in court, Lockhart would never escape the two hundred and seventy-odd years' worth of firing-squad sentences waiting for him.
The charge—Crimes Against Human Civilization—had never once been pinned on anyone since human civilization began. In fact, the charge itself had practically been invented just to make sure Lockhart could be convicted.
Skyl stared at Lockhart for a moment, then said meaningfully, "Fame really is a good thing."
Even though they weren't Lockhart, these past few days in the No-Maj world had let them taste what it felt like to be famous.
No matter where they went, the moment they stepped outside, reporters swarmed them. And once the reporters arrived, crowds followed. Someone in the Human Union Department joked they were like the calm center of a hurricane—wherever they moved, the people moved with them, a full-on spectacle of cheering and jostling.
"Do some magic!"
"Hey, wizard guy! Show us something!"
"Let us see the real deal!"
That was what they shouted.
The department's staff had warned them in advance: no using magic in public. Any problems would be handled by the department.
But when the streets became so packed you couldn't take a single step, even the department's security was powerless. One surge of the crowd was enough to bowl them over.
Plenty of kids were squeezed into the mass as well, nearly unable to breathe, yet still shrieking for the wizards to do a trick.
Dumbledore crouched down and smiled at a crying child. He lifted his hand lightly and set off a burst of magical fireworks right there in the street—crackling, brilliant, splashing the air with color. Every blossom of light that fell to the ground turned into a tiny glowing animal that darted and hopped between the gaps of people's feet. Adults tilted their heads back to watch the fireworks overhead; children lowered their gazes to chase the living sparks below. Different layers, same wonder.
Reporters captured it all. No-Maj TV called it the New York Miracle, while wizarding papers more discreetly scolded Dumbledore's recklessness. When the news made it back to Hogwarts, the students in the Great Hall practically erupted in celebration.
And it wasn't only ordinary people chasing excitement. The ones who sought them out most relentlessly were business magnates, desperate to unveil a new wizard spokesperson. Compared with scandal-soaked Lockhart, "the twentieth century's greatest wizard" was a much better marketing hook. Brand managers came in droves—Coca-Cola, Rolls-Royce, Balenciaga… names everyone knew, all gathering in New York to stir up a storm.
To get what they wanted, they pulled every trick in the book—mostly the trick called money. With billionaire charm and bottomless checkbooks, they greased palms from top to bottom in the hotel where the wizards were staying. The first people to learn the day's itinerary weren't department staff at all, but these corporate fixers.
They waved checks and told Dumbledore to name his price. If the old wizard nodded, money would flood into his account faster than a dam bursting.
Dumbledore only smiled faintly. Money, huh? Did they really think he was some scavenger off the slopes of the Lonely Mountain? Someone ought to ask the Federal Reserve's gold vaults whether they wanted to try competing with him.
When it became clear the old wizard couldn't be bought, the crowd switched targets to the other wizards traveling with him. They got creative: luxury cars, beautiful companions, rare wines, exotic treasures—everything imaginable found a way into the hotel. Sign the contract, and anything could be "approved."
The funny part was that commercial contract law had basically become a dead document by now, yet these tycoons were still trying to keep the whole idea of agreements alive. Since August, global stock markets had been lurching more violently than a tap dancer's heartbeat. It wasn't only companies going bankrupt—some countries were openly admitting they couldn't keep going.
All this glittering prosperity looked like everyone still refusing to wake from an old, fading dream, forcing themselves to keep talking in their sleep.
And somehow those half-conscious mutterings really did keep the collective machine running—especially in wealthy modern countries.
People pretended nothing had happened, and life could still go on. Sure, some jumped off buildings, but most people's day-to-day hadn't changed much. Prices hadn't swung too wildly either—after all, wheat in a field and cattle in a pen don't suddenly turn into Lockhart.
A number of Ministry representatives nearly collapsed under the No-Maj "sugar-coated" bribes—but the offers just didn't land. Give them luxury cars and they couldn't drive; wizards ride broomsticks. Offer them famous beauties and they didn't dare accept; nobody wanted to end up on tomorrow's front page. The rest of No-Maj temptations weren't much more appealing, and fine wine and gourmet food weren't exactly rare novelties to wizards.
Without a gift that truly moved hearts, the big brands could only watch those endorsement contracts slip through their fingers.
Skyl was also a prime target for the crazed managers. Young as he was, they assumed his willpower would be weak. If he took one stroll through a hotel corridor or lobby, he'd run into a dozen actresses. To tease the "young guy," they staged elaborate meet-cutes—tripping "by accident," asking for directions, playing the helpless foreign beauty who "couldn't communicate" and needed help—套路 after套路, fancier than any TikTok skit.
All these actresses shared one trait: the moment you got along with them and the conversation warmed up, the topic would snap into sales mode—like a mid-video ad break that hijacks the whole vibe without warning.
Skyl's favorite pastime these past two days was chatting with them. He had a real talent for sweet talk—enough to make them laugh and blush and sway. And then, right before the conversation could pivot into product pitching, he'd cut it off and slip away. Watching the smiles vanish from their faces in an instant made Skyl's grin lift shamelessly high.
Those pleasant days lasted right up until Lockhart's trial began.
Dumbledore, as the defendant's counsel, truly did understand how to get someone acquitted. But since the defendant was Lockhart, Dumbledore somehow managed to perform like Lionel Hutz arguing a case on his very worst day: a crime that should've earned a two-hundred-dollar fine could somehow become a two-year suspended death sentence by the time he was done.
In the International Tribunal, facing each charge the Human Union Department laid out, that rotten old man either stayed silent—or flat-out confessed.
Lockhart's face went from rosy and full at the opening of court, to pickled-cucumber pale halfway through, to finally looking like he'd been drying inside a coffin for a decade—he could've wandered into Skyrim to cameo as a Nord draugr without needing makeup.
Television stations around the world broadcast the trial live.
Billions of people watched Lockhart's fate unfold.
No matter how Lockhart ended, this was unprecedented—maybe even a once-in-all-history, never-to-be-repeated Trial of the Century.
Damn it… where's the three-post-a-day legend when you need him?!
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