HP: Fairy Tale Wizard - 165

Chapter 165: Stories Within Threads (Part One)

"Good morning, chirp."

A morning that wasn't particularly good began with a peculiar bird's call.

Sterling woke up in a foul mood, rubbing his head. He hadn't visited Avalon in quite a while. After he completed the "rewind," he received a small note from Vivian, transmitted through Meryl's vault as before.

The note instructed him in unusually harsh terms not to set foot in Avalon for two months.

Since it was Vivian's request, Sterling naturally wouldn't go behind her back.

He'd never spent this long away from Avalon. Although less than a month had passed since then, Sterling was already deeply uncomfortable with it. This manifested as an irritable mood every morning when he woke.

When he'd just returned from Hogwarts to the "residence"—Sterling refused to admit that a house devoid of Andrew's traces was home, even though they weren't living together. Eight-tenths of the things in that house contained stories between him and Andrew. Physically and psychologically, it couldn't be called "Sterling's home."

He couldn't sense anything related to Andrew, so he could barely function in that house. It felt like sleeping in a shell.

In any case, when he'd just returned to the "residence," he'd nearly caused a fire with his magical flames because he wasn't used to Robin's presence when it called him. But now he'd placed Robin in the "friends" category and could barely suppress his bad temper in front of it.

"Good morning, good morning, good morning, good mor—" Sterling rapidly molded magic into a small hand and pinched Robin's beak shut.

"What is it? If you're calling me so urgently, something must be wrong. If there's nothing, you won't eat today. You said you don't need to eat; eating is just for psychological satisfaction. So this isn't animal abuse—it's reasonable punishment."

Sterling leisurely changed out of his sleepwear and began washing up. He'd randomly found a hotel near the Thames. The conditions were decent, though the price was slightly expensive. But for Sterling, money wasn't something worth worrying over. Between the royalties from being a young, celebrated author and his access to Meryl's vault—a dragon witch's treasure vault—one could only imagine the riches within.

By the time he finished washing, he realized belatedly that Robin hadn't mentioned what was wrong yet. Did it really come to play pranks?

Then Sterling locked eyes with Robin, whose mouth was still pinched shut by the small magical hand, its eyes wide as saucers.

"Actually, I was just training your ability to stay silent. You know? There's an old saying that says 'silence is golden.' I was doing this for your own good."

"Do you think I believe that, chirp?"

Robin vented its frustration by flying to Sterling's head and mussing his already dishevelled hair into an even worse bird's nest.

Sterling didn't mind. He opened the door and retrieved the London Daily that he'd pre-ordered from the front desk yesterday, then sat down in a chair to read it calmly.

"Thames River Upheaval... Experts Don't Rule Out Extraterrestrial Possibility. We urge all citizens to actively report suspected extraterrestrials, contributing to protecting our shared, beautiful Earth. Send submissions to—; selections will be published in the next issue and announced in the following issue. First place wins a seven-day trip to France as a reward..."

Quite a boring sales gimmick. People who bought this issue would find it hard to avoid the next two issues, regardless of whether they submitted or just watched the show. The newspaper had guaranteed increased circulation.

This incident was also recorded in Andrew's memory. Wait? He'd remembered something about Andrew again—quickly encoding it with Scholar Magic into his magic to prevent forgetting.

"It's Hermione, chirp."

Robin dragged over the communication badge from Utopia, pointing to the small corner marked "3."

"It's been glowing for a long time before you woke up. I didn't answer, but it glowed again later. It felt like something important, chirp."

Sterling nodded. Hermione wouldn't play pranks like that. He sent the badge's signal back to Hermione.

The badge barely rang before it was quickly answered. Hermione's familiar extremely fast speech pattern echoed through the room.

"Oh, Sterling, you finally woke up! I heard from Terry that you're recently in central London. I was thinking of inviting you to our house sometime. I have to warn you—you should stay far away from the Thames! My father was suddenly magically transported to shore yesterday when he was coming back from a friend's house through Westminster Bridge, and the entire bridge was instantly destroyed!"

"I mean, you should be careful for your safety. This morning, there were people from the Ministry looking for Father. If I hadn't pulled out my wand to prove I'm a witch, our family's memories would have all been wiped! That woman said it was probably a very powerful Dark wizard who did this. You absolutely must be careful in the city centre."

"Also, I'm afraid I can't invite you to our house now. Mother and Father are terrified. I need to comfort them. I can't host you... But Terry mentioned yesterday when we were discussing Transfiguration essays that he'd be coming to find you recently. You might have something to look forward to?"

Before she finished speaking, Sterling completely couldn't find a place to insert a word.

Sterling felt that after Hermione learned more magic, she'd definitely become a duelling expert. Think about it—her opponent would barely finish saying "Disarm" before Hermione's "Stupefy" was already hitting their face, and she'd immediately be starting the next spell.

"Thank you for your concern..." Sterling had just thought to explain that he was actually involved in last night's incident when he heard the sound of something breaking on the other end.

"Oh, Mother dropped a bowl. Sorry, Sterling, I have to go help Mother clean it up. They're really terrified. Father was so close to where the bridge collapsed. If he hadn't been transported to the shore, Father might have..."

"Click." The call was disconnected.

Sterling lowered the badge and shook his head. Hermione was still that same whirlwind of energy and impetuousness. No wonder she possessed both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor qualities. She was the most Gryffindor of all Ravenclaws. Sterling believed that if she'd been sorted into Gryffindor, she'd also be the most Ravenclaw of all Gryffindors.

"What are we doing today? Should we go look at that weird thing again, chirp?"

"No. And even if we wanted to look, we probably couldn't. If the Ministry isn't completely stupid, they'd definitely investigate the Thames. That black plane was directly below the Westminster Bridge break. They've probably already cordoned it off by now."

Robin twisted uncomfortably on Sterling's head, adjusting itself to fit better against his scalp.

"So our investigation is stuck, chirp?"

"On the contrary—exactly the opposite. The harvest I get today will far exceed the past two days. If we're lucky, maybe tomorrow we can go straight for the kill."

Sterling spread open his hand. A large handful of colourful threads appeared in his palm.

Of course, Robin couldn't see them. In its vision, its master had simply sunk into his own world again, picking and choosing from empty air as though holding something tangible, turning it over and examining it repeatedly.

Sterling set aside the story about the black plane. Sometimes you have to pinch the soft fruit first. He'd start with Lockhart's memories.

Although he seemed unrelated to Andrew, Sterling felt that the threads in his lines were so complexly coloured that he must have some secret. Perhaps it would give him some insights or inspiration?

Wrapped within the rainbow-coloured stories was a faint grey story that he carefully unravelled, starting with the less important ones.

Sterling randomly pulled out a yellow thread and pressed it to his forehead.

Immediately, a fresh malty scent mixed with intense alcohol vapour reached his nose, clouding his mind in a hazy intoxication.

Sterling looked up. This was a dim tavern. The tavern's decoration didn't look like English style—it resembled their old rival, Ireland instead. Other patrons' meaningless mutterings were filled with Irish accents.

Across from him was Gilderoy Lockhart, pouring drinks.

Oh? The story on Lockhart's threads... Lockhart himself wasn't the first-person perspective?

Could it be a relationship where they'd entrust each other with their lives? A friend's dying wish causing Lockhart to preserve the memory this way, keeping them alive in his stories?

Sterling pondered these thoughts, but the story's progression didn't pause for his contemplation.

"My good friend, tell me again about that vampire. How did you manage not to let him harm you?"

"Oh, Lockhart, I must say this isn't a simple matter. Varren has never been able to control his vampiric hunger well. Whenever he's starving and we can't provide him fresh blood in time, even our genuine friendship can't stop him from showing me his fangs..."

"Sterling" seemed like someone who normally drank only mild beverages. Under Lockhart's onslaught of strong alcohol, his consciousness grew hazy, and he didn't even know what he was saying anymore.

But Sterling's consciousness was perfectly clear. He tasted something strange in the alcohol. A very faint, very subtle taste—the scent of powdered Mooncalf claw.

This was the material Vitam once had him observe when learning. Mooncalves favoured animals loyal to love, at least in their dining preferences. But because of this characteristic, their materials possessed some potion components of "loyalty," and Mooncalf claw powder was a primary ingredient of Veritaserum.

Veritaserum diluted once, then diluted again with strong alcohol. The magical signature was suppressed to its minimum. Originally colourless and odourless, with only a subtle taste, that taste was now completely drowned out by the alcohol's punch.

So Lockhart was actually quite skilled with potions. He knew how to administer drugs this way.

"Oh, my friend, could you tell me more? How did you deal with him? Tie him up? Or simply cast a spell on him?"

"Lockhart! Varren is my brother! I don't want you speaking of him so contemptuously. Don't harbour prejudice against him as you would a dark creature."

The twice-diluted Veritaserum clearly couldn't force "Sterling" to answer every question, but it could ensure whatever he said was truthful and amplify his desire to "confess."

Lockhart clearly wasn't satisfied. He smiled and poured "Sterling" another glass of wine.

"Valandar, I've had a bit too much to drink. I apologize to you."

"Sterling" dazedly picked up the glass and drank it. Sterling sensed perfectly clearly—this was mostly undiluted Veritaserum with just a touch of alcohol.

The story ended there abruptly. Sterling, having extracted from the thread, had already made a bold discovery.

Although he hadn't thought highly of Lockhart's novels, he had read several of the bestsellers before entering Hogwarts as entertainment. The one that left the deepest impression was "Travelling with a Vampire."

Not because of the prose or the excellence of the story, but because of the jarring disconnect between dialogue and action. The protagonist Lockhart's dialogue with the vampire Varren was full of contempt for dark creatures and near-arrogant confidence in himself, but the actions were the opposite, showing genuine feeling to Sterling's eye.

Yes, the vampire in "Travelling with a Vampire" was also named Varren. Quite a coincidence, right?

Whether it was truly a coincidence, pulling out one more story would tell him.

Sterling randomly pulled out a red thread amidst Robin's noise about whether "the master's finally lost it and should I contact Mr. Flamel to check his head, chirp?"

This time, upon opening his eyes, he was in a simple, small wooden cottage. "Sterling" lay in a deck chair, utterly powerless, his head feeling empty, as though his skull had been opened and everything inside exposed raw.

Lockhart sat across from him again, but this time he was positioned quite comfortably, a smile on his face that made Sterling deeply uncomfortable.

In his hand was a notebook, and a self-writing quill wrote across the paper at a dizzying speed.

"So, Mr. Carter, how did you finally subdue that maddened werewolf? I hope you can describe it in as much detail as possible. What did you say? What did you do? What magic did you use? Tell me everything."

"Sterling" seemed to have become a puppet entirely, describing in a hollow voice how he'd fought desperately with a werewolf in a dark room and finally used the humanoid restoration spell he'd studied half his life to transform it back to human form.

Was this... the Imperius Curse from the three Unforgivable Curses?

No, Sterling had seen descriptions of the Imperius Curse in a very obscure book published by a retired Auror. It felt like floating in the sky, with a foggy head, hearing voices, and involuntarily obeying them. Mr. Carter's performance was different.

Sterling caught sight of several empty bottles on a nearby table and grimaced.

So it was undiluted Veritaserum. And not just that—this dosage, if administered all at once...

"Stop. This experience is boring. Readers wouldn't buy an ending story like this. Add some tragedy, add some love and hate, and we need more magic, blood splashing... Finally, a humanoid restoration spell is quite a nice thing. But with such a long string of spells and theory, that damned editor would suspect I'm scamming the royalties... and it's boring anyway. Readers just need to know such a thing exists. Delete all the theory and spells!"

Lockhart frowned, scratching at his notebook. Finally, he noticed Mr. Carter.

He approached Carter and performed an awkwardly improper bow, then drew his wand, pointing it at Carter's head.

"Thank you for greatly supporting Lockhart's novels. Well, to ensure my 'legend' is absolutely foolproof, completely my own... I'm sure you'd be absolutely willing to help me with this little favour, right?"

"Obliviate."