While sharing a plate of fried dough sticks dipped in soy milk with Tom, Viktor casually flipped open today's Daily Prophet.
The front-page headline screamed in bold, enlarged type:
TWO WORLD-FAMOUS AUTHORS JOIN HOGWARTS FACULTY!
Below the headline were photos of himself and Tom.
Right beside his own picture was a man in extravagantly flamboyant robes, hair styled to perfection, flashing that trademark dazzling, too-perfect smile.
Viktor's eyebrow twitched slightly at the familiar peacock.
Gilderoy Lockhart. So this was the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor Dumbledore had hired this year.
No wonder the Headmaster had said the man's actual skill didn't match his reputation.
Viktor was quite familiar with this Ravenclaw senior—who had graduated the very year Viktor himself was expelled.
Not because they were both famous authors and honorary members of the same anti-Dark-arts alliance.
But because of Lockhart's utterly ridiculous antics back when he was a student at Hogwarts.
These included (but were by no means limited to):
- Founding the school newspaper solely to print his own name over and over;
- Carving a twenty-foot-tall signature into the Quidditch pitch;
- Projecting a giant portrait of himself into the sky above the castle in imitation of the Dark Mark;
- Sending himself eight hundred Valentine's cards, resulting in the Great Hall breakfast being buried under a blizzard of feathers.
In Viktor's memory, Lockhart had always been a highly talented wizard who simply loved being the centre of attention—a pure peacock.
Beyond that… not much impression.
As for Lockhart's books—Viktor had read them.
The stories were exciting, sure.
But the more you looked, the less they felt like the work of one consistent person.
There were glaring contradictions in the details, yet the content itself was undeniably gripping. Viktor had even picked up a few genuinely useful little tricks from them.
If Lockhart really possessed even half the skill and flair he described in those pages, he would indeed be a formidable wizard.
But judging by Dumbledore's tone, Lockhart wasn't particularly proficient in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Viktor's guess: most of those tales were hearsay, embellished, and outright fabricated.
He flipped through the rest of the paper quickly. Nothing else caught his interest.
Three big bites finished breakfast.
Whatever Lockhart was like, as long as the man didn't come looking for trouble, Viktor didn't care.
A casual wave of his wand cleaned the dishes.
He strolled to the wardrobe, picked out a comfortable-looking hunting jacket, and put it on.
By the time Viktor was dressed, Tom had already polished off his share and was standing in front of the mirror in a matching jacket, basking in the mirror's endless compliments.
Viktor grabbed the suitcase, tugged the still-preening Tom along, and the two of them drifted out the window on a lazy white cloud.
Once outside the anti-Apparition zone around Hogwarts, space twisted—and they vanished.
......
London, Surrey, Little Whinging, Privet Drive.
Space warped once more. Viktor and Tom appeared on the quiet street.
The moment they materialised, Viktor's gaze was drawn—as if by instinct—to a particular two-storey house.
He led Tom toward the door marked number 4.
The lawn in front was impeccably trimmed.
Viktor double-checked the house number, then straightened his slightly rumpled clothes from the Apparition. Tom did the same (somehow).
He pressed the doorbell.
A thin woman in an apron opened the door.
Seeing her, Viktor offered a warm smile.
"Good morning, Mrs Dursley. My name is Viktor Scamander. I'm currently—"
He didn't even finish the introduction.
A sharp gasp cut him off.
"Scamander?! As in the Scamander who wrote Magical Creatures Here?!"
Petunia's face was pure shock.
Viktor's smile grew even brighter.
"If no one else has published a book with that title, then yes."
"Oh my goodness, it really is you! My son is a huge fan—he's read every word. But why are you…?"
It was then that Petunia noticed the impeccably dressed blue-grey cat standing upright at Viktor's feet—in the exact same style of jacket.
Her expression shifted: surprise → confusion → suspicion.
Viktor spoke gently.
"Here's the situation, Mrs Dursley. Besides being an author, I'm also a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm here today because Harry has run into a small problem that needs my attention."
"Hogwarts!"
"Yes, ma'am. Please don't be alarmed. I'll resolve the issue quickly and leave. And perhaps, as a thank-you, I could give your son a signed set of Magical Creatures Here—personally inscribed by me."
The word "Hogwarts" drained the colour from Petunia's face. Her lips pressed into a thin, tight line.
Her hand instinctively moved to slam the door.
But Viktor's calm tone—and that promise of a personally signed book—froze her fingers mid-motion.
"Dudley… he really does love your books," she said, voice dry. Her eyes darted warily between Viktor and Tom.
"But Harry… that boy doesn't need any of that! He doesn't need—"
"Mrs Dursley," Viktor's voice remained steady, carrying a reassuring weight.
"I understand your concerns completely. Harry's situation is a little unusual, but I'm only here to make a simple adjustment. Everything will stay safe and quiet. On my honour, I won't teach him a single spell, and I won't leave behind anything 'unusual'."
A flicker of complex emotions crossed Petunia's face—fear, revulsion, and a carefully buried thread of curiosity.
She glanced back into the house, then lowered her voice urgently.
"Vernon… my husband… he doesn't like… this sort of thing. You'll have to be quick—before Dudley and Vernon get back. And," she stared hard at Tom, "it… he won't cause trouble, will he?"
"Tom is more polite than most people," Viktor replied with a smile.
On cue, Tom raised one front paw in a gentlemanly little salute and dipped his head.
Only then did Petunia reluctantly step aside.
"Please come in. Harry is in his room…"
She led them upstairs to a small, nondescript cupboard door under the stairs.
Petunia knocked sharply.
"Harry. Come out. There's… a visitor for you."
The door creaked open.
A skinny boy poked his head out—old, cracked glasses, messy black hair half-hiding a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.
His vivid green eyes widened in surprise and confusion—especially when they landed on Viktor and the impeccably dressed cat standing upright at his feet.
"Harry Potter," Viktor said, extending a hand with genuine warmth. "I'm Viktor Scamander, the new professor at Hogwarts. And this is Tom."
"P-Professor… hello. And… Tom."