Disclaimer – Everything you recognise belongs to JKR. All the rest is simply me playing in her sandbox.

-oOoOo-

Hermione's Book Nook

Chapter 14

Wiggling slightly on the old coil of rope to something a bit more comfortable, Harry settled himself and his supplies, ready for some important work. The old board that he used as a desk in his secret cupboard was laid once more upon his lap. Quills, ink bottles and parchment were at the ready. On the floor beside him was the silver Goblin Postal Service box, placed so that the owl motif on top of could be seen even from the corner of his eye.

Knowing that he was ready for what he planned to do, Harry picked up the old copy of The Daily Prophet that he'd kept and flipped through it to the advertisements. His eye roamed down the page, picking out the three that interested him the most. Now it was simply a matter of crafting his own ads.

Dropping the folded-back paper into his lap, he leant back, hands interlocked behind his head. With unseeing eyes, he thought back over the last three days of lessons. Most, of course, simply picked up from where they'd left off the previous year.

Professor Flitwick was his usual effervescent self, managing to make charms seem almost more like a game than a learning experience. Professor Sinistra's midnight astronomy class the night before had unfortunately been cut short due to clouds obscuring the part of the sky that they were trying to observe.

Herbology had been slightly more challenging which only made sense to Harry. In all his years of gardening for Aunt Petunia, he'd never come across a plant or weed that decided to fight back and flat out refuse to do as it was told to like the baby mandrakes that they were dealing with in their very first lesson of the year. It'd taken not only ear-muffs to block out their cries, but also thick dragon-hide gloves to protect his fingers from their strong gums to survive the lesson.

History of Magic, Harry suspected, hadn't changed its formula for hundreds of years. Or, at least, since well before Professor Binn's death. The ghost's monotonous recital of the text book was enough to put almost anyone to sleep within the first five minutes. Harry himself had slept through most of the previous year's lessons.

But this year, he had a plan. Using a set of earmuffs not unlike the ones that they'd used in Herbology, he tuned out the dry delivery and used the lesson as an extra study period. Between their assigned book and the ones that he'd picked up in Diagon Alley, Harry planned on studying the subject at his own pace. He trusted that either Neville or Hermione would let him know when the bell went at the end of the lesson.

Transfiguration though, while remaining the same in what was expected, had an element of difference to it. Professor McGonagall remained the consummate stern task-master. When Harry trudged into the classroom, his eyes slid immediately to the far back table, a place that he felt instantly drawn to. His hesitation must have transmitted itself, though, for, no sooner had he slowed, than Hermione's chocolate eyes pierced his own and, with a small frown, she drew him forward to their usual table.

He may have been sitting where he was. He may have been taking his usual notes. He may have even been performing the required new spell (turning a shallow bowl of water into a mirror) with his usual focus and achieving it only seconds after Hermione, earning Gryffindor five points. But there was one thing that he was not doing. The entire time that he was in the classroom, including the start of the lesson when Professor McGonagall was in full lecture mode, he flat out refused to look at her.

Once upon a time, Professor McGonagall had been his favourite teacher. At Hermione's urging, he'd even taken some of his problems to her and felt a strange sort of warmth when she'd not only listened, but helped him. But that was before the summer holidays. Before she'd assured him that she'd look into it and that Headmaster Dumbledore would make sure that his relatives would treat him better. Before the locks on the door. Before the bars on the window. Before the cat-flap designed to allow a meagre portion of food. Before being locked up tight while his relatives simply drove away.

No more. He'd decided that long before coming back to Hogwarts. He'd trusted her and she'd proved herself someone who couldn't be trusted. Perhaps not to the extent that Dumbledore had, especially after he'd tried to force him back to the Dursleys for the last couple of days of the holiday, but still untrustworthy nonetheless.

However grudgingly it was, Harry had to admit that she was a good teacher. And she was his Head of House. But that didn't mean that he had any intention of interacting with her any more than he had to.

Hermione'd instantly picked up on the negative vibe that he was giving off. That was the main reason that he was once again hiding out in the tiny cupboard that he'd taken refuge in last year. That was one conversation that he was not looking forward to.

And then there'd been Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts …

-oOoOo-

"Welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts. Your teacher this year will be … me! Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, third class, honorary member of The Dark Force Defence League and five times winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award."

Here, the lilac cloaked professor with short plum cape artfully draped over one shoulder, smiled that charming smile. To Harry, it was all teeth, perfectly white teeth that sparkled with a ting that reminded him of that infuriating sparkle that Dumbledore always had in the corner of his eye.

Beside him, Hermione was leaning forward on her desk, her chin resting on one hand. She seemed captivated by the guy, a fact that he put down to those perfect teeth – her parents were dentists, after all.

"I trust that everyone here has a copy of the textbooks?" Professor Lockhart asked as he descended from the steps leading up to his office where he'd been posed for his introduction.

The mumbles and nods from the boys in the class were accompanied by the sighs and hair flipping created by the eager nods of the girls.

For his part, Harry looked at his pile of books on the desk. Over the last week of the holidays, he'd opened the first one, Gadding with Ghouls. By the time that he'd finished it, he'd been gobsmacked. Either Lockhart was the most accomplished Dark Forces Defence wizard in existence or he was the best fiction writer that he'd ever encountered. He simply found the book that polarising. Everything in it was so sensational, so amazing, that it was hard to believe.

He'd immediately picked up the second one Marauding with Monsters and then a third, a fourth and within two days, he'd read them all. He still didn't know what to think, whether to believe it all or not. Finally, he decided to wait until he'd met the man himself and decide from there.

While he'd been lost in his reminiscing, Lockhart had moved on to taking the roll. Every girl was given a wink, eliciting a giggle from said girl. Including Hermione. Harry stared at his best friend. He had no idea what had come over her. Meeting Neville's eyes on the far side of her, they shared a shake of their heads before turning back to Lockhart.

"Harry Potter," Lockhart smiled his toothy smile. "I'm sure the two of us have many stories to share. The joys of being a celebrity, eh, Harry?"

Harry stared. The joys of being a celebrity? That wasn't something that he'd encountered yet. Unless the guy found being stared at and whispered about all the time a joy?

"To begin our lesson, I thought that we'd start with a little quiz I've devised to see how many of you have read ahead in your texts."

Unlike every other teacher at Hogwarts who preferred to use their wand and a spell, Lockhart then picked up the pile of papers on his desk and walked around the room, handing out each one individually.

"You have forty minutes. Off you go," he instructed.

Running his eye down the page, Harry saw that every single question was about Lockhart himself. What's his favourite colour? What year was he first awarded Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award? On and on they went. After having read the books, he thought that he knew most of the answers, but none of the questions dealt with Defence Against the Dark Arts in the slightest. With a feeling of rising dread, he flipped the page over and scanned those questions. But every single one of them was simply more of the same.

Glancing back up at the teacher's desk, Harry found Lockhart perched on one corner; his plum-coloured cape draped over one shoulder as he smiled and winked at his students.

With a sigh of defeat, Harry picked up his quill and set to work.

The aftermath of the quiz was almost as horrendous as taking the quiz in the first place. Every single question had to be discussed and answered correctly, leaving a swooning Hermione in its wake as the sole person to get all one hundred and fifty questions correct.

"And now I believe that it's time to introduce you to the first of the dangerous creatures that you're likely to meet. But have no fear," Lockhart continued, "while you're with me in this classroom, no harm can befall you."

With a flourish, he whipped off the cover of the cage that Harry hadn't noticed sitting under the side windows.

"Cornish Pixies!" Seamus Finnegan's voice rose in disbelief above the rest of the class. "What's dangerous about Cornish Pixies?"

The cage in question was filled with dozens of tiny blue creatures. Each one was four or five inches tall with long fingers and toes and what looked to be gossamer thin wings on their backs.

"Well, Mister Finnegan, let's see what you make of a colony of Cornish Pixies then, hmm," Lockhart retorted before, after one last teeth-flashing smile, he unlocked the door to the cage with a key.

At once, pandemonium erupted throughout the classroom.

Tiny blue flashes zipped here and there, causing as much chaos as possible. Books, quills and ink bottles were tossed about. Half the students disappeared under their desks, only peeking out when they thought that it was safe. Girls' screams pierced the din as their hair was caught in long blue fingers and pulled. Neville and Su Li were swarmed on mass and lifted high into the air to soar above their classmates.

"A little more dangerous than one would first think judging on their appearance, wouldn't you say, Mister Finnegan?" Lockhart asked. "But not to fear. Let me show you how to deal with these pesky little fellows. Immobulus!"

The freezing charm, for that's what Harry recognised it as, zipped off across the classroom, completely missing the pixies and having no effect whatsoever. In fact the closest pixie was well over two metres away. Lockhart's second attempt at the charm, though, definitely had some effect.

The blue spell zipped off, completely missed the grouping of five pixies, before bouncing off of the brass light fixture. The rebounding spell caught Dean Thomas in the back, freezing him in place, that was until a pixie gleefully landed on him and knocked him flat on his face with a sickening crunch.

The pixies, of course, took having a spell fired at them with extreme prejudice. Seven of them angrily zipped at the professor and attacked him mercilessly. His wand was ripped from his fingers before being thrown out of the window. Sharp claws emerged and raked along one cheek, eliciting a shriek more shrill than any of the ones that the girls in the classroom had been making. Three grabbed handfuls of hair and got more than they bargained for when a blonde wig tore off in their hands.

That, it seemed, was a straw too far for the beleaguered Professor. With a parting, "I'll just leave you to pop them back into their cage, then," he vanished up the stairs and into his office with a slammed door.

"Well, come on then, he showed us what to do," Hermione rounded on her classmates.

"What? Run away and hide?" Ron replied, but only loud enough for Harry to hear.

With a nod of agreement followed by a sigh of resignation, Harry rose into a crouch and took careful aim.

"Immobulus."

-oOoOo-

Harry experienced an uncommon feeling of relief walking through the door to the potions lab. It wasn't that he was glad to be back in Snape's domain where he expected the first insult of the year the instant that Snape's black cloak billowed through the door. No, it was more that, after the fiasco that was Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions was a known quantity with, dare he even think it, a teacher that actually made sure that some learning took place.

The instant that Snape strode into the room, Harry flinched. Stealing a glance at the potion's master, he paused and waited. And waited some more. Snape quickly and efficiently took the roll. Bizarrely, there wasn't even a flicker of hesitation when Harry's name was called.

"You're now second years. That means that there'll be none of the useless hand-holding from last year," Snape said, his quiet voice holding the class' attention even in the face of the blatant questioning looks, particularly from the Gryffindors, as to when they'd ever received any kind of assistance.

A sharp jab at the board from Snape's wand produced the potion for the day.

"There are your instructions. Get to work."

As Harry started forward to collect the extra ingredients from the stores cupboard, his eyes inadvertently met Snape's. An imperceptible nod came from Snape's head before he looked away and strode off towards his Slytherins.

And that was it as far as interaction between Harry and Professor Snape went for the entire lesson. Even when Snape was billowing around, peering and sneering at the progress the class was making, he avoided Harry's own cauldron. The closest he ever came was when he gave Hermione beside him and Neville behind him a once over.

By the end of the lesson, Harry had produced a potion that was almost identical to the shade of green that the control potion on Snape's desk was.

As he walked out, Harry couldn't help but look back. Once again, Snape seemed to instinctively avoid looking at him. With a shrug, he continued. Whatever the reason for it, he wasn't going to complain. And, as he and Neville had already proven the year before, when left alone, he was quite good at potion making.

-oOoOo-

With a small shake, Harry came back to the present.

Before the school year, he'd been considering hiring three private tutors for himself. In fact, he'd already written up the ad for The Daily Prophet that he wanted to place for what he'd decided to call Magical Cultures of the World. Whether or not he'd be able to find someone to tutor him (and perhaps even one or two of his friends) in not only different magical communities from different countries, but also covering topics like house elves, goblins, centaurs and other species, he had no idea.

But of the other two tutors, he decided to scrap one. If Professor Snape truly had changed how he was going to deal with him, then Harry was content to continue in his class. He figured that, even with Snape ignoring him, he was still likely to pick up some tips and tricks from the potion master.

Defence Against the Dark Arts, though, was a completely different matter. Quirrell's stutter made understanding anything he'd said problematic at best, so Harry wasn't feeling confident that he'd learnt everything that he could last year. And after Lockhart's disaster of a lesson, he highly doubted that he'd learn anything this year.

Picking up his quill, he slowly began drafting away.

Wanted.

Tutor in the subject of Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Instruction will be given to a 2nd year Hogwarts student(s) covering both first and second year topics in the subject area at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Please apply with a list of qualifications, credentials and references.

All correspondence to be addressed to Harry Potter.

Harry smiled as he read through his seventh draft. He particularly liked the 's' that he'd included in case Neville wanted to join him as well. Somehow, Harry doubted that Hermione would want to leave learning from Lockhart.

A steady pulse of white light caught his attention out of the corner of his eye causing him to drop the parchment. Eagerly he snatched up the Goblin Postal Service box. If he was right, inside should be a letter from Madam Bones telling him what had happened at Pettigrew's trial.