Professor McGonagall's classes were always extremely hard work, but today seemed especially difficult. Everything Arabella had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of her head during the summer. She was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all she managed to do was give her beetle a lot of exercises as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding the end of her wand.

Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his snapped wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally smashed his beetle into nothing but a dark smear with his elbow and had to ask for a new one with a bright red face. McGonagall wasn't pleased at all.

Relieved to hear the lunch bell, Arabella's brain felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the classroom except for Hermione, her, and Ron, who was whacking his wand furiously on the desk.

"Stupid— useless— thing—"

"Write home for another one," Hermione suggested as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker.

"Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back?" asked Ron snarkily, stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag.

"It's your own fault your wand got snapped—" he said, imitating his mother, "it's your own reckless fault for its current condition!"

They went down to lunch, where Ron's mood was not improved by Hermione showing him a handful of perfect coat buttons she had produced in Transfiguration.

"What've we got this afternoon?" said Arabella, hastily changing the subject.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione at once.

"Why," demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, "have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?"

Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously.

They finished lunch fairly early and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again. Arabella and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before the dark-haired girl became aware that she was being closely watched. Looking up, she saw the very small, mousy-haired boy she'd seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at her as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment she looked at him, he went bright red.

"Alright there, Arabella? I'm— I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. Do y-you think— would it be alright if I— can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera hopefully.

"A picture?" Arabella repeated blankly.

"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you and your sister survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead" (his eyes raked Arabella's hairline) "and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." He drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hog- warts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you—" he looked imploringly at Arabella — "and maybe, later on, a picture of you and your sister, Lyla, together. I haven't been able to ask her myself, but I suppose she's busy with classes. If you could— could also sign—"

"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"

Loud and scathing, Pansy Parkinson's voice echoed around the courtyard. She had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as she always was at Hogwarts, by her large and thuggish cronies.

"Everyone line up!" she roared to the crowd. "Potter's giving out signed photos!"

"No, I'm not," said Arabella angrily, her fists clenching. "Shut up, Pansy!"

"You're just jealous!" piped up Colin squeakily, whose entire body was about as thick as Millicent Bulstrode's neck.

"Jealous?" said Pansy, who didn't need to shout anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. "Jealous of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my forehead, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special."

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.

"Eat slugs," said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and started menacingly rubbing his knuckles.

"Be careful, Weasley," sneered Pansy evilly. "You don't want to start any trouble or your mummy'll have to come and take you away from school." She put on a shrill, piercing voice. "If you put another toe out of line—"

A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this.

"Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter," smirked Pansy. "It'd be worth more than his family's whole house —"

Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and whispered, "Look out!"

"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. "Who's giving out signed photos?"

Arabella started to speak but was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around her shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We will meet again, Arabella!"

Pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with humiliation, all Arabella could see was Pansy and her ghoulish cronies smirking and sliding back into the crowd.

"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll both sign it for you."

Colin, dumbfounded with his luck, fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.

"Off you go, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with his arms tightly wrapped around her shoulders. She sincerely wished she knew a good Vanishing Spell, wishing to be anywhere else besides this lunatics side.

"A word to the wise, Arabella," said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey— if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much…"

Deaf to Arabella's stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.

"Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible— looks a tad bigheaded, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but—" he gave a little chortle "— don't think you're quite there yet."

They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let Arabella go at last. She yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where she busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart's thick books in front of her so that she could avoid looking at the real man himself.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of her.

"You could've fried an egg on your face," said Ron with a small laugh. "You'd better hope Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Potter fan club I bet."

"Shut up, Ron!" snapped Arabella, flushing deeply. The last thing she needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase 'Potter fan club.'

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award— but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

He waited for them to laugh; a few people only smiled weakly.

"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books— well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about— just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in—"

When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class and said, "You have thirty minutes — start — now!"

Arabella looked down at her paper and read:

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

"Tut, tut— hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully— I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony be- tween all magic and non-magic peoples— though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky!"

He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when he mentioned her name.

"… but, it appears Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions— good girl! In fact" — he flipped her paper over — "full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione raised a trembling hand.

"Excellent!" beamed Lockhart. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so— to business—"

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

"Now— be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

In spite of herself, Arabella leaned around her stack of books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front-row seat.

"I must ask you not to scream," said Lockhart in a low voice. "It might provoke them."

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."

Seamus Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a loud snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.

"Yes?" He smiled at Seamus.

"Well, they're not— they're not very— dangerous, are they?" Seamus choked.

"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.

"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!"

And he opened the cage.

It was absolute pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up-ended the wastebasket, grabbed bags and books, and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

"Come on now— round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Lockhart shouted over the frenzy.

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

It had no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window, unmistakably snickering. Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Arabella, Ron, and Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said, "Well, I'll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage." He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.

"Can you believe him?!" roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.

"He just wants to give us some hands-on experience," insisted Hermione, immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage.

"Hands-on?" asked Arabella skeptically, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out. "Hermione, he didn't have a clue what he was doing—"

"Rubbish," said Hermione. "You've read his books— look at all those amazing things he's done—"

"That he says he's done," Ron muttered mutinously.

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