Our earmuffs were back on, and we needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor
Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes didn't like coming
out of the earth but didn't seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked,
flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth. I had a particularly hard time,
having gotten a nasty one, and it almost managed to rock me backward. At once,
Harry's hand shot out and grabbed me before I fell. I felt heat rush to my face in
embarrassment. Nevertheless, that caused a flare of determination, and I wrestled the
Mandrake into the pot.
I don't like Herbology at all. By the end of the class, we were all dirty, sweating, and
aching all over.
Professor McGonagall's classes were always hard work, but today was especially
difficult. Having somebody as good as Hermione sitting beside us does not do wonders
for a person's confidence either. I managed to turn my beetle into a button—to some
extent. The button had beetle legs and kept trying to crawl off the desk.
We went down to lunch, where Ron's mood, already sour, was not improved by Hermione
showing us the handful of perfect coat buttons she had produced in Transfiguration.
I could almost feel an argument brewing.
"What've we got this afternoon?" said Harry, thankfully 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.
I smirked and leaned over to look, then said, "He is quite handsome, I'll give you that."
This earned me disgusted looks from Harry and Ron and an I know, right? from
Hermione.
We finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on
a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again.
The rest of us stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before I felt like we
were being watched. I looked around until I saw Colin Creevey. He was a wee little thing,
staring at Harry as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like a Muggle
camera. The moment Harry looked at him, Colin went bright red.
"All right, Harry? I'm—I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step
forward. "I'm in Gryffindor too. D'you think—would it be all right if—can I have a picture?"
he asked, raising the camera hopefully.
"A picture?" Harry 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 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 Harry's hairline—
"and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures will
move."
Colin 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 Hogwarts. 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
Harry—"maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could
you sign it?"
"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"
My brother's voice echoed around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin,
flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
Why? Did he have to stick his nose everywhere? I fought to keep my mouth shut,
reminding myself that I was not in Durmstrang because Draco hadn't snitched on me. I
cannot push it.
"Everyone line up!" Draco roared to the crowd. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"
"No, I'm not," said Harry angrily, his fists clenching. "Shut up, Malfoy."
"You're just jealous," piped up Colin.
"Jealous?" said Draco, with half the courtyard listening in. "Of what? I don't want a foul
scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you
that special, myself."
Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering.
"Eat slugs, Malfoy," said Ron angrily.
Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.
"Be careful, Weasley," sneered Draco. "You don't want to start any trouble or your
mummy'll have to come and take you away from school." He put on a shrill, piercing
voice. "If you put another toe out of line—"
A group of Slytherin fifth-years nearby laughed loudly at this.
"Weasley would like a signed photo,
Potter," smirked Malfoy. "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 us, his turquoise robes swirling behind him.
"Who's giving out signed photos?"
Harry started to speak, but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his
shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry!"
"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 fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind us, 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 Harry.
I rolled my eyes, but Ron was glaring at me.
"Seriously, Lucille, you never stand up for any of us against him."
"I don't need to. You all hold your own pretty well." Also, I can't, but he didn't need to know
all that.
"Well, friends still stand up for each other! You don't!"
"Listen, Ron, I have already proved that I am your friend. Stop making a big deal out of
this—he is my brother. We work this way: he stays out of my business, and I stay out of
his."
"Ron, seriously—I didn't say anything either," Hermione said.
"Ron, it's fine, let's just go to class—" Harry started, but he was interrupted by the bell.
There were seats of three. We all looked at each other, then Hermione and Harry shared
a look. Hermione grabbed my arm, and we took the seat beside Neville, while Harry and
Ron took an empty seat.
When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly, and silence fell. He
reached forward, picked up Neville'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 us to laugh; a few people 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!"
I could not keep the disbelief off my face when I read the questions. This was a joke.
I looked up to see if anybody shared my sentiments. Dean Thomas had turned at the
same time, and we both shared a look of pure disbelief.
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?
Beside me, Hermione was going at it with full force, a look of intense concentration on
her face, while Neville was just staring at the paper in confusion and repulsion.
Well, such serious questions deserve equally serious answers.
1. Blood red, like the blood of the vampires the respectable Mr. Lockhart has slain.
2. To win the whitest teeth award.
3. Getting to teach at Hogwarts.
Up till 54. His ideal gift is a trunk full of his own photos.
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
between all magic and non-magic peoples—though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of
Ogden's Old Firewhisky!"
He gave us another roguish wink. Seamus and Dean were both shaking with silent
laughter.
"...but 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's hand shot up.
"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."
Neville was cowering now. Somehow, I had a feeling it would be completely
underwhelming.
"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 couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart
couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.
"Yes?" Lockhart 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 at Seamus. I felt annoyed just by
looking at him. "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 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 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.
They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers,
tore pictures from the walls, upended 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.
One of them leaped right onto me and pulled my braided hair. Hard.
Both Seamus and Dean had to pull it off together.
"Come on now—round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Lockhart shouted.
He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, *"Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"*
It had absolutely no effect. One of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the
window, too. 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 Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me as we
were just leaving, and said, "Well, I'll ask you four to just nip the rest of them back into
their cage."
He swept past us 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," said Hermione, immobilizing two
pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage.
"Hands-on?" said Harry, 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—"
"Hermione, you cannot seriously think that man knows anything of value. He couldn't
handle these pixies for—AHH!" I had lunged for one of the pixies and toppled over.
"Rubbish," said Hermione. "You've read his books—look at all those amazing things he's
done—"
"He says he's done," Ron muttered.