Chapter 30: Professor Lockhart
Later on, in Transfiguration, we were tasked with turning a beetle into a button, and I was determined to get it right. The classroom buzzed with activity, the soft hum of Professor McGonagall's instructions blending with the occasional pop of magic gone wrong. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and the earthy tang of beetles—not the most pleasant combination, but I barely noticed. My attention was focused on perfecting my spell.
Ron, however, was having the most dreadful time. His poor wand, held together with Spellotape after its unfortunate encounter with the Whomping Willow, sputtered and crackled ominously. Thick, gray smoke poured from the tip, filling the air with a stench that made my eyes water. It smelled like rotten eggs—truly awful.
"Stupid, useless thing!" Ron exclaimed, giving the wand a frustrated whack on the desk.
"Write home for another one," Harry suggested, his tone practical.
"Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back," Ron muttered darkly, stuffing the hissing wand into his bag. He mimicked his mother's voice with a dramatic flourish: "'It's your own fault your wand got snapped, Ronald Weasley.'"
I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Every wizard needed a proper wand, and it wasn't fair that he had to make do with one that barely worked. I wanted to say something encouraging, but instead, I decided to show them my progress.
"Look!" I said brightly, holding out my work. Five perfectly transformed buttons gleamed in my hand, all a lovely shade of blue. I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride.
Ron looked at them with an expression that was halfway between disbelief and irritation. "Right about now, you can take your buttons and—"
"What've we got this afternoon?" Harry interrupted quickly, steering the conversation away from what Ron might say next.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," I said, glancing at my schedule. Just saying it made me smile. I couldn't wait to see what Professor Lockhart had planned for us. And, of course, I was looking forward to seeing him again. His dazzling smile could brighten any lesson.
"Why," Ron demanded, snatching my schedule out of my hands, "have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?"
My cheeks burned, and I quickly snatched the schedule back, hugging it to my chest. "Mind your own schedule," I said, my voice sharp with embarrassment. For the record, I hadn't drawn hearts around his lessons. They were smiley faces and two flowers—a subtle difference, but one I wasn't about to explain to Ron.
After lunch, we made our way outside into the courtyard. The air was crisp and fresh, with a gentle breeze ruffling the edges of my robes. I found a shady spot on the stone bench and propped open my copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Year 2. The familiar pages were a welcome comfort after the chaotic morning. Harry and Ron were nearby, caught up in a lively discussion about Quidditch. I tried my best to ignore them, immersing myself in the detailed diagrams of wand movements, though their banter occasionally made me smirk.
Then Harry stopped mid-sentence, looking around warily.
"Lost something?" Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," Harry said slowly, his eyes darting across the courtyard. "I just feel like..."
"Like what?" I prompted, glancing up from my book.
"Like someone is watching me," Harry muttered, his gaze landing on a small first-year boy standing awkwardly nearby. The boy was clutching a Muggle camera and blushing furiously. He looked like he might faint at any moment.
"All right, Harry?" the boy stammered. "I'm—I'm Colin Creevey. I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think—would it be all right if—can I have a picture?"
Ron snickered, and I nudged him sharply, giving him a disapproving glare. Poor Colin.
"A picture?" Harry repeated, blinking at him.
"So I can prove I've met you!" Colin said eagerly, inching closer. His words tumbled out in a breathless rush. "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—" (he glanced up at Harry's hairline, craning his neck) "—and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move!"
I couldn't help but smile at Colin's enthusiasm. He reminded me of myself last year, eager and full of questions.
Colin continued without missing a beat. "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 turned those pleading eyes on Harry. "Maybe your friend could take it, and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"
Before Harry could respond, a cold, drawling voice echoed across the courtyard. "Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"
It was Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, who looked even larger and dumber than they had last year. My stomach turned. Of course, he'd take the opportunity to cause trouble.
"Everyone line up!" Malfoy announced loudly, sneering. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"
Harry's fists clenched. "No, I'm not," he said angrily. "Shut up, Malfoy."
"You're just jealous," Colin said boldly, stepping forward. I was shocked at his courage. He was so small compared to Crabbe and Goyle, and yet he stood his ground.
"Jealous? Of what?" Malfoy spat, his pale face twisting into a sneer. "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."
"Bugger off, Malfoy," Ron said sharply, balling his fists. I quickly placed a hand on his arm, hoping to calm him before he did something reckless.
Malfoy smirked. "Careful, Weasley. You don't want to start any trouble, or your mummy might have to come and take you away." He mocked Mrs. Weasley's voice, sneering, "'If you put another toe out of line—'"
I saw Ron's face darken, his fists trembling with the effort not to lash out. I silently pleaded with him to stay calm.
"Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter," Malfoy taunted. "It'd be worth more than his family's whole house!"
That did it. Ron reached for his wand, but I tightened my grip on his arm and hissed, "Look out!"
"What's all this, what's all this?"
Professor Lockhart came sweeping into the courtyard, his turquoise robes billowing dramatically. His perfectly coiffed hair gleamed in the sunlight as he looked around with a practiced smile.
"Who's giving out signed photos?" he asked, his tone bright and jovial.
"Shouldn't have asked!" Harry muttered under his breath, but before he could say anything else, Lockhart had draped an arm around him.
"Ah, we meet again, Harry!" Lockhart said loudly, beaming at the crowd. Harry winced, looking like he wanted to sink into the ground.
"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," Lockhart said, turning his dazzling smile on Colin. "A double portrait! Can't do better than that. And we'll both sign it for you!"
Colin fumbled with his camera, his hands shaking with excitement as the crowd began to snicker. I couldn't help but feel sorry for Harry. As much as I admired Lockhart, I could see how mortified Harry was. Even Ron looked sympathetic.
The bell rang, signaling the start of our afternoon classes. Lockhart finally let Harry go, but not before giving him a hearty pat on the back and sending him off with a loud, "Move along, move along!"
As we walked to Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ron shook his head. "That was painful to watch," he muttered.
"I must agree," I said, sighing. "But Colin couldn't help it. He's just excited to meet someone he admires. Though," I added thoughtfully, "perhaps a bit too enthusiastic."
When we arrived at the classroom, Harry flopped into a seat, looking thoroughly miserable. Ron and I sat on either side of him.
"You could've fried an egg on your face, mate," Ron teased, nudging him. "You'd better hope Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Harry Potter fan club."
"Shut up," Harry grumbled, though a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
I smiled, relieved to see him taking it in stride—for now. Knowing Harry, it wouldn't be long before the attention became too much for him. But for the moment, I was just glad the incident was behind us.
The classroom fell silent as Professor Lockhart cleared his throat in that deliberate way of his, instantly drawing all attention to himself. He reached for Neville's battered copy of Travels with Trolls and held it aloft, showcasing the gleaming portrait of himself on the cover. The illustrated Lockhart gave a charming wink, and the real Lockhart mimicked the gesture with unnerving precision.
"Me," he announced, pointing proudly at the cover. "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 won't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"
He waited, clearly expecting laughter. I forced a polite chuckle, though it felt like no one else in the class was as enthusiastic. Ron and Harry exchanged an exasperated look, their barely concealed grimaces making it obvious what they thought of Lockhart's theatrics.
"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books," Lockhart continued, his smile broadening as he surveyed the room. "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."
As he handed out the papers, my heart leapt with excitement. I had read most of his books over the summer and couldn't wait to show off how much I had learned. However, as I skimmed the first few questions, my brow furrowed.
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?
I blinked at the parchment, trying to focus as the questions grew increasingly odd. The quiz stretched on for three full pages, culminating in:
54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?
I pressed on, determined to answer every question. It helped that I had read through his books multiple times, though I couldn't help but think this wasn't exactly the kind of quiz I had expected from a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
Thirty minutes later, Lockhart collected the papers and began flipping through them at the front of the room. "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 Firewhiskey!"
I sat up straighter, pleased that I had remembered most of the answers. Lockhart's voice cut through my thoughts.
"...But Miss Hermione Granger," he said, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. I let out a startled squeak as the spotlight turned my way. "Knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions. Good girl! In fact, full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"
I timidly raised my hand, my face burning with pride—and embarrassment. He had singled me out! He was proud of me! Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ron rolling his eyes and muttering something to Harry, but I didn't care.
"Excellent!" Lockhart beamed. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so, to business—"
Ron leaned over and whispered something that made Harry snicker, but I refused to let them ruin my moment. I focused on Lockhart as he reached behind his desk, lifting a large, cloth-covered cage and setting it before us.
"Now, be warned!" he said, his tone growing serious. "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."
I felt a mix of apprehension and anticipation. What could be inside the cage? Harry and Ron leaned forward in curiosity, while Neville visibly shrank in his seat. Lockhart's dramatic flair was hard to ignore, and for a moment, even I was holding my breath.
"I must ask you not to scream," he said in a stage whisper. "It might provoke them."
With one swift motion, he whipped the cloth away.
"Yes!" he said with a flourish. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."
Ron laughed. Harry, like me, looked at them Gentlemen. I had always heard of pixies and fairies, but never did I picture them like this.
The pixies were a shocking shade of electric blue, their tiny, pointed faces full of mischief and mayhem. They were like little bolts of lightning, buzzing with energy, and their shrill, chattering voices reminded me of a flock of sparrows having an argument. They shook the cage furiously, their spindly fingers gripping the bars as they pulled faces at us. It was almost fascinating. Almost. But there was something so chaotic about them that I couldn't help feeling a little uneasy, as if they were just waiting for the right moment to cause utter havoc.
Seamus took one look at the cage and laughed.
"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! Right, then. Let's see what you make of them!"
And then he opened the cage.
It was absolute chaos. The pixies shot out of the cage like tiny, blue rockets, scattering in every direction and leaving disaster in their wake. Two of them latched onto Neville's ears and hoisted him into the air, his legs flailing helplessly. Others darted straight through the window, shattering glass everywhere and raining it down on the back row. The rest tore through the classroom like a wild hurricane—spraying ink across desks and robes, shredding books and papers into confetti, ripping pictures from the walls, and tipping over the wastebasket. Bags and books went flying out of the broken window, and in no time at all, we were all ducking under desks to avoid the rampaging pixies. Poor Neville ended up swinging from the iron chandelier, his yells mixing with the shrill, triumphant squeals of the little terrors. It was pure pandemonium.
"Come on now, round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Lockhart called out, his voice unnervingly cheerful for the circumstances. The electric-blue creatures had already caused enough damage, but he stood there, looking utterly unbothered. Then he waved his wand and shouted, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
Nothing happened. Not even a spark.
The pixies seemed to take offense, letting out their high-pitched squeals before snatching his wand and gleefully tossing it out the window. My jaw nearly dropped as Lockhart gave a nervous gulp and dove under his desk. Meanwhile, poor Neville came crashing to the ground, looking utterly dazed.
The moment the bell rang, the class practically stampeded toward the door. Harry, Ron, and I were among the last to leave when Lockhart's voice stopped us. "Ah, you three! Would you be so kind as to round up the rest of them and get them back in their cage? Thanks ever so much!"
I couldn't believe it. He left us to deal with his disaster while he disappeared into his office.
"Can you believe him?" Ron yelled, his face red with frustration. "Ow! Get the bloody thing off my ear!" One pixie had latched on to him and was pulling with all its might.
"He just wants to give us some hands-on experience," I said, trying to sound logical as I immobilized two pixies with a Freezing Charm and stuffed them back into their cage.
"Hands-on?" Harry said incredulously, swatting at a pixie that was tugging at his hair. "Hermione, he didn't have a clue what he was doing!"
"Rubbish!" I snapped, unwilling to admit that Harry might be right. "You've read his books. Look at all those incredible things he's done!"
"So he says," Ron muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from me.
By the time we managed to get the last pixie wrangled, the classroom was a wreck. Books and parchment were scattered everywhere, ink dripped from the walls, and broken glass glinted on the floor from the shattered window. Lockhart was nowhere to be seen.
As we left the room, I couldn't help but feel a swirl of confusion and determination. Professor Lockhart was brilliant in his books, wasn't he? Surely there had to be more to him than what we'd just seen. Maybe he'd had an off moment. It happens to the best of us, doesn't it? I wasn't about to let one chaotic lesson tarnish the admiration I had for him. Still, there was no denying the mess we'd just endured, and I shook it off as we hurried to our next class. There was too much to focus on for me to let this dampen my excitement for the rest of the day.