The test paper wasn't so much an assessment of magical knowledge as it was a quiz on how well a fan knew their idol. This sort of thing wouldn't raise eyebrows at a signing event at Flourish and Blotts or one of Gilderoy Lockhart's fan meet-and-greets.
But it had no place in a Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
A professor's job was to teach students magic, not to make them memorize details about their personal life.
"Duplicato."
With a light tap of his wand on the test paper, Harry created a blank duplicate, evidence he could submit to Professor McGonagall.
Harry was ready to turn in a blank paper. Sure, he'd read Lockhart's books thoroughly, but his focus had been on the useful magical knowledge tucked within, skimming right over Lockhart's pages of self-aggrandizing drivel.
As for Ron and the others, expecting most young wizards to pre-read for class was a lost cause—especially for a teacher like Lockhart, who had zero appeal to male students.
Even many of the girls didn't pay much attention to Lockhart's personal preferences revealed in his books—except for one.
"Yes, yes, Miss Hermione Granger knows my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own line of hair-care potions—excellent girl! This paper deserves a perfect score!" Finally satisfied with a test, Lockhart looked up, scanning the room. "Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"
Hermione took a deep breath and raised her hand.
"Oh, oh…" Lockhart's gaze flickered between Hermione and Harry, who sat beside her, before he broke into a grin. "Very good! Ten points to Gryffindor. Now, let's get back to the lesson."
Lockhart launched into a verbose explanation of some of the questions on the test—still unrelated to magic. But for the students seated at the back of the classroom, it hardly mattered.
"This is betrayal!" Ron hissed, head lowered. "Hermione! Betrayal!"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Hermione's voice trembled slightly. "I just read the books properly. You can't blame me for being thorough when you lot didn't bother!"
"If you'd been reading Defensive Magical Theory or Basic Self-Defense Guide, no one would care," Ron shot back. "But—Merlin's beard! You read Lockhart's books! The guy who's got nothing going for him except a Merlin Medal, some honorary memberships, and that ridiculous Most Charming Smile award!"
Lockhart's shine had worn off remarkably fast. Only a week into the term, after a week of classes where students pestered him to teach actual spells to no avail, whispers had spread through the castle. Selfish, incompetent, all talk—these weren't just rumors among the older students; even the younger ones had caught on.
No wonder Ron was so livid. To him, Hermione might as well have stepped into a sewer.
"Keep it down, Ron! Lockhart's looking!" Hermione hissed through gritted teeth.
The title of "professor" still carried weight for a good kid like Ron. He quickly put on a facade of paying attention.
"…Anyway, memorizing Lockhart's nonsense is just absurd," Ron muttered once Lockhart's gaze shifted away. "Listen to what he's going on about now, Harry!"
"His favorite color, his ideal birthday gift, his preferred wine," Ron grumbled. "What's the point?"
"Er, maybe Professor Lockhart… I mean, maybe he's suggesting we could get him a birthday gift?" Neville ventured weakly.
"Pfft!" Ron's anger flared. "He's already forced us to buy seven of his books, and now he wants birthday presents?!"
"Shameless," Dean Thomas, overhearing, muttered in agreement.
"I've never wanted Fred and George to pull something so badly," Ron said, glaring at the incessantly talking man at the front of the room. He turned to Hermione. "You'd be better off memorizing what Harry likes. At least we know Harry's got real talent—he's the real genius!"
"Who says I don't know?" Hermione snapped, her eyes flashing. "Harry likes pine nut bread, corn, mead, the color teal, eating homemade toffee while reading, lounging by the Black Lake in the afternoon to sunbathe, and occasionally fishing for his dinner. His dream is to revive the elements, and he—"
Harry quickly clapped a hand over Hermione's mouth.
"Enough, Hermione, calm down," Harry said, taking a deep breath.
Her words had poured out like a goblin's machine gun, each one fired at breakneck speed before Harry could stop her.
He released her, and Hermione fell silent, looking as if she'd been struck by lightning. She stared at her friends—Ron and Neville, gaping in shock, and Harry, his expression unreadable.
"…Eep!" After a few seconds, Hermione let out a short, mortified squeak. Her face turned beet red, and she slammed her head onto the desk, arms shielding herself.
"…Don't bother me, I'm thinking!" came her muffled voice from the fortress of her arms.
Ron and Neville exchanged a glance, wisely holding back any teasing remarks.
But Lockhart had no such restraint.
Any experienced teacher knows you can see every little movement in the classroom from the front—it's just a matter of whether you choose to address it. Despite her efforts to stay discreet, Hermione's outburst and dramatic reaction had caught Lockhart's attention.
And then he called on Harry.
"Harry?" Lockhart beckoned. "Technically, I should call you Professor Potter, since we're colleagues now. But per Professor McGonagall, you're still a student in this classroom."
A ripple of giggles came from the girls in the front row, good-natured laughter at the oddity of the situation.
"Oh, it's quite a novel experience," Lockhart said, winking. "Teaching a fellow professor isn't something just anyone can do… but thankfully, it's me. Harry, I'm delighted to share my knowledge with you—it's the least of Gilderoy Lockhart's many noble qualities."
"So, what's this about, Professor Lockhart?" Harry cut in flatly, derailing Lockhart's self-praise.
"No rush, Harry, patience," Lockhart said with a chuckle. "Come up to the front—I've just had a brilliant idea. You'll give your classmates a demonstration."
Hermione, still buried in her arms, snapped her head up, looking worriedly at Harry.
"Demonstration?" Harry signaled his friends to relax and stood, walking to the front.
"Exactly, a demonstration," Lockhart said, adopting a theatrical air of mystery. He bent down and hoisted a covered cage onto the desk. "Be careful, now. My job is to teach you to defend against the most wicked things known to the wizarding world. In this classroom, you'll face the most terrifying creatures!"
A student gasped audibly.
"No need to worry, miss, no need!" Lockhart reassured. "As long as Gilderoy Lockhart is here, you're perfectly safe. Just stay calm."
"So, what's in there?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued. He could sense many small, restless things inside the cage.
Was Lockhart finally going to prove himself?
Part of a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's role was introducing dark creatures and teaching how to counter them.
"Oh, it's the wizarding world's worst nightmare," Lockhart said, hand on the cover, milking the suspense. "I must ask you not to scream—it'll rile them up. Freshly caught… Cornish pixies!"
With a flourish, Lockhart whipped off the cover. The classroom erupted with a cacophony like a flock of squawking parrots.
The Cornish pixies were iron-blue, about eight inches tall, with sharp little faces. Despite lacking wings, they zipped around the cage freely. Lockhart's dramatic reveal had agitated them, and the shrill little creatures screeched, bounced off the bars, and made bizarre faces at everyone in sight.
One particularly bold pixie spat at Harry, but with a snap of his fingers, Harry sent the spittle flying back like a bullet, knocking the pixie into a somersault to the far side of the cage.
"Cool!" Seamus, Harry's roommate for the past year, cheered and burst out laughing at the comical creatures.
"Aha! Nice move, Harry," Lockhart called. "But hold off for now."
"Do you need me to assist?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"No, no, of course not—just pesky little devils," Lockhart said breezily. "Even if they're terrifying, the great Gilderoy Lockhart doesn't need help dealing with them. Unless you ask, of course. This is just a demonstration, Harry."
"We all know you're more than just a student, don't we? You're a professor," Lockhart continued lightly. "Your task is simple: show your classmates how to subdue these dangerous little beasts."
"I've no doubt your… what do they call it, elemental magic? Those odd spells could reduce these pixies to ashes," Lockhart said with a shrug. "But I'm asking you not to. Use our wizarding magic—the kind most people can use—with your wand. Got it?"
"Only then will you have given your classmates a proper demonstration of how to handle these creatures in the wild."
Lockhart wasn't oblivious—he read the papers. He didn't fully grasp elemental magic, but he trusted the Wizengamot's judgment. If Harry Potter's prowess came from discovering elements and elemental magic, then barring him from using it would level the playing field.
Without elemental magic, Harry was just a second-year wizard. What powerful spells could he have learned in such a short time?
Lockhart could hardly wait to see Harry fumble with the pixies, maybe even embarrass himself. It would soothe some of his irritation… and perhaps quiet the castle's endless adoration of Harry Potter.
"Just shoo them away, right?" Seamus said, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "They're not dangerous, are they?"
"Aha! Underestimating these little devils? These tiny terrors?" Lockhart said, visibly annoyed. "Let's see how you handle them, then."
With that, Lockhart flung open the cage door. The hideous pixies swarmed out like rockets, zipping chaotically around the classroom. The one Harry had hit with its own spit clearly held a grudge, making a beeline for him.
Bang!
In less than a second, Harry grabbed a chair from beside the desk and swung it, sending the pixie flying. It smashed into the wall and slumped to the floor, unconscious.
This time, no cheers followed. As the blue-skinned pests escaped, they unleashed their own brand of chaos—sweeping everything off desks, shredding curtains, and treating the students' ink bottles as their personal toys, cackling as they splashed ink on anyone still clean.
The seven Lockhart books on every desk, with his beaming face on the covers, were torn to bits. Wall paintings were snapped in half, and garbage from the bins rained across the room.
Especially that last bit—when the stinking trash poured down, even the few brave souls who'd considered confronting the pixies dove under their desks. In that moment, they wholeheartedly agreed with Lockhart's earlier description: little devils, tiny terrors.
"Nice hit, Harry! But use magic! Spells!" Lockhart shouted amid the chaos, clearly overwhelmed. The pixies' rampage had exceeded his expectations. Rolling up his sleeves, he waved his wand and yelled, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
Harry had been curious to see Lockhart's spell in action. Instead, he watched as a pixie snatched Lockhart's wand and tossed it out the window.
A wand's importance to a wizard goes without saying, and for Lockhart to lose his so easily—case closed. The man was utterly useless.
Those adventures in his books? No way they were his own. The cunning bravery he described didn't match the man now cowering under the desk, dodging a thrown ink bottle with practiced ease.
Harry: "…"
Was this the level of this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?
Honestly, Harry would've preferred someone like Quirrell—a Death Eater, sure, but at least Voldemort's chosen had some skill. They wouldn't turn students into incompetent fools.
Professor McGonagall was going to be furious… Harry shook his head slightly, drew his wand, and waved it in a precise arc. "Impedimenta!"
Thud! Thud thud thud!
No flashy lights, but the pixies, manic a second ago, crashed to the floor in unison, as if pressed down by an invisible force. No matter how they struggled, they couldn't fly—or even crawl.
"A simple principle," Harry said to the students peeking cautiously from under their desks. "If something's flying around, attacking from above, your first move is to bring it down to your level."
After sharing this basic combat tip, Harry waved his wand again, casting methodically. "Reparo!"
Instantly, the classroom's chaos reversed as if time rewound. Torn paintings rehung themselves, whole again. Shredded curtains reformed and settled back by the windows.
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