The second-year students of Slytherin and Gryffindor filed into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, a space that had been utterly transformed. The usual scent of dust and old spell-work had been replaced by the cloying fragrance of something floral. Life-sized, moving portraits of Gilderoy Lockhart adorned every wall, each one depicting the wizard in a different heroic pose, offering the students a dazzling, winking smile.
Sean and Blaise claimed their usual seats in the front-middle row, quietly observing the garish new decor as they waited for class to begin.
When the bell rang, Lockhart burst forth from his office, not merely walking but making an entrance. He strode to the front of the room, which had been arranged less like a classroom and more like a stage, and beamed at the assembled students, his teeth a brilliant, almost blinding white.
"Welcome, one and all!" he boomed, his voice radiating a practiced charm. "To the Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom. I am your new professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award." He paused for dramatic effect. "But I don't like to dwell on such things. After all, one doesn't get rid of a Bandon Banshee with a smile!"
He paused again, holding his perfect smile, clearly expecting a wave of appreciative laughter. He was met with a profound, echoing silence, broken only by a few weak, sycophantic titters from his most ardent fans. Hermione Granger, her face alight with adoration, was chief among them.
Lockhart, a man seemingly immune to embarrassment, seemed not to notice the lack of response. His smile, if anything, grew wider. "I see you've all purchased my complete works! Excellent. I think, then, we shall begin with a small quiz. Nothing to be afraid of, not at all! I simply wish to ascertain how thoroughly you've read my books and how much you've truly... absorbed."
He swept a stack of papers from his desk and began distributing them, instructing the students to pass them back. When everyone had a copy, he clapped his hands together. "You have thirty minutes. Begin!"
Blaise flipped over the parchment, his expression souring into one of pure disgust. The questions were all, without exception, about Lockhart himself. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour? What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition? He turned to Sean to share a long-suffering groan but stopped short.
His friend, Sean Bulstrode—the boy who spoke little, hit hard, and had no time for fools—was already writing, his quill scratching against the parchment with furious speed.
"Are you serious?" Blaise whispered, utterly bewildered.
"Of course I'm serious," Sean replied without looking up, his hand never ceasing its motion. "And my answers aren't random guesses. They're all based on sound reasoning."
"You're not... a fan of his, are you?" Blaise asked, the thought dawning on him with a fresh wave of horror.
"Of course not," Sean scoffed. "In the few minutes I've been in his presence, what little good impression I had of him has evaporated completely. I doubt the stories in his books are even his." He paused, tapping his quill thoughtfully against his lip. "I'm not questioning the events themselves, you understand. I'm questioning his role in them. The man before us bears no resemblance to the hero in his books. He's utterly oblivious to his surroundings, and some of his personal qualities are... lacking. I suspect he's a thief who has taken credit for the experiences of other, more capable wizards."
"Then why...?"
"Because none of that matters," Sean continued, his quill once again flying across the page. "The stories themselves, whoever truly lived them, are incredibly detailed. They provide a working model for how to handle dangerous situations and creatures. After buying the books, I studied them, dissected them, and committed the details to memory. So no, the questions on this quiz are not difficult for me."
Blaise watched, mesmerized, as Sean filled in the last answer with a confident flourish. After a moment's thought, he leaned over and began to quickly copy his friend's paper. He didn't need a perfect score, but he'd be damned if he got a zero.
Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and began to review them at his desk, making self-satisfied tut-tutting sounds.
"Tsk, tsk... almost no one remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I mentioned it quite clearly in A Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to reread Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully. I state plainly in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift is harmony between all magical and non-magical peoples... though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky!"
He looked up at the class and gave them a playful wink. Blaise felt a wave of nausea. Sean just sighed, a long, weary sound. What a specimen.
It was then that Lockhart called out. "Where are Mr. Sean Bulstrode and Miss Hermione Granger?"
Hermione's hand shot into the air, straight and rigid as a flagpole, practically vibrating with eagerness. Sean, in contrast, gave a lazy, half-hearted raise of his hand, just enough to be seen.
Lockhart's smile was blinding. "Excellent! Both of you, simply excellent! Perfect scores! You knew that my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own line of hair-care potions. Wonderful! A hundred points for both of you, without question! Ten points to Slytherin and ten to Gryffindor!"
Blaise leaned over to Sean. "This is, without a doubt, the most boring class I have ever taken. It's worse than History of Magic. At least in Binns's class, I can get a good nap. Lockhart is too loud to sleep through."
"Don't worry," Sean murmured, a glint in his eye. "I promise you, it's about to get a lot more interesting."
Blaise's eyes widened in sudden understanding. "I knew it," he whispered, a slow, malicious grin spreading across his face. "You wouldn't have studied his books so thoroughly without a reason. What are you planning?"
"Nothing much," Sean said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "This is Defence Against the Dark Arts. As the professor, he has a duty to teach us. If he chooses to slack off... then as a student, I have a responsibility to... encourage him. To help him become the qualified professor he's meant to be."
Blaise's grin widened, his gaze shifting to the preening man at the front of the room. It was no longer a look of boredom, but one of keen, predatory anticipation.
(End of Chapter)
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