"Hello, everyone!" Gilderoy Lockhart swaggered in through the small doorway beside the classroom, his head held high like a strutting peacock.
"How disgusting," Ron muttered under his breath. "Doesn't he realize we all know exactly who he is?"
Hermione sighed. "You can't say that, Ron. Your brothers were caught by him only last night—so he must have some strength."
Ron snorted dismissively. "That's only because your fanboy logic has you projecting fantasies onto him. If Fred and George got caught, it might not even be due to his power. This is Hogwarts, after all—every Professor's office is loaded with defensive protections. Fred and George could've fallen into any safeguard already in place."
On the stage, the expression on Lockhart's face shifted. The playful grin faded, replaced by sudden seriousness. He swept his wand toward Ron. In a flash, Ron felt his tongue curl up and stick to the roof of his mouth—he was silenced.
"It's best to keep quiet in my class," Lockhart said in a cold tone, stripped of theatrics. "If it happens again, I'll ask you to leave."
Then he eased his stance and addressed the class.
"Does anyone know what spell I just used?"
A hush fell over the room. No one dared speak, fearing they might become his next dramatic target.
"If anyone answers correctly, I'll award five House points."
Hermione's hand shot up instantly. Points mattered—even if it meant subjecting herself to Lockhart's flair.
"It's the Tongue-Tying Curse, Professor. The incantation is Locomotor Mortis."
Lockhart nodded approvingly. "Very good answer, Miss Granger. As promised, Gryffindor receives five points."
He waved his wand, and the dusty blackboard in the corner slid forward, bearing the words Locomotor Mortis in bold, ornate script.
"This spell," Lockhart explained, pointing to the board, "causes a person's tongue to curl upwards and press against the roof of the mouth, rendering them unable to speak. One might underestimate it, but in combat against Dark Wizards, it proves unexpectedly useful."
He turned to the class. "Everyone, say it together."
"Locomotor Mortis!" "Wonderful," he said, a glint of pride in his eyes, "but now let's deepen your understanding. Harry, what do you think its role is in battle?"
Harry blinked, taken aback before responding cautiously: "It prevents the target from speaking spells… But what about those who cast silently?"
Lockhart's nod acknowledged the insight. "Exactly. Against silent casters, this spell is useless. But the reality is that very few wizards—fewer than one hundred in Britain—can cast completely silently. More than ninety percent of the Wizarding World cannot. So this spell is simple, accessible, and capable of disabling over ninety percent of wizards. Now, what do you think of that?"
Several faces lit with realization—its value in combat was undeniable.
"Pick up your wands, then, and wave them in this fashion—don't say the incantation, just wave."
"Locomotor Mortis!" "Locomotor Mortis!"
"Excellent! You're doing beautifully. But nothing beats practical experience."
Lockhart gestured at the desks and chairs, which slid aside to clear space. "Line up, and cast it on me one by one."
He swept his wand left and right, clearing the area. "Don't worry, I'll defend myself before any spell can touch me."
Neville was first. He stepped forward, wand raised.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
A tiny leaf sprouted from his wand. The attempt failed.
"Mr. Longbottom," Lockhart coached, "articulate the incantation more clearly, and visualize my tongue curling shut. Try again."
"Locomotor Mortis!"
This time it succeeded. The Tongue-Tying Curse sped toward Lockhart, who calmly deflected it with a single flick—his wand intercepting the spell's path. Neville watched, astonished.
"Excellent work, Mr. Longbottom! Next!"
Lockhart seemed transformed—far more competent than the bumbling persona known for months.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
"Very good, Miss Granger," came the nod of approval as Hermione's spell hit the target.
Next, a student cast a deeper red-tinted Spell toward the floor. A loud "Boom!" echoed.
"Mr. Finnigan," Lockhart raised an eyebrow, "you used a Blasting Curse, not the Tongue-Tying one."
The line of students dwindled. Everyone was eager to witness who would break through Lockhart's defenses.
Eventually, Dana Emrys stepped up—his reputation preceded him. He was widely regarded as the most capable first-year, a newcomer whose research had appeared in Charms and Transfiguration journals. Rumors circulated that he'd been identified as Hogwarts' next Quidditch sensation.
Dana bowed slightly. Lockhart smiled in turn.
"You're the last, Dana. I'm eager to observe your Skill."
Dana flicked his wand smoothly, releasing the real Locomotor Mortis. Lockhart's eyes widened—this was silent casting. Taken off guard, he tried to swat it away, but even in that split second he reassessed.
"Protego!"
A brilliant shield formed in front of him. But Dana's curse was expertly timed and precisely directed. The two spells collided—and the shield shattered with a thunderous crack. The Curse, intact, struck Lockhart cleanly in the tongue.
The force ripped his mouth shut as he flew backward—he tumbled three meters before landing on his feet. Lockhart's composure remained intact, though.
He raised his wand and muttered "Release," freeing his tongue in a theatrical flourish.
"Amazing!" he exclaimed. "Dana Emrys has shown immense magical talent—and because of that, I award Gryffindor another five points!"
The applause was immediate. Lockhart beamed at Dana with a genuine sense of delight. He had found what he'd been looking for in a host.
"Yes," Lockhart thought as he locked eyes with Dana, "this is the one."
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