Spring faded into autumn, and just like that, a year zipped by.
The little witches and wizards of Hogwarts were gearing up for their annual end-of-term exams.
The day after exams wrapped up, the professors started dishing out holiday homework.
Don't think for a second that Hogwarts lets you off easy with no end-of-term assignments. And don't assume that just because young witches and wizards can't cast spells at home, they get to kick back and relax. The professors pile on the work—tons of it (see Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for proof). Most of it comes in the form of essays.
If you don't hit the books over the break, you're toast. Harry griped about this more than once during his first-year holiday.
That said, not every professor was keen on assigning homework.
"I'm truly sorry, but I must leave you. I wish I could teach you for a few more years, but alas, next year you'll have a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Gilderoy Lockhart announced, standing at the front of the classroom in a watery blue robe, striking a melodramatic pose he thought was charming. "Don't miss me too much. If you do, send me a letter—but don't forget to buy my new book. I'll definitely write back."
He had no intention of returning to teach next year, so holiday homework? Pointless.
He was already plotting his next book: Me and Hogwarts.
The Dueling Club, the Basilisk, the Chamber of Secrets—his time at Hogwarts gave him plenty of material to work with.
Sure, aside from the Dueling Club, none of it had much to do with him, but that didn't stop him from weaving himself into the story.
Based on true events, right? Doesn't mean it has to be exactly true.
"If I could, I'd love to stay with you all a bit longer. You're all fantastic," he said, oozing fake sincerity.
"Miss Hannah, you're a… I hope you'll remember me."
"Mr. Justin, you're a…"
"Mr. Seamus, you're a…"
Lockhart started going around the room, name-dropping students like he was starring in some sappy school drama, giving each a personalized farewell.
"Harry Potter, you'll be the wizarding world's next big star."
"…"
"And you, Mr. Dursley, you're the brightest student I've ever taught. Keep it up—you'll be an outstanding wizard."
"…"
It was cheesy, but it worked like a charm.
A bunch of the kids he called out started crying on the spot.
Of course, not everyone was buying it. Some gave him the stink-eye, like…
"And you, Borscht, with hair as fiery as your name…"
Ron: "My name's bloody…"
"And finally, you, Neville…"
Neville: "…"
"Parting is just a step toward a better reunion. Next time we meet, I hope you'll still call me Professor," Lockhart said, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, conveniently shielding his face to hide his "grief." He held the pose for a long moment. When he lowered the handkerchief, his eyes were red and teary, as if he'd been sobbing.
Onions. He'd rubbed onions into the handkerchief.
The oldest trick in the book, but it worked like a charm.
You'd think he was genuinely heartbroken.
In truth, he'd already pulled this same act in every other year's classroom. He was headed to the first-years next for another performance. Say what you will about Lockhart, but as an actor, he was a pro.
His theatrics were a hit. He'd stirred up plenty of emotions among the students.
"Professor Lockhart might not be much of a wizard, but he's a good teacher," some of the more sentimental kids thought, conveniently forgetting his year of ridiculous antics.
He's leaving, so why hold a grudge?
Even those who didn't care for him were swept up in the moment.
It's like hating your drill sergeant at boot camp but still bawling when it's time to say goodbye.
Years later, their number might sit in your contacts, but you won't even remember who they were.
The classroom was thick with bittersweet vibes.
Even kids who hadn't cried earlier were now discreetly wiping their eyes—Hufflepuffs, those sweet, honest kids, were hit the hardest.
The mood held until the classroom door was flung open with a bang.
A stern-looking middle-aged man strode in.
"Sorry, Professor Lockhart—no, Mr. Lockhart. We need to interrupt your… teaching," he said, glancing around with a hint of sarcasm. "Or perhaps you're already preparing your farewells."
"Mr. Gawain, what's this about? Why are you here?" Lockhart shot back, irritation creeping into his voice. He'd crossed paths with this guy from the Auror Office a few times, so they weren't strangers.
"If you can't give me a good explanation, I'll be writing to Minister Fudge."
Lockhart wasn't just some nobody in the wizarding world. His boasts might be overblown, but those honors he loved to flaunt weren't easy to come by. With a massive fanbase and a string of accolades, he had no real power but enough clout to make his voice heard.
Gawain fixed him with a cold stare, a smirk curling his lip. "We got a tip, Lockhart. You're in deep trouble."
"You need to come with us for questioning."
Gawain's gaze dripped with disdain. This guy—during his time teaching at Hogwarts—had used deception and who-knows-what-else to get involved with female students.
A professor? More like a lowlife. Disgusting.
The problem was, if those students were willing, there wasn't much they could pin on him legally.
At worst, he'd get a short trip to the Ministry and be out in no time.
But they weren't letting him off that easy.
"You can stay silent, but anything you say may be used as evidence."
As Gawain finished, several uniformed Aurors filed into the room.
"I'm in trouble? For what?"
Lockhart stared at the Aurors, his mind racing through a thousand possibilities. Then it hit him—the Obliviation Charms he'd used to steal other wizards' experiences.
That was the only thing big enough to be called "trouble."
"How could they know? I never told anyone!"
That was his darkest secret, buried deep.
His voice trembled as he asked Gawain, "Where are we going?"
"Wizengamot."
At that word, Lockhart's whole body shook.
Only his worst deeds could land him in front of the Wizengamot.
"Damn it, they know!"
Lockhart's mind went into overdrive, scrambling for a way out.