Lockhart was a nightmare of a teacher for Harry—and an unforgivable professor to me as well.
At our very first lesson he handed out a quiz we were "required" to complete—nothing but questions about his career and preferences, utterly irrelevant to learning magic. I was stunned. I wondered if it was just a device to help us get used to him… but no. When he started nitpicking the piles of tests with that paper-thin smile, I very nearly walked out. Grading a subject by how much attention you pay to the teacher's persona is beyond the pale. It does not train anyone even a millimeter in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Worse, once the "real" classes began, they were abysmal. Just as I'd feared, Lockhart had us read his not-very-useful adventure tales, then spent every ounce of class time reenacting scenes from them. If it were practical, he could at least have let students play the part of the monster-slayer and call it training. Instead, he insisted on placing himself dead center on stage, treating the children as mere set dressing for his own glorification.
To make matters worse, he was plainly incompetent. The fact that he lacked the ability to do the feats described in his own books was proof enough that he'd claimed those accomplishments by some fraudulent means.
…and yet, with what I know now, it's almost impossible to expose him and remove him from the classroom. The supposed exploits happened off campus and I have no means to investigate. He's a celebrity, too, and has even been awarded an Order of Merlin—show business or not. The very fact that the truth hasn't come out by now suggests how good he is at concealment.
I'm not arrogant enough to imagine I'm cleverer than a host of grown witches and wizards. My odds of proving his crimes within the year are vanishingly small. Which means the only viable target is the other hole: the shabbiness of his classes.
Whether it's good news or not, Slytherins are largely cool toward Lockhart, who has a Muggle parent. Among fifth-years and up, an incompetent teacher also jeopardizes future prospects. Whenever I voiced concerns about his lessons, they were more than happy to explain what Defense Against the Dark Arts should actually cover. I pulled together the most serious problems—first among them, why in Merlin's name he assigned the same set of books to every year. You can read through that collection of adventure yarns in a week; what, exactly, are you planning to teach across seven years?—and began drafting a report for my father, who sits on the Hogwarts Board of Governors.
Even so, I wasn't entirely sure I was doing the right thing in the grand scheme. Every time one of his lessons ended, my scruples were burned away by fury—but last year's experience gave me pause. Is it really wise to knock out the Defense professor—the key figure of the year's plot—right here at the start of term?
I was still arranging things, worries and all, when I once again ran into Headmaster Dumbledore after classes in Professor McGonagall's office.
I stared, caught off guard; he welcomed me with his usual impish smile. I couldn't exactly retreat, so I faced him in the sunlit room. How does he always contrive to be here when I visit Professor McGonagall? You can't Apparate on the grounds. Headmaster's privilege? Or have I simply been visiting her too often?
I sighed inwardly at yet another shock to the heart—but, as before, it was also a convenient chance for me.
"I find I must begin with another apology," he said, lighter in tone than last time. I couldn't help narrowing my eyes.
"If you're aware of the problem, please stop it. As Professor McGonagall must've told you, even for a single year, an unfit teacher like this is cruel to the students."
"Quite so," he said. "And, as you've already guessed, there is a reason."
I kept silent and let him talk. Rude, perhaps—but his conduct warranted it.
"I intended to bring in a different professor this year," Dumbledore said. "After last year, I have no desire for the children to lose another year of learning how to resist the Dark. But… preparations were not completed in time."
"In that case you understand you'll be told to bring that person in as soon as they're ready—even midyear."
He nodded gravely.
"I want that excellent educator to teach a full, coherent year. Not the scraps left after Professor Lockhart."
Who is this paragon, so valuable you'd sacrifice a whole year to ensure they teach the next from start to finish? Is it the content that's that good—or is the very fact of their holding the post for a year what matters? I wanted to press him, but after last year's revelations I'd had my fill of chills; I let it pass.
"Can't you do anything about the curse on the Defense position? …If you could, you would have already."
"The one who laid that curse is too strong; it will not lift unless the caster dies."
There are precious few people even Dumbledore can't eliminate. Again, nothing actionable for me. Of course I wondered how such a curse came to be…
But the problem at hand was Lockhart.
"So Lockhart teaching this year is a regrettable fait accompli," I said.
"I know you could oust him easily enough, with your wits and your father's influence—just as with Hagrid," he said. "But—ah, here I am repeating myself—I ask you to wait this one year. I cannot guarantee that those who fill the post afterward will be safe for the children—no, that they will be free of Voldemort's fangs."
I'd have preferred he stick to "safe," thank you. It makes it sound as if Lockhart isn't safe now. Still, I understood his meaning. Unless the Dark Lord himself waltzes in, Dumbledore might miss it. Stories swirl around the protagonist; nothing happening at Hogwarts is not an option. It was a cold thing to learn the limits of Dumbledore's reach here.
"But if the post itself is cursed, then Lockhart is headed for a bad end. He may be contemptible, but that still leaves a foul taste."
For the first time he hesitated, as if the words were hard to say. In that blink of reluctance, I grasped his intent.
"…Are you planning to let the curse… take care of Professor Lockhart?" I asked quietly. "Isn't that… too much?"
His expression didn't change, but the air about him hardened—more careful, more held.
"You can guess what Gilderoy has done," he said.
"I can. And I can't prove it. If what's in those books really happened, and if he has some means—however limited—of silencing those whose achievements he stole, then there's nothing I can do. But you are different. Under the law, you could see him properly judged."
"I could," he said. "But if I brought Gilderoy's crimes to light, I would need to find a different sacrifice."
…Ah.
"You lost your first choice; among those not tainted by the Dark Lord, you picked the option most expendable if it went wrong. That's it, isn't it?"
He nodded. Even through the composure, I saw the prick of remorse.
"Contempt would be fair," he said. "But that is what I could do."
"…There's no point defending yourself to me," I said. "If you couldn't do better, no one could."
So much for tidy, moral worlds. The Dark Lord's influence reaches even here, by long circuit—so wide a radius it beggars belief. I let out a long breath.
"If I might say one thing, I'd have preferred someone whose sins and usefulness were in better balance. But I don't know the circumstances."
It was acceptance. We both knew the conversation had reached its end.
"Very well. For this year, I give you my word: I will not drive Professor Lockhart out of Hogwarts."
"I thank you for understanding my misdoing—and I apologize for asking you to make concessions again."
I turned to the door. Behind me he murmured, almost to himself, "I thought… you would look at me with contempt."
"No," I said, still facing away. "As I said: you chose what you believed the best, and it is likely as close to 'right' as human beings can come. And you did not try to paper this over with a lie fit for a twelve-year-old—'Lockhart is bad, so whatever befalls him is deserved.' You told me you sought the best outcome, and in doing so you committed the evil of valuing a man too cheaply. …Isn't that so?"
If he'd been the sort who could say, stone sober, that throwing Lockhart to the curse was "right," even as a stopgap, my disappointment would have been bottomless. He wasn't. In telling me, I heard the plea for understanding, the regret of having no other road, and the shame of saying so to a child.
For now, that had to be enough. I had no right to despise him.
Leaving Dumbledore with his thoughts, I stepped out of Professor McGonagall's office—just as I had last year.
But unlike last year, I had no intention of stopping there.
I rewrote the letter I'd meant to enclose with my report and sent the finished packet to my father by owl.
> Dearest Father,
The term is in full swing, and each day overflows with new learning. There is, however, one matter I wish to bring to your attention.
This year's new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, appears to lack sufficient experience as an educator. I have attached a report with details; please review it at your convenience.
My request: would you raise Professor Lockhart's classroom practices for discussion at the Board?—but please, not to the point of dismissal, not yet. And if possible, ensure it is not known publicly that I prompted the matter.
If my design proceeds properly, the outcome will be far better for Hogwarts students than simply driving him out. With love, Draco.
I moved to bring Lockhart into my camp.
My father acted far faster than I'd expected. By the end of that week the Board convened; an agenda item summarizing reports from "multiple anonymous students" was presented; and Gilderoy Lockhart received a formal reprimand for the deficiencies of his lessons.
Perhaps she, too, was at the end of her rope: Professor McGonagall read those remarks aloud at breakfast in front of the whole school. (She can be very Gryffindor in moments like that.) Lockhart was already a schoolwide punchline; now the mockery had a righteous banner to march under, and it grew bolder. Plenty of girls still doted on him—but any sensible student was beginning to notice how empty the classes were. I chose to overlook the fact that the most brilliant witch in my year wasn't among the sensible—yet.
Lockhart tried to carry on as if unbothered. But he is, at his core, a man who lives by others' eyes. No one can endure curious and contemptuous stares every lesson forever. The dark fury in his gaze when his "content" was jabbed at came bubbling nearer the surface by the day.
When he was reaching his limit, the time was ripe.
One afternoon after classes, with no one else about and Gilderoy well tenderized by the week, I visited his office. Like his classroom, it was crammed with photographs of himself—so blatant a display of ego it felt almost pitiable. A rare male visitor delighted him; he greeted me warmly, vanity blazing in full.
"Sit, sit! You're a rare specimen, Mr. Malfoy. Boys your age can be—well—a bit narrow. With greatness so near at hand, they tragically try to flee from it. But you, you are clever. You know who merits respect!"
It took no small effort to keep my hands from balling into fists. I breathed, smiled, and began.
"Exactly, Professor. But even the narrow-sighted deserve a chance to partake of your glory, don't you think?"
"And what do you mean by that, Mr. Malfoy?"
He plainly had no idea what I was getting at, but the flattery put him in a receptive mood.
"I mean: let me help. In a form the whole school can accept. You are a great man—but you've had no formal experience as a teacher. Of course, next to your peerless adventures that's a trifling matter. But for those who shy from brilliance, familiar-seeming lessons are one of the crude yardsticks they use."
I pitched it from on high—exalting him, then descending to the "common" level. Preserving his pride was the key to this persuasion.
"Well, I—of course I could lower the difficulty to their level," he hedged. "But that would place a veil over my living experience."
I bit back the urge to tell him to stop prattling and kept the obsequious smile.
"In that case, allow me to bridge the gap. Let me draft lesson plans. Please, use them as a springboard for your classes."
His smile stiffened. I could almost see the abacus beads clicking in his head. If he didn't improve, the Board would meet again; dismissal lurked. He could not afford that.
"…Very well," he said at last. "I shall allow you to assist. And when might I expect these lesson plans?"
"I've already prepared tomorrow for the second-years."
And with that, Gilderoy Lockhart fell.
Of course, I couldn't produce every plan by myself. Knowledge aside, I couldn't handle upper-year practicals. So I went to Gemma Farley, the prefect I'd burdened so badly last year. She's a sixth-year now—busy, but the one year with neither O.W.L.s nor N.E.W.T.s.
"Well, I'm aiming for Magical Law Enforcement," she said. "I could do fifth or sixth, but no more. It's too much."
Through her, I found others. The thought of personally improving that dreadful class put some steel in people's spines. I even enlisted a few Ravenclaws. In the end, three or four students per year banded together to draft plans as a form of advanced prep. I took one of the first- and second-year slots.
"Thinking about cleaning up after that rubbish teacher makes me want to retch," Crabbe grumbled—but among Slytherin second-years he's the best at Defense after me, so I coaxed him into helping.
I worried at first that it would overburden us. But as we weren't teaching, it settled into a routine—tedious, yes, but manageable—and I think we delivered steady quality as a kind of structured prep.
We also made an unexpected discovery: give Lockhart a proper lesson plan and he could deliver a respectable class. Perhaps that's the actor's gift—he can say the lines.
Not that his puffed-up, ridiculous anecdotes vanished. Early on, half of every lesson still vanished into his tall tales. But between the Board's warning and his own dawning realization that he earned more respect when he followed the plan, the classes gradually improved.
And while his arrogance never exactly softened, he did begin, at least, to listen to the students drafting the plans.
Thus, for the moment, I succeeded in cleaning up Dumbledore's mess.
✨ Hey Reader!
If you're enjoying this story and want to read more chapters right now, consider supporting me on Patreon.
Your support inspires me to create even better stories and reach my full potential!
https://patreon.com/Writer4u
⭐10 Advanced Chapters Available on my Patreon!