"The students sat scattered across the wooden benches. Their faces were half-alert, half-distracted, as if they were silently asking themselves: Why are we still here?"
The door swung open. Lockhart entered, his deep blue robes sweeping behind him, a stack of books in his arms. He dropped them on his desk with a soft thud, then turned to the students with a dazzling
Sorry for being late, students. I had a problem that needed solving, so I was late, Lockhart said with an innocent smile.
Flashback 20 minutes
Professor Snape, who was methodically counting Madam Pomfrey's stock of hospital potions, paused when he heard the door open and the sound of Lockhart entering.
"Good day, Professor Snape! How are you this fine morning?"
"What do you want, Lockhart? I'm busy," Snape replied coldly, with the sort of charisma only a giant greasy bat could have.
Lockhart cleared his throat. "Well, I wanted to request some potions that… um… speed up digestion—what people might call 'tummy trouble'—and perhaps some that change hair colour, or turn moustaches into small animals, or really any mild but annoying effects."
Snape froze mid-count. He slowly turned, fixing Lockhart with the frigid stare of a bat that hadn't bathed in a decade.
"And why," Snape asked icily, "do you need such potions?"
"They're for Defence class."
"For Defence class?"
"Yes! You see, once I learned from an Auror that the most important thing he ever possessed — besides his delusions of grandeur — was his constant vigilance. It saved his life countless times."
Moody, Snape thought without surprise.
"When Dumbledore showed us your so-called plan for Defence lessons, he didn't mention this part."
"Oh, well, that's because this idea only came to me recently! I thought—why not add it? Harmless, really. Could do wonders for the students."
"Hmph," Snape hummed in clear dislike, tapping a vial thoughtfully. "How many do you need, and when?"
"Anytime before Sunday is fine. Actually if you have any now, that would be wonderful. I've got sixth and seventh years in a moment."
"Hmph. Fine. Wait here." Snape turned and vanished through a side door into the potion storeroom.
"Take your time—but not too much, Professor Snape," Lockhart called after him, voice bright and annoyingly pleasant.
A minute later, Snape returned, holding a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid.
He stood directly in front of Lockhart and handed it over. "It's an itching potion. Not for drinking—apply it to the skin. The itching begins instantly where it touches. No antidote needed—a simple bath will do, or Scourgify if you prefer."
"Brilliant! You're a lifesaver, Professor Snape! By the way—why exactly do you have an itching potion ready-made?"
Snape just looked at him, deadpan. "You have a lesson to get to."
"Ah—right, right! Thank you for the reminder, goodbye, Professor Snape!"
Lockhart stepped out—only to swing the door open again half a heartbeat later, curiosity getting the better of him."But really, Professor—why do you even have—"He didn't finish. Snape flicked his wand at the door—SLAM.A soft spark of magic fizzed at the hinges. Lockhart decided he did not want to know the spell's effect.
He patted the door awkwardly and left, whistling as if nothing had happened.
Back in the Classroom
Lockhart clapped his hands together. "Well! After this very busy week, I'm certain you all know who I am—so let's skip the long introduction, shall we?"
A light chuckle drifted through the room.
"Now then, by my count—only one Hufflepuff… oh wait—none! Four Gryffindors, three Ravenclaws, and five Slytherins. Interesting."
A Ravenclaw boy raised his hand.
"Yes, Mr…?"
"Macrin, sir. There aren't many of us, even after combining sixth and seventh years. The last few Professors were so dreadful we basically had to teach ourselves, and the exams are brutal. And now, if you want to be an Auror or anything similar in the British magical world, they don't care much about Hogwarts certificates anymore—there are internal Ministry tests instead. So most of us chose other N.E.W.T.s."
Lockhart nodded thoughtfully. "Quite logical, really. But it raises another question: Why are you here, then, if the Hogwarts Defence certificate is so worthless?"
A Slytherin spoke up, arms crossed. "It's not completely worthless, Professor. If you want to work abroad, most other magical countries do still care about your Hogwarts certificate. The Ministry tests are only for here."
"Ah—good point. Very useful to know. Thank you."
Lockhart's eyes gleamed as he gestured at the desks. "Now then—before we begin today's lesson, you'll see the papers in front of you. Surprise test! Turn them over. You have twenty minutes… starting… now."
Twenty Minutes Later
"Time's up! Quills down on the desk."
Lockhart waved his wand. The test parchments flew into a neat stack, landing in front of him.
Ten minutes passed in silence as he skimmed through the pages. Then he looked up, bright smile still annoyingly intact.
"Well! I must say—very good. The lowest score was sixteen out of twenty, and this wasn't an easy test, mind you."
A hush fell over the room. Students exchanged uncertain glances, then quiet giggles began to spread.
A Gryffindor boy leaned over to his friend, whispering with a small grin, "I honestly thought I'd do far worse."
His friend nudged him back, half-smiling. "We're just lucky, I guess."
Lockhart clapped once. "Excellent. That means we can skip the dull theory for today. Now, since you're still sitting here despite the horror stories and your self-teaching—clearly, you've practised combat, yes? And no lying, please—lies can get you killed."
Silence. Lockhart raised an eyebrow. "Shall I take this silence as a yes?"
He didn't wait for a reply. "Good. Pair up—you'll duel. I want to see your level. And yes—dirty tricks are allowed."
He pointed at the Ravenclaws. "You two first—winner duels the spare one."
After the Duels
Lockhart dusted chalk off his hands. "Not bad. Not excellent, but not bad. So—we're ready to move to the real meat of my three-part Defence plan."
He flicked his wand. Floating chalk wrote on the blackboard:TEMPTATION & WILLPOWER
"You look confused—good. I love questions. Who wants to ask the obvious one?"
A Gryffindor boy raised his hand. "Professor—I get the 'willpower' bit, but what does 'temptation' have to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts?"
"Aha! Ten points to Gryffindor! Anyone want to tell me why cursed objects in Dark Magic are so dangerous?"
A Slytherin girl raised her hand. "Because most cursed or Dark Magic-infused items tempt you—promising you what you want most. Once you touch them, they curse you, possess you, or worse."
"Perfect answer—twenty points to Slytherin."
Lockhart's grin widened as he began pacing. "A cursed thing wants you to touch it, keep it, protect it. The temptation might change—it might promise you wealth, power, love—whatever you desire."
He tapped the board. "A classic example: the Philosopher's Stone. Imagine a Dark Wizard cursing it. The moment you come near it, the Dark magic tempts you. It floods your mind with visions—piles of gold, centuries of life."
He wagged a finger. "But don't think it shows you anything new. It uses your own fantasies—makes them stronger, makes you forget reason."
He rapped the chalk once. "So—you need willpower. Strong enough to resist what you think you want most."
He glanced around. "Questions?"
A student piped up. "Professor—does every Dark object have this curse?"
"Not all—but nearly every Dark wizard uses it along with other curses. It's one of the most common tricks."
Another student asked, "How do we train our willpower to resist that?"
Lockhart's grin was almost too bright. "Magic."
He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Inside, he was thinking, Ah, magic—my answer to everything!
"I'm going to put you all under a mild illusion. You'll face tempting visions, silly ones, extreme ones—things that make no sense but feel real. Your job: notice they're not real. Resist them."
He lifted a finger. "And before you ask—yes, the Ministry is fine with this. The Headmaster knows, too."
He clapped. "Any more questions? No? Splendid. Sit comfortably—limbs stiffen up if you don't."
Carlisle's POV
"Lesson's over—bring any questions next time."
Lockhart's voice echoed as Carlisle stretched, bones cracking. He'd ignored the 'sit comfortably' advice—of course he would never admit that now.
"Carlisle, Great Hall for lunch?" Michael asked as they packed up.
Carlisle yawned. "No, I'm not hungry. I'll head back to the common room."
"You sure? Bet you'll be starving in half an hour."
"I'll summon a house-elf if I'm hungry. Those ugly little things nearly kill themselves serving us anyway," Carlisle muttered as they walked out.
"Suit yourself. I'll catch up after lunch."
They parted ways at the corridor—Michael off to the Hall, Carlisle down to the dungeons.
He stopped before the common room door, muttering the password: "Polyjuice."
Ridiculous, he thought. Head of House is obsessed with potions—why must the password always be a potion?
Inside, the greenish light of the Black Lake shimmered through the windows, casting dancing waves on silver drapes. Fellow Slytherins sat here and there—studying, chatting.
Carlisle waved a half-hearted hello and headed straight for his bed, exhausted.
But—
"Jessica?"
She was perched on his bed, smiling.
"Hello, Carlisle."
"Er—hi. What are you doing in my room?"
Jessica stood, voice soft. "I've been thinking… about something."
No. This can't be what I think it is—
"I dropped so many hints. You never noticed."
Wait—wait—wait—
His heart hammered. Calm down, calm down—
"What do you think of me?" Jessica asked, blushing so hard it painted her face from ear to ear.
"Um—wait. Didn't you say at the Christmas party you liked Jasper MacFoley?"
"I thought I did. Turns out, what I feel for him is just friendship. My childhood friendship with you turned into something more. I just didn't realise."
"I—I don't know what to say, Jessica, I—"
"Shhh."
She pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't say anything. Just do."
She leaned in. He did, too. Inches apart, her breath ghosted across his skin—
"Alright, students—wake up!"
Lockhart's cheerful voice snapped the illusion. Carlisle gasped.
"Hah—" He couldn't help the sound that escaped.
Lockhart clapped his hands, beaming like the sun. "Sadly, not one of you passed today's test. Let's hope you improve. See you next time!"
He vanished through the door at a near-run, leaving the stunned students blinking.
"So it was all a dream," Michael groaned next to Carlisle, rubbing his head.
But Carlisle had only one thought in mind:
Bloody hell.
The door swung open again—Lockhart poked his head in, grin wicked.
"By the way—always stay alert. Never lower your guard."
He flicked his wand—BOOM!
A chorus of pops echoed inside their robes. Sudden itching. Screeching. Shrinking.
They were monkeys. Monkeys scratching furiously, yelping in disbelief.
In the middle of the chaos, only one thought echoed through every mind in the room at once:
Damn you, Gilderoy Lockhart.
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