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Chapter 37
After lunch, they took a short nap before heading to Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall's class was one of the most difficult in every possible sense. Today, she had assigned the students the task of turning a beetle into a button.
Crabbe and Goyle performed exactly like two Muggles who had never seen a wand before. They were so clumsy they could barely hold their wands steady, let alone deal with an agile beetle skittering around the desk.
Pansy didn't fare much better—her "button" still had several tiny beetle legs left, and it was running laps around her table. Most of the class wasn't doing well either. It was as if going home for the holidays had emptied everyone's brain like a leaky cauldron. Professor McGonagall's expression grew darker with every step she took.
Only when she passed Malfoy's table did her tightly furrowed brows finally soften. The button he'd produced was delicate and perfectly formed, with no trace of beetle left at all.
"Ten points to Slytherin," Professor McGonagall said approvingly.
"To be honest, I really don't understand what the point of this is," Pansy complained to Malfoy as they walked through the corridor after class. "I mean, yes, I don't really like Muggles, but their things can be useful sometimes. Nobody is actually going to wear a beetle-button on their robes, right? If you need one, just buy it."
Malfoy frowned. He didn't know how to change her mindset. No one could predict the future—especially not now, when he himself had altered so much of what he remembered. The future he knew might end up completely different. Anyone might need to fight. Even ordinary students needed a solid foundation.
"Pansy," Malfoy began seriously, ready to try and knock some sense into her—only to be cut off.
"Ugh, today's Defense Against the Dark Arts class makes us sit with Gryffindor," Pansy groaned, pulling a folded note from her pocket. "Let's hurry. I don't want to sit with that lot. Maybe we can still pick decent seats."
Without waiting for his reply, she grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward the classroom.
Malfoy allowed himself to be pulled along helplessly.
The class hadn't begun, but the room was already nearly full—mostly girls. The rest of the students trickled in only moments before the bell rang. The seating was clearly divided: Gryffindors on one side, Slytherins on the other.
Once everyone had settled, Lockhart cleared his throat dramatically, trying to quiet the class. He picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of Travels with Trolls and held it up so everyone could see the photograph of himself winking on the cover.
"I," he said, tapping the picture and giving the same dazzling grin, "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. But I don't talk about that. I didn't banish the Wagga Wagga Werewolf with a smile!"
He paused expectantly for laughter. A few faint chuckles appeared. Malfoy only smirked mockingly.
Lockhart then began handing out sheets of parchment. The questions were all about himself. For example:
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?
3. What does Gilderoy Lockhart consider his greatest achievement to date?
Three pages of this nonsense.
"What a waste of life," Malfoy muttered under his breath. He wrote only a single sentence before drifting off into his own thoughts—how to get Pansy to take learning seriously, or who had stolen the black diary.
Ron and Harry looked completely lost. They knew almost nothing about Lockhart except that he loved showing off. Seeing Hermione's quill flying across the page, the boys reluctantly picked up their own—but the quills felt as heavy as lead. Most of the boys suffered the same fate. Harry even thought he'd rather be answering Snape's potion questions—at least those had answers in books.
Half an hour later, Lockhart gathered the papers and flipped through them theatrically.
"Tsk, tsk—not a single one of you remembered my favourite colour is lilac. I mentioned it in A Year with the Yeti." He frowned and tutted as he skimmed. The male students were half-asleep with boredom; the girls were hanging on every word.
Then Lockhart called out, "Miss Hermione Granger—excellent work!"
Hermione jumped in her seat.
"She remembers that my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own line of hair-care potions. Brilliant girl!" He held up her parchment. "Full marks—one hundred! Ten points to Gryffindor!"
Hermione blushed, glowing with pride—until Lockhart said something that froze her.
"Ah! Twenty points to Slytherin. Mr. Draco's answer is perfect." Lockhart chuckled, winking at Malfoy. "But his response is a private matter between the two of us. I shan't reveal it."
Hermione's joy faltered. She looked instinctively toward Malfoy—only to see him staring off in a daze.
"Why can't I find a chance to ask him?" she wondered. She knew the truth: she'd had chances—she just hadn't dared to take them. Her excitement over earning points felt suddenly dulled.
"Now—back to today's lesson." Lockhart bent down and pulled out a large cage covered with a cloth. He set it on the table.
"Prepare yourselves! I am here to teach you how to face one of the most dangerous creatures known to wizardkind! But do not fear—as long as I am here, no harm will come to you. All I ask is that you remain calm."
Harry craned his neck to see better. Lockhart placed one hand on the cloth. Neville shrank back. Pansy edged closer to Malfoy.
"I must insist—no screaming," Lockhart warned. "It only provokes them."
The entire class held their breath—except Malfoy.
Lockhart whipped off the cloth.
"Yes!" he declared theatrically. "Cornish Pixies!"
One boy snorted—and immediately regretted it. The pixies shrieked.
"Be serious!" Lockhart scolded. "These creatures are wickedly mischievous!"
The pixies—blue, eight inches tall, with mischievous faces and high-pitched chatter—erupted into chaos the moment the cage was uncovered. They bounced, shrieked, shook the bars, and made faces at anyone nearby.
"Well then," Lockhart said grandly, "let's see what you can do!" And he opened the cage.
Chaos.
The pixies shot out like fireworks. Two grabbed Neville by the ears and hoisted him into the air. Several smashed through the window in a spray of glass. Others tore through the classroom with the fury of stampeding rhinoceroses—upending ink bottles, ripping books, scattering parchment, tearing posters off the walls, overturning bins, and hurling schoolbags through the broken window.
Several landed in girls' hair and began yanking it mercilessly.
"Petrificus Totalus!" Malfoy froze several pixies and pulled Pansy out of harm's way. Then he simply watched the carnage unfold.
"Come on! Round them up! They're only pixies!" Lockhart shouted. He rolled up his sleeves, waved his wand, and shouted, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
Nothing.
One pixie grabbed his wand and flung it out the window.
Lockhart yelped and dove under the teacher's desk—barely dodging Neville as he swung wildly overhead. At that moment, the chandelier gave up the fight and came crashing down.
"Is this man seriously our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Pansy asked incredulously. The same thought was written across many faces. A teacher who couldn't handle what the students could barely manage themselves was… questionable.
"Maybe his wand is broken," Hermione offered. "Like Ron's." She hesitated, then added, "You've all read his books—think of all the things he's done."
Some students nodded, their doubt easing slightly. Ron muttered, "He says he did them."
Eventually, the class managed—after considerable effort—to stuff all the pixies back into the cage.
"It seems your practical skills are excellent!" Lockhart announced cheerfully, emerging from under the table with his signature smile, as if none of the disaster had happened.
Malfoy stared at him with open disdain.
"Well then! Five points per pixie caught. Come up and record your names." Sensing the tense atmosphere, Lockhart changed the subject quickly—and successfully. The students immediately forgot his ineptitude and crowded forward for points.
"That actually worked?" Malfoy muttered, stunned. He had never seen someone so shameless.
The bell finally rang, ending the farce.
"What did you write on the paper earlier? I saw you barely wrote anything," Pansy asked as soon as they stepped into the corridor. She was one of the few girls completely uninterested in Lockhart, but her curiosity remained intact.
"Flattery won't get you anywhere," Malfoy replied. "I just wrote: 'My mother accidentally packed a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky in my trunk before school. Since minors aren't allowed to drink, I'd appreciate your help disposing of it.'"
"Blatant bribery?" Pansy's eyes widened.
"No—just a small token of appreciation from a student to his teacher," Malfoy said dryly, glancing back at Lockhart.
Lockhart's ethics as a teacher were… difficult to praise.
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