Less than a week into the term, Anthony had already heard about the fiasco in Lockhart's class from at least five different people. The man had set second-years loose on a cage of Cornish Pixies. At least a dozen of the little iron-blue terrors had ended up chittering down the corridors, bursting into other classrooms amidst shrieks from the portraits.
History of Magic students had been dozing, scratching incomprehensible notes onto their parchments. Then the window shattered. Kids near it jumped.
Pixies swarmed in with the fresh air. They snatched quills, buzzed along the walls, flew straight through Professor Binns's chest and out his forehead.
Binns seemed briefly disoriented. But he recovered with a ghost's indifference and droned on about goblin rebellions—"goblins and wizards fighting over wands"—completely ignoring the students wrestling pixies for their inkwells.
By the end of the class, everyone was about ready to snap. Professor Binns slowly dismissed them, his wrinkled lips pursed in mild annoyance. "I do hope you can respect historical facts… The classroom discipline today has been the worst in many years…"
Anthony overheard students discussing it in the corridor.
"His vision's probably too blurry to see the little buggers," one said. "We yelled that pixies were in the room. He told us we were talking about goblins, not pixies, and to stop fidgeting or he'd take points—if he could remember what House we're in."
The professors gossiped about Lockhart's teaching in the staff room too. Lockhart's framed photo on the side table had been turned face-down. Professor Sprout added extra sage to her herbal tea. Professor Burbage took one sip and set her cup aside.
"First-years said he had them find their favorite passage in his book, copy it out, and hand it in," Professor Sprout said flatly. "Best handwriting gets his fancy signature."
"Third-years have to summarize Gilderoy's 'cunning strategies' from his adventures for homework," Professor McGonagall said, one eyebrow arched as if she found it darkly amusing.
Anthony nodded in understanding. He'd overheard students leaving the library debating whether Lockhart had actually bitten the banshee to death with his perfect teeth.
Professor Flitwick was uncharacteristically silent. He seemed unwilling to admit this had once been his student.
…
Saturday morning. Anthony woke up early.
He lay in bed, watching the faint dawn light seep through the curtains. It took him a moment to realize what was happening. His cat, unaware that he and Dumbledore had canceled today's Wraith Chicken experiment, was sitting on his pillow, staring down at him with grave disapproval.
Anthony covered his eyes and shoved the cat away. "No. We're not going home today…"
He rolled over. For the first time, he noticed how loud the birdsong was. A few minutes later, sleep was utterly gone. He sat up and got dressed.
"Bad cat," he muttered. The cat, tail held high, rubbed against his ankles, wanting its morning saucer of white wine.
The air was crisp and clean, with the first hint of autumn. The distant hills were just beginning to turn, streaks of orange and gold bleeding into the deep green treetops. Anthony rubbed his forehead—another bad night's sleep—and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.
Most students weren't up yet. The four House tables were nearly empty, making the pair of redheads at the Gryffindor table all the more conspicuous. The Weasley twins sat with rumpled hair and dazed expressions, staring blankly at their plates of bacon. Fred was absently squeezing a mountain of tomato sauce onto his scrambled eggs. George was trying to eat with a fork that was headed for his nose.
Anthony was about to go ask what was wrong when Lockhart breezed into the Hall. His wavy blond hair gleamed. His lilac silk robes billowed dramatically.
"Henry!" Lockhart cried cheerfully (Fred and George both jolted and looked up). "Henry, my boy! Why haven't you come to visit? You're not holding a grudge, are you? Hmm? Thinking to yourself, why won't Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, spare a moment for a chat when he lives right next door? Well, you've got me all wrong, Henry!"
Anthony quickly took a seat, putting some distance between them.
"Of course not, Professor Lockhart—"
"Tut-tut. Gilderoy, please." Lockhart beamed. "I've simply been swamped—don't misunderstand, Henry, I'm not complaining. I gladly devote my time to replying to every single admirer's letter…"
Anthony let Lockhart's monologue wash over him. He devoured two slices of toast at a record pace for his time at Hogwarts, stood, and made to leave. To his surprise, Lockhart had somehow managed to polish off his eggs and sausages between sentences.
"Any plans for the day, Henry?" Lockhart asked warmly, his bright blue eyes fixed on Anthony as if he were about to invite him to see a statue gifted by some grateful Muggle he'd rescued.
"I… oh, I was thinking of visiting Hagrid," Anthony said.
Lockhart's face lit up. "Really? How splendid! We can go together—now you can't accuse me of neglecting you, Henry. Though, I don't believe I've had a proper chat with Hagrid yet."
"Not right now," Anthony said quickly. "I have to, erm, go to Flourish and Blotts. I ordered some books."
"Ah, then I'm afraid I cannot join you," Lockhart announced loudly. "My appearance in a bookstore would likely cause a commotion. After all, unlike you fortunate souls here at Hogwarts, the general public doesn't get to see a real Gilderoy Lockhart every day!"
Fred said to George, his voice just as loud, "I'm so jealous of them!"
Anthony swore he heard an echo off the stone walls.
Lockhart glanced at them. The few other students eating breakfast (one was reading Break with a Banshee while drinking pumpkin juice) turned and glared at the twins.
Angelina Johnson, yawning, walked over and plopped down opposite Fred and George, loading her plate with kippers and pumpkin pasties. It took her a moment to notice everyone staring at them.
"What'd you do?" she asked tiredly, rubbing her eyes.
George repeated, "We said we're jealous of other people."
"Me too," Angelina said, stifling another yawn as she shoveled food into her mouth. "I'm jealous of anyone who doesn't have a maniac for a Quidditch captain."
…
Daniel at Flourish and Blotts was practically desperate to get rid of the Monster Books ("They fight all day and bit the delivery man's foot"), but Anthony wanted to kill as much time as possible in the bookstore.
Only when the shop grew busy did Anthony finally pay. A very relieved assistant helped him float the crated, growling books back to the castle.
Smoke curled from the chimney of Hagrid's hut. The pumpkins out back looked even bigger than last time. Anthony knocked. The sound of Fang's excited barking made him smile.
"Who's there?" Hagrid's gruff voice came from inside. The door opened. "Oh. Henry."
Anthony gestured to the floating iron cage. "I brought you those books… oh."
His sentence died. Gilderoy Lockhart sat in Hagrid's best chair, looking radiant. There wasn't a single teacup on the table.
"You have impeccable timing, Henry!" Lockhart said cheerfully. "I was just telling Hagrid here about the banshee. Can you believe he hasn't read—I assume you've brought my books? Let me see which one it is?"
The Monster Books of Monsters, bound tightly with rope, thrashed inside the cage, clanging against the iron bars. Lockhart stared at their handsome green covers and gleaming gold titles, his smile faltering.
"You got 'em, Henry!" Hagrid said gratefully. He hauled the cage inside, opened it, and pulled out a book, undoing the ropes.
The book promptly stood up on its spine and began scuttling across Hagrid's scrubbed-clean table.
Hagrid chuckled. "Still got spirit!"
The Monster Book didn't hesitate. It reached Lockhart's pointed, lilac wizard's hat—adorned with silver trim and a subtle pattern that looked expensive—and started chewing.
Hagrid quickly slapped at the book. "No, no, let go!"
"Not to worry, Hagrid," Lockhart said magnanimously, drawing his wand with a flourish. "I'm quite adept at handling Dark tomes." ("It's not a Dark tome," Hagrid said uneasily.) "Watch closely—Unclaspum Uncannyi!"
The book, prodded by his wand, chomped down harder on the hat.
Hagrid scooped the struggling book up in one massive hand. He examined it, turned it over, then ran a thick finger firmly down its spine.
The book shivered. Pages fell open. It lay still in his palm. Hagrid handed the now crumpled, tattered, and soggy hat back to Lockhart, looking sheepish.
"Ah, I was just about to do that!" Lockhart laughed. "To be honest, it's rather obvious. Of course, without that preparatory charm, you wouldn't have managed it so easily… I've encountered other Dark volumes, far more dangerous than this…"
Hagrid opened his mouth, no doubt to insist again it wasn't Dark, then stopped. He was looking out the window. Anthony knew why. He thought he'd heard a distant scream too. But Lockhart was already off again, recounting the cursed goatskin grimoire that had plagued a dozen villagers.
"Excuse me, I should check that," Anthony said. Hagrid seized the opportunity to politely usher Lockhart out, then followed, grabbing his crossbow.
"From the Forest?" Anthony asked.
Hagrid scratched his head, uncertain. Then another scream came. Clearer this time. Directional.
"That way!" Hagrid said, striding off. Anthony jogged to keep up.
Lockhart caught up moments later. "What's happening?" he asked, almost eagerly, while assuring them he was excellent in emergencies—"When I was cornered in a telephone box by a werewolf," et cetera, et cetera.
The closer they got to the Quidditch pitch, the clearer the sounds became. Anthony heard someone roar, "Get him!" Another voice shrieked, "Don't!" Incantations—Locomotor Mortis! Finite!—mixed with the sounds of scuffling, punches, and general chaos.
All three men broke into a run. Hagrid surged ahead, his footsteps like thunder. "WHAT'S GOIN' ON? STOP THAT!"
He began plucking students from the tangled brawl, setting them aside like rag dolls. Anthony saw red and green Quidditch robes and sighed.
Then he recognized the faces: Fred, George, Angelina, Flint, Harry, Ron, Neville… and finally, Draco Malfoy. The moment Hagrid set him down by the arm, Malfoy shook him off, and the bigger Slytherin players immediately closed ranks in front of him.
Hermione stood to the side, wand raised, looking utterly bewildered, a mix of confusion, anger, and worry on her face. A small, mousy-haired boy with a camera spotted Anthony approaching and gleefully raised it. Click.
"Someone want to tell me what happened?" Anthony asked, addressing the more familiar Gryffindor contingent.
Ron was still glaring in Malfoy's general direction, breathing hard. Neville stood beside him, panting heavily, his round face flushed. One of the Weasley twins had a bloody nose. Angelina stood beside him, frowning in assessment, but he was busy high-fiving his twin.
Anthony turned to the Slytherin team. Before he could speak, a loud, wet retching sound cut through the air. Anthony frowned. A moment later, several large, glistening slugs oozed out from near Flint's feet.
Anthony and Hagrid pushed past the stony-faced Slytherin players—Hagrid just moved them aside—to find Malfoy on his knees, hands at his throat, face purpling. He gagged again. More slugs plopped onto the grass.
The Gryffindors erupted in laughter.
"You got him, Ron!" Fred or George shouted, grinning. "Brilliant! You got him!"
The mousy-haired boy, fascinated, tried to edge around the Slytherins for a photo of the slugs. That's when a slightly winded Lockhart arrived.
"What's the—oh." He spotted Malfoy. "Stand back, everyone… I know exactly what to do in these situations."
He strode forward, his lilac robes sweeping dramatically. Malfoy looked up, tears in his grey eyes. Pure terror filled his face.
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