For 30+ advance chapter: p atreon.com/Snowing_Melody
Lockhart's smile was a thing of blinding, professional brilliance. "Of course not, my dear girl," he boomed, his voice full of a practiced, theatrical confidence. "While my own thrilling adventures are certainly an integral part of any complete magical education, I also believe in rigorous assessment. I've prepared a little quiz. Just to get a feel for the students' foundational knowledge."
He picked up a thick stack of parchment from his desk and handed it to her. "As my assistant, I expect you to be able to answer these simple questions. If not, you may find yourself in need of some… extra lessons."
Hermione took the test paper and her eyes scanned the first few questions. A muscle in her jaw began to twitch.
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?
She slowly raised her head, her expression a perfect mask of polite, academic inquiry. "Professor," she asked, her voice dangerously sweet, "could you please explain what precise area of Dark Arts knowledge question number one—your favorite color—is designed to assess?"
Lockhart's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Ah, well," he said, quickly recovering, "as a five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award and an honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, I believe a deep, personal understanding between teacher and student is the true foundation of a successful learning environment, wouldn't you agree?" He gave her a dazzling wink.
He's going to get himself killed, Hermione thought, a sudden, profound certainty washing over her. She sighed. This was going to be a very, very long year.
"And rest assured, Miss Granger," Lockhart added, patting a large, cloth-draped cage on his desk. "While you may have defeated a washed-up has-been like Quirrell, I am another matter entirely. I have prepared a little surprise for the class today. A practical demonstration of my formidable talents."
Quirrell, for all his faults, was a vessel for the Dark Lord, she mused. You, on the other hand, are a vessel for hair-care products and self-delusion. I don't think the comparison is in your favor.
Ten minutes later, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was buzzing with the excited chatter of the second-year students. They looked at the narcissistic quiz in their hands with a mixture of confusion and amusement, and then up at Hermione, who was leaning against the railing of the second-floor landing, looking down at them all with an expression of profound, weary resignation. She simply shook her head, a clear, unspoken message: Don't look at me. This has nothing to do with me.
"Now!" Lockhart boomed, striding to the front of the classroom. "Me! Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class! But I don't talk about that. I didn't drive the Bandon Banshee away by smiling at her!"
No, Hermione thought from her perch, you tricked a wizard with a cleft palate into doing it, and then you wiped his memory.
After thirty minutes of what could only be described as a one-man show of excruciating self-praise, Lockhart finally moved on. "But enough about my many, internationally acclaimed achievements! A theoretical knowledge of defense is useless without practical application! Therefore, I have prepared a little challenge for you all. I must ask you not to scream. It might… provoke them!"
With a dramatic flourish, he gestured to the large, covered cage on his desk. The students, infected by his theatrical tension, leaned forward in their seats.
"Behold!" Lockhart cried, and with a final, grand gesture, he ripped the cloth away.
Inside the cage was a swarm of tiny, electric-blue creatures, chattering and zipping about with manic energy.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, Seamus Finnigan let out a loud, derisive snort of laughter. "Cornish pixies?" he yelled.
The rest of the class erupted in giggles.
"Yes!" Lockhart said, completely unfazed by their ridicule. "Freshly caught! And you may laugh, but pixies can be devilishly tricky little blighters! Let's see what you make of them!"
And with an act of supreme, world-ending idiocy, he opened the cage door.
What followed was not a lesson. It was anarchy. A tidal wave of blue, chattering chaos exploded into the classroom. The pixies moved like a swarm of angry wasps, descending on the students with a malicious glee. They ripped books in half, they overturned inkwells, they pulled hair and tweaked ears. Within seconds, two of them had grabbed Neville Longbottom by his robes and hoisted him into the air, hanging him from the great dragon skeleton that served as a chandelier.
The classroom was a maelstrom of screaming students, fluttering paper, and high-pitched, chattering laughter.
Hermione just leaned on the railing, an expression of detached, scientific curiosity on her face. Well, she thought, he wasn't wrong. They are troublesome. As a practical lesson for second-years, it was actually… appropriate. If, of course, the teacher in question had even the slightest idea how to control it.
Lockhart, however, was beginning to panic. This was not how it was supposed to go. In his books, he was the hero who calmly and effortlessly subdued the magical menace. In reality, he was a fraud who had just unleashed a biblical plague of tiny blue hooligans upon a room full of children.
"Peskipiksi Pesternomi!" he squeaked, waving his wand in a series of frantic, useless circles.
The spell, which he had just made up, did nothing. In response, a pair of pixies zipped by, snatched his wand from his hand, and threw it out a high window.
Now he was defenseless. The chaos escalated. Lockhart, his face a mask of pure terror, looked around for an escape route. His eyes landed on the one calm, still point in the swirling hurricane of anarchy.
"Miss Granger!" he screamed, his voice a high-pitched, desperate plea. "My teaching assistant! I'll… I'll leave them to you!"
Hermione let out a long, slow, suffering sigh. The sound seemed to cut through the noise, a pure expression of her profound disappointment with the entire adult world. She drew her wand with a lazy, almost bored flick of her wrist.
"Immobulus!"
The effect was instantaneous. A wave of invisible, silent energy washed through the room. Every pixie froze in mid-air. Neville stopped swinging from the chandelier. Every fluttering piece of paper, every drop of spilled ink, hung suspended in the air. The high-pitched shrieking was replaced by a sudden, deafening silence.
The students slowly crawled out from under their desks, their faces a mixture of terror, relief, and pure, unadulterated awe as they looked up at the girl on the balcony.
Lockhart, seeing his chance, immediately sprang back into action. He smoothed down his disheveled robes and puffed out his chest.
"Well! Yes!" he announced to the silent, staring room. "A good lesson! Let that be a warning to you all. Never underestimate the dangers of even the smallest dark creature!" He gestured to Hermione. "And a round of applause for my brilliant assistant, Miss Granger, who so ably stepped in when I… ah… pretended to be helpless, in order to give her a chance to demonstrate her own skills in a crisis situation. All part of the plan, of course. All part of the lesson."
He flashed his most charming, thousand-watt smile.
The entire class just stared back at him with the same, collective, dead-eyed expression of utter, soul-deep disbelief.