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"A brilliant success!" Gilderoy Lockhart declared to the silent, pixie-strewn classroom. "An object lesson in the perils of the Cornish Pixie, executed to perfection!"
The students, who were slowly beginning to un-hang themselves from chandeliers and crawl out from under desks, just stared at him with wide, dead eyes.
"Of course," Lockhart continued, his voice booming with a confidence that was almost a physical force, "I could have dealt with them myself in a heartbeat. But as a professor, one must know when to create a teachable moment! Why else would the Headmaster assign me such a singularly brilliant teaching assistant, if not for her to assist in my teaching? She needed a chance to shine, and I, Gilderoy Lockhart, provided it!"
He's actually trying to take credit for this, the entire class thought in unison. He's framing his own catastrophic incompetence as a gift to her.
Hermione, who was leaning on the railing and feeling a profound, soul-deep exhaustion, just massaged her temples. Arguing with a man whose entire reality was constructed from self-aggrandizing fiction was a pointless waste of energy.
"…Yes, Professor," she sighed, her voice a flat monotone. "You are absolutely right."
"You see!" Lockhart beamed, vindicated. "I believe today's lesson was quite effective. This will be our model going forward. With my experience and Miss Granger's… enthusiasm… you will all receive a first-class education in the Defensive Arts!"
A collective, silent groan of despair rippled through the young wizards. It was going to be a very, very long year.
Later that day, Hermione sought refuge in the one place at Hogwarts that made any sense: the library. The air was cool and smelled of old parchment, leather, and quiet, accumulated knowledge. It was her true home in this castle.
The plant seeds have been acquired, she thought, her mind already shifting to her next project. And the alchemical materials from S.H.I.E.L.D. are secure. It's time to begin mass cultivation.
With Dumbledore's official blessing, the Restricted Section was now her personal lending library. She walked with a quiet confidence toward the heavy, iron-bound gate, a book titled Flesh-Eating Trees of the World already clutched in her hand.
As she entered, she heard the hushed, awed whispers of the other students.
"It's her… the Gryffindor Witch…" "Look, she's going into the Restricted Section! Just like that!"
She ignored them and headed for her usual spot, a large, secluded table in a dusty corner alcove that everyone in the school now knew was, by unspoken agreement, hers. It offered a perfect vantage point and, more importantly, solitude.
But today, someone was sitting there.
A small, first-year girl with long, straggly, dirty-blonde hair was perched on one of the chairs, her nose buried in a book. She wore a necklace made of butterbeer corks and had her wand tucked behind her left ear. Her pale, silvery eyes had a distant, dreamy quality, as if she were simultaneously seeing the world in front of her and another one entirely. It was Luna Lovegood.
A flicker of annoyance passed through Hermione. But then she just shrugged. The library was large enough for two strange, solitary girls. She said nothing, simply taking a seat at the other end of the long table and opening her own gruesome-looking book.
The silence stretched on. The only sound was the soft rustle of turning pages. After half an hour, Luna put her book down. She drew her wand, a dreamy, faraway look on her face, and whispered, "Expecto Patronum."
A wisp of faint, silver-blue smoke, barely more than a puff of vapor, drifted from the tip of her wand and then dissipated. She tried again. And again. The result was the same. A flicker of confusion crossed her ethereal face. She was about to go back to her book when a quiet, clinical voice spoke from the other end of the table.
"The Patronus Charm is a projection of pure, positive energy. An incantation is not enough. You must focus on a single, powerful, and deeply happy memory."
Luna looked up, her large, silvery eyes blinking slowly, as if she were only just now noticing that someone else was there. She tilted her head, considering Hermione's words. After a moment, she closed her eyes. A soft, genuine smile touched her lips as a distant memory played behind her eyelids. She raised her wand again.
"Expecto Patronum!"
This time, a brilliant, incandescent silver light erupted from her wand. It coalesced, took shape, and for a glorious, breathtaking second, a fully corporeal, shimmering silver hare galloped silently across the table before dissolving into a shower of light.
Hermione's jaw, for the first time in a very long time, actually dropped. Holy hell. A first-year. A first-year who had just, with a single piece of advice, cast a corporeal Patronus, a piece of magic that most adult wizards could never hope to master. Even with her own grimoire and the mind of an adult, it had taken her weeks of practice to achieve that.
This girl's raw, instinctual talent was on a level she had never seen before.
The rare, happy smile on Luna's face made her look even more otherworldly. She put her wand away and looked at Hermione, her gaze direct and unnerving. "Thank you," she said, her voice a soft, melodic whisper. "I know you. You're Hermione Granger."
"Luna Lovegood," Hermione replied, recovering her composure. "We met at the Sorting." She nodded toward the advanced spellbook Luna was reading. "Why is a first-year practicing the Patronus Charm?"
Luna blinked her bright, protuberant eyes. "Oh," she said simply. "I've finished the standard curriculum for the first three years. I was looking for something new."
Of course you have, Hermione thought with a surge of exasperated admiration. This school is just lousy with child prodigies. She had to admit, she felt a flicker of something she hadn't felt before: a sense of intellectual kinship.
"If you're looking for something new," Hermione thought with a flash of dark humor, you're in the wrong section of the library. The really fun stuff—mind control, torture curses, the one that lets you eat souls—is all behind that gate over there.
Luna craned her neck to see the title of Hermione's own book. "Introduction to Dangerous Magical Experiments," she read aloud. "Are you planning an experiment?"
"Just some light reading," Hermione said patiently.
"Oh," Luna said, her expression turning serious. "Well, do be careful. You wouldn't want to make a mistake and die accidentally. The Nargles are particularly attracted to misplaced magical energy."
Hermione just stared at her. The warning was so blunt, so sincere, and so utterly bizarre that she couldn't help but let out a short, startled laugh.
The two of them sat in a comfortable, shared silence, reading their respective books, while the rest of the library buzzed with whispers.
"Oh my god, she's talking to her." "I heard that last week, a sixth-year Slytherin tried to sit at that table, and she hexed him so badly he grew tentacles." "But she's smiling! I've never seen the Witch smile before!"
Later that evening, Hermione sat in Lockhart's gaudy, portrait-filled office, a massive stack of ungraded exam papers in front of her, her head in her hands.
"Question seven," she muttered to herself, her voice a low groan of despair as she read from a seventh-year's paper. "'List three methods for identifying and combating a werewolf.' Answer: '1. It is very hairy. 2. It howls at the moon. 3. Run.'"
She drew a vicious, angry red cross through the answer. She picked up another. "What is the primary effect of the Disarming Charm?" Answer: "It is very disarming."
With a cry of pure, soul-deep frustration, she threw the paper on the floor. The state of magical education at this school was a criminal offense. Barty Crouch Jr., for all his faults, had been a far better teacher than any of these other clowns. No wonder so many people had fallen to Voldemort; the average wizard had the defensive capabilities of a stunned lemming.
She looked at the mountain of incompetence still waiting for her, then at a portrait of Lockhart, who was cheerfully autographing a photo of himself. And she finally understood. He hadn't asked her to grade these papers to save himself time.
He had asked her because he didn't know the answers himself.