On the way to King's Cross Station, Hermione looked completely baffled and asked, "Harry… what just happened? Why did you suddenly cast a spell on Lockhart?"
Harry didn't hide anything. He repeated what had happened from start to finish.
After hearing it, Hermione's eyes widened in shock. Whatever small crush she'd had on Lockhart instantly curdled into disappointment. She let out a soft sigh.
"I can't believe Lockhart is that kind of person… I actually liked him before. That's so unexpected."
Seeing how down she looked, Harry lifted a hand, ruffled her bushy hair, and smiled gently.
"Don't be sad. He's just a stranger. And compared to you… Mrs. Weasley is the one who's really heartbroken."
Hermione glanced over—and sure enough, Mrs. Weasley, normally warm and exuberant, stood there like she'd been petrified, disbelief written across her face. Then she actually started crying.
At the Burrow, aside from essential spellbooks, almost the entire bookshelf was packed with Lockhart's adventure books.
There was no doubt about it: Mrs. Weasley was a devoted fan.
No wonder. That sudden truth had just smashed the perfect idol she'd built in her heart into pieces. It was hard to accept.
In sharp contrast to her devastation was Mr. Weasley.
He looked downright radiant, cheeks flushed with joy. When he noticed Harry looking over, he hurriedly stuck out his thumb and gave it an enthusiastic shake, his eyes full of approval—as if saying:
Well done, Harry!
…
They went to King's Cross, boarded the train to Hogwarts, and everything went smoothly—no accidents, no surprises.
In the blink of an eye, the first official day of classes arrived.
Second year brought a different timetable than first year, and the very first class that morning was Herbology.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron quickly made their way to Greenhouse Three, where Herbology was held.
The bell hadn't even rung yet when Hermione's brows knit, worry filling her eyes. She lowered her voice.
"Harry… we have Defence Against the Dark Arts today. You embarrassed Lockhart earlier—won't he try to make trouble for you?"
Ron was full of confidence. "Relax. Lockhart isn't a match for Harry. If he doesn't want to become the second Quirrell, he'll behave himself and stop being stupid enough to mess with us."
Harry just smiled. "It's fine. Don't forget—Dumbledore is the Headmaster."
That finally loosened the tension in Hermione's shoulders.
Today's Herbology lesson was repotting Mandrakes.
Mandrakes were magical root plants that resembled humans.
Their roots formed a tiny person shape—arms, legs, something like a head, even crude facial features—though it was usually buried under the soil.
As a powerful magical plant, Mandrakes had countless uses.
They were also dangerous. Their cry could harm anyone who heard it—mild cases meant unconsciousness, severe cases meant death.
So learning how to handle Mandrakes was a crucial part of Herbology.
Professor Sprout demonstrated the repotting process first, her movements practiced and precise, then had the students copy her and try it themselves.
Among the bustle, Harry surged ahead.
With magical perception and control far beyond his age, he worked cleanly and efficiently, finishing his repotting in a flash.
The smoothness of it left the other students in the dust—like a total mismatch.
Professor Sprout's eyes shone with approval. She didn't hold back her praise.
"Excellent, Harry. Beautiful work. With talent like yours… you might even be able to use Mandrakes in combat someday."
"Combat?" Hermione blinked, curiosity bursting out before she could stop it.
Professor Sprout narrowed her eyes slightly, slipping into memory, and a faint smile touched her face as she explained.
"Yes. I remember about a hundred years ago, there was a legendary witch who used Mandrakes, Chinese Chomping Cabbages, and Venomous Tentacula in battle. It was her own combat style—something she developed herself."
Harry recalled a record he'd read. A century ago, there really had been a legendary witch.
According to the accounts, she'd already done astonishing things by fifth year.
She'd supposedly wiped out dozens of dark-wizard camps alone, dueled a dragon one-on-one, and even successfully tamed dozens of extremely dangerous magical creatures—phoenixes, basilisks, and other threats rated as high as Class 5X.
Most importantly, she was also a powerful user of ancient magic.
It was the first time Harry truly realized that in the wizarding world, beyond ordinary modern spells, there existed something called ancient magic—stronger, stranger, and far riskier.
So, to confirm whether Professor Sprout meant the same mysterious upperclasswoman from those records, Harry quickly asked, "Professor Sprout—who was that legendary witch?"
"Let me think…" Professor Sprout squinted, searching her memory. After a moment, she said:
"She was a transfer student. She didn't receive her Hogwarts letter until fifth year."
"She was incredible… but for some reason, after graduating, she vanished."
"My grandmother used to talk about her all the time—said she was the strongest witch who ever lived."
"Oh—and I forgot to mention: my grandmother was Garlick Sprout. She taught Herbology here at Hogwarts a hundred years ago, and she was famous around the school for being a great beauty!"
So it really was her.
Harry felt a quiet jolt of amazement, his curiosity about that senior witch growing sharper.
From everything known, she was far too unusual.
Harry even suspected that the strength she'd displayed in fifth year might already have surpassed present-day Dumbledore.
A witch with that kind of power—someone who could wield ancient magic—could absolutely have survived from a century ago to now… maybe even still looking as young as she once did.
So what happened a hundred years ago?
Why would someone that strong suddenly disappear?
Was she still alive?
And if she was… how terrifyingly powerful had she become?
…
After Herbology, the Gryffindor second-years went to the Great Hall for lunch.
To keep up with Harry, Hermione pushed herself constantly.
Even while eating, she didn't relax at all—wand clutched tight, eyes locked on a beetle as she cast Transfiguration again and again.
Under her magic, the beetle kept changing into delicate buttons—one design after another, endlessly varied.
Harry had told her before that among all branches of magic, Transfiguration was one of the most versatile—able to handle almost any situation.
After lunch, the three of them wandered into the courtyard. Soft afternoon sunlight spilled over the grounds as they admired the scenery and chatted casually.
That was when a very small, grey-haired boy approached, holding a Muggle camera and staring at Harry like he couldn't believe his luck.
"Hi—Harry? I—I'm Colin Creevey," he said, breathing fast. He took a timid step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor too. Could I take a photo of you?"
He raised the camera, his face full of hope.
Harry, of course, didn't refuse a genuine fan. He not only let Colin take pictures—he even gave him a signed photo, which made the boy grin for ages afterward.
After a short break, they headed for the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
That's right—this afternoon's lesson was Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Lockhart.
Along the way, Harry heard other students excitedly talking about Lockhart.
In most people's minds, Lockhart wasn't just handsome—he was brilliant, accomplished, and a celebrated figure who'd won Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times.
Because of that, a huge number of students at Hogwarts were devoted fans, practically worshipping him.
On the way, they greeted Nearly Headless Nick, and soon the crowd of students arrived at the classroom.
The moment Harry stepped inside, he froze in surprise.
Was this really the same gloomy, creepy Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom?
The windows had been thrown open, sunlight pouring in. The walls were plastered with portraits and photographs of Lockhart himself, and the bookcases had been completely replaced with rows upon rows of Lockhart's published works.
Once everyone had arrived, Lockhart strolled out of the office at the back of the classroom.
He wore his trademark dazzling smile, surveying the students. Every so often, he angled his body and struck a few poses that were a little too practiced—just this side of theatrical.
But when his eyes landed on Harry, his face twitched, and his smile instantly faltered.
The moment he saw Harry, his feet—injured by hours of nonstop dancing—seemed to ache again, even though they'd already been treated and were long healed.
Still, Lockhart was a performer who'd hidden his true nature for years. He adjusted his expression in an instant.
He took a deep breath, put his signature charming smile back on, and began his introduction to the class.
"I believe most of you already know who I am. Gilderoy Lockhart—Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League; five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award…"
"…but I never go around bragging about it—after all, I don't drive off banshees with my smile!"
The moment Lockhart finished, the students who still hadn't seen through him erupted into cheers.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron—who knew exactly what he was really like—exchanged looks, their expressions turning strange.
Ron wore his usual disgusted face as he muttered, "Never brags? He literally just introduced every single one of his 'honors.' Harry's the one who never goes on about what he's done."
Hermione's face burned bright red with embarrassment. She couldn't believe she'd ever admired this showy clown, even a little.
It was mortifying.
Lockhart basked in the roaring applause. He loved being worshipped like this.
But just as he was grinning smugly, his gaze drifted—landing on a quiet corner of the classroom.
The smile slid right off his face. His expression darkened.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron weren't cheering at all. They were huddled together, whispering.
Lockhart couldn't hear what they were saying, but their undisguised looks of contempt made it obvious it wasn't praise.
And when he remembered the humiliation of being hexed by Harry and made a fool of in front of everyone, his face grew even uglier. Suddenly, he raised his voice:
"I imagine some of you believe that because you possess enough talent—extraordinary ability—and astonishing fame… you no longer need to listen to my lessons…"
He strode over to their table, slammed his knuckles down on the desk, and barked a question:
"Mr. Potter—the shining symbol of the new generation, the most talked-about figure in the wizarding world. Let me ask you: what is Lockhart's favorite color?"
The students glanced at one another in silence, watching.
For some reason, the scene felt familiar—like they'd seen something like this happen last year, too.
Harry looked calm. His voice was flat.
"I don't know."
Lockhart's lips curled upward, smugness returning as he pressed on eagerly.
"Then what is Lockhart's secret ambition?"
"I don't know," Harry repeated, just as concise, his eyes utterly unmoved.
Two questions, two blank answers. Lockhart's satisfaction grew as he went for a third.
"Then what day is Lockhart's birthday?"
Harry couldn't be bothered to play along with this ridiculous farce.
"I don't know."
Lockhart looked even more pleased—so pleased he couldn't resist sneering:
"Oh? So this is Harry Potter—the so-called savior of the wizarding world. It seems he's nothing special after all!"
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly.
Alright. If he didn't teach this clown a lesson, Lockhart would keep bouncing around causing trouble.
Harry spoke up, voice clear and direct:
"Professor Lockhart, I don't think learning any of that is useful. We came to Defence Against the Dark Arts—not to listen to your autobiography."
"With all due respect, I'm not interested in you at all. Honestly, I find it boring."
"You—!" Lockhart's face twisted with anger. He clearly hadn't expected Harry to openly talk back in class.
And then Ron's eyes lit up like he'd just had the best idea of his life. He loudly suggested:
"Harry's being incredibly rude. I think Professor Lockhart should teach him a proper lesson!"
"I propose Professor Lockhart duel Harry—prove with real action that Harry's the one in the wrong!"
"…!"
Lockhart went completely rigid.
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