October had barely begun, and already Hogwarts was full of gossip and scandal.
Not the usual kind, either — no hexed pumpkins or prank curses gone wrong — but something far juicier: Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Master of Nonsense, had been exposed.
It started innocently enough.
A few photographs, some conveniently leaked letters, and one rather artistic sketch showing our beloved Defence Against the Dark Arts professor screaming while a pixie set his head aflame.
The Prophet called it "A Shocking Display of Magical Incompetence at Hogwarts."
By the next day, every wizarding paper from here to Romania was printing a version of the story. "Lockhart's Lies?" — "The Plagiarist of Penzance?" — my personal favourite: "Cornish Pixies 1, Lockhart 0."
It went on for weeks with Lockheart raiding the front page repeatedly just not how he would have wanted it.
And today's headline sealed his fate entirely.
"Helena Ravenclaw Speaks: Lockhart, the Cheater of Ravenclaw Tower. The Grey Lady herself recalls his school days — 'He couldn't conjure a teacup without copying his classmates,' she claims."
I couldn't have fabricated it better myself.
By breakfast, the Great Hall was a cauldron of whispers and laughter.
Owls swooped overhead dropping The Daily Prophet onto every table like confetti at a funeral.
Daphne was reading aloud with malicious glee. "Listen to this—'Sources allege that Mr. Lockhart's twelve bestselling books were actually written by the wizards and witches he claims to have rescued.' Imagine that!"
"Imagine my shock," I said dryly, stabbing a piece of toast.
Cho leaned on her elbows. "You think he knows yet?"
"Oh, he knows," I said, glancing toward the staff table. "He's known since breakfast arrived five minutes ago. Observe the collapse of an ego."
Lockhart sat slumped in his chair, staring down at his untouched porridge.
The man looked like a deflated balloon — still shiny, but utterly hollow.
Lily sat two seats down, looking equal parts concerned and amused.
Snape was openly smirking, which, to be fair, was probably his version of laughter.
Even Hermione ever the loyalist had her faith stolen from her, academic integrity was one of his greatest core values, and to find the man she looked up to, was a plagerist, and a intellectual thief.
When she finally looked up, her eyes found mine.
"You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?"
I raised an eyebrow.
"Hermione, if I were going to destroy someone's career, I'd make it more poetic than pixies and plagiarism."
"That's not a denial," she said softly.
I gave her a small, knowing smile.
"No, it's not."
The whispers followed Lockhart wherever he went.
Students burst into snickers when he passed; portraits turned away to hide their laughter.
Even Peeves composed a special ballad titled "The Loony Lockhart Lament" that he sang through the corridors until Filch threatened him with exorcism.
DADA classes had turned to a boring state of affiars almost worse than under Quirrelmorts tenure, with all classes being self-study reading his books.
Lockhart shuffled into the room like a ghost wearing perfume.
Gone was the confident swagger, the gleaming smile.
His hair, once carefully enchanted to glimmer, hung dull and flat.
He cleared his throat.
"Good morning, class."
"Morning, Professor," a few students mumbled, though Seamus added a barely stifled snort at the end of it.
"Now, I—I'm aware there have been… certain rumours circulating about me," Lockhart began, clutching the edges of his desk like it was the only solid thing in the room.
"Rumours?" Daphne whispered under her breath. "That's one word for it."
Lockhart pretended not to hear.
"I want to assure you all that the Ministry is handling these baseless accusations, and that my—er—reputation shall remain untarnished!"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then a single pixie squeak echoed from the back of the classroom.
Someone had transfigured a blue paper bird to flap mockingly over his head.
The class broke into laughter.
Lockhart's smile twitched like it wanted to leave his face entirely.
"Enough! We are moving on to defensive spell drills."
He flicked his wand to demonstrate, but the charm fizzled — a weak puff of smoke, followed by the faint smell of singed parchment.
Lockheart was afterall a true disgrace.
Like a certain cat-mon who dedicated all his learning to learning to speak human, Lockheart had dedicated his all to memory charms such that he and his wand were not utterly incapable of casting any other types of magic now.
Sure his memory charms themselves were a cut above the rest, but almost all of those spells were considered forbidden magic, since they dealt with the mind and the use of them against someone truly undeserving or who is wanting a proceedure done was frowned upon heavily.
Cho muttered, "That's impressive, actually. He made nothing happen with that much confidence."
I leaned back in my chair, smirking. "A masterclass in advanced incompetence."
Hermione shot me a warning glance, but even she couldn't hide her disappointment.
The illusion had shattered for her, too.
Even she could see the professor was a fake, unable to even perform year two magical spells
Lockhart fumbled through his notes, knocking over a jar of Doxie wings in the process.
"Mr. Snape!" he suddenly barked, as if realizing the only way to survive humiliation was to redirect it. "Perhaps you'd like to demonstrate a proper disarming charm for the class?"
I stood slowly.
"With pleasure, Professor."
I drew my wand with deliberate calm, murmuring,
"Expelliarmus."
A flash of blue light sent Lockhart's wand flying from his grasp, sailing through the air in a wide arc before landing in my other outstretched hand.
The class erupted.
Seamus whooped, Dean clapped, and even Daphne smirked proudly.
Lockhart, however, looked as though someone had slapped him with a trout.
"Excellent," he said weakly. "See, class? A—er—textbook demonstration."
However he could see no one was even paying attention to him anymore.
"Class dismissed," he said hoarsely, turning away.
~
Later that evening, I found Hermione waiting near the entrance to the library, arms folded.
"You didn't have to humiliate him like that," she said quietly.
I arched a brow. "He did that himself."
"He's still our professor."
"For now."
Her lips tightened. "You really don't feel sorry for him?"
"Should I? He built his fame on the corpses of others' achievements. He's not a victim, Hermione — he's a parasite who finally ran out of hosts."
She sighed, looking away. "You sound like Professor Snape when you talk like that."
"Well... i mean he is my father afterall. But cmon don't be like that."
She hesitated, studying me for a long moment.
"Do you ever… regret how easily you can hurt people with words?"
I smiled faintly.
"Only when they don't deserve it."
Hermione shook her head and walked past me into the library, muttering something about arrogance.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe not.
Lockheart was a buffoon, and if we students wanted to learn anything worthwhile we needed a real teacher, so the faster we could get lockheart out, the sooner we could bring in another Auror from the ministry, or perhaps let Professor Snape use a time turner to become both the potions and DADA professor.
It is the position he was destined to become afterall.