Chapter 98: Lockhart

In the following days, Silven treated the library as his second common room, arriving promptly at the oak table after every class and leaving only before curfew.

He had previously borrowed books to read in his dormitory, but Hermione told him that in the library there was no limit on the number of books—he could take as many as could fit on the table.

“That’s how I do it,” she said. “I borrow ten books at once, then pick two favorites to take back and read slowly.”

After that, Silven began visiting the library often; sometimes Hermione joined him, while Ron, like Harry, came only to do homework.

But recently, Harry had started coming to the library more frequently, because it was one of the few places where he wouldn’t “accidentally” run into Lockhart.

Harry had to admit he still enjoyed Defense Against the Dark Arts class—especially the first lesson, when Lockhart left a very favorable impression.

But in daily life, Lockhart’s exaggerated self-promotion and theatrical posturing quickly eroded that good impression.

And for some reason, Lockhart always seemed to target Harry, publicly saying strange things that left him utterly humiliated.

Yesterday, in front of Malfoy, he told Harry he shouldn’t get addicted to fame and shouldn’t be handing out autograph photos everywhere.

“I don’t want to be on the front page!” Harry had complained—this was already the how manyth time?—“And I don’t want to hand out autographs either; that’s all Colin Creevey.”

By the way, Colin Creevey was a first-year Gryffindor and Harry’s obsessive admirer—the second person Harry least wanted to meet.

But Colin Creevey was even more persistent than Lockhart: he waited for Harry every day outside the common room, in classroom hallways, and at the Great Hall entrance, always trying to take his picture.

This enthusiasm drove Harry to despair—he’d thought more than once that if only Colin admired Lockhart instead, both of them would be perfectly satisfied.

“Enough with the complaining,” Silven said. “Or you’ll get kicked out by Mrs. Pince too—and then you’ll lose your only sanctuary.”

Harry immediately fell silent.

But he soon noticed Silven had neatly returned all his books, leaving only one behind.

“Aren’t you reading anymore?”

“Class is about to start.”

“Oh, right—it’s Friday today.” Harry scratched his head; lately, because of Lockhart and Colin, and Malfoy’s mocking, he’d grown increasingly irritable.

The two left the library.

“What class do we have today?” Harry asked.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Silven said. “Good—we don’t even need to change floors.”

They passed through two corridors; just beyond the next corner lay Lockhart’s large classroom.

But just then, Harry’s body tensed, and he muttered involuntarily: “Here it comes.”

“What—”

Before Silven could finish, a lithe figure suddenly leapt out from the other end of the corridor, waving excitedly.

“How are you, Harry?”

“Hi, Colin,” Harry sighed helplessly.

Then the boy dashed off, beaming.

“It’s always like this,” Harry sighed. “Colin acts like he’s memorized my schedule—I run into him at nearly every class.”

This…

Silven patted his shoulder sympathetically. “No one can help you with this. You just have to get used to it.”

“That’s going to be hard,” Harry said, visibly frustrated. “And Lockhart—I really don’t want to run into either of them, because every time they drag me into some weird conversation, Malfoy appears like a ghost nearby and twists everything into rumors.”

“Do you know how Hagrid sees me now?”

Silven shook his head; he’d been in the library so much lately he hadn’t visited Hagrid in ages.

“Hagrid thinks I’m selling autograph photos inside the castle and even started a Harry Potter Fan Club—he actually complained I didn’t invite him.”

When he said the name “Harry Potter Fan Club,” Harry’s face flushed crimson, but he forced himself to say it anyway.

“I bet Hagrid’s just joking with you,” Silven struggled not to laugh. “He knows you’re not vain.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I just never expected Hagrid would’ve heard about it—this is all Malfoy’s doing!”

“I’ve got an idea,” Silven said. “Next time Malfoy mocks you, just beat him up good—I guarantee you’ll have far fewer problems.”

“No, I’d get points deducted.” Harry slumped, deflated.

“Just points—it’s not like we haven’t lost points before,” Silven chuckled. “Besides, could Professor McGonagall really deduct two hundred more from us?”

They’d lost two hundred points in first year—and still won the House Cup.

“No, still no,” Harry thought again, then shook his head. “What if McGonagall gets so angry she revokes Gryffindor’s Quidditch eligibility? Oliver would kill me.”

“Ah…” Silven chuckled. “Last time she flew off the handle because there were too many people. If you keep the crowd small and don’t use wands, you won’t risk losing eligibility.”

In Hogwarts, magical duels were the worst offense—but if you just fought bare-handed, it wasn’t even a big deal. Even if you got hurt, the hospital wing would just hand out a bandage and a dose of Dittany.

Harry, however, had grown up in the Muggle world and hadn’t realized this.

“Time for class,” Silven continued walking, and Harry hurried to catch up.

When the two entered the classroom, Lockhart followed right behind, wearing a new wizarding hat design, tilted jauntily over his fluffy golden hair.

“Good afternoon, students,” Lockhart himself, along with all his portraits around him, chimed in unison as if rehearsed, grandly.

He seemed to invent a new gimmick every class.

“Good afternoon, Professor Lockhart,” Hermione’s face was already turning red.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” he winked, flashing a mischievous smile.

“Alright, let’s begin,” he stepped onto the podium and bowed slightly. “First, let me apologize—I only just now realized that due to differing curricula, you’ve developed such serious tensions with Slytherin.”

Tensions with Slytherin?

Silven didn’t immediately grasp it—then he remembered: that had happened last week. Even Oliver Wood had gradually accepted their punishment of being barred from the Quidditch pitch. How had Lockhart only just found out?

“Then why is the curriculum different?” someone asked.

“That brings me to my time at Durmstrang, where I helped them deal with the Snow Goblins,” Lockhart smiled faintly. “To thank me for resolving their major problem, their headmaster repeatedly invited me to stay and teach… Don’t worry—I turned them all down, because at that time I’d already promised Albus I’d return to Hogwarts to assist him.”

A few students clapped politely.

“Though I declined, to spare those children disappointment, I shared some of my techniques with their instructors…”

Lockhart suddenly switched to a tone of regret. “Yes—as you’ve guessed—the very content Slytherin students are now learning. I greedily wanted to teach it all to you, but never imagined it would cause such serious consequences. It’s all my fault.”

“So I’ve decided: from now on, our curriculum will be equal for everyone.”

More applause. Silven briefly wondered if Lockhart had paid actors.

At the same time, Silven witnessed the “treasure” Lockhart had left behind at Durmstrang—the stage play.

He replicated the entire content of “With the Werewolf on the Run” in class.

Harry was cast as the werewolf. (I knew it would be like this.) Harry reluctantly stood up.

“Next… Miss Granger, would you mind temporarily playing my role?” To Silven’s surprise, Lockhart didn’t intend to defeat the Boy Who Lived himself—he offered the chance to Hermione.

Hermione naturally couldn’t refuse. Amidst a hundred piercing stares, she walked forward resolutely, even without her book.

She had already memorized “With the Werewolf on the Run” word for word.

Then, with Lockhart narrating dramatically, Hermione and Harry performed behind him.

But Silven understood why he’d arranged it this way.

Because Hermione’s position was completely blocked by Lockhart, standing in front as narrator—below, only a wand was visible.

As for Harry, he had no cover at all, vividly portraying the image of a defeated werewolf… purely taking punishment.

Because Lockhart insisted on realism, forcing Hermione to use real spells. (I know you can’t do the Human Transfiguration Charm, but never mind—you can at least use the Cleaning Charm, right?)

And so Harry was “cleaned” for the entire class; by the end, Silven felt Harry was glowing.

“I swear, I never wanted to learn Slytherin’s curriculum,” Harry sighed wearily.

“Then you’ll be disappointed—this class went pretty well,” Silven said.

Lockhart clearly had a talent for performance: his narration was vivid and emotional. Though his gestures were exaggerated, the addition of Hermione’s “real magic” made the visuals spectacular.

And Hermione cooperated perfectly, alternating between Cleaning Charms and Warm Air Charms, greatly enriching Lockhart’s performance.

Thus, every time magic exploded on Harry—the “werewolf”—the students below erupted in gasps.

Hearing this, Harry’s mood plummeted.

“Really?” He looked hopefully toward Ron, who had just arrived.

Ron hesitated, then nodded. After all, even he’d been drawn in for a while, and Seamus Finnigan had been saying nearby, “It’s like watching a movie.”

Ron didn’t know what a “movie” was, but he knew Seamus was satisfied.

Harry’s heart sank—he had a sinking feeling that if this class remained popular, Lockhart would keep doing it.

Soon, he’d probably have to act out every monster from Lockhart’s books.

“Why can’t we go back to the old lessons?” Harry blurted. “I don’t mind chasing Cornish pixies for a whole year.”

“I heard Slytherin caused trouble in the last class,” Ron said. “They deliberately aimed spells at classmates during the pixie hunt—caused a big mess. Someone even got sent to the hospital wing.”

“Professor McGonagall got furious and told Lockhart to stop this nonsense.”

“Really?” Silven said in surprise. “How do you know?”

“Not me—Fred and George,” Ron explained. “A few days ago, when they went to see McGonagall, they overheard her talking to Lockhart. I wanted to tell you, but you were both in the library.”

As he spoke, Ron gave Harry a mournful look—as if accusing him of betrayal.

Harry looked away, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to abandon Ron—he just needed quiet, and only the library offered that.

Now Silven understood: no wonder Lockhart had suddenly brought up a week-old incident and changed his teaching method—he’d overreached.

It made sense: Slytherin students would never honestly chase pixies. But Silven was curious—how had Lockhart handled the chaos?

Speaking of which, Lockhart’s transformation had been surprisingly successful. His new lessons still followed the same “talk but never act” con artist routine—but except for Harry, no one seemed to mind much.

Ron didn’t know what to say to comfort Harry, so he stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “At least… uh… Hermione’s spells won’t really hurt you.”

Harry didn’t know what to say anymore.

Worse still, barely moments after leaving the classroom, a familiar figure sprinted toward them, waving wildly from afar:

“Harry, how are you?”

"Oh, he's back again—let's go!" Harry felt a chill run up his scalp and yanked Silven's arm, dragging him down the stairs.

"Harry, where are you going?" Ron called from behind.

"I need to ask Mrs. Pince if I can stay in the library for a few days."

……

(End of Chapter)