"Very well done, Harry," Professor McGonagall said, unable to suppress a small smile. "I think that phrase could easily become a Gryffindor house rule. At the very least, it might keep them from stirring up trouble they can't handle."
"That might be a bit tricky," Harry replied with a grin, thinking of the antics his classmates had pulled under the Gryffindor banner. "For them, fun and excitement always come first."
"Indeed," McGonagall sighed, all too familiar with Gryffindor's ways. "Never mind… When you're ready to start learning to become an Animagus, come find me, Harry. I'm here anytime. For now, though, we have more pressing matters to attend to."
Her tone grew serious as she shifted to business.
"Under normal circumstances, new professors submit their textbook requests before the school year begins, so students can purchase them in Diagon Alley. The timetable is also finalized in advance. Everything must be prepared ahead of time."
"I'm sorry for the trouble, Professor," Harry said sincerely.
"No need to apologize, Harry. We all know this isn't your fault," McGonagall said, shaking her head slightly. "But you should brace yourself. You're likely to face significant pressure—not just from students questioning you, but also—"
"From the Ministry of Magic," Harry finished calmly, understanding her concern. "Or rather, from the wizarding world at large."
"It's good that you understand," McGonagall said with another sigh, looking at Harry with worry. "Honestly, I don't know why Professor Dumbledore is in such a rush to have you… You're still so young, aren't you? Starting the new course next year would have been perfectly fine."
"Thank you for your concern, Professor," Harry said, offering her a reassuring smile. "But please don't worry. A bit of skepticism won't shake me. My resolve isn't so fragile that a few idle comments can break it."
"I need to prove to the wizarding world the existence of the elements and the significance of shamanism—its necessity, even. They're all waiting for me to do so," Harry added, defending Dumbledore. "Please don't blame Professor Dumbledore. He's only trying to help me."
"In the future, when my apprentices step into wizarding society, people will gradually accept this new form of magic and the role of shamans. It's a long process, and I'm prepared for it."
McGonagall studied Harry's face, still youthful and a touch boyish, but resolute.
"Very well," she said suddenly, a brief smile flickering across her lips, so quick it was almost imperceptible. "Then, Professor Potter, since you're now officially a professor and the shamanism course is no longer just a club activity, I expect a lesson plan delivered to the Transfiguration office by tomorrow."
"Huh?" Harry blinked, caught off guard.
A lesson plan?
"Don't misunderstand, Professor Potter. Every professor must submit a teaching plan to the school. How will you conduct your lessons? What goals do you aim to achieve each term? What's the course progression? If you need outdoor spaces—like taking students to the Forbidden Forest—you'll need to apply in advance."
Noticing Harry's increasingly attentive expression, McGonagall stifled a smile and continued.
"In short, write down how you plan to teach and what you expect your students to achieve by the end of each term. Submit it on parchment, and that's it," she said, her tone growing sterner. "Yes, Hogwarts doesn't dismiss professors lightly, but as the oldest magical school in Europe and the only one in wizarding Britain, we have a duty to provide the best education for our young witches and wizards."
"…And to prevent certain incompetent professors from muddling through and misleading students," she added with a cold huff.
Though she didn't name the professor she deemed incompetent, Harry didn't need to think twice to know who she meant. McGonagall's disdain for Gilderoy Lockhart had been clear, even at last night's welcoming feast, without the slightest attempt to hide it.
It was rare, honestly. McGonagall was a strict but fair person, and for someone like her to show such open contempt… well, Lockhart had a knack for getting under people's skin.
"I'll do it, Professor," Harry said, not eager to dwell on why Lockhart had managed to offend McGonagall so thoroughly on the first day of term. He nodded earnestly.
"Good, Professor Potter. I've observed your lessons, and I believe you'll make an excellent professor," McGonagall said with a satisfied nod. "Make sure to submit the list promptly. The shamanism course must begin this week, so students don't fall behind. Any preferences for class times?"
"Daytime is fine. Morning or afternoon works," Harry replied concisely.
"How many classes per week?"
"I'm not sure yet," Harry said, pausing to think. "I have an idea, but I'd need to discuss it with you and Professor Dumbledore. Can we talk about it when I submit the lesson plan tomorrow?"
"Very well," McGonagall agreed. "But be quick. Adjusting the timetable and notifying everyone takes time."
"I will."
McGonagall hurried off as swiftly as she'd arrived. As deputy headmistress, with Dumbledore often leaving matters to her, she had plenty to manage.
Harry, meanwhile, was left pondering how exactly to write a lesson plan.
This was uncharted territory. As he mulled it over, he headed outside the castle. He needed to share the good news with Hagrid—they'd be neighbors now.
Hagrid would be thrilled.
Smiling at the thought of what kind of house he might build next to Hagrid's hut, Harry was interrupted by a commotion—and the sound of girls shrieking.
His expression turned serious, and he followed the noise, only to wish he hadn't bothered.
A gaggle of girls, from younger students to older ones, surrounded a man in a garishly bright robe, practically glowing. Harry had never seen someone chug a bottle of Gleaming Potion like it was water.
Though, in a way, wasn't Lockhart just funneling the money he'd earned through his fame right back into Harry's hands? Those potions weren't cheap.
The girls crowded around Lockhart, chattering excitedly, giggling, and squealing whenever he said something. Shaking his head, Harry turned to leave, relieved it was just a fan frenzy and not an emergency.
"Harry? Harry!"
Lockhart's voice boomed. Harry spun around, instinctively grabbing the hand reaching for his shoulder and brushing it off coldly.
Lockhart was far too familiar. Harry hadn't forgotten the man's subtle hostility, from their encounter at Flourish and Blotts to this moment—reaching for him without so much as a greeting. This wasn't like the Weasley twins' playful antics.
"Something you need, Professor?" Harry asked, his tone icy.
"Oh, Harry, no need to rush off," Lockhart said, unfazed by the rebuff. He turned to the girls trailing him. "Sorry, ladies, I've enjoyed our time together, but I need to have a word with Harry. As you know, we're both rather well-known in the wizarding world."
The girls giggled and dispersed, and Lockhart waved them off warmly. Once they were out of sight, he slung an arm around Harry's shoulders. This time, Harry didn't shake him off.
"Harry, my boy, still calling me 'Professor'?" Lockhart chuckled, glancing around before lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I've heard the news—you're becoming a professor, too, aren't you?"
Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised. How did Lockhart know? His appointment hadn't hit the Daily Prophet yet. It made sense for Dumbledore to consult senior professors, but Lockhart was a newcomer, likely only here for a year…
"Oh, Harry, don't look at me like that," Lockhart said, grinning at Harry's reaction. "Five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award, honorary member of the Anti-Dark Magic League, and recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class—whether I want it or not, people tell me things."
"…Fair enough," Harry conceded.
Did Lockhart have to recite his accolades every time he met someone?
Harry wasn't fond of the man's style and had little interest in lingering, but before he could excuse himself, Lockhart spoke again. "Need some advice from a seasoned hand, Harry?"
"I've sailed with vampires, dined and lived with werewolves, and spent a full year with a yeti in Tibet. My experiences are beyond anything you've seen or imagined," Lockhart said, adopting a mentorly tone. "Yes, this is my first time teaching, but my past makes me… well, let's say I'm more than equipped to handle it."
"No need to be shy, Harry," he pressed on enthusiastically. "If you have questions, just ask. I'm happy to help—after all, I am your professor, aren't I?"
"Harry, I know what you're thinking: 'He's just a famous wizard; he's never taught.' Oh, how wrong you are…"
Lockhart's chatter buzzed in Harry's ears like a goblin's rapid-fire sales pitch. Harry was about to walk away when he realized he did have a question for Lockhart.
"Actually, Professor, I do have something to ask," Harry said suddenly. "How do you write a lesson plan?"
Lockhart was a bestselling author, after all. His books were entertaining yet packed with useful knowledge. Harry was curious how he'd tackle a lesson plan, especially since, unlike other professors, Lockhart's curriculum required a whopping seven textbooks.
"A lesson plan? Ha! Harry, you've come to the right man!" Lockhart paused, his smile widening.
If Harry had asked about magic or his supposed adventures, Lockhart might've had to dodge. But a lesson plan? He genuinely believed he was born to write them.
His grin turned genuine, and since the Defense Against the Dark Arts office was on this floor, he eagerly invited Harry to see his work. He'd even written multiple drafts, submitting only his favorite to McGonagall.
Harry was stunned.
But the real shock came when he entered Lockhart's office. How could anyone plaster their own portraits everywhere?
The moment he stepped in, four or five Lockharts beamed at him from the walls. Turning his head, he was surrounded by more—paintings, photographs, all moving and chatting as wizarding portraits do. Harry could hear at least half a dozen wall-bound Lockharts greeting him, turning a single office into a bustling tea-party atmosphere.
Behind the desk hung a massive portrait of Lockhart in a pale purple robe, sporting his signature smile. Beside it, text proclaimed: Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Anti-Dark Magic League, Five-Time Winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award.
Harry stared, speechless.
In two lifetimes, he'd never met anyone so obsessed with broadcasting their achievements.
Was this man mad?
Lockhart had taken over Quirrell's old office, but it was unrecognizable. The floor was covered in a plush purple carpet embroidered with gold stars and moons. A gilded chandelier hung from the ceiling—Harry vividly recalled Quirrell dying near that spot last year. No one had likely told Lockhart.
The only other notable feature was a pile of clutter by the window: cabinets, boxes, and assorted odds and ends, surprisingly dust-free.
"A bit messy, I hope you don't mind, Harry. These are leftovers from the last Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I plan to sort and toss them," Lockhart said, trying to block the pile, though his frame wasn't wide enough to hide it.
"Quirrell's things?" Harry asked, surprised. He'd assumed Dumbledore would've cleared out anything tied to Voldemort.
"Ah, the Death Eater, right?" Lockhart said, pulling a chair for Harry and shrugging. "The Daily Prophet didn't mention it, but those in the know always hear more."
"Sit, Harry, don't mind the mess… Let me find those lesson plans… Here we go!" Lockhart rifled through his desk, piled high with parchment and letters, until he triumphantly pulled out a few written sheets.
"…It's good that you're asking me about something you don't understand. Not many in wizarding society are as generous as I am. Most would charge you a few Galleons for a sentence or two…"
Harry tuned out Lockhart's self-aggrandizing spiel, realizing the man could twist any topic back to himself. His gaze drifted to the pile of clutter.
Many were magical items: a crystal ball of unknown purpose, a cracked mirror, a plant-like arm. Some were unmistakably Dark artifacts and books—items that, outside Hogwarts, would land their owner in Azkaban for months. But in the hands of a Hogwarts professor, they were perfectly legal.
Hogwarts professors enjoyed certain legal exemptions, a privilege Harry would soon share. No wonder McGonagall was concerned for him.
Bending down, Harry picked up a jeweled headpiece from the pile, ornate and adorned with an eagle's head.
"Oh? Like that, do you?" Lockhart said, leaning in. "Clearly made by a Ravenclaw. You know, Harry, we Ravenclaw graduates love eagle-themed things."
Each house had its animal obsession, Harry knew. He'd seen countless lions in Gryffindor's common room—Ravenclaw's was probably full of eagles.
Lockhart snatched the headpiece and plopped it on his head.
"How's it look? This gem suits me, doesn't it?" he said, tilting his head narcissistically, searching for a mirror. "Not bad. I thought this pile was just junk."
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