The second day of term arrived, and with it, something that made even Harry hesitate.
Defense Against the Dark Arts.
This wasn't because the subject itself worried him—far from it. No, it was because of their professor.
Gilderoy Fraudhart Lockhart.
The moment Harry and the rest of Gryffindor entered the classroom, he knew it was going to be painful.
Lockhart stood in front of the class, flashing his pearly white smile like he was posing for a magazine cover. His ridiculous lavender robes shimmered under the classroom lights, and his golden locks were perfectly styled—probably magically.
"Welcome, welcome, dear students! Today marks the beginning of a magical journey where you shall learn from the greatest Defense Against the Dark Arts master Hogwarts has ever seen!"
Harry already wanted to leave.
Lockhart clapped his hands dramatically. "Now, take out all of my books."
The students hesitated.
"…Sir, all of them?" Hermione asked, ever the model student.
"Yes, yes! All of them!" Lockhart twirled his wand dramatically. "For today, we shall take a trip through my incredible adventures! You see, I have accomplished many daring feats, and through these books, you shall learn how to be just as brave as me!"
Harry could feel his soul leaving his body.
The rest of the class groaned but reluctantly obeyed. Lockhart then spent the next hour summarizing the highlights of his books, which, to Harry, sounded more like fictional fairy tales than real stories.
"…And that's how I single-handedly saved an entire village from a werewolf infestation!"
Harry chose Doubt.
"…And when the Banshee screamed, I simply—"
Doubt x2.
"…Ah, but you must be wondering how I defeated the Hags of—"
Doubt to the power of infinity.
By the time Lockhart finally shut up, Harry had successfully mastered the art of tuning people out.
But just as he thought the torture was over—
"Oh, but practical experience is very important," Lockhart said, his grin widening. "Which is why—"
He lifted a large cage onto his desk.
Inside, a swarm of Cornish Pixies chattered madly.
Harry felt something deep inside him whisper: Run.
Lockhart dramatically flung open the cage.
"Now, let's see how you—"
Absolute chaos.
The Pixies shot out like mini blue bullets, zipping through the air and immediately wreaking havoc. One grabbed Neville by the ears and lifted him off the ground. Another yanked Seamus's wand and used it to set his own robes on fire. Dean Thomas barely dodged a Pixie flinging an inkwell at his head.
The class erupted into panic.
But Harry?
He blinked.
The sheer amount of stupidity in the room practically killed his sense of urgency. (AN: He didn't use Instant Death to kill urgency...yet.)
"…Oh," he muttered, realizing something. "I have that effect now."
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist—
"Arresto Momentum."
The Pixies froze mid-air, their wild movements instantly stopping.
The room fell into stunned silence.
Lockhart, who had been hiding behind his desk, peeked out. "Ah! Yes, well done, Mr. Potter! But of course, I could have handled it—"
"Then why didn't you?" Harry deadpanned.
"…Moving on!"
Harry sighed.
This was going to be a long year.
The next few weeks were filled with more of Lockhart's nonsense, and Harry's patience wore thin.
Thankfully, Halloween arrived, bringing a much-needed distraction.
After a fantastic feast, Harry, Hermione, and Ron were on their way back to Gryffindor Tower—when they noticed something off.
Their footsteps splashed softly against something wet.
Water.
Spilled across the corridor floor, at least two centimeters deep.
"What the—?" Ron muttered.
Harry's sharp eyes caught something in the reflection.
Writing.
They all slowly looked up.
And there, on the wall, written in thick, dark lettering—
"THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE."
Their breath hitched.
But that wasn't all.
Next to the message—hanging from a torch bracket—
Mrs. Norris.
Petrified.
A deep, eerie silence filled the corridor.
Then—
"MY CAT!"
Filch's screech shattered the quiet.
Teachers and students rushed in, gasping at the sight. Filch was practically foaming at the mouth, looking ready to kill someone.
Dumbledore quickly stepped in, his wise blue eyes unreadable as he examined the scene. "Minerva, please escort Mr. Filch away for now."
McGonagall dragged the livid caretaker back, and Dumbledore turned to Harry and his friends.
"What happened?"
Harry quickly explained how they had attended Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party and stumbled upon this scene on their way back.
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"So, you are on the move again, eh… Tom?" he murmured.
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly.
Something dark was at play here.
And he was going to find out what.
The next morning, Hogwarts buzzed with rumors about the attack, but Harry had something else on his mind.
Quidditch.
Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.
And Slytherin had new Nimbus 2001s—courtesy of Malfoy's daddy.
"All this just so Malfoy could be Seeker," Harry muttered as they took to the air. "Kid really thinks he's a threat."
The match was brutal.
Slytherin played dirty, fouling left and right. At one point, Katie Bell took a bludger to the ribs covering for him.
Harry gritted his teeth.
He locked in on the Snitch.
Screw everything else—he was ending this.
With a sharp dive, he cut through the air like a bullet, dodging a Bludger by millimeters.
Malfoy tried to block him.
Harry didn't even slow down.
With a perfect maneuver, he twisted mid-air, brushed past Malfoy, and snatched the Snitch clean from the air.
The stadium erupted.
Victory.
But as Harry landed, he looked toward the Gryffindor stands—where Madame Pomfrey was helping Katie to the infirmary.
His smile faded slightly.
She had taken that hit for him.
That evening, Harry made sure to visit her in the Hospital Wing.
After all, if someone protected him, he would return the favor.
Always.
AN: Do y'all want longer Chapters, or should the chapters stay like they are right now?