The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom buzzed with excitement.
Not because of the subject, of course, but because Professor Lockhart had just entered—floating, almost literally—on a wave of self-admiration and ego, amplified by the applause of his fans seated at their desks. His sapphire-blue velvet robe had an absurdly high collar, and a white feather stuck out of his hat, as if he were expecting someone to photograph him for a magazine cover at any moment.
"Dear students!" he exclaimed, pulling out a copy of his book Magic Chose Me and flashing that dazzling white smile that surely cost a fortune in polishing charms. "Don't worry, everyone will get a signed copy before the end of the week. Or the month. Or the term! What am I saying? No one will finish this year without at least two of them!"
Harry rolled his eyes. Was he trying to give the book away just to brainwash more people?
Fine, he'd give away the two extra copies himself—preferably to someone in Slytherin.
Hermione was applauding with almost religious devotion. It was strange, like her IQ had flipped from positive to negative.
Kronk, sitting in the corner of the classroom, discreetly pulled out a bowl of salad for a snack without bothering anyone. Ron glanced at him with envy and asked quietly:
"Where'd you get that?"
"I was hungry," Kronk muttered, eyes still on the professor. "The new guy's robe dazzled me with all those studs. I lost sight for a bit and couldn't find the food on the table."
Lockhart gave an exaggerated bow and announced in a mysterious tone:
"Today, a practical lesson. My little apprentices of the heroic arts… shall witness how I faced the worst magical creatures—without a hair out of place!"
He pulled out a violently shaking cage, the bars slightly bending with each tremor, and swept off the covering cloth with a dramatic flourish.
"Are those—?" Ron whispered nervously.
"Cornish pixies," Hermione whispered ahead of Ron's question, as if she didn't want him interrupting the professor's words. "They're mischievous—and dangerous!"
"Observe and learn!"
Lockhart lifted the lid, and chaos descended like a storm of blue wings.
The pixies shot out in every direction, whistling like a furious boiling kettle. One ripped the sleeve off Seamus's robe, another dangled from a lamp, three began pelting each other with chalk, while a fourth tried to stick a wand into Neville's ear.
When it didn't fit, its eyes scanned downward for another possible route, and a wicked smile spread...
Lockhart tried to keep his composure.
"Don't panic!" he cried, ducking a bone that nearly hit his forehead. "I've got this!"
He did not have this.
What he did have was his wig half-yanked off and a pixie doing a jig on his head.
That's when Kronk stood up, sighing at the sight of so many unruly creatures. He knew exactly how to handle this. He had experience with troublesome children.
With perfect calm, he placed the salad bowl on his desk.
He walked steadily through the chaos, and when a pixie tried to hurl an inkwell at him, he stopped cold and slowly turned his head to unleash one of the most terrifying abilities in his arsenal:
The Disapproving Look.
It was as if a silent wave of energy swept across the room.
The pixies froze. One stopped midair, another dropped the glasses it was stealing from a student, and even the one dancing on Lockhart's head climbed down carefully, as if sensing that a blue grandmother from across time and space was silently judging it.
Kronk said nothing. He simply furrowed his brows ever so slightly, crossed his arms, and tilted his head a few more degrees.
A pixie gulped—then winced, realizing the noise might draw more judgment.
The smallest tried to escape through the window, but a single finger gesture from Kronk (non-violent but very clear) immediately dissuaded it. Within seconds, all the pixies were seated in a row, quietly, like children after a silent scolding.
Kronk pulled out a small box and opened it.
Inside were… mini cheese buns baked with calming essence.
"If you behave," he said, kind but firm, "you may share these."
The pixies sniffed the cheese and nodded eagerly. One even pulled out a handkerchief to clean the blackboard on its own initiative. The others, not wanting to be outdone, quickly started cleaning, organizing, and tidying up the entire classroom—leaving it even better than before their escape.
Once their task was done, they lined up to receive a mini bun each and returned to the cage, munching neatly and delighted. The last one even remembered to close the latch.
The classroom fell into dead silence.
Lockhart, with tufts of hair out of place and ink on his forehead, smiled nervously and raised his arms.
"That's how you impose order, class! Just as I taught Kronk during my… uh… personal training years!"
"Didn't you just meet him this year?" asked Dean Thomas.
Lockhart began to sweat.
"Details, my dear boy," he said, dismissing the comment with a grin. "Details!"
Kronk returned to his seat, picked up his salad, and resumed eating.
The class watched him with a mix of reverence and fear.
Hermione even offered him a napkin, though she had ulterior motives for approaching.
"How did you do that?" she asked, unable to contain herself.
She asked Kronk—not Lockhart.
"A silent look of disapproval can be far more effective than a spanking," Kronk said solemnly. "But it's a skill that requires tact and moderation—otherwise, it backfires."
"That's exactly what I was going to say!" Lockhart chimed in, now with his hair back in place, taking advantage of the attention shift.
Kronk narrowed his eyes at Lockhart.
He remembered the professor hadn't even apologized for the mess he caused in his own lesson.
"...Please don't look at me like that," Lockhart begged internally, panicking.
He loved the attention and adoration of others—he needed it more than air, in fact. But a look like Kronk's...
That was the only kind of attention he desperately wanted to avoid.