Before coming to Hogwarts, Gilderoy Lockhart had envisioned a glorious stage for himself. With nothing more than his dazzling stories, he imagined he could make the young witches and wizards sink completely into the illusions of power he wove. That way, he would not only sell countless copies of his books, but also seize the chance to write another one—his "Hogwarts years"—and use the prestige of a professorship to raise his worth even higher.
But lately, life had not been going well for him.
The students were losing patience.
True, there were still plenty of silly witches who swooned over him, but many others had come to Hogwarts to learn, to improve. Especially the Fifth and Seventh Years, facing their grueling O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams, were desperate to master real magic.
Many had come to him for guidance, only to be brushed aside with vague smiles and hollow words.
But that humiliation last weekend—when Tom Riddle had embarrassed him in front of a crowd—had struck a heavy blow to Lockhart's reputation. Even his die-hard admirers had wavered.
Still, Lockhart had experience handling such situations. His books had been questioned before. He knew the trick: create an even more sensational story, and the scandal would be drowned in the noise.
This time, he set his sights on Usagi. If he could obtain Usagi, the beast, his own lack of skill could be masked. With such a powerful "pet," he might even attempt true adventures.
He had also dug into Tom's background. Just a Muggle-born orphan with a bit of talent, sorted into Slytherin by some twist of fate. Surrounded by wealthy pure-blood heirs, his life couldn't be easy. Surely, a few galleons would dazzle him. Lockhart thought it a fair price—especially with Dumbledore watching over everything. He wouldn't dare go too far.
And then—he was suddenly hurled into the air.
The noisy corridor fell silent. The young witches and wizards froze as though time itself had stopped. They stared at Tom Riddle—and at Lockhart, hanging upside down.
Someone rubbed their eyes furiously, only to realize the world truly had gone mad.
Tom Riddle had dared to attack a professor!
This wasn't like Quirrell. Quirrell had resigned, exposed his true face, and revealed himself as a Dark wizard after the Philosopher's Stone. Lockhart, for all his incompetence, was still a professor—an actual, living professor!
"Tom Riddle! What are you doing? Put me down at once!"
Lockhart snapped out of his daze, screaming with fury, flailing his limbs against the invisible bindings.
Tom's face was cold as stone. With a flick of his wand, the wall bulged outward, swallowing Lockhart's body until only his head protruded.
Draco Malfoy's eyes lit up.
Yes! Exactly like this!
This was the same way Riddle had pinned him into a stone wall, leaving him hanging there the entire night.
No, this time Lockhart deserved to suffer even longer!
"I used to think you were nothing more than a buzzing fly," Tom said, voice calm, cutting through the stillness. "A clown on the stage, amusing the crowd. But today I see the truth—you're a rat. A rat foolish enough to bite, thinking you can gnaw at me? I should swallow you whole."
"Usagi? You dare set your eyes on him? Old fraud, what gives you the right? That pitiful little Memory Charm of yours?"
Lockhart's eyes widened in terror. The wall pressed against his mouth, muffling his protests into pitiful whimpers. But his heart hammered. How much did Tom know? He had called him a fraud—he had named the Memory Charm directly!
Words were not enough. Tom's hand itched.
"Rosier. Your wand."
Rosier blinked, then, as if guided by instinct, pulled out his wand. By the time Tom grasped it, the wand had transformed into a whip studded with barbs.
A sharp hiss spread through the crowd.
Nott and Zabini sucked in breaths, envy twisting in their chests. Why had Tom chosen Rosier's wand and not theirs?
"With my own wand, you'd dirty it. Today, Lockhart, if I don't leave you striped with golden lashes, I'm not a Riddle."
Crack!
"Aaaah!"
The first strike drew a shriek of agony. Even a troll couldn't endure the bite of that barbed whip.
Tom's arm moved faster and faster until his blows blurred into afterimages. Ravenclaws shrank back in horror, trembling in a corner, but the Slytherins… their eyes gleamed with feverish admiration.
This was the Slytherin way. Cross us, and even a professor would be taught his place.
"Tom, let me join!" Daphne's voice cut through, burning with fury.
How dare this charlatan insult them with such a paltry offer? Five thousand galleons? Her allowance for the term exceeded that. If Tom wished, her mother would gladly pay that price for every single vial of strengthening potion. This wasn't a bargain; it was an insult.
"Here." Tom handed her Rosier's wand.
Daphne struck without hesitation, lashing down just as hard as Tom. Soon, Lockhart's body was a canvas of bloody stripes, his robes soaked crimson, his face unrecognizable.
Even some Slytherins faltered. Were these two really going to flog him to death?
"Enough!"
A shrill voice cut through the frenzy. Relief rippled through the hall—Lockhart would live, barely.
—
Fifteen minutes later, in the Headmaster's office.
"Outrageous! Absolutely outrageous!"
Phineas Nigellus Black's portrait bellowed. "A Hogwarts student attacking a professor? In our day such disgrace was unthinkable! Riddle, do you believe a little talent gives you the right to do as you please? You're finished. Not even Dumbledore can save you this time. Expulsion is the only option!"
Flitwick had been the one to free Lockhart, ordering two students to rush him to the hospital wing. Then, dragging Tom along, he had gone straight to Dumbledore's office.
The Charms professor sighed the whole way, but said nothing. Only at the door, as the stone gargoyle leapt aside, did he whisper urgently:
"Riddle, you must admit fault. Dumbledore will be lenient if you do."
Now, in the office, Flitwick quickly explained what he had heard from students, then excused himself. Dumbledore had asked him to send for Snape.
The living men in the room stayed silent.
Snape stood by the door, arms crossed, his expression black as storm clouds. He looked as though he had come only to enjoy the spectacle.