Neville stood there, utterly baffled, as Lockhart called his name.
Me? I'm just here to watch the show. What's this got to do with me?
Lockhart, seeing Neville's hesitation, mistook it for fear and flashed a reassuring smile. "No need to be scared, lad. I'll go easy on you."
Taking on a professor might be a stretch, but this? This'll be fine, Lockhart thought smugly.
He hadn't picked Neville at random. As a member of the disciplinary team, Neville had some notoriety, but according to Lockhart's intel, he wasn't exactly a powerhouse. Word was, Neville Longbottom was a timid, crybaby sort—easy to handle, obedient, and the perfect "teaching tool" for Lockhart's demonstration.
His source? Seamus Finnigan from Gryffindor, though the info was a year old.
As for Neville's sixth-place ranking in their year-end exams? Lockhart didn't even factor that in. Sixth place? Big deal. Back in his day, he was top of Ravenclaw.
He'd briefly considered Harry. When it came to fame, no one at Hogwarts could touch Harry Potter. But Lockhart wasn't reckless enough to risk it. What if the rumors about Harry were true and he was actually that good? Lockhart still shuddered at the thought of Snape taking him down with a single spell. He could spin that as a teaching moment, but getting beaten by a second-year? Even if it was the Harry Potter, that'd be a humiliation he couldn't recover from.
Lockhart was here to boost his popularity and rake in attention, not to lose face.
Selling his books and earning Galleons was the priority. And if he could plug his haircare products on the side? Even better.
"Come on, step up. Face me," Lockhart said, giving Neville a nudge. The boy didn't budge. Look at that—frozen stiff with nerves, Lockhart thought. Once he's on stage, he's mine to mold. A quick demonstration, and I'll have the crowd eating out of my hand again.
With a mix of pushing and pulling, Lockhart maneuvered Neville onto the stage.
Neville versus Lockhart?
The disciplinary team members exchanged knowing, mischievous glances.
To outsiders, Neville might seem like the least impressive member of the team—a placeholder, there to make up numbers. As Neville himself admitted, he wasn't one for the spotlight, a rare trait for a Gryffindor. He was the team's workhorse, quietly grinding away—training his body, soaking up knowledge, and practicing spells relentlessly.
But if you thought Neville was a pushover, you were dead wrong.
His progress was obvious to everyone on the team. Even Snape and Flitwick, who'd given him extra lessons, had noticed. Neville might not have the flashiest talent, but his steady, dogged effort was unmatched. He was always improving, like he had a fire burning inside him.
"First things first, Neville—bow. Good," Lockhart said, guiding him with exaggerated patience. To him, Neville looked like a nervous wreck, which was exactly what he wanted.
Perfect. Time to shine.
They raised their wands, holding them upright in front of their chests.
"One, two, three—"
As Flitwick's countdown ended, Neville and Lockhart raised their wands in unison.
"Like this—" Lockhart began, intending to show off by coaching Neville through a Disarming Charm, hoping to salvage some dignity after his embarrassment with Snape.
But Neville wasn't playing along. "Expelliarmus!" he shouted, cutting Lockhart off.
No theatrics, no hesitation—just the same Disarming Charm Snape had used.
A flash of red light shot out, identical to Snape's earlier spell. With a whoosh, Lockhart was sent flying off the stage, crashing into the wall, sliding down, and curling into a ball. The whole sequence was so smooth it looked rehearsed.
Silence.
The room froze, jaws dropping in shock.
Was this really the same Neville Longbottom who used to stammer through every sentence?
He'd taken down Professor Lockhart with a single spell—just like Snape had?
"That spell Neville used…" one student whispered.
"It was the same as Professor Snape's," another added.
The murmurs grew. He'd cast Expelliarmus without a hint of hesitation.
How was a second-year that precise?
"Longbottom's in the disciplinary team," a Slytherin student said quietly.
"I knew it. Hanging around Potter, Dursley, and Granger? He's bound to have picked up something from them."
"Even a fraction of what they know would go a long way."
"There's an old Eastern saying: 'Stay with pigs long enough, and you'll turn red.'"
The surrounding students nodded, as if it all made sense. They didn't quite get the pig bit, but if it involved Dursley and his crew, it checked out.
It was logical. Convincing.
And then it hit them: if Neville could pull this off, couldn't they? Eyes turned to Dudley and the others, burning with admiration.
Who wouldn't want to be exceptional?
Neville was lucky to have been picked for the disciplinary team.
"Lockhart wasn't ready! Longbottom caught him off guard!" one of Lockhart's supporters protested, clinging to excuses as stubbornly as a rock in a privy.
"Oh, come on. It's a duel, not a game of pretend. What, you expect him to announce, 'Ready or not?' before casting?"
"They bowed. That means the duel started."
Lockhart's detractors fired back.
"Poor Professor Lockhart," his fans whined. "He's fainted! What more do you want?"
They refused to admit their idol was just that incompetent.
The detractors just rolled their eyes. Fine, you win.
As for Lockhart himself? This time, he didn't bother getting up. Even his thick skin couldn't salvage this one. Fainting—or pretending to—was his best bet.
Careless mistake? Pick another opponent? What if I lose again?
If he couldn't find a way out, he'd just keep playing dead.
Whether he was actually out cold or faking it, fainting was the right move.
Someone would come up with an excuse for him.
"Professor Lockhart must've been injured from testing spells earlier. He's too weak to stand," one supporter suggested.
See?
A few older students hoisted Lockhart up, carrying him toward the hospital wing.
Whether by accident or not, as they passed a side door, Lockhart's head thwacked against the frame with a dull, unmistakable thud.
"Be careful!" his supporters cried.