Lockhart clapped his hands and strode into the Great Hall through one of the doors leading from the entrance hall. Behind him marched twelve grim-faced dwarves, their large, red, bulbous noses their most striking feature. Unlike typical dwarves, Lockhart had decked them out with golden wings and tiny harps strapped to their backs.
"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" Lockhart announced with infectious cheer, as if eager to share his joy. "They'll be roaming the school today, delivering your Valentine's Day cards!"
"And that's not all the fun!" he continued.
"Why not ask Professor Snape to teach you how to brew a love potion? I bet he's quite the expert."
"I hear Professor Sprout's love flowers are about to bloom. We must send them to our sweethearts before they wilt—blessed with love's magic!"
"Or have Professor Trelawney divine your soulmate. If her predictions are accurate, that is."
"And Professor Flitwick? He's more skilled at enchanting charms than any wizard I've ever met. What a sly old dog!"
With every name he dropped, the mentioned professor's face darkened a shade. By the time Lockhart finished, Professor McGonagall, the only one not mentioned, looked positively thunderous. Why had she been left out?
The young witches and wizards weren't going to get the answers they wanted from the professors.
But the dwarves? They were fiercely dedicated to their "mission"—delivering love letters. And reading them aloud in public.
"What kind of mortifying game is this?" Harry muttered, watching a young wizard struggle to escape as the dwarves surrounded him, loudly reciting the contents of his love letter. The poor kid looked like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.
"Who's the next unlucky soul?" Harry wondered aloud.
"I see him! It's him! Harry Potter!" one of the dwarves shouted, his voice booming across the Great Hall.
"...It's not my letter, is it?" Harry froze, his body stiffening at the sound of his name.
There wouldn't be anything weird in it, right?
"Potter! Didn't know you were such a heartthrob," Malfoy seized the chance to taunt, his voice dripping with mockery.
"Look, it's Malfoy! Perfect, we've got three letters for him!" another dwarf chimed in.
Malfoy: "???"
He looked as if he'd been hit with a Petrificus Totalus, his body even stiffer than Harry's.
Having his love letters read aloud? Absolute humiliation!
No. No way. Absolutely not.
Malfoy's already pale lips drained of what little color they had.
"And Longbottom! Wow, five letters for him!"
The dwarves' eyes locked onto Neville, who'd been watching the chaos unfold.
Me too? Neville thought, utterly baffled. He was just an ordinary wizard—why was he suddenly so popular?
Truth be told, ever since that night at the Dueling Club when Neville took down Lockhart with a single spell, he'd won the hearts of quite a few young witches.
The dwarves' gazes shifted again, this time landing on Ron, who was standing next to Neville.
"Ahem." Ron cleared his throat, straightening his collar with a smug, I'm ready look.
Then—
"Out of the way, redhead. You're blocking us," the dwarves snapped, shoving him aside.
Ron: ?
Where's mine?
"Dursley! It's Dursley! I found him—eighty letters!"
A group of dwarves clustered together, pointing at Dudley and squealing with delight. With that many letters, they could knock out half their task in one go—how could they not be thrilled?
"Didn't know you were that popular," Hermione teased, poking Dudley with a grin. Her tone was sweet, but—
Crack. The quill in her hand snapped in two.
Eighty love letters. More than even Lockhart.
But Dudley wasn't the top dog. The record went to a Ravenclaw first-year, Madison, with a whopping 108 letters.
Cedric wasn't far behind, ranking just below Dudley and Lockhart in popularity among male witches, but he wasn't in the Great Hall at the moment.
"And Miss Granger! Twenty love letters for her!" a dwarf announced.
Oh, let's see who's bold enough to write those, Dudley thought, scanning the room with a dark expression.
Every member of the Discipline Committee had their fair share of letters.
The dwarves swarmed toward Dudley, ready to grab him and read his letters aloud. But they'd clearly picked the wrong target.
"Your behavior is severely disrupting school discipline," Dudley said, his tone sharp.
"One of the Discipline Committee's duties is to maintain order."
Sensing his displeasure, the dwarves closed in on him.
"Hey, big guy, you looking for a fight? We've got twenty of us!"
"You're listening to these letters whether you like it or not."
One of them even flexed, showing off his muscles.
You've got muscles? Well, so do we.
But these dwarves clearly didn't know what the name Dursley meant.
They were just hired by Lockhart, after all.
"Strength in numbers, huh?" Dudley said with a calm smile, then snapped his fingers.
A blue whirlwind whipped up out of nowhere, and a chattering swarm of Cornish Pixies appeared before everyone's eyes.
"Now I've got numbers too," Dudley said.
"Get them out of here!"
He pointed at the dwarves, and the Cornish Pixies surged forward.
The little troublemakers sprang into action!
Sure, they weren't as powerful as the Pixie, but they were leagues above the dwarves—and there were several times more of them.
One Peeves was bad enough. A whole swarm? That was a force to be reckoned with.
"Stop! Let me go!"
"Get off!"
"Merlin's beard, my ears!"
The dwarves went from shouting to cursing to wailing.
One by one, they were tossed out of the castle.
The Valentine's Day vibe fizzled out before it even got started.
Some young witches felt a pang of disappointment, but most were relieved.
Lockhart started to intervene but stopped himself, mouth opening and closing without a word. He recognized those Cornish Pixies—they were the same ones he'd brought to class before.
In the Great Hall, a pair of eyes burned with hatred, glaring at the Discipline Committee—or more specifically, at Hermione.
Valentine's Day passed, but the inevitable still happened.
The professors' patrols, lax after failing to catch the culprit, were caught off guard when another incident struck.
This time, it wasn't just a cat.
A student had been attacked.
And alongside them, a ghost.
Thankfully, no one died.
Both were petrified, frozen in place.
Once again, a message was scrawled on the wall in chicken blood.
But this time, it was far more targeted.
"Next time, it's you, filthy Mudblood!"
"Hermione Granger!"
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