The day after Halloween.
There were always rumors floating around Hogwarts—especially when it came to Hagrid. There wasn't a spell in the world strong enough to keep him from saying too much.
So when the first beam of morning sunlight spilled into the Great Hall, Hagrid slipped again.
"Hagrid? And where might you be off to?"
Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes from the staff table. Hagrid was obviously in a very good mood today.
He was carrying a giant pumpkin—its hollowed-out belly steaming with hot pumpkin juice mixed with soft oats and bits of unknown fruit.
His large, round frame filled his entire seat, and when he stood up with that beaming grin of his, the whole table rattled.
"Ah—dear Professor McGonagall, yes, I'm off to prepare a little party for my young heroes.
You've no idea, oh—you couldn't imagine. From his first year, little Green has always…"
Halfway through speaking, something shiny clung to his beard.
"Oh? Is that so?"
Professor McGonagall's warm smile slowly vanished. Her blue eyes fixed on Hagrid as she asked softly.
"Little Green does love pumpkin juice the most… I should be going, Professor McGonagall—if the wind picks up later it'll get cold."
Realizing something wasn't right, Hagrid knew only one thing: run.
The Great Hall was decorated with hundreds of floating, candlelit pumpkins, swarms of fluttering live bats, and many orange banners burning with gentle flames. They drifted lazily across the stormy-looking ceiling like bright, colorful snakes.
Hagrid wiped his beard and hurried off in big, clumsy strides.
At the staff table, Dumbledore chuckled into his goblet as Minerva McGonagall grew visibly irritated again. Clearly, she had put a few things together.
"The truth," Dumbledore mused, "tends to sound very different depending on who says it."
He turned to look at Snape—only to find the Potions Master had already stormed off.
Dumbledore's smile grew even brighter.
---
That morning was cold and windy. A group of young witches and wizards trudged down the grassy slope toward Hagrid's cabin by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Light rain speckled their faces.
The weather wasn't pleasant, but their spirits were high.
"Do you think Hagrid will let me take an extra pumpkin for decorating my dorm?" Justin asked warmly.
"If you've ever seen how big his pumpkin patch is…" Ron replied eagerly.
They were only twenty steps from Hagrid's hut when the door suddenly opened—
but the person who stepped out wasn't Hagrid.
It was Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing the palest lavender robes he owned.
"Hide!"
Harry hissed, yanking Sheehan—who had been reading—behind the nearest shrub.
The others quickly followed: Justin chuckling, Hermione and Ron looking exasperated, and Neville scrambling frantically.
"If you know how to do it, it's really quite simple!"
Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid inside.
"If you ever need help, don't hesitate—my office is always open! I'll even give you a copy of one of my books—I'm shocked you don't already have one.
I'll sign it and bring it by tonight! Well—goodbye!"
He strode up toward the castle.
Hagrid stood in the doorway clutching the giant pumpkin, looking as though he might pitch it at Lockhart's head.
But remembering it was a gift for Sheehan, he slumped and lowered it.
Hermione alone didn't let Lockhart off so easily—she puffed out her cheeks, flicked her wand, and sent a jinx at him. Lockhart promptly rolled all the way down the slope.
"I'm amazed you don't look where you're going—oh dear, Professor, do be careful—wouldn't want you to not even last the year—"
Hagrid burst into laughter.
"Good one—Hermione! Brilliant!"
For the first time, Ron felt genuine awe toward Hermione. He suddenly remembered how, just a year ago, she had been the biggest stickler for rules.
Now she was hexing professors.
She truly belonged in Gryffindor—the Sorting Hat did know its business.
"Hagrid—what did you mean by 'not lasting the year'?"
As soon as Lockhart rolled out of sight, Harry couldn't help asking.
He really didn't want Lockhart teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts forever.
Even if Lockhart wasn't one of Voldemort's agents, that only proved he was an absolute fraud.
"Harry! Sheehan! There you are—I've been tellin' everyone you'd come 'round—come in, come in—!"
Hagrid greeted them joyfully.
Inside, he busied himself making tea. Fang ran straight to Sheehan's side and refused to leave.
"Lockhart—well, he was the only applicant.
It's real hard findin' someone willing to take the Defense Against the Dark Arts job these days. Folks don't want it. Say the position's cursed. Nobody lasts long."
Hagrid placed the giant pumpkin on the table—its hollow mouth aimed directly at a certain Ravenclaw whose expression flickered.
While Sheehan quietly ate, Harry and the others peppered Hagrid with questions.
"It's been a troublesome post for ages.
I remember one DADA professor blew himself up brewing a potion—ended up in St. Mungo's.
Another tried using Dark Magic on students—got carted off to Azkaban.
And yet another tried some evil ritual—Dumbledore himself kicked him out.
Everyone knows the job's got a curse on it."
All the students leaned in.
"I wish they'd just send Lockhart to Azkaban," Ron muttered.
"Azkaban?" Harry echoed, still savoring the idea of Lockhart in trouble.
"Azkaban is the Ministry's high-security prison for wizarding criminals," Hermione explained between sips of sweet pumpkin juice. "It was built in the 15th century and became Britain's wizarding prison in 1718."
"But if Lockhart is a fraud," Justin asked, "where do all his stories come from?"
The question made Hermione freeze.
The group spent the next several minutes debating whose achievements Lockhart had stolen—and why the stories seemed so convincing.
Hagrid brought out snacks stuffed with all sorts of candies; Sheehan spotted a few treacle toffees among them.
Amid the lively chatter, Sheehan stared at the flyer for Green's Bookshop opening. He didn't join the discussion—instead he wondered how Lockhart would be kicked out of Hogwarts once the basilisk business was resolved.
Would Voldemort's curse on the DADA post hold strong?
As for Azkaban, in Ravenclaw's view, some of them might end up living there—and others would devote themselves to sending the first group there.
"Harry,"
Hagrid suddenly said, as if something had just occurred to him.
"I need to have words with yeh. I heard yeh handed out signed pictures. Why didn't I get one?"
Harry tried to yell in protest, but his sticky mouth wouldn't open.