Allen leaned back against his chair, his gaze fixed on Professor Gilderoy Lockhart. Despite his simmering disgust, Allen was starting to develop a grudging, purely intellectual admiration for the man's sheer audacity and flawless execution of the charlatan persona. He wasn't just a con man; he was a master manipulator of public perception.
Lockhart really knew how to protect his professional face. If he hadn't been naturally inclined to be so loud and theatrical, if he had possessed even a shred of cunning ambition beyond seeking fame, and if he had a skin this thick, he could easily have been a major political force in the Ministry.
He could turn a public, humiliating blunder, like the accidental makeup spell from moments ago, into a lighthearted anecdote about student mischief. It was impressive, terrifying, and utterly maddening.
Lockhart smiled again, a dazzling, reconstructed display of confidence, having successfully steered the class's attention away from his face and back onto the central theme of his life: himself.
"From what I see," he declared, pulling a stack of parchment from his voluminous turquoise robe and gesturing grandly,
"you've all been wise enough to buy all my books—an excellent start! That shows dedication to the arts of self-defense! However, before we jump into the real magic, I think we should begin with a little, tiny written exercise today. Don't worry—nothing stressful! This is just to see how well you've read and understood... the author."
He began distributing the documents with the flourish of a man handing out valuable autographs. Once he returned to the podium, he straightened his robes, consulted a list, and said, "You have exactly thirty minutes. Begin now! I expect silence, unless you have a burning, career-defining question about my exploits, of course!"
Allen received his exam paper and glanced down. A slow, cynical smile curved his lips. He had wondered what these questions had to do with Defense Against the Dark Arts class. The answer, clearly, was nothing whatsoever.
The questions spanned three full pages, single-spaced, dedicated entirely to the glorious details of Gilderoy Lockhart.
DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS EXAMINATION, SECOND YEAR, CLASS 1
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color, and in which book did he first muse upon its subtle shade?
2. What was Gilderoy Lockhart's secret objective upon defeating the Bandon Banshee, an objective that required a three-hour photo session?
3. In your opinion, what is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date: taming the Yeti, conquering the Banshee, or winning the Most Charming Smile Award five times? Please explain your rationale (50 points).
4. How many hours per day does Professor Lockhart dedicate to maintaining his immaculate, naturally wavy hairstyle?
5. Describe in detail the precise brand of toothpaste Professor Lockhart uses (be specific about the mint extract).
6. What are Gilderoy Lockhart's three most defining fears (as outlined in his autobiography)?
7. And, finally, when is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday? What would be the truly ideal, non-monetary birthday gift for a hero of his caliber?
The three-page document was an unprecedented monument to narcissistic self-indulgence. The boys in the back row exchanged horrified, baffled looks, but the front-row girls, including Hermione, scribbled furiously, relishing the chance to prove their devotion by recalling minute, useless biographical facts from his books.
Half an hour later, the scrape of quills ceased. Lockhart collected the exam papers himself, stacking them neatly, before beginning a dramatic review of the answers right there at the podium, in front of the entire class.
"Tsk, tsk, oh dear," he said, shaking his gleaming head sadly as he flipped through a batch of papers.
"Almost nobody remembered that my absolute favorite color is lilac. I specifically mentioned it in A Year with a Tibetan Yeti, noting how well it complements my natural complexion. Honestly, a few students should immediately reread A Walk with a Werewolf—in Chapter Twelve, I made it abundantly clear that my ideal birthday present would be for all people to live in harmony, whether they have magical powers or not—a beautiful aspiration, don't you think? But,"
he added, dropping his voice conspiratorially and winking playfully at them again, "I wouldn't absolutely refuse a large bottle of Ogden's Finest Old Firewhisky, either! A hero needs his moments of relaxation!"
His supposedly witty remark caused a fresh burst of nervous, embarrassed laughter across the room. The initial shock of the makeup had left such a deep impression that many students couldn't help but laugh not with him, but at the increasingly desperate nature of his show.
It was precisely at that moment, as Lockhart basked in the spotlight he interpreted as adoration, that Allen raised his hand—a clean, formal, perfectly straight gesture.
Lockhart spotted him instantly, his smile widening to painful proportions. "Ah, the brilliant Allen Harris! I remember you, my excellent student! Let me see your exam paper, if you would."
Lockhart leaned over, plucked the top paper from the stack, and dramatically scanned the three pages of minute handwriting. "Full marks!" he announced to the class with booming satisfaction, practically vibrating with pleasure. "Allen Harris answered all my questions correctly! Even the toothpaste brand! Excellent! Simply excellent! Ten points to Ravenclaw!"
Allen received the perfect score with an expression of utterly convincing, wide-eyed admiration. The truth, of course, was that Allen made it a point never to submit a blank exam paper. He didn't want to prematurely sever his ties with Gilderoy.
Severus Snape's strategy of open disdain was inefficient; Allen's strategy was to be the 'perfect fan'—the seemingly gullible, devoted prodigy who could get close to the man. After all, Gilderoy was currently a professor, and constantly being treated as an adversary would be a nuisance.
So, for now, Allen would let Gilderoy treat him like the most intelligent and devoted admirer he had ever encountered.
"Professor," Allen began, keeping his voice smooth and full of calculated awe. "Speaking of the Yeti... you mentioned in A Year with a Tibetan Yeti that no one else has managed to take a close, continuous look at it besides yourself, who lived with it for a year."
"Of course, I can have close contact with him; he's very friendly towards me," Gilderoy said, looking at Allen with a self-satisfied, almost affectionate gleam, treating him as his intellectual equal.
"If that's the case, sir," Allen continued, his expression remaining one of pure, innocent curiosity, "how did you manage to avoid being consumed by the Yeti after living with it for a whole year? And more importantly—since all the known historical accounts classify the Yeti as a highly aggressive, swallowing beast—what exactly did the Yeti fear, that allowed you to coexist with it?"
Allen clearly stated the issue, framing it as a follow-up question, not a challenge. Most of the intelligent Ravenclaw students, however, noticed the chilling, clinical precision of the question. They looked instantly from Allen's innocent face to Professor Gilderoy Lockhart's, suspicion now visibly hardening their stares.
The question was a factual trap. Classified as a four-star magical creature by the Ministry of Magic, the Yeti was an animal native to the treacherous slopes of Tibet. It was believed to have a distant, hostile connection with Mountain Trolls, but no one had ever managed to get close enough to conduct the necessary tests.
The Yeti could grow up to fifteen meters tall, was covered from head to toe in thick, pure white fur, and, most importantly, anything that got in its way was swallowed whole as it lumbered through the snows.
The few historical accounts agreed that the creature's only true fear was fire. A skilled, highly prepared mage might ward it off briefly, but, apart from Lockhart's own fictionalized account, no mage had ever managed to maintain close, continuous contact with one for anything longer than a terrifying minute.
Lockhart's perfect smile wavered, just for a second. The corner of his eye twitched. He suddenly became very busy shuffling papers on the desk.
"Well... Allen, my boy," he said, clearing his throat and avoiding Allen's gaze entirely.
"A fantastic question, but one you must discover for yourself! Perhaps you should find the answers in the library—or even on the sports fields, seeking mental clarity! Books and physical exercise should be your lifelong friends! The pursuit of knowledge is a lonely path, but a rewarding one! Next lesson, we will be talking about the time I faced down a Troll and taught it to crochet!"
The answer was a transparent, pitiful deflection. The Ravenclaws, being Ravenclaws, were highly analytical. They exchanged pointed, knowing glances. Even the girls in the front row looked slightly disappointed. Allen's carefully laid trap had worked perfectly, sowing the first seeds of doubt in the minds of the people most likely to investigate further.
Later that day, during the noisy chaos of lunch, the truth about the morning's very first Defense Against the Dark Arts class—the one taken by the Gryffindors and Slytherins—was the only topic of conversation in the Great Hall.
Allen, savoring his second slice of rich, dark apple pie and occasionally sipping a warm, savory mushroom soup, devoured the atmosphere along with his meal. His keen ears picked up every juicy detail of the gossip swirling around him. Hearing about Gilderoy's spectacular, humiliating failure in the very first class of the day calmed and refreshed Allen's soul far more than any dessert could.
The story was already transforming into a triumphant legend. While Allen and the Ravenclaws had been having their ridiculous written exam, the elves that Lockhart had let loose in the Gryffindor/Slytherin class had been causing a true riot in the Hogwarts corridors.
The tale being recounted across the table detailed how Cornish Pixies—small, bright blue, fiercely vicious imps—had been released into the classroom by Lockhart, who confidently announced he would teach the class to subdue them. Instead, they had immediately seized his wand, used it to destroy a skeleton, and then escaped, leaving the entire class in hysterical disarray.
The little monsters weren't done there. The tale continued that the pixies had run amok in the castle, finding a joyous accomplice in the school poltergeist, Peeves, who was excitedly running, spinning, and dancing in the air, his high-pitched cackle adding to the din.
Peeves had even helped the elves knock over several suits of ancient armor, throw around several sensitive portraits who screamed bloody murder, and shatter a priceless antique chandelier.
Then came the climax: Argus Filch had gotten up, grabbed a heavy cane, and tried to chase the creatures away, but the mischievous imps snatched his cane, grabbed Filch by his ear—a humiliating hold—lifted the poor caretaker into the air, and dumped him unceremoniously onto the damp lawn outside, where he was left sputtering in rage.
The young wizards, who had initially intended to help, had been utterly overjoyed to see the much-disliked Filch being tricked and humiliated, and none of them had intervened.
Fortunately, Professor McGonagall, moving with her usual grim competence, happened to be passing by. She caught the mischievous elves in a large, invisible, magically-reinforced sack, and took them back to the completely helpless Professor Lockhart, who then had to dismiss his class early.
It was no wonder that Allen and the Ravenclaws, taking the second lesson, had been relegated to a safe, pointless written exam.
A familiar voice cut through the gossip near the Gryffindor table, pulling Allen's attention. It was Hermione.
"Oh, she just wanted to give us a chance to practice in a real, pressurized situation," Hermione said, her voice strained with a defensive tone that suggested she was desperately trying to convince herself more than her friends. Allen involuntarily frowned. Hermione's intelligence was failing her; she was applying intellectual effort to defend pure, unadulterated fraud.
"Practice?" Harry's voice was skeptical, layered with disbelief and exhaustion.
"Hermione, you are being incredibly generous to that walking advertisement! You care about him too much! But I understand when I see that his Defense Against the Dark Arts class is marked with a heart on your schedule in pink ink! Still, I absolutely do not think he knows how to subdue those Pixies! I don't think he would know how to handle the situation without his only working spell—the Ice Cream Charm!"
Harry muttered the last part under his breath, earning a stifled snort from Ron.
"Nonsense," said Hermione, attempting to sound firm, but her denial was weak. "You've all read his books—think of all the truly amazing, brilliant things he's done! His skills are unparalleled. He probably just wanted to test our nerve and see if we could handle the chaos he created."
"He just said what he did," Ron muttered, shoveling beans onto his plate with a glum expression. "He talked about himself, gave us a stupid test about his favorite deodorant, and then abandoned the class to those little blue demons. You saw him, Hermione. He was panicking. He's a total fraud, and the only person who believes him is you—and that idiot Colin Creevey!"
Allen, watching from his Ravenclaw vantage point, realized the deeper meaning of the exchange. Hermione wasn't defending Lockhart's actions; she was defending the idea of Lockhart. She needed the heroic figure from the books to be real, a beacon of competence and fame. Lockhart was filling a void that the actual heroes around her—Harry and Ron—often failed to.
This is precisely why he's dangerous, Allen concluded, quietly finishing his mushroom soup. He steals the achievements of others, and now he is stealing the admiration of the best among us.
He felt the cold, focused edge of his malice return. The time for subtlety was ending. Lockhart had to be utterly, publicly dismantled, and Allen Harris, the unassuming, perfect student, would be the one to do it. The game had begun.