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After composing himself, Lockhart stowed the lifeless manticore back into the cabinet.
He put on an air of deep regret as he said, “I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t let everyone have their fill of excitent—though not to worry, given the recent spate of petrification incidents, I’ve decided to start a Duelling Club here at Hogwarts. If you feel unsatisfied, you’re welco to co give it a try. You won’t regret it.”
“Professor, when will the Duelling Club start?” asked Justin Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff.
“Good question.” Professor Lockhart pointed at him with a flourish. “I’m delighted to inform you that the Duelling Club will be held in the Great Hall every Saturday and Sunday after dinner. Of course, it’s not mandatory—if you’re not interested, I won’t force you to do anything you don’t enjoy.”
“Cool!” Terry Boot chid in. “We’ll definitely be there, Professor.”
The students eagerly expressed their intent to join, and Lockhart seed thoroughly pleased by the response.
As class ended, Lockhart made a point to tell Harry that he absolutely must attend the Duelling Club.
“I don’t think it’s really necessary,” Ron remarked sharply after class. “Honestly, we’ve already learned plenty in the duelling shed.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to check it out, Ron,” Harry replied. “After all, I’m only a second-year. Professor Lockhart’s an adventurer—he must have so serious expertise in duelling.”
Harry ant it sincerely.
“Really?” Hermione asked, puzzled. “But you’re already so skilled…”
“A true wizard always keeps a student’s heart,” Harry said with a smile. “Co on, let’s head back. Dinner’s soon.”
That afternoon, during History of Magic, Harry slept like a log—utterly refreshed.
He didn’t skip Astronomy that night, though. Who knew what might happen in the dead of night? What if that person chose that exact mont to strike Gryffindor?
Wednesday morning brought Professor Flitwick’s Charms lesson.
This ti, Flitwick aligned his curriculum with Lockhart’s, teaching the class the Revelio charm.
“I must admit, Professor Lockhart is a rare gem among Defense Against the Dark Arts professors,” Flitwick squeaked, sounding positively thrilled. “You should cherish a teacher like him. In all my years, I’ve seldom t soone so professional and dedicated.”
Flitwick’s praise for Lockhart wasn’t just because of his excellence in Defense Against the Dark Arts—it also helped that Lockhart was a Ravenclaw alumnus. As Ravenclaw’s Head of House, Flitwick couldn’t help but bask in the reflected glory.
“Have you ever seen that?” Ron whispered to Harry.
“If you count the mysterious figure who tutored alone last term,” Harry whispered back.
Ron nearly burst out laughing but managed to hold it in.
To be fair, when it ca to expertise in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Voldemort himself would rank among the top. After all, how could you master defending against dark magic without understanding it first?
“Right, since you covered manticores last lesson,” Professor Flitwick said, waving his wand, “over the next few classes, I’ll teach you Revelio and Repello Inimicum.”
“Thanks to him combining lessons into one big session each week, the pace isn’t too rushed,” Flitwick added with what seed like a sigh of relief. “Otherwise, we’d hardly have ti to cover so many charms.”
“Enough chatter—first, you’ll learn Revelio. The incantation is ‘Revelio,’” Flitwick announced, lifting his wand and tracing a bold “R” in the air with a marking charm. “Watch my wand movent closely, and note the arrows…”
“Repeat after ,” Flitwick called out. “Revelio!”
“Revelio!” the class echoed in unison.
“Very good, very good!” Flitwick hopped twice in excitent and pointed at Seamus. “Mr. Finnigan, give it a go.”
“Revelio,” Seamus recited, enunciating clearly.
“Excellent, excellent!” Flitwick bead, calling on a few more students to try, awarding each a point for their efforts.
“Now, the wand movent—” Flitwick continued. “Follow and trace it once, then I’ll check your progress individually…”
The students mimicked his motion, trying to commit the simple pattern to mory.
An “R”—easy enough.
After inspecting a few students, Flitwick began explaining the charm’s key points—detecting malicious intent, revealing hidden treasures, and so forth.
“I reckon this spell could use so tweaking,” Ron said with a sly grin. “Like, if I cast it outside the Hogwarts kitchens, I could pinpoint the exact location of the chicken legs.”
“Oh, Ronald,” Hermione groaned, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless. Is there anything aningful in your life besides chicken legs?”
Ron actually paused to think about it before replying, “Not really.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and chose to ignore him.
“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Harry asked quietly.
“What can I even say?” she muttered with a dry chuckle. “His life revolves around chicken legs—he’s no better than a salted fish.”
“Salted fish like salt,” Ron quipped succinctly.
But—
What Ron wouldn’t tell Hermione was that their lives couldn’t be more different.
Hermione was a dentist’s daughter, living in a standalone house with no siblings, free to eat whatever she pleased.
Not him. He had five older brothers and a younger sister. At ho, good food was rationed per person. Sure, Dad might bring ho chicken legs, but split among everyone, it wasn’t much. The extra ones always went to the “outstanding” kids—Bill, Charlie, and Percy for being prefects, or the brothers who aced their exams.
As for him? He wasn’t exactly top-tier, more like consistently average, so extra rewards never ca his way.
Except that one ti. He’d accidentally won first place in a garden gno-pulling contest and earned a big chicken leg from Mum. It was delicious—he saved it for last, savoring it slowly until the bone was picked clean.
That mory fueled his borderline obsession with chicken legs. Even now at Hogwarts, where he could eat them whenever he wanted, he couldn’t shake the allure of that first childhood reward.
With that in mind, Ron treated himself to two chicken legs at dinner.
Hogwarts chicken legs were soul-nourishing.
That afternoon, Harry sought out Professor Snape.
“Professor, I’d like to request—”
“Oh?” Snape didn’t even look up.
“I want to visit the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest tonight,” Harry said quickly.
Snape replied with palpable irritation, “If you were awake, you’d know your pitiful old professor is rely the Potions Master—not the Headmaster of Hogwarts or the Head of Gryffindor.”
“But you oversee the school gates,” Harry murmured.
Snape slowly raised his head, offering an oily smirk.
“No.”
Resigned, Harry abandoned his plans for the day and reluctantly inford Cedric that their training session was off, with the next one TBD—whenever he could figure out Snape.
Back in the dorm, he recounted the encounter to Hermione.
“I rember,” Hermione said suddenly, “you once told Snape didn’t get along with your father, but he grew up with your mother. You look like your dad, yet you have your mum’s eyes.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, unsure where she was going.
“I suggest…” Hermione paused thoughtfully. “Do you rember that Muggle thing called a mask?”
“A mask?” Harry frowned, puzzled. How did that connect to this?
What, stick a mask over Snape’s eyes so he couldn’t see them sneaking out? he wondered.
“Yes, a mask,” Hermione nodded earnestly. “Think about it—if you wear one to cover your face, leaving only your green eyes visible, Snape wouldn’t see the face he resents.”
You know what? She might be onto sothing.
Harry thought Hermione’s plan was pretty clever.
“But what’s the excuse?” he sighed. “I can’t just wear a mask for no reason.”
“Easy,” Hermione said with a reassuring look, scribbling a note and handing it to him. “Have Hedwig take this back to my dad—”
Skeptical but trusting Hermione’s usual brilliance, Harry went along with it.
Friday noon, as they ate in the Great Hall, Hedwig swooped in carrying a large plastic bag. With pinpoint accuracy, she dropped it into Harry’s lap.
He’d braced for sothing heavy, but the bag was surprisingly light.
“Masks,” Hermione explained. “From my dad’s dental practice. I asked him for so, and they’re perfect for us.”
“But the excuse?” Ron asked, munching on a chicken leg.
“The excuse?” Hermione grinned. “For class, of course.”
“No, I don’t an the excuse for asking Uncle Askin,” Ron clarified. “I an, what do we tell Snape?”
“Just wait,” Hermione huffed.
That afternoon, Gryffindor had Potions.
“Here, put these on,” Hermione instructed, handing out masks to the Gryffindors. “Especially you, Harry—keep it on tight, don’t let your face show, got it?”
“Fine,” Harry sighed, unconvinced this would work.
“Hey, Granger,” Draco sneered, “you don’t seriously think these Muggle trinkets are useful in Potions, do you?”
“Want one?” Harry offered, holding up a mask.
Seeing his “honorary uncle” speak, Draco didn’t hesitate.
“Yes!”
When Snape strode into the classroom and saw a gaggle of masked students, he froze.
“What nonsense is this?” he asked icily.
“Granger’s idea,” Draco ratted out first, though he kept his mask on.
Snape snorted and approached Hermione.
“Well, silly girl,” he drawled, eyes half-lidded, “surely you don’t think Muggle rubbish has a place in Potions?”
“But it keeps our spit from contaminating the potions,” Hermione replied calmly, “and protects our airways if a brew goes wrong.”
Snape’s lips curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.
He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a venomous tirade, when he caught sight of Harry.
Those stunning green eyes.
And, crucially, Potter’s insufferable face was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly, the venom didn’t seem necessary.
Perhaps he should give other houses’ young students a chance, he mused.
“Fine,” he said, lips twitching. “I’ll grant your little trick so rit, Miss Granger.”
Hermione flashed Harry a triumphant “V” sign. Phase one: success.
This lesson, they were brewing Skele-Gro again—Snape had taken a page from Lockhart, revisiting the basics.
After assigning the task, Snape began prowling the room.
He surveyed the cauldrons with satisfaction, pleased with their progress.
When he reached Hermione, he lingered.
She ground her ingredients ticulously, occasionally sneaking glances at him.
“There’s nothing worth staring at on my face, silly girl,” Snape said airily.
Hermione quickly resud grinding, then added her potion to the cauldron.
With Snape hovering, staying calm was impossible.
She stirred with her left hand instead of her usual right.
“Miss Granger—” Snape’s voice cut through.
At his call, the Slytherins snickered, turning to see what blunder Hermione had made.
She’s definitely losing points, they thought.
The Gryffindors braced for the worst—Snape never hesitated to dock Gryffindor.
But to everyone’s shock, Snape wasn’t deducting points.
“Skillfully using your left hand shows adaptability,” he said greasily. “Twenty points to Gryffindor for consistent excellence, Miss Granger.”
Gryffindor & Slytherin: ?!?!
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