It must be said that Harry Potter had a certain natural talent for drawing eyes.
For once, Lockhart wasn’t being swarmed by rabid fans while walking through the castle.
The students he encountered would offer him polite nods before scurrying into corners to point and whisper at Harry.
Harry felt miserable, but Lockhart chuckled, patted his shoulder, and gestured for him to keep moving.
“Excellence often invites jealousy and unwanted attention.
Being the focus of whispers?
I have more experience with that than anyone,” Lockhart said, glancing toward Draco.
“I imagine our Mr.
Malfoy feels the same.” Draco, faced with Harry’s startled expression, simply tilted his chin up and let out a light, proud huff.
“Parseltongue is quite the talent, clearly.
I suspect our Mr.
Malfoy, like myself, finds himself quite envious of you.” Lockhart’s comment took the wind out of Draco’s pride; the boy opened his mouth, but eventually just pressed his lips together, silent.
Lockhart winked at Harry, as if to say, See?
I told you.
Harry felt significantly better.
The trio reached Lockhart’s office.
After ushering the boys into their seats, Lockhart sat down, smiling as he continued.
“In truth, Parseltongue doesn’t equate to evil.
People love to categorize others as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ based on their abilities.
It’s a prejudice born of narrow-minded stereotypes.” “But we cannot change those stereotypes.
Therefore, the wise learn to utilize them.” Draco, who had been unenthusiastic about being called here, suddenly froze.
His father, Lucius, had taught him that true strength wasn’t about breaking the rules, but rather understanding them and utilizing them—that was the hallmark of wisdom.
Perhaps Professor Lockhart and his father had more in common than he thought.
“What should I do, Professor?” Harry asked, completely hooked.
Lockhart looked at him with a gentle smile.
“What should you do?
Prove you aren’t a Dark wizard?
Prove you aren’t evil?” Harry nodded earnestly.
“Life is truly tragic sometimes.
We spend our entire existence exhausted, running on a treadmill of trying to prove ourselves,” Lockhart sighed.
He pulled a quill from his desk, scribbled something quickly on a piece of parchment, and pushed it toward Harry.
“There is a book in the Restricted Section of the library called The Most Ancient of Spells.
It contains many powerful, archaic incantations.
One, in particular, is called the ‘Patronus Charm’.” “Those who cannot truly feel happiness or beauty in their hearts cannot cast it.
People love to label such individuals as ‘evil’—the same prejudice that labels Parseltongue as inherently bad.” He shrugged, looking at Harry with keen interest.
“Countless bigots can attest that a Dark wizard is fundamentally incapable of casting a Patronus.
It is the simplest way to prove one’s goodness—even before the Wizengamot.” “But it is difficult, Harry.
Do you have the confidence to learn it?” Harry gripped the permission slip for the Restricted Section tightly, his determined expression saying it all.
“Most wizards can only conjure a wisp of silver smoke.
Very few can summon a corporeal Patronus.
I have high expectations for you, Harry.” The boy lacked self-discipline, but now that he had a motive to prove himself, Lockhart was excited to see a second-year student succeed.
He could already imagine the next book: My Teaching Career: The Untold Story of the Boy Who Lived.
That would be another fortune in royalties.
Funnily enough, the original Lockhart had already drafted the framework for this book after receiving Dumbledore’s invitation.
A few tweaks, and it would be ready for print.
Nice.
Next was Draco Malfoy.
Lockhart was equally focused on this boy, knowing exactly how to pique his interest.
He waved his quill, demonstrating the motions of a Disarming Charm, and saw Draco’s pupils constrict.
The boy had just suffered the ultimate humiliation: being sent flying in front of the entire school by Harry Potter’s Expelliarmus.
“The Disarming Charm has incredibly broad applications,” Lockhart said, capturing both boys’ attention.
“In the three domains of Defense Against the Dark Arts—against Dark wizards, in duels, and even against Dark creatures—it is indispensable.
And it works against the threat of magical beasts, too.” (He recalled that Harry had used it to force an Acromantula to release him in the original timeline.) “Many know its effect and how vital it is for a wizard who relies on a wand.
Therefore, you must not only know how to use it, but how to master the counter-curse.” “Yes, aside from the Unforgivable Curses, every spell has a counter-curse.” He demonstrated the motion: a flick of the wrist, a sharp diagonal snap.
A slight provocation, and an opponent’s attack was instantly shattered.
“It isn’t difficult.
Most adult wizards master the silent casting of this counter-curse.
You can start by learning to react to a basic Expelliarmus; it will become second nature.” “Facing an enemy’s charm, even at the critical moment when you feel your wand slipping from your grip—if you combine this technique with the instinct to tighten your hold, you can rapidly recover a lost opportunity.” This was the “reward” for the two boys.
Draco listened with rapt attention; he never wanted to be sent flying by Harry Pot-ter again.
As for Harry, once he realized his Expelliarmus wasn’t effective against his arch-rival Draco, he would have all the motivation he needed to learn other magic.
Plan executed perfectly!
Lockhart could proudly claim that no one in the world understood the Disarming Charm better than he did—not even Dumbledore.
Dumbledore was so overpowered that no one could effectively disarm him, so he’d never had the need to study the granular mechanics of the spell.
But the dozen powerful wizards whose memories Lockhart possessed had spent lifetimes refining these skills.
He was teaching them everything without reservation.
The knowledge was detailed enough to be a textbook itself—classifying every possible angle of attack, every nuance of wand-holding, and every counter-maneuver.
“Watch my gesture.
When facing a stronger opponent, do not grip the wand too tightly; this prevents you from being jerked away along with it…” “As long as you aren’t completely incapacitated, you can draw a backup wand.
While the enemy thinks you’re helpless, you deliver the decisive blow!” “When facing a weaker opponent, note this: their charm will still affect you, but it won’t send you flying.
You need to adopt this posture.” “Does it feel familiar?
Haha!
It’s the signature movement for maneuvering a broomstick to dodge an attack while remaining ready to counter-strike.” “You will find that with this posture, the wand will fly back toward your own chest.
If you catch it smoothly, it stays in your palm as if you’ve just grabbed a Golden Snitch.” Lockhart didn’t notice the several figures standing at his office door.
Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape had arrived at some point, and all three were now listening, utterly transfixed.
The most comprehensive, nuanced, and combat-ready techniques; every detail of practical magic analyzed with such erudition.
Even these three titans of wizarding combat were listening in silent awe.
Professor Snape had to admit—perhaps he had misjudged the man?
Was this Lockhart a fool?
The previous bluster seemed to have been nothing more than the eccentric self-branding of a true master.
Of course, Snape couldn’t know that Lockhart, while gesturing with his quill, was looking at the boys with burning envy.
Damn it all.
He, too, longed to cast magic!
Having a brain full of spells he couldn’t execute was a special kind of torture.
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