“Children, what is going on here?” Lockhart hesitated, then stepped forward, his smile warm and reassuring as he addressed the small group, waiting to see who would provide an answer.
Draco Malfoy was also present, looking rather pleased with himself.
When he saw Lockhart approach, his expression shifted; he pressed his lips together and remained silent.
Lately, both Harry and Draco had been spending time in Lockhart’s office, learning how to counter the Disarming Charm.
Proud young Malfoy had begun to develop a sense of identification and respect for the professor, and upon being caught in the act of bullying, he now looked away, too cowed to speak.
“Professor!
Draco Malfoy called Hermione a Mudblood!” George Weasley shouted, shoving past a classmate who was trying to hold him back from a fight.
“Yes, it was absolutely vile!” Fred Weasley added, looking as if he were ready to tear Draco apart.
Racial discrimination in the wizarding world—a society fundamentally built on blood purity—was a monumental political faux pas.
Lockhart looked at Draco and shook his head.
“That is utterly unacceptable.
Slytherin will lose 20 points, and I will inform Professor Snape of this incident so that he may discipline you accordingly…” As he spoke, Ron let out another yue, retching up another slimy slug.
A chorus of gasps rippled through the crowd.
Lockhart turned his attention to Ron.
“The Slug-Vomiting Charm?
Who cast it?” “It was his own doing!” Draco saw his opportunity and shouted, “He tried to hex me, and it backfired!” Lockhart raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.
It wasn’t the backfire that shocked him—he remembered the original plot perfectly.
After Ron had piloted his father’s enchanted car into the Whomping Willow at the start of term, his wand had snapped.
In the original story, Lockhart had snatched that broken wand to cast an Obliviate charm, which backfired.
He knew this.
What he hadn’t considered was a simple realization: Ron had known virtually no magic before coming to Hogwarts.
How could he successfully cast a complex, non-curriculum hex at the start of his second year?
This was even more impressive than Draco’s ability to cast Serpensortia.
The Slug-Vomiting Charm was no minor jinx; a throat full of massive, writhing slugs could cause a wizard to choke to death.
This is a highly practical spell.
Ron was nowhere near as weak or foolish as he appeared in the lore.
It seemed he had been working harder in private than anyone realized.
“Professor Lockhart, will he be alright?” Harry and Hermione asked, looking panicked.
“It’s nothing major.
Usually, one simply waits for the slugs to stop coming, perhaps with a bit of purging to clear the stomach,” Lockhart observed Ron with an air of clinical experience.
“At his current rate, it should end by midday.
It won’t even affect his lunch.” “However, there is no problem that cannot be solved by me.
He is in luck.” Lockhart turned to the students, clapped his hands, and used the moment for a teaching opportunity.
“The counter-curse for the Slug-Vomiting hex is one that I’m sure the upper-year students have encountered, though I suspect few can cast it reliably—it isn’t part of the O.W.L.
or N.E.W.T.
requirements.” In truth, most adult wizards never mastered it.
It was the specialty of Dark wizards, who knew how devastating it was in combat.
Imagine a master wizard having his throat blocked by a massive slug; they would be left gasping for air, unable to speak, waiting to asphyxiate.
“The solution?” Lockhart asked.
“Eating a bit of salt, or even common dirt.
It exploits the biological weakness of the slug to disrupt the magic.” Lockhart bent down, scooped up a handful of earth, and—without ceremony—stuffed it into Ron’s mouth.
Ron, already dizzy from the retching, spluttered and spat the dirt out.
He paused, touched his stomach, felt his throat, and blinked.
“I’m… I’m better?” “Wow!” The students cheered, many clapping in genuine awe.
Lockhart offered his signature, perfect smile and gestured for calm, though the fervor of his fan club only intensified.
Fan +1.
Fan +1.
Fan +1…
Lockhart wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
That was a close call.
If he hadn’t known that trick, he might have had to pull out his wand to cast a formal counter-curse—and he’d have probably just resorted to knocking Ron unconscious with the stick instead.
I need to leave.
Before they ask for a demonstration!
Lockhart acted with clinical precision, offering a few words of encouragement before making a swift exit.
As he turned, he spotted Ron in the corner, looking despondently at his taped-up wand.
Lockhart’s eyes brightened.
“You, come with me.” “Me?
Where?” To buy a new wand, of course.
And to have this experienced young wizard help him navigate the Floo Network.
Lockhart knew the theory, but he’d never actually stepped into a fireplace himself.
One wrong pronunciation could land him in the middle of the Atlantic.
Using Ron as a guide would look like mentorship rather than incompetence.
Plan executed!
Besides, the wand was a sound investment.
Students received a discount at Ollivander’s, bringing the cost to seven Galleons—a pittance for a bestselling author like himself.
It was a small price to pay to secure his future influence.
Ron, however, didn’t see it that way.
When they arrived at Diagon Alley, he was paralyzed by self-consciousness.
He stood before Ollivander’s shop, staring at the sign with an expression of desperate, repressed yearning.
He tried to hide the broken wand, but the tape gave way, and the snapped tip dangled pathetically.
A warm hand touched his shoulder.
Ron looked up to see Lockhart offering a radiant, genuine smile.
“This is a reward, Ron.
To stand up so bravely for a friend, wand raised without hesitation—you are a true Gryffindor, a brave warrior!” Poor Ron, who had lived his entire life in the shadow of his accomplished father and five brothers, had never heard such praise.
“R-really?” “Of course!” Lockhart ushered him inside.
“How can a warrior face the world without a proper weapon?” The experience was everything Ron had dreamed of.
He watched in breathless anticipation as Ollivander measured him and scurried through the aisles.
For once, he wasn’t using a hand-me-down with unicorn hair bursting from the tip.
Meanwhile, Lockhart selected his own new wand.
14 inches, apple wood, with a unicorn hair core.
It was slightly flexible, elegant, and possessed a natural affinity for charm-work—a stark contrast to his previous arsenal.
It even had a natural resistance to Dark magic.
Ollivander eyed him curiously.
“You seem… remarkably different from before.” Lockhart didn’t explain.
He simply felt the hum of magic in his fingers—a feeling of pure, electric delight—and smiled.
“It’s quite nice, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Ollivander agreed.
“Quite nice indeed.” — Don’t forget to send Spirit Stones for more chapters.
Extra chapter when we reach 100 Spirit Stones Can’t wait for the daily uploads?
“@” with the letter “a”.
For every person who joins,
With a thank you note with your username on the chapter.
Make sure to message or like which story you came from so I can make sure I add the bonus chapters on the right story.