Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

Thanks to Tom Riddle, Dumbledore awarded another thirty points to Gryffindor after taking the filthy parchment Harold had found.

As for Snape's threats the night before—deducting a hundred points and assigning detention—Dumbledore deemed those to be spoken in the heat of the moment and thus void. That particular decision earned another round of gritted teeth from Snape.

Harold was quite pleased with this outcome. He even decided to let it slide that Snape had quietly pocketed half his bottle of mandrake juice.

But by the time the third person came asking what had really happened to him last night, Harold was beginning to understand why Snape was so perpetually sour.

Apparently, someone had leaked the events of the night. Now nearly everyone in school knew Harold had been attacked by a mysterious creature and had barely escaped with his life.

Even the details of his petrification were being passed around—with dramatic flair. Some version painted him sitting helplessly in a corner, fear frozen on his face, silently begging for a powerful wizard to come and save him.

Harold nearly cringed himself inside out just hearing Harry describe the rumor.

Was I really like that?

It didn't seem right. He was pretty sure he'd reacted fast—using the unicorn soul to avoid the basilisk's gaze, then faking death to escape its senses.

And leaving behind the mandrake essence had been a calculated move to help the school brew the antidote more quickly...

Although that last part turned out to be unnecessary—he hadn't realized the unicorn soul could neutralize the petrification entirely. A moving, mobile counter to dark magic? That was the only part he hadn't expected.

Still, in hindsight, Harold felt confident he'd done everything right.

"I really was nearly killed. And yes, I was petrified. But I wasn't panicking," he repeated for the umpteenth time.

"Where are you all hearing this from?"

"It's all over the school," said Ron.

"I thought you might've guessed," Harry muttered, glancing at Hermione. "That kind of over-the-top narration, everyone waiting for a hero to arrive—it didn't ring any bells?"

Hmm?

Now that Harry mentioned it, Harold had to admit… it did sound familiar. In fact, he'd just read something similar.

A village plagued by werewolves, the desperate cries for help, longing for a powerful wizard to save them—wasn't that straight out of Lockhart's Wanderings With Werewolves?

...

Sure enough, the next day, the rumors evolved.

The first half stayed the same—Harold was attacked, unable to defend himself, left helplessly petrified.

But now there was a new second half—where the noble Gilderoy Lockhart arrived just in time, causing the assailant to flee in terror and saving Harold's life.

"Did Lockhart really save you?" Ron asked during Herbology.

Professor Sprout was currently demonstrating how to insulate shrivelfigs in the winter, but Ron and Harry couldn't stop staring at Harold.

Even Hermione, who had been pretending not to care, leaned in subtly.

"What do you think?" Harold said as he snipped away some excess branches. "That thing dared to attack me right outside Dumbledore's office. You really think it would run from Lockhart's name?"

"No way!" Harry blurted out.

"Well… not necessarily…" Hermione tried. "Professor Lockhart is more… visible. He's done so many amazing things. He's the most talked-about wizard in the magical world right now. Professor Dumbledore hasn't appeared in public for ages."

"Hermione, Dumbledore doesn't need to appear in public," said Ron. "And Lockhart's never used a single spell in front of us—not once."

Lockhart's act had held up for a while, but it was already two months into the term. More and more students were starting to notice: he never used magic in class. Not even a Lumos. He always had the students do it.

"But…" Hermione fumbled, glancing toward Professor Sprout, and then something seemed to click. "But none of the other professors have said anything! Don't forget, a lot of them were there that night—including the Headmaster."

"If Lockhart really lied, Professor McGonagall would've exposed him."

"That's what makes him clever," Harold said with a shrug.

The basilisk had fled before the professors arrived. Whatever the real reason, it was gone.

Harold knew it wasn't because of the professors—but no one else did.

So even if Lockhart shamelessly took the credit, no one openly refuted him. No one could prove otherwise.

Same with Harold's recovery. None of the professors had cast the countercurse—it had happened on its own.

Dumbledore later speculated that it had something to do with the unicorn spirit.

But during one of his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, Lockhart had "accidentally" let slip, "I just quietly tried a Restoratus spell—I didn't think it would work, honestly. Not even the Headmaster could manage it before me…"

He'd been standing at the back of the group. No one could say for sure whether he had used a spell or not.

So even though everyone knew he was probably bluffing, no one bothered to call him out.

Harold didn't either. He only corrected the record when people directly asked him.

The whole unicorn soul thing sounded far too bizarre anyway—people might believe Lockhart sooner.

There was also that copy of Magical Me they'd found in the bathroom.

That raised Harold's suspicions about Lockhart again.

Could the diary really not be with him? Then why had his book been found there of all places?

Who else would lug around something that thick?

He'd already reported everything to Dumbledore, but Harold still wanted to track down whoever had taken the "core" he'd pre-ordered.

Preferably before Dumbledore did.

Otherwise… he'd just have to go after a different Horcrux.

Wait a second...

Harold suddenly remembered—wasn't there a Horcrux in Hogwarts? Ravenclaw's diadem—hidden in the Room of Requirement.

He got so excited he nearly snipped a shrivelfig in half. He managed to pull back just in time, but the blade still grazed the skin.

The plump fruit instantly shriveled up into a crumpled ball, now barely a tenth of its original size.

"Focus, Mr. Ollivander," said Professor Sprout, clearly displeased.

But then she sighed, remembering what he'd gone through the night before. She assumed he was still shaken and said nothing else. No point deduction either—just handed him a fresh fig.

Harold didn't let his thoughts wander again. He quickly snipped away the excess branches.

Once everyone was nearly finished, Professor Sprout began handing out rolls of velvet cloth.

"Now, who can tell me why we wrap shrivelfigs before winter?"

Hermione's hand shot up.

"Very good, Miss Granger."

"Because cold weather causes the fruit to contract and stop growing," Hermione answered.

"Correct. Five points to Gryffindor."

"And does anyone know why we don't move it to a warmer greenhouse?"

Hermione didn't even sit down before answering again, "Because an environment that's too warm can also stunt growth. Same goes for when it's under stress."

"Excellent. Another five points."

Maybe because Harold had just earned Gryffindor a hundred and thirty points, Sprout's point-giving seemed to have shrunk from ten to five.

"Be careful—these figs aren't fully mature," she warned, glancing at Harold again. "Handle them gently."

The next step was wrapping the branches in velvet—a tedious task, low on technical challenge. As soon as Sprout moved to another row, the group resumed their Lockhart discussion.

Now that they knew the truth, Harry and Ron were furious.

"We should tell everyone he's lying," Ron said. He'd never forgiven Lockhart after being forced to act out a werewolf on stage.

It was mortifying. He hadn't talked to anyone for two days afterward.

(You only acted once.) Harry calmly adjusted his glasses beside him.

As Lockhart's go-to classroom monster, Harry had already gotten used to it. He could now let out howls without flinching.

Werewolf howls were the longest, snowmen were heavier, banshees were high-pitched and sharp… it was all technique.

"You're just biased against Professor Lockhart," Hermione retorted. "His books are official course material. How could they be fake?"

"Maybe Dumbledore got fooled too."

"You're the only one who thinks that!"

Things were starting to feel like they had on the first day of term—Ron and Hermione arguing over Lockhart again.

Harold turned back to Harry.

"Have you noticed anything strange about Lockhart lately?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Not really. He acts the same every day—signing autographs, showing off to the other professors.

"Hagrid said he even tried to teach him how to keep grindylows out of wells. But Hogwarts doesn't have grindylows."

The moment Lockhart came up, Harry had plenty to say.

Harold quietly listened as he finished wrapping his shrivelfig.

So far, nothing in Lockhart's behavior seemed unusual.

Not like someone who had been influenced by the diary.

(End of Chapter)