Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

"Why not let me borrow them?" Harold stared at Madam Pince. "There's no rule that says I can't check out fifty books at once, is there?"

"I can add one now," she replied coldly, tapping her fingers against the checkout ledger.

They had been at a standstill for ten minutes. No matter what Harold said, Madam Pince wouldn't allow him to borrow all fifty books at once.

"But Professor McGonagall told me to," he said, showing her the parchment listing the book titles.

Madam Pince gave it a glance. To her surprise, it really was in Minerva McGonagall's handwriting.

But why would Minerva let a student borrow fifty books? There was no way he could read that many.

"You can take five. Maximum," she said begrudgingly.

"Only five? Is that all Professor McGonagall's word is worth?" Harold blinked in disbelief.

"Do you want them or not?" Madam Pince threatened to close the ledger.

"I want them!" Harold caved immediately—she was immovable. He'd just have to make more trips.

"But I have one condition," he added. "If I return books before checking more out, that shouldn't count toward the five."

"Fine," she relented. But she also added that the returned books must be undamaged and that he couldn't constantly check out five new books each time.

Once they'd reached an agreement, Madam Pince began retrieving the titles on the list.

Harold leaned against a nearby shelf to wait.

That's when he spotted a familiar face—Draco Malfoy, clutching two books, walking quickly toward the desk. He looked like he was just here to return them.

Weird. Malfoy reads?

Draco noticed Harold too. He immediately stiffened, his expression wary.

Seriously?

Harold hadn't expected such a reaction. Back at Flourish and Blotts, Draco had seemed clueless about the implications of what Harold had said.

Did Lucius Malfoy actually tell him the family history?

Before Harold could dwell on it, Draco walked over and extended a hand.

"Hey, Harold. I think we had a misunderstanding."

"Yeah, a little," Harold replied, shaking hands with him.

"For the record, I didn't throw the first punch at the bookstore."

"What?"

Draco's smile faltered as he recalled the scene—his face twisted with lingering frustration. "Of course, I know. It was those brainless Weasleys. A whole mob of them. Disgraceful."

Clearly, he was still sore about it. Outnumbered, kicked around—he wasn't used to losing.

Draco's muttering became louder, his insults sharper.

"I swear, the Weasleys and Potter—I'll make them pay—"

"Silence!" Madam Pince snapped, cutting Draco off.

"This is a library. If you can't be quiet, then leave."

She placed five books on the desk in front of Harold.

"Here's what you asked for."

"Thanks, Madam Pince," Harold replied, grabbing the stack and slipping out of the library with a final glance at Draco, who was still fuming.

Dinner was onion stew. Bland. Arguably worse than the garlic stew from the Leaky Cauldron. But Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were happily digging in.

The real entertainment, though, was nearby: another Gryffindor-Slytherin standoff was brewing.

Harold stepped into the Great Hall just in time to see Pansy Parkinson and Parvati Patil nose-to-nose in the aisle, voices raised.

"Lockhart's class was absolute garbage. Why you people liked it—I'll never know. Maybe Gryffindors have defective brains?"

"Oh, come off it! If you didn't enjoy it, you clearly weren't paying attention!" Parvati shot back. "Face it—you're just jealous! Lockhart's a hundred times better than your precious Draco!"

Laughter exploded across the Gryffindor table. A few students even whistled.

Pansy turned beet red.

"You're doing this on purpose!" she shouted, stepping forward, lips trembling. "I'd rather listen to Snape read potion recipes for an hour than waste a minute watching Lockhart preen and pout!"

"Well, I'd gladly choose the latter," Parvati said, not backing down an inch.

Harold carefully skirted around the two, slipping into a seat beside Neville.

"What's going on?" he whispered.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Neville sighed. "Slytherin had the class with Ravenclaw this morning. Apparently it didn't go well."

Their session had been dull. No pixies, no excitement—just talk. Most found it underwhelming, especially given Lockhart's fame.

Only his diehard fans defended him, claiming it was just first-day nerves.

Then came the afternoon. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff left that class singing his praises.

Slytherins weren't thrilled. The disparity felt unfair—and soon enough, accusations began to fly in the Great Hall.

"But… weren't both classes taught by Lockhart?" Harold asked.

"No idea," Neville said. "But I heard the morning class didn't get any pixies… lucky them."

His tone was full of longing.

Understandable—he'd been the only one thrown onto a chandelier.

Still, Harold found it odd.

Why would two classes taught on the same day be so different?

He doubted Lockhart customized lessons based on house. And surely he didn't do it just to impress Harry?

Just then, Harry himself entered the hall. Meanwhile, both girls had backup now—Fred and George were even there.

As expected, with Gryffindor and Slytherin, facts didn't matter. Loyalty did. If one side was in a fight, the others joined in blindly.

The shouting escalated.

Harold heard someone yell:

"Let's be honest—Slytherins don't hate Lockhart. They just wish Defense Against the Dark Arts was only about dark magic!"

That was a line too far.

Everyone knew students weren't allowed to learn dark magic at Hogwarts. Even if the statement had truth to it, no Slytherin could admit it—not publicly.

Tempers snapped. Words turned into shoves. Hands into wands.

Elsewhere in the hall, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs wisely carried their meals to the far corners—away from flying curses.

Then, just as a Slytherin student raised his wand—

BOOM!

A thunderous crack filled the air.

Everyone clamped their hands over their ears.

Professor McGonagall stood at the doors, her wand still smoking.

"What a charming performance," she said, lips pressed tight. "Fifty points from Gryffindor and Slytherin. And no use of the Quidditch pitch for two months."

A collective groan echoed through the hall.

"You can't—" someone began.

"I can," McGonagall said curtly, shooting a glance at Oliver Wood and Slytherin captain Montague. "And if this isn't enough of a lesson—"

"Well, well, what's all this?" came a cheerful, oblivious voice.

Gilderoy Lockhart strolled in behind her, utterly unbothered.

"Students quarrelling? Leave it to me, Minerva. Why, I've calmed down entire snowman uprisings!"

He beamed, unaware this little incident was entirely his fault.

"Not necessary, Professor Lockhart," McGonagall said stiffly. A vein twitched at her temple as she swept the hall with a glare.

"Ahem! The stew tonight is delicious!" Fred announced loudly as he and George returned to the Gryffindor table.

Lee Jordan followed.

Even the Slytherins backed down, though many still looked resentful.

"We'll settle this when Snape hears about it," Montague muttered.

Soon, the hall returned to order.

Lockhart, clearly disappointed he wasn't needed, continued to babble about his snowman adventures, unaware of the ghost sneaking up behind him.

"Welcome party! Sparkle-Smile Professor!" Peeves shrieked gleefully, dumping a sack of flour over Lockhart's head.

POOF.

The powder exploded into the air. Lockhart disappeared in a white cloud.

His golden curls. His violet robes. His meticulously positioned wizard's hat.

All now coated in thick, white flour.

He looked…

… like a snowman.

"Snrk—"

Someone snorted. Then the entire hall erupted in laughter.

"Bravo, Peeves!" the poltergeist crowed. "Behold! Hogwarts' whitest professor! Whiter than a ghost! Whiter than snow! Whiter than—your teeth!"

"PEEVES!" McGonagall snapped. Her lips twitched. "Leave the hall. Now."

"Yes, Professor!" Peeves cackled, somersaulting out of sight.

"You alright, Professor Lockhart?" she asked, glancing at the... creature beside her.

His teeth sparkled beneath the flour.

"Aha! I—well, I saw that rascal coming, of course. Saw it coming from the start!" Lockhart coughed up a puff of powder. "Thought the students needed a laugh—hah!"

He even smiled.

Somehow, through it all, his teeth still gleamed.

(End of Chapter)