Harry Potter: The Wandmaker

Over the next few days, Harold practically turned the library into his second common room. Every day after classes, he'd be found seated at one of the long oak tables, staying until curfew.

At first, he'd taken books back to the dormitory. But then Hermione told him that the library had no limit on how many books you could read on-site—so long as they all fit on the table.

"That's what I do," she said. "Borrow ten books at once, then pick my two favorites to take home."

From then on, Harold frequented the library. Sometimes Hermione would be there with him. Ron and Harry only showed up when they had to do homework.

Lately, though, Harry had been coming more often—mainly because the library was one of the few places where he was safe from "accidentally running into" Lockhart.

Harry had to admit, he actually liked Defense Against the Dark Arts class, especially the first one—Lockhart had made a great impression.

But outside class, Lockhart's over-the-top bragging and theatrics quickly soured that good feeling.

And for some reason, Lockhart seemed to love picking on Harry—especially in front of others—saying bizarre things that made Harry want to disappear on the spot.

Just yesterday, in front of Malfoy, Lockhart claimed Harry was obsessed with fame and handing out autographs everywhere.

"I don't want to be on the front page!" Harry grumbled—again. "And I never wanted to give out autographs! It's all Colin Creevey!"

For context, Colin Creevey was a first-year Gryffindor and a rabid fan of Harry—second only to Lockhart in how much Harry wanted to avoid him.

But Colin was even more persistent than Lockhart. He waited outside classrooms, the common room, the Great Hall—anywhere he thought Harry might pass by. And he always wanted to take photos.

Harry was at his wit's end. He wished Colin admired Lockhart instead. Then both of them might finally leave him alone.

"Enough whining," Harold said. "Or Madam Pince will throw you out—and then you'll lose the only sanctuary you've got."

Harry immediately shut up.

Then he noticed Harold returning all but one of his books.

"You're done reading?"

"Class is starting."

"Oh, right—Friday." Harry ran a hand through his hair. Between Lockhart, Colin, and Malfoy's endless teasing, he'd been in a foul mood all week.

The two left the library.

"What class now?" Harry asked.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Harold replied. "At least we don't have to change floors."

They passed two corridors. One corner more, and they'd reach Lockhart's classroom.

But just before that—

Harry froze up. "He's coming."

"What—"

Before Harold could finish, a familiar blur darted out from the opposite corridor, waving enthusiastically.

"Hi, Harry!"

"Hi, Colin," Harry sighed.

The boy beamed, waved again, and bounded off.

"Every time," Harry muttered. "He must have memorized my schedule. I run into him before every class."

Harold patted his shoulder sympathetically. "No one can help with that. You'll just have to get used to it."

"Easier said than done," Harry grumbled. "And Lockhart's not helping. He keeps dragging me into weird situations—and always in front of Malfoy, who then tells everyone about it."

"You know what Hagrid thinks of me now?"

Harold shook his head. He hadn't seen Hagrid in a while—too many late nights in the library.

"Hagrid thinks I'm selling autographed pictures and even started a 'Harry Potter Fan Club'... He was upset I didn't invite him."

At the words "Harry Potter Fan Club," Harry's face turned beet red, but he forced himself to keep talking.

"I bet Hagrid was joking," Harold said, trying not to laugh. "He knows you're not that kind of person."

"I know," Harry said, "but the fact that he heard about it? That's all Malfoy's fault!"

"Want my advice?" Harold asked. "Next time Malfoy mocks you—just deck him. I guarantee things will calm down."

"I can't. That'll cost House Points," Harry groaned.

"Just points? We've lost points before." Harold smirked. "What's McGonagall going to do—deduct another 200?"

They had lost that many in first year—and still won the House Cup.

"No, not worth it," Harry shook his head. "What if she cancels Gryffindor's Quidditch matches? Oliver would murder me."

"Oh, that." Harold chuckled. "Last time it was because there were too many people and they used magic. Just keep it small. No wands. Then it's no big deal."

In Hogwarts, physical fights weren't exactly rare. Without magic, they were just... scrapes. Easily patched up with bandages and a dose of Dittany.

Harry, raised in the Muggle world, hadn't realized this yet.

"Class time." Harold headed off. Harry quickly followed.

As they entered the classroom, Lockhart walked in behind them, now sporting a wizard hat tilted artfully atop his fluffy gold curls.

"Good afternoon, class!" Lockhart's voice rang out—and, as always, his portraits around the room echoed him in perfect harmony.

He really did like a dramatic entrance.

"Good afternoon, Professor Lockhart," Hermione said, already flushed with excitement.

"I'm splendid, thank you for asking!" he winked.

"Let's get started. First, let me apologize—I only just learned that because of class differences, you had a disagreement with Slytherin."

A disagreement?

Harold took a second to recall—oh, he realized. Lockhart was only now finding out about last week's fiasco. Even Oliver Wood had come to terms with the pitch ban already—and Lockhart was just hearing about it?

"Professor, why were the classes different?" someone asked.

"That," Lockhart said with a smile, "goes back to when I helped Durmstrang get rid of a tribe of snow sprites."

Of course.

"They invited me to teach there, but I declined—because I'd already promised Albus I'd help at Hogwarts."

A few students clapped.

"Still, I didn't want to let their students down. So I shared a few of my methods with their professors..."

He switched to a remorseful tone.

"Yes, it's exactly as you're thinking—the same lesson Slytherin had. I tried to share everything with all of you, but it caused more trouble than I imagined. My bad."

"From now on, classes will be equal."

More applause. Harold suspected Lockhart had planted a few clappers.

Then came the "lesson": a reenactment of Wandering with Werewolves—Lockhart's book.

He cast Harry as the werewolf (no surprise), and shockingly chose Hermione to play himself.

Hermione was over the moon. She walked up confidently, no script needed—she'd memorized the entire book.

Lockhart narrated with dramatic flair. Hermione and Harry acted behind him.

Harold realized Lockhart's true motive: Hermione's position was blocked from view, hidden behind Lockhart's grandstanding. Only her wand was visible.

Harry, however, was in full view—fully exposed to the "performance."

And what a performance it was.

Lockhart insisted Hermione use real spells. ("I know you can't do the Werewolf Reversal Charm, but surely you know Scourgify?")

For the entire class, Harry was blasted with Cleaning Charms and hot-air spells until he practically glowed.

"I swear," he groaned afterward, "I'd rather go back to chasing Cornish Pixies."

"Don't get your hopes up," Harold said. "That performance was a hit."

It was. Lockhart had a knack for storytelling, and Hermione's spells gave it impressive visual flair.

Every time magic "struck" the werewolf, the class gasped in delight.

Harry turned hopefully to Ron, who had just arrived.

"Was it really that good?"

Ron hesitated. Then nodded.

Even Seamus had said it was "like watching a movie."

Harry's heart sank. If everyone loved it, Lockhart was sure to keep it up. That meant he'd be playing every beast in those books.

"Why can't we just do the pixies again?" he muttered.

"Apparently Slytherin got carried away," Ron explained. "They aimed spells at classmates during their turn. Someone got hurt—ended up in the hospital wing."

"McGonagall was furious. She told Lockhart to stop."

"Wait, how do you know that?" Harold asked.

"Fred and George overheard them while talking to McGonagall," Ron said. "I wanted to tell you, but you've been living in the library."

Ron gave Harry a long look, half accusing.

Harry looked away, embarrassed. He wasn't trying to ditch Ron—but the library was the only quiet place he had left.

Harold finally understood: Lockhart hadn't brought up last week's incident out of concern—he'd been told to change course.

It made sense. Expecting Slytherins to play nice with pixies? Not likely.

Still, Harold wondered how Lockhart had even managed that chaos.

Oddly enough, the new format worked. Sure, Lockhart still didn't lift a wand—but other than Harry, no one really seemed to mind.

Ron tried to comfort Harry. "At least Hermione's spells won't really hurt you."

Harry was beyond words.

Then, just as they stepped into the hallway, a familiar figure came bounding toward them, waving frantically.

"Hi, Harry! How are you?"

"Oh no, not again—RUN!" Harry shouted.

He grabbed Harold's sleeve and bolted down the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Ron called after them.

"To ask Madam Pince if I can move into the library!" Harry shouted over his shoulder.

(End of Chapter)