Harry Potter: Westeros's Plant Life

After taking Lockhart's wand, Adrian walked to Lockhart's front, placed the wand in his hand, and said calmly, "Professor Lockhart, that spell you attempted was quite obviously not healing magic of any description. Perhaps it would be best to leave Harry's medical treatment to Madam Pomfrey—after all, she is the qualified professional in matters of magical healing."

Upon hearing Adrian's tactfully phrased but thoroughly damning statement, Lockhart's mouth fell open slightly, his perfect smile finally cracking around the edges.

For a moment, he seemed ready to launch into one of his trademark longwinded justifications.

But then his gaze met Adrian's sharp stare. Under that penetrating scrutiny, Lockhart's prepared words died in his throat. His mouth snapped shut with an almost audible click, and he accepted his wand back with fingers that trembled.

Having one's wand taken away was an extremely humiliating thing for a wizard.

His face was ashen looking furious.

However, he was helpless.

Instead, Lockhart could only straighten his spine with visible effort, forcing his shoulders back and lifting his chin with a smile in his face in a desperate attempt to salvage what remained of his dignity.

"Ah, well!" He announced to the assembled crowd, his voice pitched just a bit too loud and carrying just a touch too much forced cheerfulness. "It seems our esteemed Professor Westeros has developed a small misunderstanding about my intentions—though of course, I don't mind such confusion at all! After all, who among us could possibly be more familiar with these delicate healing magics than I am?"

He paused for what he clearly hoped would be appreciative laughter, but received only uncomfortable silence in return.

"The good professor is simply being overly cautious," Lockhart continued, his smile growing more strained with each word, "which is quite admirable, really, though entirely unnecessary given my experience in such matters."

However, except for a small cluster of Lockhart's most devoted admirers mostly consisting of younger students who still believed in the carefully crafted image presented in his autobiography—anyone with functioning eyesight and half a brain could see that his explanation was nothing more than transparent self-justification.

The evidence of his incompetence was literally smoking in a crater behind them, and no amount of flowery rhetoric could erase what everyone had just witnessed.

Even some of the students standing nearby had begun shaking their heads in barely concealed disbelief, their expressions ranging from secondhand embarrassment to outright incredulity.

A few were already whispering to their neighbors, and Adrian could practically see the story spreading out through the crowd.

Lockhart naturally caught these reactions, and his artificially bright smile began to develop cracks around the edges. The muscles in his face were starting to ache from the effort of maintaining his facade.

Finally, unable to bear the weight of so many skeptical stares, he turned his attention to Adrian, his face tuned dark, and he secretly clenched his fists.

Adrian, however, was entirely focused on more pressing concerns and remained oblivious to Lockhart's small movements and seething resentment. His attention had already shifted to Harry, who was still sprawled on the muddy pitch with his arm bent at unnatural angles.

The boy's wellbeing was far more important than the hurt pride of an incompetent professor.

Upon closer inspection, Harry's injuries seemed to be relatively minor by Quidditch standards—painful certainly, and requiring medical attention, but hardly life-threatening. After all, this was Quidditch, a sport where serious injury was not just possible but practically inevitable.

Breaking an arm, shattering a leg, suffering concussion—these were all considered perfectly normal occupational hazards for anyone brave or foolish enough to mount a broomstick in pursuit of athletic glory.

Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing did more business during Quidditch season than during the rest of the school year combined.

As long as a player didn't die on the pitch and even that wasn't necessarily permanent, given some of the more 'exotic' magics available (courtesy to Voldemort), the wizarding world possessed literally thousands of methods for dealing with broken bones, torn muscles, and various traumatic injuries.

Skele-Gro, Pepper-Up Potion, various bone-mending charms, and other magical remedies meant that what would cripple a Muggle for months could be resolved in a matter of hours.

When the crowd finally began to disperse, Adrian walked back toward the castle in the company of Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. The three made their way along the path that led from the Quidditch pitch to the main entrance.

About halfway to the castle, Professor Flitwick suddenly let out a soft chuckle that seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest.

"That was absolutely magnificent spellwork, Adrian!" He exclaimed, his voice bright with genuine admiration and professional appreciation. "A truly beautiful Disarming Charm—your control of force and precision has improved dramatically since our last session together."

Adrian accepted the compliment with a modest smile. "Thank you, Professor. I have indeed been practicing diligently."

In fact, since gaining the "Energy Amplification" trait, Adrian had devoted countless hours to spell practice.

Especially in terms of spell control.

He dared say that compared to that time, his improvement was absolutely tremendous.

Professor McGonagall, who had been listening to Flitwick's praise with the satisfied expression of someone watching a former student excel, nodded her approval before adding her own views.

"Professor Westeros, what you did today was not only completely appropriate but absolutely necessary. Lockhart was making a complete mess of the situation."

She paused in her walking, turning to face Adrian directly with an expression that mixed professional approval with personal frustration.

"I sincerely hope this incident might finally teach him some measure of humility and caution," She continued, though her tone said she held little hope for such a miracle. "Though I fear Professor Lockhart has never been particularly receptive to learning from his mistakes."

Adrian's expression grew thoughtful as he considered McGonagall's assessment. Based on his understanding of Lockhart's character—he strongly suspected that humility and self-reflection were unknown concepts to him.

Rather than learning from this public humiliation, Lockhart would most likely stay in his office to plot some scheme to restore his tattered reputation.

Meanwhile, in Hogwarts castle, Lockhart had indeed gone to his office. The moment he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him, his carefully maintained public facade crumbled.

The sound of the door slamming shut echoed through the office like a gunshot, causing several of his magical portraits to jump in their frames.

"Damn that arrogant bastard!" Lockhart snarled, his voice thick with venom and completely lacking of his usual dramatic polish.

He had initially considered Adrian Westeros to be a kindred spirit—another wizard who appreciated the finer things in life, including quality hair care products. Lockhart had been genuinely pleased when Adrian had complimented his shampoo, interpreting it as recognition from a fellow man of refined taste and sophisticated sensibilities.

He had never expected that same person to publicly humiliate him.

Of course, the genuinely angry Lockhart had no understanding of the fact that Adrian had actually shown him considerable restraint and mercy.

A less tactful wizard might have simply stunned him into unconsciousness the moment his first "healing" spell went awry, or perhaps delivered a public lecture on the differences between medical magic and combat hexes that would have left his reputation in even more tatters.

Adrian's protective instincts had been aroused by Lockhart's reckless endangerment of Harry, and his response had been measured and proportional without causing unnecessary additional humiliation.

A more vindictive person might have done far worse.

But Lockhart, lost in his own narcissistic fury, could see only the public shame and the damage to his image.

On the Quidditch pitch, surrounded by witnesses and constrained by the need to maintain some façade of dignity, Lockhart had been forced to swallow his rage and pretend at gracious acceptance of correction. But here, in his own office, he could finally let the mask slip and vent.

Rage almost enveloped his entire body. He slumped breathlessly in his beautifully decorated chair, his angry emotions nearly causing him to lose control.

The office around him bore silent witness to his breakdown.

The countless self-portraits of Lockhart on the walls, who normally always looked confident and smug, now realized that something was wrong with the real Lockhart.

Each portrait looked bewildered and at a loss.

Unable to contain his rage any longer, Lockhart's hand shot out and grabbed a porcelain teacup from the collection arranged on his side table and hurled it across the room with all the force he could muster.

The teacup shattered against the far wall in an explosion of ceramic fragments and dust. Several shards struck one of the larger portraits with enough force to make the frame sway on its hooks as it nearly fell from the impact.

The painted Lockhart in that particular frame—who had been leaning forward to get a better view of the drama—suddenly found himself dodging flying porcelain.

The shock was too much for his painted constitution; his eyes rolled back dramatically, and he toppled backward in a dramatic faint.

The destruction of the teacup seemed to provide some small measure of cleansing release.

Lockhart's breathing gradually slowed from the rapid panting of barely controlled rage to something approaching normal respiration. His face began to return to its usual complexion, though his eyes still held specks of fury.

As his initial explosion of temper began to subside, Lockhart's mind started to grope around.

No matter what, he absolutely had to find some way to regain face in front of the students.

He had already lost far too much credibility through various embarrassing incidents throughout the school year. He had to find some way to completely overturn the students' impression of him! Only then could he restore his reputation among the student body.

If word of his performance at Hogwarts were to spread as it inevitably would, it would undoubtedly have catastrophic effects on his public image.

He couldn't possibly cast Memory Charms on every student, teacher, and staff member at Hogwarts. Even if his memory magic was superb, he couldn't manage that.

Thinking of this, Lockhart pulled open a nearby drawer, took out a seemingly ordinary piece of white paper, picked up the quill from the table, and began writing and drawing on it.

As he wrote, he muttered, "Dueling Club... Professor Westeros... just wait..."

The following days were peaceful.

The castle settled back into its normal rhythms of classes, meals, and homework, though the gossip mills continued to roil with retellings of the Quidditch incident that grew more embellished with each repetition.

Whenever Adrian encountered Lockhart in the corridors during this period, he would maintain a poker-straight expression. He would sweep past him without acknowledgment.

Adrian found this behavior perfectly understandable, if somewhat amusing. After all, he had publicly demonstrated Lockhart's incompetence in front of hundreds of witnesses.

Honestly, Adrian didn't mind Lockhart's cold shoulder treatment in the slightest. The less interaction he had with the fraud, the more time and energy he could devote to more pressing concerns—such as identifying and locating who released that basilisk.

However, although Adrian wandered the castle every night, he hadn't found even half a snake skin.

One particularly crisp weekend morning, when the Scottish highlands had blanketed in the first real frost of the approaching winter, Adrian accepted an invitation from Professor Flitwick to visit the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade village.

The weather outside had undergone one of those sudden seasonal transformations that were common in the Scottish highlands—autumn's last warmth vanishing overnight to be replaced by winter's sharp embrace.

Frost painted patterns on the castle windows, and students hurried between buildings wrapped in increasingly heavy cloaks and scarves.

But inside the Three Broomsticks, the atmosphere remained as warm and welcoming as ever.

Because this particular weekend coincided with one of the regularly scheduled Hogsmeade visiting days, the shop was considerably more crowded than usual.

Adrian and Professor Flitwick had managed to have a small table tucked into a corner near the entrance.

As they settled into their chairs with steaming mugs of butterbeer, Professor Flitwick raised a topic that immediately captured Adrian's full attention.

"Lockhart has been quite busy lately," Flitwick observed with the casual tone of someone sharing interesting but not particularly urgent gossip. "Organizing something that I think you might find... interesting."

Adrian raised one eyebrow in a silent invitation for explanation, though he suspected he already knew where this conversation was heading.

"A dueling club," Flitwick continued, his expression mixing amusement with interest.

"He really cannot resist making himself the center of attention, can he?" Adrian replied with a slight shake of his head, though he felt no real surprise at this development.

In fact, he had been expecting something along these lines ever since their confrontation on the Quidditch pitch.

In the original story timeline—Lockhart had indeed organized a dueling club as part of his ongoing campaign to maintain his fraudulent reputation.

"I quite agree," Professor Flitwick nodded approvingly. "Just yesterday evening, he formally submitted his proposal to Professor Dumbledore."

Flitwick paused to take another sip of butterbeer before continuing.

"After the Headmaster gave his approval and you know Professor Dumbledore, he rarely refuses requests that might provide educational opportunities for students, Lockhart approached me. He was hoping I would agree to serve as the supervising professor for his dueling club."

"That makes perfect sense," Adrian replied thoughtfully. "Besides yourself, I honestly cannot think of anyone else at Hogwarts who would be truly qualified for such a position."

This was not just flattery on Adrian's part.

Professor Flitwick's reputation as a former dueling champion was well-deserved, earned through years of competition against the finest magical duelist in Britain and outside.

"But I refused his request," Flitwick said simply.

This genuinely surprised Adrian, causing him to raise both eyebrows in an expression of frank astonishment. Given Flitwick's obvious passion for the subject and his natural desire to see students properly educated in essential magical skills, a refusal seemed completely out of character.

After all, when it came to matters of magical dueling and combat spellwork, probably no one in the entire castle—possibly no one in all of Britain—possessed more genuine expertise than the tiny Charms professor.

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