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Harry pulled the bicorn horns out of his bag and set them on the table.
The spiraling, glossy black-purple horns exuded an unsettling aura of malevolence.
"Where are you planning to brew the potion?" Hermione asked cautiously as she picked up one of the horns.
"I'll handle the materials in the dormitory," Harry replied.
The Polyjuice Potion was a time-consuming brew.
The most troublesome ingredient wasn't the magical ones but the lacewing flies, which needed to be stewed for twenty-one days.
These tiny insects, also called "aphids," were smaller than a fingernail.
You couldn't just leave them on the stove and walk away, or they'd dissolve into mush within a day.
Their stability required constant attention and magical intervention.
This step wasn't dangerous, just tedious. Harry planned to handle it in the dormitory—provided Seamus didn't point his wand at the cauldron, everything should be fine.
"Ron, wake up," Hermione said, jabbing a snoring Ron Weasley with the blunt end of the horn.
Ron jolted awake, reflexively shouting out a line from Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.
Halfway through the recitation, he blinked, realizing he wasn't in Professor McGonagall's class. He awkwardly lowered his head. "Harry, you're back? Did you get the—"
He trailed off when he noticed the horn in Hermione's hand. "Guess you did."
"Go back to sleep," Harry suggested.
Friday's schedule was packed.
In the morning, they had Charms. Professor Flitwick looked more refreshed, his dark circles less pronounced.
That day, they learned a powerful mischief spell: the Tarantallegra Jinx, which forced its victim to dance uncontrollably.
Professor Flitwick was particularly fond of this spell, especially when using it against Harry.
The jinx could be cast on inanimate objects as well.
Flitwick regaled them with the story of a wizard who cast it repeatedly on Mount Vesuvius, causing the volcano to erupt and destroy the city of Pompeii.
The students were so enthralled by the lesson that they didn't even complain when Flitwick assigned a five-inch essay on the jinx.
The afternoon began with Herbology.
As they approached the greenhouses, Professor Sprout stood at the entrance, her face dark with irritation. The reason for her foul mood was standing beside her: Gilderoy Lockhart, decked out in a teal robe trimmed with gold and topped with a matching tall wizard's hat.
"Oh, hello, young wizards!" Lockhart waved enthusiastically. "I was just discussing better herb-growing techniques with Professor Sprout."
He paused dramatically. "Of course, I don't want you to think I'm more skilled in Herbology than your professor. It's just that, during my travels, I've encountered some truly magical plants…"
"Greenhouse Three, today!" Sprout interrupted him curtly.
"Professor—Lockhart!" she said, stretching his title into two distinct sentences, her tone laden with frustration. "I have a class to teach. Please return to your own preparations."
Lockhart waved dismissively. "Oh, but I have something to discuss with Harry! You know how exceptional wizards always have their little secrets. Surely, you don't mind?"
"No, I do—" Sprout began to refuse, but Lockhart cut her off mid-sentence.
"Thank you, my dear Pomona. I knew you'd understand."
Sprout clenched her fists and stuffed her hands into her robes, clearly restraining herself from pulling out her wand and cursing him on the spot.
"Harry!" Lockhart called, beckoning him over.
"I don't think we're on a first-name basis, Professor," Harry replied coolly as he approached, his words earning a surprised blink from Lockhart.
Those words sounded oddly familiar.
Where had he heard them before?
"Professor," Harry continued, looking up at him. "I hope you called me for something serious—not something ridiculous."
"Of course, it's serious." Lockhart raised a hand as if to drape it over Harry's shoulder but hesitated halfway, the phantom pain in his side making him think better of it. "Mr. Potter, you're already quite famous—a remarkable figure in the wizarding world."
"Although, I must admit, you're still a bit behind me."
"Anyway, I only recently heard about your exploits—drawing Gryffindor's sword as a first-year! Incredible! Honestly, what's Rita Skeeter even doing? The Daily Prophet hasn't said a word about it!"
"Get to the point," Harry interrupted, pulling out his wand without hesitation.
Lockhart froze, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "We could work together."
"I'm a world-renowned wizard, a five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award. I could help you become as famous as I am. All you'd need to do is—"
Harry raised his wand, pointing it at Lockhart's stomach. "Professor, I believe I mentioned earlier not to bring up ridiculous ideas."
"Even Professor Snape might like you for that. After all, it's not every day you meet a wizard with a troll's brain."
Lockhart panicked, waving his hands frantically. "I could pay you in Galleons!"
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Lockhart brightened. "I knew you'd be reasonable, Mr. Potter. We're both brilliant wizards; we should be helping each other—"
"But I don't need money," Harry interrupted, shaking his head. "The name 'Potter' carries enough weight. You should know about our family's shampoo potion formula—it's widely used in the wizarding world."
Lockhart hesitated, visibly deflated.
"Spells? I know plenty…" he tried again, only to trail off. "But of course, Hogwarts already has outstanding professors. You're McGonagall's favorite, aren't you?"
Harry said nothing.
After a long pause, Lockhart finally relented. "Fine. If you ever need access to the Restricted Section or anything else within my power, just ask."
Harry nodded coldly. "In return, I'll tolerate you using my name occasionally—but don't cause me any trouble."
Lockhart's expression stiffened, his attempt at a charming smile faltering.
Harry delivered the final blow. "Imagine the headlines: 'A Hogwarts Professor Loses to a Second-Year.' Wouldn't that be delightful for the Daily Prophet?"
"Fine," Lockhart muttered, stiff and subdued.
Harry turned on his heel and walked back toward the greenhouse.
Professor Flitwick was right.
No reasonable person would want to piggyback on a child's fame—except Lockhart.
The Herbology lesson focused on a dangerous plant: Mandrakes. Their cries could knock a person unconscious.
Hermione and Ron wanted to ask what Harry and Lockhart had discussed, but there wasn't an opportunity during class.
Everyone had to wear earmuffs—missing this lesson could mean being unprepared for the term's first Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
After Herbology, as they left the greenhouse, Ron couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. "What did Lockhart say to you?"
"I'm guessing he wanted to use your fame," Hermione speculated.
Harry nodded. "Exactly. So, I made a deal: he can use my name sparingly, but in exchange, he has to grant me unrestricted access to the resources his position allows."
"Like the Restricted Section," he added.
Other professors were much stricter—Professor Flitwick, for instance, had frequently mentioned The Book of Spells, which contained nearly every known charm, but had yet to allow Harry to borrow it.
Ron looked envious.
Hermione, thoughtful.
Their next class was Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the students were eager—finally, a professor who seemed competent.
Lockhart was even more flamboyant than Harry expected.
For one, he had changed into a bright red robe with silver trim, his hair freshly styled, and was drenched in perfume with a cloying blend of henbane, honey, and calamus root—common ingredients in love potions.
After an over-the-top introduction, Lockhart announced, "I see you've all purchased my complete works—excellent!"
Ron whispered, "It's on the booklist, as if we had a choice."
Hermione nodded in agreement.
"To begin, let's have a little quiz. Don't worry—it's just to see how well you've read and understood."
Harry's initial surprise—thinking Lockhart might have a practical side—evaporated as he read the questions:
"What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?""What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?""What is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday and his most desired gift?"
Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers.
"Ah, Mr. Potter didn't turn in his quiz. Don't be surprised; we've discussed these answers privately—he scored full marks, by the way. Gryffindor gets twenty points!"
Harry glared.
"Miss Hermione Granger? Another full score! Another twenty points to Gryffindor!"
Hermione raised her hand, her face as blank as Harry's.
Someone actually answered them all correctly?
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Powerstones?
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