A Bewitching Buffoon

Harry looked down at his paper and started to read. He almost wished he hadn't

What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?

What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Now, Harry was faced with an impossible decision, here. Would he sink to the level of answering these inane questions, with the answers that had been unfortunately burned into his memory? Or would he have a bit of self respect, and refuse to participate in this rubbish? His perfect record or his self-respect? In the end, he decided on a mixture of the two.

Professor Lockhart's favourite colour is Lilac.

If I wrote it down, it wouldn't be secret. I believe writing down other people's secrets is morally questionable, and therefore I'll refrain from doing so out of respect for Professor Lockhart.

Accepting a teaching post at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

All the way down to:

Gilderoy Lockhart was born January 26, 1964 and desires what everyone doe; happiness. I think that happiness would be an ideal gift for anyone.

This way...well, he probably wouldn't fail, but he still was not stooping quite as low as was possible.

Half an hour later, Professor Lockhart collected in the papers and sat down at his desk, crossing his legs as he began to rifle through the written tests.

"Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I say so in Year with a Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully – I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples -"

Harry almost snorted at that. Yes, that was likely. He could feel Tom scoffing in the back of his mind.

"- though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky!" The blonde man gave them another roguish wink.

So their professor was a ditz and an alcoholic.

Harry glanced around the classroom. Theo was staring at the Professor with a glint in his eye that could only be interpreted as horror by one who knew him well. In fact, all the male Slytherins were staring at him with some degree of disgust, though most of them were doing a good job of tempering it. The girls, however, seemed unfazed. The Gryffindors were not doing so well, though. Ron was now staring at Lockhart with an unmistakable expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in the front of the classroom, were shaking with silent laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention, and gave a start when he mentioned her name.

"...but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions – good girl! In fact -" he flipped her paper over, "- full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione raised a trembling hand. Meanwhile, Harry looked on in abject horror. How could Hermione Granger, the most reasonable, clever witch he'd ever met, be taken in by this...buffoon? What sort of dark magic was this? For a dunderheaded ditz to so easily deceive every witch in the room...how was it possible? Surely they weren't all stupid...he knew that wasn't true. Some sort of ephemeral confundus charm that only worked on females?

"Excellent!" beamed Lockhart. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so, to business..."

Finally.

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it. "Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage.

Professor Lockhart placed a hand on the cover.

Thomas and Finnigan had stopped laughing now, and Neville was cowering in his front-row seat. His fellow Slytherin boys looked mildly amused and somewhat interested at this point.

"I must ask you not to scream," their professor whispered in a low voice. "It might provoke them."

As the whole class (well, half the class) held its breath, Professor Lockhart whipped off the cover with a flourish.

"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."

Malfoy looked like he was having a lot of trouble not making a sound, but Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter which even Professor Lockhart couldn't mistake for a shriek of terror.

"Yes?" He smiled at the boy, his smile looking somewhat strained.

"Well, they're not – they're not very – dangerous, are they?" Finnigan choked out.

"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Finnigan. "Devilishly tricky little blighters they can be!"

The pixies were a bright blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a crowd of angry mice arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and pulling bizarre faces at the people nearest to them.

"Right then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!'

Harry didn't have time to react before the idiot at the front of the room opened the cage.

.....

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