The unexpected reappearance of the house-elf Dobby left Harry deeply unsettled.
He wasn't the only one in a foul mood—Gilderoy Lockhart was feeling similarly discontented.
Ever since the last Quidditch match, the Gryffindors had been singing his praises—only the Gryffindors. The other three Houses had grown skeptical. After all, pulling the bones from a student's leg didn't quite seem like the kind of spell a competent professor would cast.
And the heroic persona he so desperately wanted to build had run into trouble as well.
He had planned to do an exclusive interview with The Daily Prophet to expand the story beyond Hogwarts and into the wider wizarding world. The paper agreed—but when the day came, Rita Skeeter never showed. Subsequent letters went unanswered.
Then there was Harold Ollivander—the student he had "heroically" saved—who not only never thanked him, but had publicly contradicted his claims more than once.
Lockhart paced, his features twisted in a mix of indignation and delusion, truly believing his own lies—that he had revived Harold with a Restoration Charm… even though he didn't actually know that spell.
Desperate to regain his crumbling reputation, Lockhart came up with a daring plan—he'd reveal the truth about the basilisk!
A monster unseen for centuries, reappearing in Hogwarts? That was headline material. And he—he—would be the one to "discover" it.
He could even turn it into a book. The title? Dancing with the Basilisk.
No one would remember that little mishap with Malfoy's bones ever again.
But just minutes later, Lockhart sighed and dismissed the idea.
Dumbledore wouldn't allow it. That night, the Headmaster had made every professor who knew the truth swear to keep it secret—supposedly to avoid panic.
To Lockhart, that was nonsense. Dumbledore simply didn't want to admit to his incompetence—or worse, admit Lockhart had upstaged him.
He even suspected that the whole basilisk business might be something Harold made up.
After all, if there really were a basilisk, how could Dumbledore not have caught it?
Lockhart's lip curled as he stared out the window.
Dumbledore had made veiled threats when inviting him to teach at Hogwarts—enough to make Lockhart think twice about stepping out of line. So he'd bide his time, keep his head down until the end of this cursed Defense Against the Dark Arts contract.
"They're all fools. Dumbledore is the biggest fool of them all," Lockhart raged internally. "They have no idea what kind of impact this story could have."
Even if the basilisk was a lie—if Dumbledore would just say the name aloud, Hogwarts would dominate the headlines.
And they didn't want it!
Fools, all of them! Now he had to come up with some other way to recover his lost glory.
He paced past the walls of his office, lined with portraits of himself. Each "Lockhart" watched him, their eyes swiveling.
After about an hour of this, inspiration struck. Read complete versıon only at 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹•𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒•𝙣𝙚𝙩
He turned on his heel and marched straight toward the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor.
The next day, on his way to Charms class, Harold noticed a crowd gathered around the notice board. Everyone was chattering excitedly.
He thought he heard the words "Dueling Club" being tossed around.
With a strange look on his face, Harold elbowed his way into the crowd.
"Harold! There you are," Seamus said, clearly thrilled. "They're starting a Dueling Club—to teach us how to defend ourselves!"
"And what does that have to do with me?" Harold asked. "Don't tell me this is about my 'attack' again."
"You already read the announcement?" Seamus blurted in surprise.
Harold read it himself:
"...Harold Ollivander's experience reminds us all of the importance of learning proper defensive spells..."
He should've seen this coming.
Why couldn't Lockhart use someone else for publicity?
What, was The Boy Who Lived no longer newsworthy?
Because of Lockhart's relentless promotion, the entire school now knew about Harold's "tragic petrification" in the hallway. Some of the more sensitive girls even looked at him with sad, misty eyes—as if he'd spent days frozen and abandoned.
It had only been five minutes.
And for a second-year student to face a basilisk and only get petrified for five minutes—that was practically a miracle!
"Harold, are you going to join the club?" Seamus asked excitedly.
Harold gave a cold smile. "Of course I am. I'd love to see what tricks Professor Lockhart's got up his sleeve."
"Awesome! Let's go together then."
The entire day was filled with talk of the Dueling Club. Students swarmed Professor Flitwick, asking if he would be teaching it.
Everyone knew he had been a two-time Dueling Champion in his youth.
But Flitwick never gave a direct answer. Eventually, after enough pestering, he just smiled and said he didn't know yet.
That night at eight, Harold arrived early in the Great Hall.
The space had been transformed. The long dining tables were pushed aside, and a massive golden stage stood at the front.
"Hey, Harold—you're early," Seamus called out, arriving with Harry, Hermione, and Ron.
"Just got here," Harold replied.
"What's that in your hand?" Harry asked, eyeing the familiar black object.
"A camera. Borrowed it from Colin Creevey," Harold said. "I'm thinking of selling a few photos to The Wizarding Weekly. Might make a little profit."
Five minutes later, the doors swung open again.
Gilderoy Lockhart swept in, resplendent in a crimson robe. Flitwick trailed behind him.
But while Lockhart gleamed like a chandelier, Flitwick looked annoyed and underdressed—still in his teaching robes. Next to Lockhart, he looked more like a house-elf in stature and appearance.
No one had told him dueling attire was required.
If it weren't for McGonagall and Sprout being busy—and Snape temporarily away dealing with the Malfoy fallout—he would've never agreed to assist with this charade.
Harold's eyes narrowed. Did Lockhart choose Flitwick as a prop to make himself look even more dashing?
"I knew it'd be Flitwick!" Ron whispered excitedly. "He was a Dueling Champion!"
"If you'd been paying attention, you'd know he's just the assistant," Hermione corrected. "Professor Lockhart is the one teaching us."
"You're saying Lockhart's better than a two-time champion?"
"Professor Lockhart is very good at dueling—he wrote about it in Travels with Trolls!"
"Right. He's good at everything—and knows nothing," Ron snapped.
They immediately started bickering again.
Harold ignored them. He had his camera ready.
On stage, the introductions were done. The two professors took their positions.
"I must say, I'm reluctant to do this," Lockhart said, pushing his golden curls back. "What if you all think I'm better than a champion? That wouldn't be fair."
He sighed dramatically. "I made it to the Dueling Finals once—but then I got an urgent letter from Bulgaria and had to withdraw. A lifelong regret."
He wiped at his eye. "But fear not. I'll return your Charms professor to you unscathed."
Flitwick's face darkened. Was he celebrating victory before the duel even started?
Lockhart had entered the tournament? And made it to the finals?
Flitwick had never heard of it.
Still, he offered professional courtesy.
They raised their wands to their chests and bowed.
Surprisingly precise.
Okay, maybe Lockhart had entered a real duel before.
They raised their wands—
—and Lockhart was blasted off his feet, slammed into the wall, and knocked unconscious.
Flitwick stood dumbfounded, looking like a startled house-elf.
Wasn't this supposed to be a demonstration duel? Why had Lockhart been chanting his spell out loud?
Oh. Right. For the students.
Flitwick smacked his forehead. He shouldn't have opened with Stupefy.
Still, Lockhart would be fine.
After checking that the flamboyant professor was still breathing, he had a few students carry him to the Hospital Wing.
The Dueling Club continued—with Flitwick now fully in charge.
"Stupefy may be tricky for some of you, but it's one of the best all-around spells—it'll disable your opponent in seconds.
"Another great spell is Expelliarmus..."
Now this was a proper lesson.
The students were paired off and practiced both spells under supervision.
When the club finally ended around ten, Harold left reluctantly.
He had come to watch Lockhart humiliate himself—and ended up learning actual magic. Worth it.
"I wish this Dueling Club went on forever," Harry said. "I love Expelliarmus—it's so easy! I got it in two tries.
"Though… it's weird that Hermione couldn't get it to work…"
Everyone was in high spirits.
No one paid much attention to Lockhart's absence the next day. His classes were turned into self-study.
"Probably too embarrassed to show his face," Ron laughed. "Serves him right."
Word of his public knockout had spread across Hogwarts like wildfire. Every mention made Ron burst into giggles.
In his view, Lockhart's continued absence was a gift.
Hermione did go check on him—but Madam Pomfrey said he'd woken up the night before and left.
Hermione then tried his office—no one there either.
It wasn't until late afternoon that Lockhart was found—by Hermione herself.
He was lying on the main staircase, body stiff like stone, his face and outstretched hands ghostly pale.
He looked just like the Muggle victims in his own illustrations—those attacked by vampires.
Some younger students nearly cried at the sight.
What made it even more chilling was the message smeared in blood across his blue robes:
THE CHAMBER HAS BEEN OPENED!TO THE BEARER OF POWER, THE UNWANTED PROPHET, THE ORIGIN AND END OF ALL CALAMITY.WANDS AT THE READY. BEWARE.