The Learned Miss Granger (Seeking Follow-ups)

Harry took out the horns and placed them on the table.

The spiraling, right-angled horns shimmered with a glossy, dark purple luster, and an ominous aura emanated from them.

"Where are you planning to brew the potion?" Hermione picked one up cautiously.

"I'll process the ingredients in the dormitory," Harry replied.

Polyjuice Potion is a very time-consuming concoction.

The most troublesome part isn't actually the magical ingredients, but the lacewing flies—also known as "aphids"—which must be stewed for twenty-one days. These creatures are tiny, with bodies smaller than a fingernail.

You can't just light a fire, set up a cauldron, and walk away.

If you did that, the insects would dissolve in less than a day.

You have to use magic to maintain their stability at all times.

This step isn't dangerous, just tedious, so Harry planned to do it in the dormitory—as long as Seamus didn't point his wand at it, there wouldn't be any problems.

"Ron, wake up." Hermione used the thick end of the horn to poke the snoring Mr. Weasley.

Ron jolted awake, threw his head back, and began reciting Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration by rote.

After blurting out two sentences, he suddenly realized he wasn't in Professor McGonagall's classroom and lowered his head sheepishly. "Harry, you're back? Did you get..."

He paused, noticing the item in Hermione's hand. "Looks like you did."

"Go back to sleep."

Friday was packed with classes.

There was a Charms class in the morning, and Flitwick looked much more refreshed, his dark circles having faded somewhat.

In this lesson, they were to learn a powerful prank spell—Tarantallegra.

It was a Dancing Feet Spell that forced the target to dance uncontrollably.

Flitwick was quite fond of this spell, especially when using it on Harry.

This charm could be cast on people as well as inanimate objects.

Once, a wizard had cast the Dancing Feet Spell repeatedly on Mount Vesuvius, eventually causing the volcano to erupt and destroy a city called Pompeii.

The young wizards were very interested in the spell, and even when Professor Flitwick assigned a five-inch essay at the end, they didn't have a single complaint.

The first class in the afternoon was Herbology.

They walked out of the castle toward the greenhouses, where Professor Sprout stood with a stiff face. The source of her irritation stood right beside her: a flamboyant "peacock" wearing cyan robes with gold trim and a matching, tall, ornate wizard's hat.

"Oh, hello, young wizards!" Lockhart waved his hand. "I was just discussing with Professor Sprout how to better cultivate herbs."

He paused meaningfully. "But I wouldn't want you to think I'm more skilled at Herbology than your Herbology professor; I just happen to have encountered some magical plants during my travels..."

Sprout interrupted him firmly: "Greenhouse Three, today!"

"Professor—Lockhart!" She drew out the syllables, making the title sound like two separate sentences. "I have a class to teach now, so please go back and prepare for your own."

Lockhart waved a hand. "I have something I'd like to discuss with Harry. You know, there are always little secrets between outstanding wizards; you wouldn't mind, would you?"

"No, I am very—" Sprout began to refuse decisively.

Before she could finish, Lockhart interrupted her, lost in his own world: "Thank you, my dear Pomona, I knew you would."

Sprout pulled her hands into her robes, wishing she could whip out her wand right then and there and cast a few nasty hexes at him.

"Harry." Lockhart beckoned to him.

"I don't think we're familiar enough for you to use my first name." Harry walked toward him, speaking the words flatly.

Lockhart froze.

That sounded... familiar?

Had he heard it somewhere before?

"Professor, I hope you have a serious matter to discuss with me," Harry said, walking up to him and looking up. "And not something absurd or ridiculous."

"Of course it's serious." Lockhart raised his hand, attempting to drape it over Harry's shoulder, but halfway through the motion, he felt a phantom pain in his kidney, causing him to retract his hand. "Mr. Potter, you are quite famous now, a remarkable figure in the wizarding world."

"Though, compared to me, there's still a slight gap."

"However, I only heard about your affairs after arriving at school. Pulling the Sword of Gryffindor upon entry—good heavens, I don't know what Skeeter is doing; the Daily Prophet hasn't published a single word about it."

"Please, spare me the nonsense." Harry was blunt, pulling out his wand.

Lockhart blinked, pursed his lips, and reached out. "We could collaborate."

"I am a world-renowned great wizard, a five-time winner of the Witch Weekly Most Charming Smile Award. I can make you as famous as I am."

"As long as you..."

Harry flicked his wand, pointing the tip at Lockhart's stomach. "Professor, I believe I said at the very beginning: do not say anything absurd or ridiculous."

"Professor Snape would probably like you; after all, there aren't many wizards with the brain of a Troll."

Lockhart panicked, waving his hands. "I can give you Galleons."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Lockhart's expression brightened: "I knew it, Mr. Potter. You are a smart man. We are both outstanding wizards, and we should..."

"But I am not short on money." Harry shook his head. "Potter—you should be aware of the weight this surname carries?"

The Potter Family Shampoo Potion Formula was all the rage in the wizarding world.

Lockhart used it too.

"Some spells? I know many..." Lockhart continued, far too familiar with this routine; it was just a matter of bargaining.

Harry said nothing.

Lockhart immediately changed his tune: "Of course, Hogwarts has many excellent professors, and you are Professor McGonagall's favorite student; you aren't lacking in powerful spells."

This left him in a bind.

The chips he could offer were nothing more than fame, Galleons, and some knowledge, yet none of it seemed to hold any appeal for Harry.

"You are a professor." Harry withdrew his wand. "Perhaps I will have some needs, such as requesting books from the Restricted Section, or other matters that require your assistance."

Lockhart flashed a brilliant smile: "Of course, that is easily done."

"I won't mind if you use my name a little." Harry's tone was icy. "But I do not want you to cause me any trouble or complications."

Lockhart frowned: "No, Potter, this..."

"A professor, losing to a second-year student." Harry interrupted him. "What honor would that bring?"

"A headline in the Daily Prophet?"

"The 'Most Pathetic Award' from Witch Weekly?"

Lockhart's body and smile froze simultaneously.

"Very well, it is settled then." Harry nodded and turned to walk toward the greenhouses.

Professor Flitwick was right.

No matter how absurd a person might be, they wouldn't dream of borrowing a young boy's fame.

Lockhart was the exception.

Today's Herbology class involved learning about a rather dangerous plant, the Mandrake; it was alive, and its cry could render one unconscious.

Hermione and Ron wanted to ask Harry what they had discussed outside, but unfortunately... there was no opportunity during this lesson.

They had to put on their earmuffs, or they would miss the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the term.

When Herbology ended.

They took off their earmuffs and walked out of the greenhouse.

"What did Lockhart say to you?" Ron asked impatiently.

"I assume he wanted to borrow Harry's fame again?" Hermione guessed.

Harry nodded: "That's right, so I made a deal with him. He can borrow a bit of my reputation, and in exchange, he must open the doors to his professorial privileges for me."

"For instance, the Restricted Section and such."

Other professors wouldn't indulge Harry—take the Book of Spells, for example; Harry had heard Flitwick mention it more than once, noting it contained almost every spell in existence.

Harry had never been able to obtain permission to borrow it.

There were also advanced Potions books that Snape would never sign a slip for.

Ron was envious.

Hermione was lost in thought.

After Herbology came Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the young wizards were looking forward to Lockhart's class—they felt they had finally met a reliable professor.

Lockhart was even more flamboyant than Harry had imagined.

Despite it being only a single class period, he had changed his robes again, from cyan to a vibrant red with shimmering silver trim, and his hair had been restyled and sprayed with heavy perfume.

It was a complex scent of henbane petals, honey, and calamus root.

These three ingredients were auxiliary components used in almost every Love Potion.

After a boastful self-introduction, Lockhart waved his hand: "I see you have all purchased my complete works, which is excellent..."

Ron couldn't help but mutter under his breath: "It was a mandatory requirement on the book list, yet he makes it sound as if we did it voluntarily."

Hermione agreed.

"So, let's start with a little quiz. Don't be afraid; I just want to see how well you've read and how much you've grasped," Lockhart said gently.

This caught Harry by surprise.

Beneath the flamboyant exterior, did he actually possess a pragmatic heart? On the surface, he didn't look like he was teaching seriously at all, but perhaps he was well-prepared behind the scenes?

Lockhart handed out the test papers in a way that felt very unusual.

Other professors would simply flick their wands, but he handed them out one by one, person by person.

"You have thirty minutes, begin now!" Lockhart finished handing out the last one, clapped his hands, and looked smug.

Harry remained expressionless as he crumpled the paper into a ball.

Very well...

Mr. Lockhart always managed to provide a surprise.

He had assumed Lockhart would ask about something useful—like the bits of knowledge hidden within the stories in his books regarding how to deal with Trolls, Werewolves, or Banshees, which accounted for less than a tenth, perhaps even less than a twentieth, of the entire text.

Instead...

"What is Lockhart's favorite color?"

"What is Lockhart's secret ambition?"

"What is Lockhart's birthday, and what is his most desired birthday gift?"

Were they actually attending Defense Against the Dark Arts, or was this the Lockhart Fan Club?

Half an hour later.

Lockhart collected the test papers: "Mr. Potter did not hand in his paper, which might confuse you all. In truth, I have spoken with him privately, and he has already answered these. I will tell you all in secret: his answers were perfect."

"Twenty points to Gryffindor!"

Harry remained expressionless, staring straight at him.

Lockhart buried his head, flipping through the papers, and after a moment, looked surprised: "Who is Miss Hermione Granger? A perfect score as well!"

Could someone actually answer all of these?

Hermione, just like Harry, remained expressionless as she raised her hand.

"Another Gryffindor?"

"Then another twenty points!"