The air in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom always smelled faintly of expensive hair tonic and desperate vanity. Shortly after Allen and Edward had settled into their usual spots, the door swung open with a flourish that could only belong to one man.
Professor Gilderoy Lockhart strode in, his lilac robes shimmering under the enchanted candlelight. He looked less like a teacher and more like a high-fashion model who had lost his way to a runway. That signature smile, wide and blindingly white, was firmly in place—a look that screamed "perfect" while masking a hollow interior.
"Good afternoon, class! Or should I say, good afternoon to my future colleagues in greatness!" Lockhart beamed, standing behind his desk. "I must tell you, the level of passion in this room is intoxicating. Last week's assignment—the recovery poem for the frost-bitten snowman—was, quite frankly, a revelation. And to think it came from a young gentleman! Truly, talent knows no gender."
He pulled a piece of parchment from his desk with the reverence one might show a holy relic. "While I simply cannot reciprocate the... ah, deeply personal romantic undertones of this piece, I have no choice but to award an 'Excellent' grade."
As soon as Lockhart held the paper up, Edward let out a sound like a dying kettle. He buried his face in his hands, trying to disappear behind a stack of thick textbooks.
Allen glanced at his friend, amused. "What's the matter? You usually love being the center of attention."
"Not like this," Edward hissed through his fingers, his ears turning a bright shade of crimson. "I was lazy, Allen. I didn't want to write it, so I just... found an old muggle romantic poem and 'wizardized' it with the most ridiculous adjectives I could think of. I didn't think he'd actually read the thing aloud!"
"How can you be so sure it's yours?" Allen whispered back.
Edward pointed a shaking finger at the stage. "Look at the back of the parchment. I knocked my inkpot over while I was finishing it. The stain on the back is shaped exactly like a lopsided heart. It's a mark of shame!"
Up on the stage, Lockhart was just getting started. He tossed his golden curls and gave the class a conspiratorial wink. "Our very own Edward Fawkes has a soul that resonates with the healing arts! He captured my essence perfectly—the way I cured a snowman suffering from a magical cold that would have surely melted a lesser wizard. I lived among the drifts for a year just to study the ailment, you know!"
Edward slammed his forehead against the desk with a dull thud.
"And now," Lockhart announced, his voice dropping into a dramatic, soulful baritone, "I shall treat you all to a reading of Student Fawkes' masterpiece."
He began to read with the intensity of a Shakespearean lead:
"Behold, the Great Gilderoy, healer of the frozen soul,He lifts the snowy head, making the broken whole.The snowman's eyes, though made of coal and ice,Reflect the glory of a wizard beyond any price.The mountains wait for his holy, golden tread,As the azure sky bows to the genius he has spread.O, youthful hero, enthusiastic and bright,The world worships your magic, the world worships your light..."
Lockhart paused, dabbing a theatrical tear from his eye. "Ah, if it weren't for my own modesty, I might have cried! That last line, Edward... 'I prefer Obliviate to a world without your smile.' Simply stunning! Ten points to Ravenclaw!"
The classroom was silent, half the students looking nauseous and the other half—mostly girls—staring at Lockhart in a trance.
"Now, where is our poet laureate?" Lockhart scanned the room, his eyes finally landing on a shrinking Edward. "Ah, Fawkes! Come, come! I want you to be my co-star for today's reenactment. You shall be the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Don't worry, I've already done the hard part in real life, so you just have to howl."
Allen nudged Edward's elbow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Go on, Edward. Shakespeare would probably haunt you for those rhymes, but Lockhart is offering you stardom. Don't leave the man hanging."
"I am never going to live this down," Edward muttered, dragging himself to the front of the room like a man heading to the gallows.
The rest of the hour was a blur of absurdity. Edward was forced to drop to all fours and let out mournful howls while Lockhart danced around him, narrating his own bravery.
"The beast was savage!" Lockhart cried, pinning Edward to the floor with one hand while keeping his hair perfectly coiffed. "But I lunged—just like this—and with a flick of my wand, I channeled every ounce of my formidable willpower into a complex Homorphus Charm! Keep howling, Edward! Louder! Feel the pain of the transformation! And then... the fur vanished, the teeth retracted, and a village was saved once again by yours truly."
When the bell finally chimed, signaling the end of the ordeal, Lockhart stood up and smoothed his robes. "Homework: A ballad about my victory over the werewolf. The winner gets a signed copy of Magical Me! Class dismissed!"
Edward slumped back into his seat, looking like he'd been through an actual werewolf attack. "I am done. I am officially retired from literature. I'm sticking to Charms and Potions from now on."
Allen patted his shoulder, but his mind was already elsewhere. He watched Lockhart pack his things, and he knew this was his moment. He had a small slip of parchment ready in his pocket.
Opportunities like this were rare. Most professors at Hogwarts were far too sharp to be manipulated by a student's flattery, but Lockhart was a special case. His ego was a massive, gaping hole that constantly needed to be filled.
"Professor Lockhart!" Allen called out, catching the man just as he was about to leave.
Lockhart turned, his smile clicking back into place. "Ah, Allen! The top of the class! Did you enjoy the performance? I felt Edward really found his inner beast, didn't you?"
"It was... enlightening, Professor," Allen said, his voice dripping with carefully measured sincerity. "Your technique in A Break with a Banshee was what really stayed with me, though. The way you waited for the exact micro-second she began her transformation to strike... it was brilliant. I've been trying to find more advanced theory on that kind of timing."
Lockhart's chest practically puffed out. "Ah, you noticed that! Most people miss the nuance. It takes a certain level of... well, genius."
"Exactly," Allen said, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "In fact, I wanted to do some deeper reading into the magical foundations of what you described. I found a title in the library catalog, but it's in the Restricted Section. I was hoping—since you're clearly a wizard who values true research—that you might sign a permission slip for me? It's a book called The Secrets of the Soul."
"The Soul? Heavy stuff, heavy stuff," Lockhart mused, not even glancing at the title. He was too busy looking at his own reflection in a nearby trophy case. "But then again, for a student of your caliber... I suppose I can't object to helping the best and brightest. Knowledge is power, as they say! Though not as much power as a good head of hair, eh?"
He pulled out a flamboyant peacock-feather quill and scrawled his name in huge, looping letters across Allen's note. The signature was so large it nearly took up the entire page.
"There you go, dear boy. Give Madam Pince my regards. Tell her I'm still waiting for her to return my signed photo!"
Allen took the note, thanking him with a polite bow. As soon as he was out of Lockhart's sight, his expression went cold. He didn't care about banshees or werewolves. He cared about the Horcrux currently possessed by Ginny Weasley, and for that, he needed to understand the mechanics of the soul.
He navigated the corridors toward the library, his heart thudding rhythmically against his ribs. The library was a silent, dusty cathedral of knowledge, presided over by the eagle-eyed Madam Pince.
He approached her desk and handed over the signed note.
" The Secrets of the Soul?" Madam Pince repeated, her voice like dry parchment. She adjusted her spectacles, looking from the note to Allen with deep suspicion. "That's a very advanced text, Mr. Walker. Darker than anything a second-year should be touching."
"Professor Lockhart believes I have the... maturity to handle it," Allen said, keeping his eyes wide and innocent—the classic 'Forget-Me-Not Blue' gaze he'd practiced. "He thinks it will help me understand the defensive theory behind his greatest works."
Madam Pince looked at the signature. It was unmistakably Lockhart's—no one else in the castle used that much purple ink or that many unnecessary loops.
"You haven't even returned Fantastic Beasts yet," she grumbled, though she didn't hand the note back. "Borrowing a new one already?"
"I'm nearly finished with it, Madam Pince. I'll have it back by tomorrow, I promise."
She sighed, a sound of pure irritation, and stood up. She walked into the depths of the Restricted Section, her keys jingling at her waist. A few minutes later, she returned carrying a heavy volume bound in what looked like black leather with silver filigree that seemed to pulse faintly under the light.
Allen took the book. It was cold to the touch, and the weight of it felt significant, as if it held more than just paper and ink.
"Be careful with that one," Madam Pince warned. "The books in that section don't always like being read."
"I'll be careful," Allen promised.
He didn't head for the common room. He needed somewhere private. Somewhere silent. Somewhere he could dissect the secrets of the soul without the eyes of Hogwarts watching him. As he walked, he felt the heavy thud of the book against his side—a weapon, a shield, and a dangerous mystery, all in one.