The most popular class in the new school year was, without a doubt, Defence Against the Dark Arts. Because the professor was beautiful—no, wrong—because Lady Moonshadow's lessons were interesting. Everyone came to Hogwarts to learn, after all. And scholars would never treat a subject differently just because the professor was good-looking. Absolutely not.
One thing was certain, though: only two days into term, Lady Moonshadow already had her own fan club. Her charm worked on everyone. Skyl's old cheering squad switched sides on the spot—most of them became Lady Moonshadow's fangirls. As for that transfer student, Skyl… not really familiar, okay?
Lady Moonshadow's class ran smoothly and wasn't limited by the lack of textbooks.
Even more memorable than her beauty was her magical attainment. She seemed to know everything. She could spot a student's problem at a glance, then offer advice that was both positive and genuinely useful.
Defence Against the Dark Arts leaned heavily toward practice, with a lot of freedom in teaching. A lazy professor could be a complete doofus and recite from a book, while a good professor was always finding ways to give students more hands-on time.
What made Hermione breathe easier was that after experiencing Muggle life for a while, the great mage from another world finally stopped doing scandalous, jaw-dropping things. Her classes were lively but steady. No grand spectacles, no lofty theory from on high—she grounded everything in practical work and focused on raising the young witches' and wizards' duelling level.
She did mention the roots of magic now and then, but only as an offhand aside. The students listened—and then promptly didn't take it to heart.
Compared to the Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons Skyl had taught as a substitute, Lady Moonshadow's class felt more everyday, more approachable. Whenever she came to a student's side, no matter how old they were, they'd be utterly bewitched.
Students who performed well in class were allowed to ask questions. These little delinquents never used the chance for anything serious—every time, they took the opportunity to pry into the professor's preferences: favourite colour, favourite food, favourite flower, and so on.
Lady Moonshadow had a good temper and answered anything they asked. So the students compiled a "Professor Moonshadow Preference List." Supposedly, her fan club even held regular quizzes—if you couldn't answer, you got kicked out.
That was how students were—waves of obsession, on and off, no different from most people in the world.
Just a short while ago, everyone had been cursing Gilderoy Lockhart. His two Muggle sisters and Muggle father even publicly announced they were cutting ties with him. But recently, as Lockhart's miserable circumstances kept poking at the public's sympathy, his reputation actually began to swing back again.
Even in the early internet age of the twenty-first century, no one had ever reached the level of fame Lockhart had now.
Just as he'd said himself: fame was influence, and influence was power.
Even after being thrown behind bars, Lockhart continued to accept interviews from inside his cell. His conditions were shockingly good—almost like a mansion. Not only did he have a bedroom and a private bath, he even had a recreation room. Visiting reporters exclaimed in astonishment that this wizard was basically a king living in prison.
From the First World to Asia, Africa, and Latin America; from radio to pure word of mouth—people across the globe did everything they could to dig up the latest Lockhart news. In developed places, people lounged on sofas watching television. In poorer regions, people stood on weed-choked hillsides waiting for a messenger. Older folks waited for the dead of night to turn on the radio broadcast. Young students went out to quiet wilderness and set up amateur radio rigs. Tribal locals trekked through dense forest to colonial towns to ask around. Even astronauts in space, in the gaps between mission reports, brought up the news with ground control.
Owls flew everywhere. In fireplaces, the bright flames of Floo Powder flared. Newspapers passed faster than the wind, hotter than sparks—delivered at top speed to every wizarding community.
In the first few days after Lockhart was arrested, everyone said he was finished. The Muggles would slam him with a metal wand and be done with it once and for all.
But it didn't end that simply. A plague lasts a thousand years, as the saying goes—Lockhart's life hadn't run out yet.
Because no suitable defence lawyer could be found, Lockhart's trial was delayed again and again. Any lawyer who wanted to defend him had to be prepared to stand alone against the entire profession worldwide. That kind of case could wreck a career. The timid didn't dare take it. The bold… fought to squeeze in.
But Lockhart refused to accept a Muggle as his defence lawyer, insisting he was a wizard.
According to the principle the HUMANs minister kept emphasising—wizards were human too—they shouldn't have entertained Lockhart's sophistry. Yet, unexpectedly, the Muggles agreed to his demand without hesitation.
And so, a few days later, a letter asking for help landed on Minister Fudge's desk.
Cornelius Fudge pinched the letter between his fingers and stared at the signature—Gilderoy Lockhart. His face turned a dark, greasy gray, like half-rotten fat. He thought and thought and couldn't decide what to do, so he invited Dumbledore over to discuss a response.
"Ah, Minister," Dumbledore said softly, setting the letter down. For an instant, light slid across his half-moon spectacles. The old wizard's calm, wise posture made Fudge feel both reassured—and wary.
"What do you think?" Fudge asked.
"By what channel did Mr. Lockhart send this letter?" Dumbledore asked.
"An owl."
"And does our Muggle Prime Minister still maintain contact with the Ministry?" Dumbledore continued.
"Very rarely," Fudge said with a worried frown. "Traditionally, when each Prime Minister takes office, we send a formal letter informing him of the wizarding world's existence."
"It's time to send more letters."
"But we don't have that tradition."
"Then we start today."
Dumbledore looked at Cornelius Fudge. The man was mediocre, best at smoothing things over, a thoroughly muddled minister. In peacetime, the public could tolerate him and Ministry officials could prefer him—but the wizarding world now needed a decisive leader.
And when it came to disappointing people, Fudge never disappointed.
He vaguely changed the subject, only hoping Dumbledore could recommend a venerable, respected wizard to attend Lockhart's trial.
"The members of the Wizengamot have that respect and capability," the old wizard said with a faint smile.
"Yes." Fudge let out a breath of relief. "Then I'll extend an invitation to the Wizengamot. Do you have any suggestions?"
"Me," Dumbledore said succinctly.
"What?" Fudge froze. "You—how—"
"I will attend Lockhart's trial," Dumbledore said, standing up. "As his defence lawyer."
"Is that… appropriate?" Fudge first felt a surge of wild joy, then started stammering. He stared at the old wizard with suspicion, guessing at Dumbledore's motives and aims. Realising his gaze was too blatant, he hurriedly explained, "I mean, it's a major task, and as Headmaster of Hogwarts, you may not have the time."
"It is precisely because matters are grave that someone must step forward," Dumbledore said.
He put on his wizard's hat. Without waiting for Fudge's answer, he turned and strode out.
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