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[Hogwarts] Ch 156: Gilderoy Lockhart Exposed
🕑 Added 2025-08-13 17:57:57 +0000 UTC— — — — — —
The first explosion of noise came in the form of more than a hundred Howlers, each going off like a chain of detonating powder kegs.
Umbridge took the brunt of it. Her eardrums felt like they'd been stabbed clean through, leaving only a piercing, high-pitched ring. She couldn't make out a single word.
Next came the poor, doomed office.
The blast of voices shook the walls until they cracked, flooding the entire floor with deafening roars. The racket was so loud, even people two floors down could make out every insult.
In the Minister's office, Cornelius Fudge spilled coffee straight into his lap. The door slammed open as the Ministry's alarm spells shrieked to life. Several Aurors, ears sealed with a Silencing Charm, charged in and closed ranks around him.
After several minutes of chaos, Umbridge's flustered explanation finally convinced them it was just a false alarm.
They looked down at the charred ashes of the Howlers, but not a soul had caught what they'd been screaming about.
Fudge's face was purple with rage. "Set up a mail-handling office immediately! Hire people who know the counter-spells for Howlers. Every letter is to be checked before it reaches my desk!"
He shot Umbridge a glare that could peel paint.
Useless—couldn't even handle a few Howlers. If she weren't so good at sucking up, he'd have replaced her already.
"Cornelius."
From the back of the room, Lady Greengrass stepped forward. Instantly, Fudge's scowl melted into a pleasant smile."Director Greengrass."
Technically, he outranked her—he was the Minister, she was just a department head. But Fudge had always been cozy with the pure-blood bloc, and the Greengrass family had deep ties to many of them. In the Department of Magical Transportation, her influence rivaled even Amelia Bones. Fudge knew better than to cross her.
Not just her—Fudge was deferential to anyone with status and prestige, so long as they didn't threaten his own power.
"I know exactly what those Howlers said," Lady Greengrass said evenly. "One of them was mine, after all."
Fudge froze, eyes wide, mind racing through everything he might've done to offend her.
"Let's speak in your office, Cornelius."
She beckoned forward several others—parents with children in Slytherin.
---
Meanwhile, in Hogwarts Castle, Dumbledore was getting the same treatment.
Hundreds of Howlers again—but the Great Hall was bigger, and the owls arrived at staggered times, so there was just enough separation for students to catch quite a lot of it through the overlapping roars.
The young witches and wizards stared, slack-jawed. They'd just learned more creative insults in one morning than in all their years combined. The eager ones were already jotting them down for future arguments.
Most of the abuse was aimed at Dumbledore and Lockhart—neither of whom were even present, which robbed the spectacle of some punch.
Still, most of the staff were there to witness the slaughter.
At the High Table, the professors wished they could bury their heads in their plates. The Heads of House had fists clenched tight, and Professor Flitwick had ducked so far behind the table he'd practically vanished.
Even Snape didn't look amused. Sure, most of the fury was directed at Lockhart, but when parents were calling professors useless, it didn't really matter which professor they meant—colleagues were still colleagues.
McGonagall's hair—figurative and otherwise—were well and truly ruffled. She finished her kipper in one sharp bite, stood, and stalked out like an offended cat.
Tom was busy. Each time a Howler finished screaming, he'd cast a charm to stop it from burning up, then collect it.
"Why are you keeping them?" Astoria asked in sign language—the only way to be heard. Tom had already charmed her and Daphne's ears against the noise.
Tom just smiled.
What a waste, letting them burn before the intended recipient even heard them. With a simple Mending charm, you could play them again. There was still time before class—he was going to deliver them to Dumbledore personally.
Sending Daphne ahead to Transfiguration Class, Tom slung a sack of Howlers over his shoulder and bounded up to the top of the castle.
The stone gargoyle came to life as he approached, baring a toothy grin. "Back to argue with Dumbledore again, kid?"
"Not me—someone else." Tom glanced around. "Where do I put letters for the Headmaster? Don't see a post box."
"Normally you just bring them straight in. If he's not here, I hold them in my mouth." The gargoyle raised its brows.
Tom raised his right back. "Then open wide. I'm in a generous mood."
He yanked open the sack, revealing a mountain of red envelopes. "Go on—big bite. I'm feeling passionate."
"So many? All for Dumbledore?" The gargoyle's eyes went wide.
"Every single one. Heartfelt messages from the parents—so take good care of them."
Tom grabbed its jaw and started tipping the sack.
Glug-glug-glug!
The gargoyle's stone belly swelled until it was nearly twice its normal size. Tom gave it a pat—it was rock solid.
"All right. Better call the Headmaster to collect them before they go off inside you. Not my fault if they explode."
And with that, Tom strolled away, leaving the gargoyle staring after him in despair.
"Dumbledore! Hurry! This kid's evil!"
...
Five minutes later, Dumbledore finally emerged from his office looking weary. By then, the gargoyle's mouth was already smoking.
Only an idiot won't know what happened.
...
For the rest of the morning, even the gentlest professors—Sprout and Flitwick—wore grim expressions in class.
Determined to prove they weren't another Lockhart, the rest of the staff taught like they'd been dosed with Pepper-Up Potion, cramming two or three lessons' worth of material into one.
Professor McGonagall barely stopped talking—constantly correcting wand movements, spell force, and pronunciation. At one point, Neville could've sworn he saw a bit of Snape in her.
---
In the headmaster's office, Dumbledore rubbed his slightly numb ears.
"So this is Tom's way of handling things? I never thought I'd live to see Slytherins so united."
At this point, Dumbledore had no idea what had been happening over at the Ministry. But by that afternoon, when Cornelius Fudge arrived with a school board representative in tow, he began to realize Tom had been playing a much larger game.
"Albus," Fudge greeted warmly, shaking Dumbledore's hand with a familiarity that carried just a trace of complaint. "You've really dropped quite the problem in my lap."
Not that he was truly upset.
When he heard Lady Greengrass and other Slytherin parents' complaints, his first reaction had actually been relief.
Good—it wasn't aimed at him. They were taking their grievances to the Ministry about Dumbledore.
That relief faded quickly. It was still a mess to handle, and the people sending those joint Howlers were major clients of the Ministry—deep pockets who donated handsomely every year. He had to treat this with care.
But Hogwarts was Dumbledore's domain. None of his predecessors had meddled in the hiring and firing of professors. And, truth be told, Fudge owed his own rise partly to Dumbledore's support. They were in something of a honeymoon phase now; he respected the man and liked that Dumbledore kept to Hogwarts and stayed out of politics. Which made being caught in the middle awkward.
Luckily, by mid-morning, Lady Greengrass had uncovered some leads. With that bit of confidence in hand, Fudge brought a board member along to discuss Lockhart.
The representative was an elderly man—not from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but a Slytherin alumnus with substantial business holdings. Twenty years ago, in a bid to boost his own prestige, he had bought up shares from a failing board member.
After polite greetings, the man set a letter on the desk, expression blank.
"Dumbledore, out of respect for you, the board has never interfered with your teaching philosophy or your decisions. But this time, your choice of professor has left over half the board deeply dissatisfied.
"This notice is signed by eight members, but they still hold high expectations for you.
"The Galleons we donate each year aren't meant to be wasted on mediocrities. We hope you'll be more careful in future appointments."
Dumbledore nodded. "I want the children to have the best learning environment too. But you must also understand my difficulty, Barak... if salaries don't go up, it's nearly impossible to find a suitable Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."
Barak's mouth twitched. He'd come here to hold Dumbledore accountable, and the man had used it to push for more funding.
"I'll pass your request to the others," Barak said, choosing to stall for now. Then he turned to Fudge. "Cornelius, I'll take my leave."
"Go on, Barak, and don't forget the banquet the day after tomorrow," Fudge replied with a smile.
Once the door closed, Fudge dropped into the chair opposite Dumbledore and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead.
"Albus, your fireplace is blazing hot."
"An old man's a bit afraid of the cold, Cornelius. Indulge me."
"Of course. Take good care of yourself."
Then Fudge leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Albus, whether or not you find someone new, Lockhart can't stay. There's a serious problem with him."
"Oh?" Dumbledore asked, feigning puzzlement. "What have you discovered?"
"Well, it's just the beginning," Fudge said, shaking his head. "But we can already prove that in [Travels with Trolls], he lied. The adventure's supposed timeline directly conflicts with his real schedule.
"During that period, he was actually in Britain, meeting with the Witch Weekly associate editor about a book launch. He never left the country.
"Bones wanted the Ministry to issue a formal order to remove him, but I stopped it."
Fudge gave him a knowing look. "I think this should be your decision, not a Ministry directive."
"Cornelius, I appreciate the tip. I'll suspend Lockhart from his duties until the Ministry's investigation concludes," Dumbledore said warmly.
Before politics clouded his judgment, Fudge had been a shrewd and personable man—enough to fool even Dumbledore into thinking they made ideal partners.
Satisfied with the answer and pleased to have earned a favor, Fudge left in high spirits.
...
Two days later, Lockhart had finally healed completely. Madam Pomfrey wasted no time throwing him out.
The man had spent his stay either cursing Riddle or whining about pain. She'd been tempted more than once to pour him a dose of Draught of Living Death, heal him in peace, and only wake him afterward.
"Riddle, just you wait! I'll see you rotting in Azkaban!"
Lockhart's face twisted with fury as he headed for the door, but he smoothed it into a charming smile before pushing open the infirmary doors.
A crowd of young witches and wizards was gathered outside, along with two middle-aged wizards in dark robes who looked deadly serious.
The moment Lockhart appeared, one of them pulled out a parchment and began reading.
"Gilderoy Lockhart, you are under arrest. You are charged with fraud, unlawful memory modification, and three other offences."
Lockhart's face drained of all color. His legs gave out, and he crumpled to the floor.
"You… really timed that perfectly, Riddle," he muttered.
.
.
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