Chapter 225: Arrest
A ripple of laughter swept through the students. Michael couldn’t help but whistle in disbelief.
“Professor Lockhart is the most courageous man I’ve ever met… I wonder if he’ll still be able to breathe by tomorrow morning.”
“He’s just joking,” Padma said. “Professors can’t be that petty. Everyone knows it was all in good fun.”
“Is that so?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “I’d be surprised if Professor Snape shares the same view.”
The group turned in unison. There, standing like a storm cloud, was the Potions Professor—his face as dark as a charred pot, eyes flashing with murderous intent at every student who dared glance his way.
Poor Professor Flitwick had buried his face in his hands, nearly disappearing beneath the table.
“Professor Flitwick really has bad luck,” Michael sighed, genuine sympathy in his voice.
Wade nodded silently, then glanced back at Lockhart.
“Professor Lockhart should be grateful Hogwarts is under Dumbledore’s leadership,” he said. “Back in the old days, he’d already have received half a dozen duel challenges by now.”
Michael chuckled. “Flitwick was once the Dueling Champion, you know.”
But his smile faded quickly.
The entire morning was chaos. The dwarves—now everywhere—were handing out greeting cards, sometimes even singing love songs while playing music on tiny harps. With their wrinkled faces and weathered voices, the scene was nothing short of a massive social disaster.
Michael, usually smooth with everyone, finally paid the price.
By mid-morning, he’d received eleven Valentine’s Day cards. Once, during Professor McGonagall’s preparation class, a tiny dwarf burst in, singing a love ballad, dancing a tap routine, and shoved a bright pink card into his arms.
Michael turned crimson, too embarrassed to look up at his professor.
Padma, meanwhile, had her arms crossed, watching him with icy indifference.
Wade, however, had no such troubles.
The Obliviation Charm worked just as well on dwarves. When cornered, he simply cast a Confusion Charm, sending one poor dwarf into a ten-minute serenade directed at a tree.
The morning spiraled into disarray. Students barely paid attention in class, and professors were furious every time a dwarf burst into their rooms, interrupting lessons with songs and cards.
Only Professor Lockhart remained smug.
He proudly boasted in class about receiving fifty-seven greeting cards.
At lunch, the spectacle grew even grander.
Rose petals spilled from the Great Hall all the way down the corridors, forming a red carpet of love.
Lockhart announced with a booming voice that he’d received over a hundred cards—then subtly mocked those who had received none, casting a pointed glance at Professor Snape.
He even feigned surprise as a group of dwarves sang fan-written poems to him, clearly crafted with exaggerated adoration.
The professors groaned in annoyance.
Only his pink dolphin—perched proudly on the table in front of him—seemed delighted, swaying back and forth with glee.
“Why aren’t we celebrating, children?” Lockhart slurred, lifting his glass after a few sips of wine. “This is the day of love!”
Boom!
The Great Hall doors crashed open with a violent force.
Dark shadows stretched across the floor, carpeted with petals.
Lockhart, still half-drunk, turned in shock.
Three figures in black cloaks, hooded and imposing, stood silhouetted in the doorway—dreadful, silent, like dark wizards from a nightmare.
The entire hall fell utterly silent.
Students stared in terror, instinctively turning toward their professors for protection.
At the staff table, Professor McGonagall—whose expression had remained blank during Lockhart’s speech—rose slowly.
She stepped forward, voice calm but firm.
“Who are you? What do you want here?”
She wasn’t alarmed. The castle’s alarms hadn’t sounded.
The intruders must have been authorized.
“Apologies for interrupting your lunch, Professor McGonagall,” the lead figure said.
He lifted his hood.
A lion-like face emerged—tawny hair like a long mane, piercing yellow eyes sharp as blades.
He strode forward without hesitation, parting the students like a wave.
McGonagall’s tense posture relaxed slightly. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.
“Rufus Scrimgeour?”
“It’s me, Professor McGonagall.” Scrimgeour dipped his head. “I’m afraid I’ve interrupted a rather romantic gathering… but I’m here to arrest a dangerous criminal. I hope you’ll understand.”
“Criminal?” McGonagall frowned. “This is a school. Teachers and students—there’s no criminal here.”
“Oh, there is.” Scrimgeour’s gaze swept across the hall, settling coldly on Lockhart, who flinched under the weight of it.
“Gilderoy Lockhart. We have solid evidence that you illegally used powerful Forgetting Charms on multiple individuals—causing lasting harm, even erasing their identities. You are under arrest. Come with us.”
“Merlin’s beard—” Hermione gasped, pressing her hands over her mouth in disbelief.
The students stared, mouths agape.
Most couldn’t believe their ears. Then, one by one, they turned to stare at the flamboyant pink-clad professor.
Lockhart’s face turned ashen.
The pink of his robes did nothing to hide his panic.
He glanced wildly around, then stammered weakly, “No… you can’t do this! You don’t have the authority! I— I’m a Third-Class Merlin’s Knight!”
“Actually,” Scrimgeour said, limping forward, “I do.”
Lockhart stumbled back, nearly falling off his chair.
The towering Auror loomed over him, expression unreadable.
“An arrest warrant has been issued. Save your excuses for the Wizengamot trial.”
Lockhart gripped his wand, as if to resist.
But one look at Scrimgeour—his broad frame, the muscle visible even beneath his robes, the steady grip on his wand, and the line of dark-cloaked Aurors behind him—was enough.
After a brief, futile struggle, Lockhart dropped his wand.
Scrimgeour took it without delay.
A rope shot from his sleeve, binding Lockhart’s hands tightly.
“This is slander! A witch hunt!”
As the Aurors dragged him out, Lockhart screamed, “I’ll sue you! I’m innocent!”
The students and professors watched in silence.
Only a few loyal admirers still refused to believe it.
The rest? They were relieved.
After months of watching Lockhart’s incompetence, the truth had finally come to light.
Everyone had suspected his so-called “heroic deeds” were fabrications.
But no one imagined the man had never even written his own stories.
Aside from a brief whispered exchange between McGonagall and Scrimgeour, the Aurors acted swiftly—no resistance, no delay.
Lockhart was gone.
The Valentine’s Day atmosphere vanished like smoke.
The Great Hall, still red with petals, felt strange, hollow.
Only the dwarves seemed unaffected.
They kept singing—raspy, off-key, relentless.
It took a long while before the hall filled with murmurs.
Michael was still buzzing with relief—until a sudden thought struck him.
He turned to Wade, face twisted in worry.
“Professor Quirrell taught us for a whole year. Now Lockhart’s gone… and we still have half the term left. What about our Defense Against the Dark Arts class?”
Wade sighed deeply.
He understood, once again, why they were Ravenclaws.
Only a Ravenclaw would worry about the curriculum.
And perhaps one Gryffindor—Hermione.
(End of Chapter)
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