The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was packed to the rafters. Usually, these lessons were a joke—a chance for the girls to sigh over Lockhart's hair and for the boys to catch up on their sleep. But today, the air was electric. Everyone had heard about the standoff in the hallway, and seeing Allen Harris—the top student of Ravenclaw—stepping up to play a "Troll" felt like watching a predator offer to play house with a rabbit.
"All right, Allen, turn your back to me. Let's show them how it's done!" Lockhart chirped, though his voice had a slight tremor that only those in the front row could hear. He was trying to regain his footing, desperately hoping that if he played along, Allen would let the previous night's "misunderstanding" slide.
The younger wizards whispered among themselves. Seeing the usually composed, borderline-regal Allen Harris acting like a dim-witted mountain troll was a rare comedic treat.
Allen didn't say a word. He walked over to a heavy mahogany desk, grabbed one of the reinforced legs, and with a casual, terrifying display of strength, snapped it clean off. With a few sharp flicks of his wand, he Transfigured the wood, thickening it and adding jagged, stony protrusions until it looked like a prehistoric club. It was as thick as a man's thigh and looked heavy enough to crack a giant's skull.
"To live among trolls, one must understand their brutality!" Lockhart announced to the class, flicking his hair back with a flourish. "You must be able to subdue the beast before it subdues you. Luckily, I happen to be a world-class expert in the field!"
He crept toward Allen's back, his boots squeaking on the stone floor. Allen stood perfectly still, his ears twitching. He could hear the panicked rhythm of Lockhart's heart.
Expert? Allen thought dryly. The only person who truly knew how to handle trolls in this school was Quirrell, and he's currently a pile of ash.
Lockhart raised his wand. He wasn't aiming for the club. He wasn't even aiming for a Disarming Charm.
"Oh, Professor? Is this the right stance?"
Allen turned suddenly, as if by accident, swinging the massive club in a wide arc. The movement was so fast it created a localized gust of wind. Lockhart had to dive into a somersault to avoid being decapitated. A jet of light shot from Lockhart's wand, missing Allen by an inch and hitting the back wall, where it left a shimmering, oily residue.
"Whoa!" Edward shouted from his seat. "Did Lockhart just try to hex Allen from behind?"
"Looked like a Memory Charm," Michael Corner whispered, leaning in. "But isn't that a bit extreme for a classroom demo? And why was the light that weird, sickly color?"
The students didn't have a clue what they were looking at, but Allen did. He stood there, the heavy club resting on his shoulder, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. Lockhart had actually dared to cast a high-level Obliviate in the middle of a crowded classroom. The man's desperation had finally overridden his common sense. He wasn't just a fraud; he was a cornered rat willing to lobotomize a child to save his own skin.
"Excellent reflexes, Allen! Truly troll-like!" Lockhart scrambled to his feet, his face flushed. He was shaken. That first shot had been his best chance, and he'd missed. In his entire career of stealing memories, no one had ever dodged a point-blank charm from behind.
"Let's try a different approach," Lockhart said, his voice tightening. He realized that spells might be too risky with Allen's lightning-fast reactions. He decided to rely on his physical advantage. He was a grown man, nearly six feet tall, and Allen was a twelve-year-old boy. If he could just wrestle the boy down, he could whisper the charm into his ear and end this.
Lockhart lunged. He dropped his wand and reached out with both arms, intending to tackle Allen into the floorboards.
It was the biggest mistake of his life.
Just as Lockhart's fingers grazed his robes, Allen moved. It wasn't a wizard's movement; it was a martial artist's. He stepped into the lunging Professor's space, grabbed Lockhart by the stiff collar of his expensive silk robes, and used the man's own momentum against him.
With a grunt of effort, Allen slammed Lockhart's face into the floor.
The sound of nose-cartilage hitting stone echoed through the silent room. But Allen wasn't done. He kept his grip on the collar, essentially using Lockhart as a human mop. He marched the Professor forward, grinding his face against the rough stone of the classroom steps, then veered toward the wall.
For a full minute and a half, the class watched in horrified, slack-jawed silence as Allen Harris "trolled" the Professor around the room. Lockhart's legs kicked uselessly as he was dragged along, his face acting as a buffer against every corner and stone protrusion in the room.
The boys in the back were stifling cheers. They had suffered through months of Lockhart's vanity, and seeing him treated like a floor-rag was the highlight of their year. The girls were more conflicted—half of them were clutching their hearts in shock, while the other half were looking at Allen with a newfound, terrifying level of respect.
Finally, they reached the podium again. Allen hauled the battered, bleeding Professor up by his hair for a split second, then let out a sharp, guttural shout: "Get lost!"
Like a world-class striker eyeing a championship goal, Allen delivered a powerful kick to Lockhart's backside. The Professor went airborne, rolling like a discarded carpet through the open classroom doors and into the corridor beyond.
The silence lasted for three seconds. Then, the room exploded.
The boys were on their feet, slamming their desks and whistling. Even some of the more reserved Ravenclaws were grinning ear to ear. A few Hufflepuff girls, moved by pity, rushed out to help the "hero" back onto his feet.
When Lockhart finally staggered back into the room, he was a mess. His golden hair was matted with dust and blood, his nose was clearly broken, and his left eye was swelling shut. He looked less like a world-traveling adventurer and more like a man who had been through a industrial blender.
"Terribly sorry, Professor," Allen said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity as he leaned on his club. "I really got into character. But then again, a real troll wouldn't have been so gentle, right? I didn't even use the club once. I thought you'd appreciate the realism."
Lockhart flinched. The sight of that club made his knees go weak. If Allen had done this much damage with just his hands and the floor, the club would have sent him straight to St. Mungo's in a box.
But Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest talent wasn't magic; it was his legendary shamelessness.
He spent a moment hacking up a bit of blood, then straightened his torn robes and forced a wobbly, horrific smile. "Precisely... precisely what I wanted to demonstrate! You see, class? The troll is a relentless, physical brute! I had to let him expend his energy... a tactical retreat of the face, if you will! Notice how I didn't fight back? That's because I knew I had already won the psychological battle!"
The class erupted in laughter. It wasn't the adoring laughter he was used to; it was the mocking, cruel laughter reserved for the school clown.
"I believe... that's enough for today," Lockhart gasped, clutching his ribs. "For the rest of the encounter, please refer to chapter twelve of Travels with Trolls. It's much more... nuanced... in print."
He tried to wink, but with his swollen eye, it just looked like he was having a stroke. Seeing the students' attention wavering, he pulled out his final card.
"Oh, but before you go! I have some truly thrilling news. I've just received word that the Daily Prophet's star correspondent, the lovely and perceptive Rita Skeeter, will be arriving shortly for an exclusive feature on... well, me! She's a woman of impeccable taste, and she wants to capture the essence of a true hero."
He looked around, expecting the usual gasps of awe. He got a few, but mostly he saw Allen Harris standing in the corner, a dark, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Enjoy your spotlight, Professor," Allen muttered under his breath. "It's going to be the brightest one you've ever stood in. Right before it burns you to a crisp."
That night, Ravenclaw Tower was quiet. Allen sat by the window, the moonlight reflecting off a specialized Truth Quill he'd been tinkering with. He wasn't using the enchantment tonight; he didn't need it. The truth was already written in the blood on Lockhart's office floor.
He whistled for Bennie, his owl. The bird landed on the sill, looking expectant. Allen tied a small, tightly rolled scroll to its leg.
"Ms. Skeeter," the note read. "I trust you've received the Professor's invitation. I also trust you remember our little arrangement regarding your unregistered status as a beetle. If you want to keep your secret, you will write the truth. No fluff, no 'Lockhart charm.' Focus on the gaps in his stories. Look for the real heroes he left behind. The fraud is ripe for the picking, Rita. Don't let me down."
Allen watched the owl disappear into the misty Hogwarts grounds. A few hours later, a return owl arrived with a scrap of parchment.
"As you wish, little bird."
The trap was set. Over the next few days, the atmosphere in the castle shifted. Lockhart was walking on air, telling everyone from Filch to Dumbledore that his "blockbuster" interview was going to redefine the wizarding world.
The younger witches, the ones who hadn't seen the "troll" demonstration, sighed in the hallways. "Poor Professor Lockhart," they'd say, clutching their books. "Allen was just so brutal to him. He's such a gentleman for not pressing charges."