The fallout from the "Troll Demonstration" didn't fade with the setting sun. Instead, it fermented. For the next few days, Hogwarts felt less like a school and more like a courthouse. Everywhere you went—the library, the Great Hall, even the drafty corridors near the dungeons—the same heated debate was raging.
"It was a pedagogical exercise! A demonstration!" a second-year Ravenclaw girl shouted, her face turning a shade of pink that matched Lockhart's favorite robes. She was squaring off against a group of cynical Slytherins. "Professor Lockhart said himself that he specializes in trolls. Allen was just playing the part too well. It's a testament to the Professor's commitment to realism!"
"Commitment to realism?" a Slytherin boy drawled, leaning back against a stone pillar. "The man got his nose flattened and then booted out of his own classroom like a sack of bad potatoes. Since when is 'getting pummeled by a twelve-year-old' part of the curriculum?"
"He struck first! He tried to hex Allen!" another student chimed in, this one a Hufflepuff who had seen the sparks hit the wall.
"And yet Allen doesn't have a scratch on him," a Lockhart loyalist countered, crossing her arms. "Poor Professor Lockhart is the one walking around looking like he lost a fight with a Bludger. Does being the loser suddenly make you the villain? He's an Order of Merlin recipient, for Merlin's sake! You think you know better than the committee?"
"Maybe the committee needs their eyes checked," came a biting reply from a group of older students. "If a world-renowned 'expert' can't handle a second-year student, it makes you wonder how much of those books was written in a comfortable chair far away from actual danger."
The tension was thick enough to cut with a Diffindo charm. The Muggle-born students, many of whom hadn't grown up with the legend of the "Gilderoy" brand, were the most skeptical. They hadn't been indoctrinated by the glossy photos and the fan clubs. Meanwhile, the pure-blood students were busy discussing the "Curse" of the Defense position.
"Dumbledore must be desperate," whispered a fifth-year. "Every year it's someone new. Quirrell ended up dead, and now this. It's lucky anyone even applies. They say the position was cursed by You-Know-Who himself. Honestly, at this rate, we'll be lucky to learn how to hold a wand correctly by graduation."
Allen watched all this from the periphery, a ghost of a smile on his face. He didn't need to join the arguments. He knew that the loudest voices were often the ones about to be silenced by the cold, hard truth.
The silence came on a Tuesday morning.
The Great Hall was a cacophony of breakfast clatter—until the owls arrived. Usually, the morning mail was a trickle of letters and the occasional package from home. Today, it was an invasion. Hundreds of owls flooded through the high windows, a blizzard of feathers and parchment. They weren't carrying personal letters; they were carrying copies of The Daily Prophet.
The noise in the Hall died instantly. It was as if a massive, collective Silencing Charm had been cast. Then, like a dam breaking, the room erupted into a roar of shock and outrage.
Lockhart was at the staff table, looking uncharacteristically smug. He had spent his own gold to ensure that every student and staff member received a copy of today's paper. He truly believed he was about to bask in the glory of a Rita Skeeter puff-piece. He was actually helping the owls distribute the papers, tossing them to students with a wink and a bloodied, half-healed grin.
Then he actually read the headline.
"THE LIFE AND LIES OF GILDEROY LOCKHART: THE MEMORY CHARM FRAUD EXPOSED"
The sub-headline was even more brutal: "Order of Merlin Recipient Revealed as Serial Memory Thief. Real Heroes Robbed of Legacies While Lockhart Collected the Royalties."
The article didn't hold back. It detailed—with "reliable evidence" from "anonymous sources"—how Lockhart had tracked down brave but obscure wizards and witches, interviewed them about their greatest triumphs, and then wiped their minds before claiming the deeds as his own. It painted a picture of a man who was surgically proficient in Obliviate and utterly useless at everything else.
The Great Hall doors slammed open with a sound like a thunderclap.
The chatter vanished. Two wizards in the sharp, charcoal-grey robes of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement marched in. They were led by Albus Dumbledore, whose expression was unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles.
The lead investigator, a lean man with the predatory stride of an experienced Auror, stopped directly in front of Lockhart. The Professor had turned a color that can only be described as 'mordant grey.' He looked like a man who had been stripped naked in a blizzard.
"Gilderoy Lockhart," the investigator's voice boomed, echoing off the enchanted ceiling. "By order of the Ministry of Magic and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you are under arrest. We have received corroborated testimony and evidence regarding multiple violations of the Wizarding Charter, including unauthorized use of high-level Memory Charms and grand-scale intellectual theft."
Lockhart's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. The little witches who had fought so hard for him looked like they were about to be sick. Their idol wasn't just a fraud; he was a predator.
"Please come with us quietly," the investigator added, his hand hovering near his wand holster.
Lockhart didn't fight. He didn't even try to make an excuse. The swagger was gone, replaced by the hollow shell of a man who knew the game was finally over. He dejectedly followed the black-robed wizards out of the Hall, his head bowed.
Dumbledore watched him go, then turned to the sea of stunned faces. "It appears," he said, his voice calm but carrying to every corner, "that until a permanent replacement can be found, I shall be assuming the duties of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor myself."
The Great Hall went from a funeral to a festival in three seconds. The students began to cheer so loudly the plates rattled. The greatest wizard of the age was going to teach them? It was like being taught physics by Einstein or strategy by Caesar.
"Allen," Edward whispered, leaning over his porridge. "Tell the truth. Did you buy out the Prophet's entire printing run? That was a lot of owls."
Allen took a calm sip of his pumpkin juice. "I'm a student, Edward, not a media mogul. Why would I waste my galleons on newsprint?"
"Because you hated him," Michael Corner pointed out.
"I didn't hate him," Allen corrected. "I found him inefficient. And besides, I suspect Lockhart ordered those papers himself. He was so sure he was the star of the show. He just didn't realize it was a tragedy, not a romance."
The transition was seamless. Dumbledore proved, within the first ten minutes of his first lecture, why he was a legend. He didn't talk about himself. He didn't hand out signed photos. He talked about the nature of magic. He spoke about the Dark Arts not as a collection of scary spells, but as a corruption of intent. His explanations were profound yet accessible, making the most complex defensive theory feel like common sense.
Allen, however, watched the old man with a critical eye. Dumbledore was a master teacher, yes. But his presence in the classroom also highlighted a glaring failure. If Dumbledore could teach this well, why had he allowed the quality of Hogwarts education to slip so far over the decades? Had he been too busy playing the "Great Leader" to notice his students were graduating without knowing how to cast a basic Shield Charm?
The demand for the class was so high that Dumbledore had to merge the houses. Instead of two houses, all four were taught together in the Great Hall, which had been converted into a massive lecture space.
"Allen Harris," Dumbledore called out during the second week. "Since you seem to have a firm grasp on the 'Geminio' charm, perhaps you would assist me as a teaching aide? We have a lot of material to cover, and I'd like every student to have a copy of these notes."
Allen accepted the role with a nod. It was a strategic position. As Dumbledore's assistant, he was the one preparing the materials, seeing the lesson plans in advance, and essentially acting as the bridge between the Headmaster and the student body. He was becoming a fixture of authority in the school, a shadow-prefect before he even reached his third year.
As March rolled around, the atmosphere in the school began to lighten. The threat of the Chamber of Secrets felt like a distant nightmare. People assumed that whoever the "Heir" was, they had been scared off by the Ministry's presence or perhaps by the downfall of Lockhart.
In Greenhouse Three, Professor Sprout was beaming. The Mandrakes were having a rowdy, leaf-shaking party—a sure sign of nearing maturity.
"They're almost there, Allen!" she shouted over the noise of the screaming plants. "Once they start trying to move into each other's pots, we'll know. Then we can finally brew the Restorative Draught and bring the petrified students back. It's nearly over."
Allen nodded, helping her secure a particularly stubborn Mandrake. But his mind was elsewhere. He had received a letter from his brother, Albert.
The Harris family had been busy. Their father, Lenn, had quietly used his influence to ensure the investigation into Lockhart was "thorough." The Aurors had been provided with specific leads—likely filtered through Rita Skeeter's notes—that led them to the victims Lockhart had silenced.
The sentencing was already being drafted. Lockhart was looking at a decade in Azkaban. The irony wasn't lost on Allen: the man who made a living stealing memories would now be sent to a place where Dementors would slowly strip away every happy thought he had ever stolen.
Lenn Harris had even managed to turn the situation into a political win. By helping the Department of Magical Law Enforcement clean up the mess, he had subtly embarrassed the former Minister, Millicent Bagnold, who had been the one to originally champion Lockhart's Order of Merlin. It was a masterclass in quiet destruction.
Allen burned the letter after reading it. Lockhart was gone, the school was learning again, and the Mandrakes were growing. On the surface, everything was perfect. But Allen knew the rhythm of this world. Silence didn't mean the danger was gone; it just meant it was waiting for the right moment to scream.