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On the other side of the castle, Gilderoy Lockhart's Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons stood in stark, almost comical contrast to Viktor's vibrant, life-filled classes.
If Viktor's classroom felt like an open, breathing adventure world, Lockhart's was a meticulously staged—but increasingly absurd—theatre.
In the first few weeks, Lockhart had indeed drawn crowds.
Mostly younger students enchanted by his dazzling cover photos and the thrilling tales printed beneath them.
But the actual content never matched the packaging.
After several increasingly disastrous attempts, the breaking point came during the now-infamous "Cornwall Pixie Catastrophe."
Lockhart—beaming with supreme confidence—flung open the cage and announced he would demonstrate how to "elegantly subdue these little nuisances."
The blue pixies erupted like fireworks gone wrong.
They tore through textbooks, yanked students' hair, hurled ink bottles, and turned the room into a screaming, fluttering warzone.
Lockhart flailed his wand, shouting long, ornate-sounding incantations that did absolutely nothing.
In the end he could only watch—red-faced and frozen—as the pixies escaped through the open windows, leaving chaos and his crumbling professorial dignity in their wake.
After that incident, even Lockhart's most devoted fangirls could no longer ignore the obvious:
The bestselling author didn't appear to possess any of the skills he claimed in his books.
As student scepticism grew, Lockhart's lessons underwent a bizarre mutation.
Perhaps he realised he couldn't hold authority through genuine teaching.
Perhaps he simply decided students preferred entertainment over education.
Either way, Defence Against the Dark Arts slowly devolved into a series of increasingly theatrical role-plays.
Lockhart would flourish his wand, chant something elaborate and meaningless, and—predictably—nothing happened.
"Of course," he would explain instantly, "I would never actually cast this in a classroom setting. As I clearly state in the book, the Anti-Werewolf Binding Charm is far too dangerous. One tiny mistake could cause permanent magical trauma."
Snickers rippled across the room—barely suppressed.
"He can't even do it," Seamus Finnigan muttered to Dean Thomas after class. "My mum knows someone in the Beast Division at the Ministry. He says half the 'adventures' in Lockhart's books have dates and locations that don't line up."
The rumours spread like Fiendfyre.
Lockhart was a Squib who'd bought his fame with other people's stories.
All his books were ghostwritten.
The famous monster-fighting photos were studio shots—models Transfigured for effect.
Students were assigned roles: villagers, monsters, damsels in distress.
Lockhart was always the radiant, infallible hero.
The low point came during his reenactment of "Outwitting the Mountain Troll" from Magical Me.
He recruited three burly seventh-years to play the troll.
Dressed in eye-searing purple robes, he struck dramatic poses in the centre of the room.
"Watch my footwork!" he cried, leaping and spinning. "At the precise moment of the troll's attack, you must pirouette like this—I—"
He spun too hard. His robes tangled around his legs. He crashed to the floor in a spectacular heap.
The classroom dissolved into helpless laughter.
Lockhart scrambled up, face scarlet, but quickly pasted on his trademark dazzling smile.
"Ah, you see? This is precisely why we must practise in a safe environment! In a real adventure, a mistake like that could cost your life!"
No one was buying it anymore.
Corridors rang with mocking imitations for days afterward.
Compared to the growing excitement and genuine anticipation surrounding Viktor's lessons, Lockhart's classes had become the school's favourite private joke.
Only a small, dwindling band remained loyal—mostly younger girls still dazzled by his looks, and a few first-years who still believed every word in the books.
Colin Creevey—Harry Potter's number-one fanboy—had somehow become one of Lockhart's last die-hard supporters.
Between stalking Harley from every angle with his camera, he also chased Lockhart for autographs and photos.
"I believe Professor Lockhart," he insisted in the Great Hall when challenged. "He's just… teaching in his own special way."
The defence sounded thinner every time.
After two more weeks of increasingly desperate performances, Lockhart's reputation hadn't recovered.
It had sunk lower.
In the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's office—lavishly decorated with framed portraits of himself—Lockhart sat alone.
Hair dishevelled, a livid red lump swelling on his forehead from where a fifth-year Slytherin's Expelliarmus had slammed him face-first into the lectern earlier that day.
He had chosen that particular stressed-out O.W.L. candidate as his "volunteer assistant."
The boy—pushed past breaking point by Lockhart's meaningless instructions—finally snapped.
When Lockhart once again flourished his wand in a theatrical but useless gesture, the Slytherin raised his own wand and fired.
The Disarming Charm hit with unusual force—likely from weeks of pent-up frustration.
Lockhart flew backward, forehead cracking against the desk.
Snape had intervened afterward.
He dismissed the incident with a curt "Do not disturb fifth-years preparing for O.W.L.s—they are under considerable pressure," and the boy escaped with only a token verbal apology.
No detention. No points lost.
Lockhart replayed the scene in his mind—along with the past month of whispers, comparisons to Viktor, open mockery—and felt jealousy burning like Fiendfyre in his chest.
"Viktor. Viktor. Everyone's always talking about Viktor! Why do you have to steal the spotlight even now?!"
He roared the words into the empty room, slamming his fist on the desk.
Then he slumped back in his chair, breathing hard.
"No… this can't continue. I need to do something. Something big. Something that puts every eye back on me. I have to become the centre of attention again!"
"Calm down, Gilderoy. You're the finest Ravenclaw of your generation. Think. What topic is dominating conversation among the students right now?"
"…Magical Creature Protection. Damn it—damn it—not that! Think harder!"
Still muttering curses, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small vial of golden liquid.
He downed it in one gulp.
A moment of dizzy clarity flashed through his mind.
Lockhart rubbed his temples, then threw his head back and laughed wildly.
"Yes! Duelling! I'll start a Duelling Club! Then—in front of the entire school—I'll defeat another professor in a duel. And just like that, I'll be the talk of Hogwarts again!"
"Perfect! Brilliant! Now… who to challenge?"
Images flashed through his mind: Snape's perpetual sneer of disdain.
Viktor's calm, indifferent glance—the look one gives an ordinary person.
"Yes! Snape and Viktor. First I'll crush one… then the other. Or—no—both at once! I'll use the very spell I wrote about for handling mountain trolls—send them flying across the hall!"
Lockhart leapt to his feet, pacing the room, laughing maniacally.
In his mind's eye, the duel was already over.
Snape and Viktor lay defeated.
The Great Hall thundered with cheers.
Every eye was on him—Gilderoy Lockhart—once more the undisputed hero of Hogwarts, the wizarding world's brightest star.