Hogwarts Reimagined

Content warning: Discussion and description of significant scarring, mention of body dysmorphia, misgendering, gender dysphoria, system-enforced gender binary, implied transphobic character, deadnaming (non-malicious, single instance), uncomfortable hero worship. Then we've got everything that is Lockhart! Tokenising claimed allyship that may upset some due to obvious parallels to real life, and extreme irresponsibility resulting in chaos, some panic, injury and trauma to students (not covered in depth)

Rhiannon woke early the next morning, Monday the second of September. Her roommates’ quiet snores still filled the air, and her over-tense muscles shrieked protest as she rolled out over and swiped an arm around under the bed for her cane. It clunked loudly against one leg of the bed and she winced at the sound, too loud in the early morning stillness, then with its’ assistance she dragged herself out of bed and hobbled stiffly to the small bathroom attached to the shared bedroom.

Being the first one up, Rhiannon had unimpeded access to the showers and their endless hot water. She took longer to shower than she normally would, then when she was dried and wrapped her towel she stood, staring at her own reflection in the long mirror over the sinks.

This early, her eyes were ringed by dark circles and her cheeks were gaunt. The claw scars stood out vivid pink and silvery, raised and ugly against her right cheek and running down under her jaw and down her throat, another deep scar ran across the bridge of her nose and still more were hidden under her thick hair, raised and ropelike behind her ears and running down the sides of her neck. The branching lightning scar that ran from her hairline to just between her eyebrows had been distinctive before, but now it simply blended with the rest. Rhiannon had never really thought of herself as beautiful and now even less so.

She cut a tragic figure, hollow-eyed and battered as she was, and Rhiannon lost a few moments just staring hopelessly at the mess of it all reflected back in the mirror. She set her jaw and fumbled for her cane, withdrawing her wand from its’ socket behind the snake’s wooden head and running over the shapes of the incantations that by now she knew by memory.

Coming to a decision, Rhiannon rattled off the incantations and watched as the worst of her scarring faded from view in the mirror. It was still visible if one looked closely, but instead of the raw silver-pink they were barely a shade lighter than her usual dusky olive skin tone. The dark circles faded from view beneath her eyes as did the shadows from her cheeks, and the hunted gleam dimmed in her green-gold hazel eyes as the edge was taken off her over-sharp senses.

Rhiannon wasn’t entirely comfortable with modifying her appearance by illusion. It felt like a slippery slope to her, and she fought the urge to make more changes, perfect her image. But she wasn’t ready to explain this. And she was reluctant to face the pity she knew would come with people knowing. Oh, she feared the stigma and loathing too, especially as she wasn’t confident in her ability to convince people that she wasn’t a vicious monster when she wasn’t entirely convinced of that herself. But the idea of pity and treating her like something small and broken was something she couldn’t bear either. She wanted to heal. She wanted pride in herself. And she had to win those things for herself.

The door creaked open behind Rhiannon and she whirled around clutching her towel wrap more tightly to her body, finding herself face to face with a tousle-haired Lavender Brown. The two girls stared at eachother for a moment at an impasse. “Um, g’morning, Lavender,” Rhiannon mumbled awkwardly. Lavender stared for another moment, her dark brown eyes flitting from Rhiannon’s face with the glamour-seeming light scarring down to where her hand shook on the handle of her cane.

Rhiannon couldn’t read her roommate’s expression, they still didn’t really get on, but Lavender seemed to come to a decision and she surprised Rhiannon with a small smile as she set about getting ready for her own shower. “Want some lipgloss? I have a spare and it’s not really my colour,” Lavender asked Rhiannon, holding up the little reddish tube. Stranger and stranger. Rhiannon nodded, then realised Lavender wasn’t looking at her. “Um – yeah, thanks. That’s... really nice of you,” she mumbled as she accepted the gift, caught a little off-guard by the drastic change of attitude since the year before. Lavender hummed a non-committal response, and Rhiannon turned and headed out of the bathroom to get ready for the day.

______________________________________________________

After that slightly-bewildering interaction, Rhiannon returned to the shared bedroom and dressed hurriedly for her day. She fished a book out of her trunk and settled down to read it for a while until Hermione woke up, and then when Hermione was ready the two of them headed on down to the common room and from there, along with Ron and Neville, they made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Rhiannon’s first instinct was to find Dudley and check on him, but when she caught sight of him he was deep in conversation with another boy in yellow-accented robes and a few other first-years including Ginny, to Rhiannon’s surprise. She was glad for him, she was – but she couldn’t stop the little twang of hurt and the irrational voice that told her she wasn’t needed anymore.

Seeing as Dudley was doing fine, Rhiannon went in search of Luna instead, rationalising to herself that she wasn’t hovering, she had genuine reason to be concerned about her friend’s well-being. She was just checking. So with a slightly-exasperated Hermione in tow she wandered across the hall to the Ravenclaw table, finding Luna seated with another first-year and some second-years Rhi recognised. Rhiannon’s heart sank, and she was about to slink away when Luna caught sight of her and their solemn face brightened. He waved, and Rhiannon eagerly hurried over to sit down.

Rhi reminded herself it would be rude to ignore the others completely, and managed to greet her Ravenclaw friends albeit in a rather scattered manner before she refocused her attention on Luna. “A-a-a-re you, ok?” she asked quietly, reaching out to squeeze Luna’s hand.

Luna bit his lip, then shook their head and shrugged. “They put me in the girls’ room.” zhe said quietly, voice very small. Rhiannon’s heart clenched, and she squeezed Luna’s hand again. “I-is there anything I can do? I’m s-sorry, I don’t know how to help but...” Rhi murmured. Luna shook her head and hugged themself miserably.

“I don’t usually feel bad about it. Don’t think I ever really have. But I’m not a girl. And it doesn’t feel good that they just... assumed I was. I don’t know how to explain it.” Luna whispered miserably. Rhiannon leaned over and hugged the taller student around the waist, leaning in against xir shoulder as she had done with Hermione the night before.

“I- I get it,” Rhiannon replied quietly. “’s called dysphoria, which makes it sound like this big cloudy monster... sort of appropriate, I guess. I get it a lot, lots of people like us do. B-b-but, it seems a special s-sort of unfair for you t-th-that you didn’t get any ‘til other people made you. I’m – I d-do-don’t... I don’t know how to help but, Padma and Em and Morag are nice and...” Rhi trailed off, frowning sadly and shaking her head. “D-d’you want me to talk to McGonagall?”

Luna shook zir head and rested eir chin on top of Rhiannon’s head. “As if they’d switch things up for me? I just have to sort of, stick it out I guess. I’ll be okay. Thanks for checking in on me... I really needed that.” fae said quietly, squeezing Rhiannon in a tight hug as they spoke.

Their conversation was halted by a dry shuffling rustle almost like wings, as the heavy envelopes containing their class schedules and other such things arrived and distributed themselves across the room. Rhiannon waved her arm at it vainly, reaching for where the envelope sat just out of reach of her position on the table. She felt the comforting rumble of Luna’s arrhythmic laugh against her ear and stifled the urge to wiggle happily, then reluctantly extricated herself from the comfortable embrace to pick up the enveloped schedule.

Rhiannon reached over the table to grab a couple pieces of toast, and she took the schedule out and propped it up behind her plate so she could read it as she buttered the toast.

“Oh, nice, Transfiguration first,” Rhiannon mumbled through a mouthful of toast, scanning the class schedule. Then she frowned, and contorted her face to lick jam off where she had dripped it on her chin. “Says Defence tomorrow afternoon... hey, anyone know who the new professor is?” she asked, raising her voice and looking up to see if any of her friends had the answer.

Morag rolled her eyes. “Yeah, this blowhard pom guy called Gilderoy Lockhart. Set all his own books as the class texts, cost an arm an’ a leg,” she grumbled. Others chorused their respective agreement or protest, the reception to the news seemed mixed.

Hermione frowned. “I read those. Seem a bit far-fetched,” she replied, looking skeptical. Morag snorted. “Yeah – as if you can revert a werewolf with a Homorphus charm! And the guy was a Ravenclaw, honestly – that’s for reverting a human Transfiguration, lycanthropy’s a physiological change,” she trailed off grumbling. Rhiannon winced and looked down at the table, suddenly very focused on her toast. Luna nudged her with a knee, and they shared a tired smile. Hiding like this was exhausting – she hadn’t expected it to come up so often, but now it seemed to hit her out of nowhere every other moment.

They finished breakfast, and Rhiannon and Hermione split from Luna and the other Ravenclaws to go to their Transfiguration class. Rhiannon was immediately relaxed by Professor McGonagall’s brisk, humorous teaching style and the familiar challenge of the complex material. She struggled to grasp the abstract theoretical material in the same way Hermione did naturally and needed to work it out for herself with diagrams and physical structuring, but she enjoyed the challenge of it.

From Transfiguration they had Charms class, then Care of Magical Creatures and finally finished the day with a double dose of Potions. That was as heinous ever. Snape had not softened in his manner at all and delighted as ever in taunting the class with withheld information, but at least this year they took the class with Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin so there would be little chance for him to show favouritism.

The next day lined up to be much more of the same. They started the day with Herbology class, and Rhiannon’s joints complained about being asked to work outside so early. Still, the inside of the greenhouses was temperate enough and the material was fascinating as the class this year was a complete academic one where it had been more of an informal introduction the year before.

Professor Sprout introduced them to the mandrake root, woody bulbs that horribly resembled human babies, with all of the shrieking and none of the potential for cuteness. The second-year students were repotting juvenile mandrakes, and they wore bespelled ear-muffs for the task as in their adult stage the cry of a mandrake bulb could kill. In this stage it would merely knock them unconscious, and no sooner had Professor Sprout warned them was this proven. Draco Malfoy had ended up with a pair of pink fluffy earmuffs, and he must have not put them on properly – he’d looked as if they were a personal challenge to his masculinity – because he staggered and collapsed to the ground when a mandrake that Professor Sprout was using for her demonstration began to scream.

After the rather eventful start to the Tuesday morning, Care of Magical Creatures was almost humdrum and not for the first time Rhiannon found herself falling asleep during the double History of Magic class that took up their midday.

After lunch, it was finally time for the much-awaited Defence Against the Dark Arts class. Rhiannon and her Gryffindor peers along with some of the Ravenclaws from their year crowded around in the hallway outside the classroom a little before the end of lunchbreak, discussing the prospect of the class.

Ron groaned and slumped back against the wall. “You’d think the guy single-handedly created and then slew the Loch Ness monster, the way me mum goes on about him. You know she ran into Lucius Malfoy the other day at Diagon Alley? They got in a right dust-up and everything, he was getting on her case about Dad’s job, and she didn’t even think to mention it until the day after because she was all on about Gilderoy Lockhart this, Gilderoy Lockhart that...Bit of a dick move, making a publicity stunt out of teaching here, but I guess it was decent of ‘im to give us the free books... bloody pricey, he set the whole lot of them to every year level the bastard.” he griped, waving his hands as he strode back and forth in the corridor.

He went on in this vein for some time, and honestly Rhiannon sympathised. While money wasn’t something she personally had a problem with, that was an incredible privilege. It was terribly inconsiderate, and egotistical, for the new teacher to have set all of his own books without the slightest thought of their cost. That meant the Weasleys had had to buy... Rhiannon frowned and tallied it up on her hands. Percy, Fred, George, Ron and Ginny... five sets of Lockhart’s books, which together were more than double the price of all the books Rhiannon had been set for her first year combined with this years’ others. She remembered the Diagon Alley trip vividly, and felt a sick surge of resentment on the Weasleys’ behalf. It did not incline her to consider this new teacher favourably, even before she had met him.

Rhiannon’s attention drifted and she leaned back against the wall, resting her eyes as she did so. She ran her thumbnail over the carved scales that formed the ridge of the snake’s neck arching up at the front of her cane, found the short knob of a part of her wand’s handle protruding just behind the arch of the snake’s neck. It was a little fiddly to remove her wand from her cane even if it was the most convenient place to put it, and she resolved to ask Xenophilius for help in carefully drilling a hole through the handle end so as to be able to attach a wrist-loop for easier withdrawal. For safety.

“Ha-a-Harry Potter?” a thin voice said from somewhere in front of Rhiannon. Her eyes flew open and she flinched, steadying herself as she dimly realised the origin of her old name was a mousy-haired boy barely an inch or two taller than Rhiannon who clutched what looked to be a cheap, ordinary camera. He flushed deep scarlet and shuffled back a step the moment Rhi looked at him, and she motioned back her concerned friends whose attention had been caught by the name.

“No,” she replied shortly. The younger boy flushed deeper, the purple tinge reaching the tips of his ears where they stuck out from under his hair. “Oh. Oh! Oh no- That’s right- I forgot!” he exclaimed, shamefaced. “I’m Colin Creevey – you’re Rhiannon, right? The Girl Who Lived?” he introduced himself breathlessly, taking a hesitant step forward. “I read all about you, and it’s so cool we’re in the same house and – d’you think – would it be all right if - can I have a picture?” he stammered, losing track of his train of thought in excitement and gesturing with his camera as he spoke.

“A... picture?” Rhiannon repeated blankly, a little dumbfounded. The anxieties that she repressed every morning she cast her glamours pressed now on her nerves, and she bit her lip.

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” explained Colin. “This is all really new, so me ‘n my dad, we got out a whole bunch of books to read when we found out and I want t’ prove I met you, see? You’re like a celebrity or something, I can’t believe the Hat thought we were anything alike-” he ran out of breath and spluttered for more, bringing a blessed reprieve from his enthusiasm.

Rhiannon looked around her and flushed deeply. The rest of the second-years from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had assembled, and for lack of anything better to do their attention was firmly fixed on her predicament.

“One of my roommates, he says if I develop the film in the right potion the pictures will move, I can send it home to my dad so it’ll be like he can meet you too, see?” Colin chattered on, oblivious to Rhiannon’s growing discomfort. “It’s so incredible here, isn’t it? I never knew all the things I could do was magic ‘til I got the letter from Hogwarts... My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it – McGonagall made our cat talk to prove it and ever since he’s been so excited about all the cool things magic can do and I’ve been taking pictures to show him, he won’t believe I met you...” he trailed off, looking imploringly at Rhiannon. She shook her head and offered him a stiff smile. “H-h-hhhhhh...hey, Hermione – can you, take the picture? I’m just a person, Colin, you’re even t-t-taller than me, c’mere,” she suggested.

Colin’s hazel-brown eyes went very wide in shock and he hurriedly thrust the camera at Hermione so he could scuttle over to stand at Rhiannon’s side. “I’m a person,” she reminded him, trying for a reassuring tone even as she shook with nerves. “Why d-d-d-dddon’t you aim for, friends, instead of...” she gestured vaguely, and he filled in with an awkward laugh. Rhiannon took off her glasses so the lenses wouldn’t reflect and ruin the picture, and held out an arm encouragingly to Colin. They stood shoulder to shoulder, Rhiannon almost vibrating with the sheer awkwardness of it all, and she blinked and screwed up her face just a moment after the camera flashed. Relieved, she stepped away again and replaced her glasses.

“Th-th-thanks!” Colin stammered, beaming as he accepted his camera back from Hermione. “I’m going t’ develop it and then – could you sign it?” he asked hopefully. Rhiannon’s heart sank – clearly she’d not got across what she meant to at all. “No,” she replied firmly. “I’m-I’m-I’m-I’m- not some hero, I’m four foot five and I w-w-w-w-walk with a stick. Tell your dad we’re friends, d-don’t make me out to be like that.”

She was saved from further embarrassment by a deafening metallic klaxon that sounded throughout the corridors, the sound of the school bell spread and magnified by magic throughout the castle. She and Hermione, along with several of the others, groaned and clapped their hands over their ears. Colin jumped comically and seemed to notice the twenty odd second years crowding the hallway for the first time. He cast a last awestruck look back at Rhiannon before he dashed away, leaving her feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

The door to the classroom was flung open from the inside, revealing a turquoise-robed man with carefully-coiffed yellow-blond hair and a rather weedy chin. This could only be the infamous Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, and Rhiannon’s unease was replaced with her earlier unfavourable impression of the professor’s arrogance in his set material. Rhiannon busied herself building a tower of the offending textbooks – all seven of them – around the far edge of her desk, a little fortress all the better to glare out at their author from. Hermione nudged Rhiannon with her knee from her spot at the desk beside, and Rhiannon realised she’d been growling again.

“You ok?” Ron asked from her other side. “You did alright with Ginny but that was something else... I don’t know, I’m kinda pissed at the kid but it’s hard not to feel kinda bad about it too.” he added. Rhiannon rubbed the back of her head and then folded her arms together at the edge of her desk and rested her forehead on them, staring down at her knees. She groaned quietly, unable to put together any more of a response for the mess that had been.

Professor Lockhart cleared his throat obnoxiously to get the class’ attention, and beamed at them, holding up a spare copy of his own Voyages with Vampires to show his own winking portrait on the cover, encircled by stylised cartoonish silhouettes of monstrous figures.

“Me,” said Professor Lockhart, pointing at it and winking as well, as if the inane statement meant something more to him. “Gilderoy Avery Lockhart. Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming-Smile Award – but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

He waited for them to laugh; a few of the students smiled weakly. As the last class of the day after the dreadful dullness of History of Magic, he would have to do a lot better than that, Rhiannon reflected grimly.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books, well done,” he continued. Rhiannon snorted – as if he’d given them a choice about it. “I thought we’d all start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about, just to check how well you’ve read them and so we can get to know eachother, yes?” Lockhart continued.

He bent over and rummaged around in a desk drawer, then straightened up and with a flick of his wand sent a stack of test papers sailing across the room. “You have thirty minutes, and you may start – now!” Lockhart announced grandly, complete with a pause for effect.

Rhiannon looked down at her paper and read through it, her vaguely disdainful scowl deepening as she got further down the list. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite colour? What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition? What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, more than fifty questions – the last being ‘when is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?’. Rhiannon groaned and retrieved a pen from her pocket. She wasn’t losing grade marks or House points over one man’s overblown self-importance.

Gritting her teeth, she resisted the urge to reply snarkily, instead replying in simple fact with little detail. She couldn’t resist a jab at his expense on the third question, and snidely referenced his impossible story about the Homorphus charm use – which certainly would be an incredible achievement, if it were true. Which, given her skim-reading of the books in the few days before school started, she rather had her doubts about.

Half an hour later, Professor Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class. “Tut, tut... Well, I’m glad we did this, we are supposed to be getting to know one another... hardly any of you remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully -” at this Rhiannon curled her lip, being as that was the only one she had read in full – “I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples... though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky!” he quipped, with another wink. Ron, along with several others of the class stared at him now with an expression of utter disbelief. Across the class to Rhiannon’s right, Morag’s mass of curly red hair trembled as her shoulders shook with barely-restrained laughter. Hermione sat back in her chair and stretched out her legs under the desk, one eyebrow raised.

“...but, oh, well well well... Miss Rhiannon Potter! You have done your reading. That is something of which I am incredibly proud. Werewolves are a tragic species, cursed, but they should not be cursed by our ignorance! There are simple solutions to curing such a terrible condition if only we think with a little... compassion. Well done, well done – take five points for Gryffindor. Ah, but no, you’re wrong there...” he trailed off, frowning as he came to an answer Rhiannon must have given incorrectly. She scowled and sank lower in her seat, staring resentfully over her little book-fortress at the pontificating professor. Cure? A cure, as if people hadn’t searched for centuries? Sometimes things weren’t that simple. It wasn’t allyship to insist upon compassion and present a solution that didn’t work, that was just... using people as tokens for some kind of social compassion appearances bank.

Professor Lockhart must have run out of boasting, for he swept the class’ papers into the open drawer of his desk and reached down to retrieve a tall cage covered in a sheet from under it. He stood the cage on his desk and turned to face the class, that shallow showman’s smile returning to his face.

“Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm... ” he announced, lowering his voice ominously. Hermione scowled and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desk, and in spite of herself Rhiannon peered over her book fortress for a better look at the cage.

Lockhart placed a hand over the cloth where it bunched up around the handle of the cage. “I must ask you not to scream,” he said in a low voice. “It might provoke them.”

The class held its’ collective breath, and Lockhart whipped the cover off with a flourish. Rhiannon groaned and covered her ears as a chorus of high-pitched shrieks like polystyrene rubbed on glass assailed her ears, and the cage rattled furiously.

“Yes,” said Lockhart grandly. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies.”

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches tall, with beady black eyes and insectlike wings. They clamoured shrilly within the cage, ranging in pitch from that initial awful polystyrene shrieking to a little lower – more like a flock of budgies arguing.

“Right then!” said Lockhart, as the class murmured and exchanged worried looks. The pixies were hardly large but by now even the students from nonmagical backgrounds knew not to underestimate magic, no matter what size it came in. “Let’s see what you make of them!” he finished, and flicked open the latch of the cage.

Instantly, the ordered class-room erupted in pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like panicked rockets, bouncing off the walls and windows in search of an exit. Finding none, they turned on the students. Two seized Neville by the ears and exhibited strength far beyond their size, lifting him straight into the air. Rhiannon was on her feet in a heartbeat, wand out and cane in hand. She seized Neville around the waist and cast desperately around for some way to discourage the pixies even as Neville clung to her.

Lockhart’s face lost all its’ showy joviality, and he staggered backwards, fumbling behind him for the door into his office. “I’ll just – leave you to round them up then,” he announced over the din. His voice caught a pixie’s attention and it rounded on him. He brandished his wand and flourished it impressively. “Peskipiksi Pesternomi!” he bellowed. It had no effect whatsoever, though Rhiannon was begrudgingly impressed he could manage the syllables without a stutter – at least, as impressed as she could be while wrestling with pixies for possession of her friend!

Lockhart yelped, and Rhiannon saw the pixie he attempted to jinx seize his wand. It cackled and let out a shrill yell of glee. Lockhart retreated again to the back door, wide-eyed and sweating. “Call it learning on the job!” he yelled over the din. And with that, he fled into his office.

That left twenty second-year students facing pixie pandemonium. They smashed inkwells and tore books, hung backpacks from the wrought-iron chandelier and in general wrecked the classroom like a herd of pocket-sized hurricanes.

“Hermione!” Rhiannon yelled, struggling to keep her grip on Neville. A pixie stole her cane and she staggered, wincing as her knees shrieked about the sudden redistribution of weight. Hermione stared wide-eyed and greyish with shock, but Rhiannon’s words galvanised her into action. She whipped her wand out of her sleeve, and jabbed it at the pixies attempting to carry off Neville. “Immobulus!” she yelled.

Rhiannon slumped and staggered forward, catching her fall on a desk as suddenly she bore Neville’s full weight. She leaned over still clutching her wand in one hand, light-headed, completely lost for a solution.

Someone whistled sharply, cutting through the din, and Rhiannon looked over to see Parvati backed into a corner with her wand extended, the fingers of her other hand still in her mouth. “EVERYONE!” she bellowed, when that failed to get their attention completely. “Hermione’s got the right idea – freezing charms! Stun or Knockback will work too, Disarm if they’ve got something they shouldn’t, don’t grab ‘em unless they’re out - they bite. Rhiannon, you’ve good reflexes, you get the cage door open and shut as we need.” Parvati ordered, and gestured for the rest of the class to help. Faye, Morag and Ron herded pixies away from windows and bookshelves, Hermione and Padma were quick with a variety of creative jinxes and working together the class gradually got the pixies back into the cage.

“Colloportus,” Padma muttered, rapping it with her wand and scowling. She dropped the cover back over the top and the pixies fell mercifully silent, giving Rhiannon time to look around and take stock of the room. Several of her classmates were injured, Neville in a state of shock and the room resembled a bomb site. Someone pressed her cane back into her hand, and she leaned on it heavily too exhausted to thank her rescuer.

Padma’s voice was quieter than her sister’s had been. “Anyone injured, to the Hospital Wing,” she told them firmly. She shared a look with her sister. “Aeden, you’re not hurt and you’re fine in Creatures class, can you run the cage down to Hagrid?” Padma continued, gesturing to it. Aeden scowled at the cage, but he agreed and hurried out of the room with it. Parvati flapped her hands at Rhiannon and Neville. “Go, go, get – ‘hurt’ is you too, you’re a state. I’ll go tell McGonagall what happened so she can get this cleaned up.” she said, and beckoned Hermione and Ron who assisted Rhiannon and Neville out of the classroom.

Rhiannon groaned, and leaned heavily on Ron all the way down the corridor. An incident by day two, the same record as last year. She had hardly started class with a charitable outlook on Professor Lockhart, but that had now solidified into a genuine dislike and resentment for the completely irresponsible handling of the class. Neville mumbled and shook quietly, and she felt a powerful surge of sullen anger entirely for Gilderoy Lockhart. Sometimes accidents happened. That wasn’t an accident – it had been one waiting to happen and set in motion by someone who should have known better.