The day after Halloween.
There were always rumors at Hogwarts—especially when Hagrid was involved. There simply wasn't a spell in the world that could keep him from talking too much.
So when the first light of morning spilled into the Great Hall, Hagrid let something slip. Again.
"Hagrid? And where might you be off to?"
Up at the staff table, Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes. Hagrid did look a bit too cheerful.
He was hugging a massive pumpkin, the inside sloshing with steaming pumpkin juice mixed with soft oats and some unknown chunks of fruit. His big, round body filled the seat, and when he got to his feet, grinning from ear to ear, the whole table shook.
"Ah, dear Professor McGonagall, yeah, I'm off to throw a little party for my heroes," he said happily. "Yeh don't know—oh, yeh can't imagine—from first year onward, little Green has always…"
As he spoke, something clear and shiny slipped into his beard.
"Oh? Is that so?"
McGonagall's kindly smile slowly vanished. Her blue eyes fixed on Hagrid as she asked, very softly.
"Little Green loves pumpkin juice best… I'd better get going, Professor McGonagall, wind'll turn cold and it won't taste right."
Hagrid clearly realized something was wrong. At that moment he knew only one thing: run.
The Hall was decorated with hundreds of candlelit pumpkins, flocks of fluttering live bats, and rippling orange banners of firelight that floated lazily along the stormy sky ceiling like colorful water snakes.
Hagrid wiped at his beard and strode out in a flustered hurry.
At the staff table, Dumbledore raised his goblet, eyes twinkling, watching Minerva's irritation rise again as she put the pieces together.
"The truth," he said mildly, "sounds very different depending on whose mouth it comes from."
He turned to glance at Snape. The Potions Master had already stormed out.
Dumbledore's smile grew even brighter.
…
That morning was bitterly cold. A harsh wind cut across the grounds as a group of students walked down the grassy slope toward Hagrid's hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. A few scattered raindrops blew into their faces.
The weather wasn't much—everyone's mood was.
"Think Hagrid'll have an extra pumpkin for me to use as décor for the little house?" Justin asked pleasantly.
"If you'd seen that whole pumpkin patch…" Ron said, sounding very hopeful.
They were only twenty steps from Hagrid's door when it suddenly opened—but it wasn't Hagrid who stepped out. It was Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed today in his palest lilac robes.
"Hide, quick," Harry hissed, grabbing the book in Sean's hands and yanking him behind the nearest bush.
Justin, laughing under his breath, slipped after them; Hermione and Ron ducked down with exasperated faces, and Neville scrambled after, panicking.
"If you've got the knack, it's ever so simple!" Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid.
"And if you ever need help, just come find me—y'know where I am! I'll send you one of my books—I'm shocked you don't already own one. I'll sign a copy tonight and bring it round. Well then, cheerio!"
He strode off toward the castle.
Hagrid stood in the doorway hugging his pumpkin, looking for a second like he wanted to smash it over Lockhart's head.
Then he remembered it was for Sean, and his shoulders drooped.
Only Hermione didn't let it pass. She puffed out her cheeks and flicked her wand as Lockhart stepped down the slope—he promptly slipped and rolled the rest of the way.
"I'm amazed you never look where you're going. Oh dear, Professor, do be careful—wouldn't want you to… not last the full year…" she said sweetly.
Hagrid burst into booming laughter, clutching the pumpkin.
"Well done—I mean that, Hermione, that was brilliant!" Ron said, in genuine awe for the first time. A year ago, Hermione had been the law's fiercest supporter; now she was hexing a teacher. Clearly the "beheading Sorting Hat" had known what it was doing sending her to Gryffindor.
"Hagrid—what did you mean 'not last the full year'?" Harry blurted once Lockhart rolled out of sight.
He would be delighted if Lockhart didn't stay on as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
Even if the man wasn't Voldemort's pawn, he was, quite clearly, a complete fraud.
"Harry! Sean! You're all here—been wonderin' when yeh'd come see me. In, in, come on in!" Hagrid beamed.
Inside, he bustled about getting the tea on. His huge dog Fang barreled straight for Sean's legs and parked there, refusing to move.
"Lockhart—well, he's the only one applied," Hagrid grumbled, setting the giant pumpkin on the table, its open side pointed squarely at a small boy whose eyes flickered.
"Black magic Defense teachers—now that's a cursed job if ever there was one. Hard to find folks willing to do it. Nobody wants the post much anymore; folk think it's unlucky. None of 'em last long."
He scratched his beard and continued, "I remember one Defense teacher's potion blew up on him—landed in St Mungo's. Another tried to cast Dark magic on students—got hauled off to Azkaban. And there was one who tried some foul ritual—Dumbledore himself had to throw him out."
"It's… one of those 'everyone knows' Hogwarts problems."
Everyone's attention was suddenly sharp.
"If they dragged Lockhart off to Azkaban that'd be perfect," Ron muttered darkly.
"Azkaban?" Harry asked, trying to balance his hatred of Lockhart with this new and wonderful possibility.
"Azkaban's the Ministry fortress they use for wizard criminals," Hermione said, sipping her sugary pumpkin juice. "Built in the 15th century, turned into the official wizard prison in 1718."
"If Lockhart's a fraud, where did all those stories come from?" Justin asked.
The question wiped the color from Hermione's face.
For the rest of the visit, the kids puzzled over one question: whose stories had Lockhart stolen?
And why did they ring so true?
Hagrid brought out more snacks, a generous assortment of sweets. Sean recognized the syrup toffees among them.
In the cheerful noise, Sean glanced at the flyer for Green's Bookshop but didn't join the conversation. He was wondering what shape Lockhart's departure from Hogwarts would take now that the basilisk was dealt with.
Would Voldemort's curse on the post hold?
As for Azkaban—well, to Ravenclaws, some would end up in charge of meals and lodging inside it, and others would spend their days figuring out legal ways to put the first lot into it.
"Harry," Hagrid suddenly said, as if something just came to him, "I gotta settle somethin' with you. Heard you've been handin' out signed photos. How come I never got one, eh?"
Harry's rage flared back to life; he pried his glued-together lips apart with effort.
~~~
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