Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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Perhaps, in a future edition of Hogwarts: A History, a new section might be added about the events of 1992, recounting the escapades of the newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and two audacious Hufflepuff students.

But that's a story for another time. Right now, Harry and Rolf found themselves in a rather precarious situation. Sitting before them were three figures: Dumbledore, his face calm but with a hint of amusement lurking beneath the surface; Professor McGonagall, her lips pressed tightly together, her expression stern; and Professor Sprout, who typically wore a warm smile but had now adopted McGonagall's no-nonsense demeanor.

A trial presided over by the headmaster, deputy headmistress, and their house head—such an experience was rare for any Hogwarts student.

"Do you have anything to say for yourselves, Mr. Potter, Mr. Scamander?"

"It's only the first day of the term, and you've already caused this kind of trouble!" McGonagall exclaimed, slamming her hand on the desk in frustration. "You disrupted class and scared Professor Lockhart so badly he fainted!"

"Pomona," McGonagall said, taking a deep breath and turning to Professor Sprout, "they're from your house. I'll leave their punishment to you."

"Indeed," Professor Sprout replied with a serious nod. She shot the two students a stern look, but her eyes betrayed no real anger.

Professor Sprout was known for her kindness and optimism, as well as her open favoritism toward her own students. This trait made her similar to Snape, though her fairness to students from other houses set her apart. In her Herbology classes, as long as a student wasn't causing deliberate trouble, she was unlikely to dock points.

"This is a very serious mistake," she said gravely. "I hope you both realize that. But more importantly, I'd like to hear if you understand what exactly you did wrong."

"Mr. Scamander, you first."

Rolf straightened his back and replied earnestly, "I shouldn't have told Professor Lockhart that I heard howling at night. That was a lie, and lying is wrong. I'll apologize to Professor Lockhart—there are no wolves howling at Hogwarts at night. Also, yesterday wasn't a full moon. That's next week."

Sprout paused, her expression twitching slightly as though suppressing something, but she eventually waved her hand and turned to Harry.

"And you, Mr. Potter?"

"I'm deeply sorry for the incident, Professor," Harry said, his voice calm and sincere. He lifted his head to meet Professor Sprout's gaze directly.

"While I regret that things got a little out of hand, I don't think I did anything wrong. In fact, I believe I helped Professor Lockhart achieve his teaching goal—demonstrating the proper way to handle an encounter with a werewolf. At least, that's what Professor Lockhart seemed to think."

"Proper?" McGonagall interjected, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, this," Harry said, scratching his head. "When Professor Lockhart woke up after fainting, the first thing he told us was that the best way to handle a close encounter with a werewolf is to play dead. That way, they won't bite you."

"Those were his exact words," Harry added, clearing his throat before mimicking Lockhart's tone:

"Faint? Me? How absurd! 

When faced with a werewolf, fighting it head-on is the worst possible choice for young witches and wizards. That's why I'm teaching you the most effective method—playing dead! 

Werewolves won't attack prey they believe is already dead, and they usually don't eat humans either. I hope my excellent demonstration was convincing—no one suspected I was only pretending, right? 

Yes, playing dead is the best strategy for students like you when facing a werewolf. Once it leaves, you'll be safe."

"Professor Lockhart even gave me ten points for my efforts," Harry said with a wry smile, spreading his hands as if to emphasize his innocence. "So you see, Professor Lockhart wasn't fainting out of fear—he was just teaching us."

Professor Sprout turned her head away, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to contain her laughter. Dumbledore seemed intensely focused on the view outside the window, as if expecting a spaceship to pass by at any moment.

McGonagall, for her part, mustered all her self-control to keep a straight face, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

"Is that so?" she said, her voice carefully composed. "It seems there's been a... misunderstanding."

"Yes, just a small misunderstanding," Harry replied, perfectly composed, showing no hint of guilt.

"Very well," McGonagall said with a nod before turning to Rolf. "Mr. Scamander, lying is a bad habit. I expect you to correct it starting today."

"Pomona, you're short on help in the greenhouses, aren't you?" McGonagall said, nudging the nearly laughing Sprout with her elbow.

"Yes—yes, Minerva," Sprout replied, dabbing her eyes with the back of her hand before addressing Rolf. "Mr. Scamander, you'll help in the greenhouse this week. Report to Greenhouse 15 from six to seven in the evening."

Rolf's eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth opening as if to protest.** However, he ultimately said nothing, watching helplessly as the two professors exited the room. He knew full well what awaited him in Greenhouse 15—situated right next to the dragon dung compost pit. There was no need for further explanation about the task.

"Confess and you'll suffer less? More like confess and you're doomed," Harry remarked, patting Rolf on the shoulder while shaking his head lightly.

"I'm going to have a word with Professor Dumbledore. Save me a seat in the Great Hall, will you?"

"Sure..."

Dragging his feet, Rolf trudged out of the room, his expression sullen. Starting the term with a stench of dung wasn't exactly an auspicious beginning.

"Thank you, Headmaster Dumbledore, for adding a bit of excitement to our otherwise dull academic lives," Harry said politely as he turned to the headmaster, who was happily popping a toffee into his mouth.

"You and Gellert certainly share a peculiar sense of humor," Dumbledore mused, leaning back in his chair. "Neither of you seem to tolerate fools lightly."

"Perhaps it's because I think letting a clown waste an entire year of every student's time is deeply inconsiderate," Harry replied smoothly. "I consider this... damage control."

When speaking with Dumbledore, Harry always felt at ease. Months ago, he'd been pointing an ebony wand at the headmaster's head, but that was water under the bridge now. Besides, as a wise and forgiving elder, Dumbledore wouldn't hold such a minor incident against a "cheeky kid."

"Is the school really incapable of finding a competent Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" Harry asked.

"If one were available, I wouldn't have chosen him," Dumbledore admitted, pushing a jar of vibrantly colored toffees toward Harry. "Care to try a new flavor? Honeydukes hasn't released this line yet—these are filled toffees."

"Thank you, but I'm not fond of overly sweet things," Harry declined politely, his aversion to sugary treats evident.

"If no one else is suitable, perhaps you'd consider this candidate?"

Harry was in no mood to let Lockhart waste everyone's time. While he could self-study to a degree, magic was fundamentally experiential. Many skills couldn't be fully learned from books alone—take spellcasting, for instance. Without Professor Flitwick's guidance, studying from a textbook would at best yield mediocre results. The difference between a self-taught wizard and one trained at a proper institution was worlds apart.

"Who do you have in mind?" Dumbledore asked.

"Remus Lupin," Harry replied without hesitation. "He was one of my father's closest friends. Even though my godfather, Snape, despised my father, Lupin was the one companion he never spoke too harshly about. Lupin is exceptionally skilled and capable."

"Remus is indeed talented," Dumbledore acknowledged, his tone reflective, "but he may not be a good fit for Hogwarts at the moment."

"I don't care that he's a werewolf, and I'll work to ensure the other students accept him, even after the truth comes out," Harry asserted firmly. "Over the holidays, I discussed with Snape ways to improve the Wolfsbane Potion. He's willing to help."

"You've been planning this for a while, haven't you?" A spark of curiosity lit Dumbledore's eyes. Harry's preparedness suggested he had known Lockhart was a fraud all along.

"The reputation of the Defense Against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts is infamous," Harry said, shrugging. "Ever since Professor Grindelwald left, the odds of finding a suitable replacement have been slim. That much is obvious, isn't it?"

Dumbledore nodded, a knowing smile on his lips. Harry's sharp observation and forward-thinking analysis reminded him strongly of Grindelwald.

"I'll write to him, though it may take a week to make the necessary arrangements. He's currently tied up with other obligations," Dumbledore said.

"In that case, I'll make a trip to the Cairngorms. Could I borrow Fawkes for this, Professor?"

"You're planning to find Fenrir Greyback?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. The last werewolf attack had occurred in Scotland, and the Cairngorms were a likely hideout for Fenrir.

"Yes. I also want to give Lupin some peace of mind. I'll bring Hagrid with me—it'll be safer that way," Harry replied with a grin. While he enjoyed adventures, he wasn't reckless. Fenrir, as the most notorious werewolf, was in a league of his own. Even outside of a full moon, his "pureblood" status made him partially infectious, and his body had undergone significant physical mutations.

"Very well. Once you're ready, just call Fawkes' name—he'll hear you no matter where you are," Dumbledore assured him.

"Now, I have a meeting with Professor Lockhart to discuss a breach of contract. Purchasing his complete autobiography series wasn't cheap, and as headmaster, I must consider the best interests of the students," Dumbledore added, his voice tinged with sly humor.

Dumbledore's demeanor might appear benign, but Harry had no doubt the headmaster could be ruthless when necessary—a trait likely honed during his time with Grindelwald.

Harry didn't concern himself with Lockhart's impending downfall. After all, it had nothing to do with him, right?

In a world where only Lockhart got hurt, everyone else seemed to be having a great time.

(End of Chapter)