Harry Potter: Master of Talismans

The classroom contained too many Lockharts, and none of them had started teaching. They smiled from frames along the walls, adjusting cuffs and arranging hair while we found our seats. One near the window appeared to be practising a modest expression. I put my bag beneath the desk and decided it needed more work.

Harry sat beside me. I suggested that the photographs might take lessons when the living version was away, and Ron said we would probably never notice. Hermione gave us a look before arranging her books. She had come ready to learn from the person who had written them, whatever he chose to hang on his walls. I wanted that part to work too.

Lockhart arrived dressed for an occasion considerably more splendid than Monday morning. He greeted us, allowed the room to settle and introduced himself through a succession of honours. By the time he reached public approval of his smile, I was wondering when any of them would become relevant to defending ourselves. Then he announced that he did not like to boast.

Malfoy made a disbelieving noise behind us. I found myself sharing his opinion, an experience which did little to improve the start of the lesson. Lockhart distributed a quiz, explaining that it would show how carefully we had read his books. I accepted a sheet with some hope of reaching the useful material at last.

Written work did not trouble me in itself. Knowing what a creature might do before it did it seemed an excellent addition to being able to run away afterwards. I read the first question, which asked for Lockhart’s favourite colour. The next offered little improvement, so I turned the page to see whether the practical part began farther on.

‘Do we have to defend ourselves against his birthday?’ Ron whispered. I told him we seemed to be losing and returned to the paper. Hermione was already writing. I answered what I remembered from reading, leaving gaps where I could not produce an intimate knowledge of a man whose preferred presents had never seemed essential information.

Lockhart collected the sheets with growing disappointment. Hermione had done exceptionally well, and his praise made her sit a little straighter. Her memory deserved credit. I would have preferred a teacher who found a better use for it than checking whether she knew his ambitions for the world and his hair.

He put the papers aside and drew our attention to a covered cage. The cloth moved before he touched it. I leaned forward, interested despite the quiz, while he lowered his voice and told us that facing dangerous creatures required courage and composure. Screaming, he warned, would only make matters worse.

Something struck the bars hard enough to shift the cage. Lockhart waited until we were watching, then pulled away the cloth. Small blue creatures crowded against the wire, with long ears and bright eyes fixed on the room beyond. Those at the back floated above the others to see better, despite having no wings I could find.

Ron recognised Cornish pixies and sounded relieved. I remembered reading about their strength and their habit of lifting people by the ears. A creature did not need a poisonous bite to hurt somebody if it could drop them from a roof. Still, with instructions, supervision and a clear space, learning to handle them might make a useful lesson.

Lockhart opened the cage before providing any of those things. The first pixie shot past his shoulder and pulled a photograph from the wall. Others scattered above the desks. A bottle of ink burst, somebody shouted, and books rose into the air as blue hands tore at their covers.

I ducked a quill case and reached into my pouch. Lockhart told us to remain calm and round them up, without demonstrating how he intended us to do either. At the back, students pushed towards the door. Harry pulled off his glasses just before a pixie could take them, then bent over the desk to protect his face.

Neville cried out. Two pixies had him by the ears, lifting until his shoes left the floor. He caught at a desk and missed. I started towards him, but a book struck my shoulder, knocking me sideways against the next bench. When I looked up again, he was rising towards the hanging light.

Lockhart waved his wand and shouted words I did not recognise. Whatever he intended, the result gave us no help. A pixie snatched the wand; another seized his hair. He covered his head and backed towards the door, where Malfoy and several others were squeezing out. It slammed behind them, followed by a click from the other side.

The handle would not turn when Lockhart tried it. He crouched against the wall, leaving Neville to clutch the light fitting while the pixies pulled at him. The whole thing swung. I took out one of the four close-spread binding preparations I had brought, grateful that I had made usable copies after Saturday’s tests instead of stopping at a promising entry in the notes.

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In the workshop, their short reach had been a limitation. Here it offered a chance to stop a group without catching everyone nearby, provided I could keep people beyond the edge. Neville was too close while the creatures still held his ears. I moved sideways beneath him, searching for an angle which did not include his body.

‘Hold on, Neville!’ I called. ‘Don’t reach for them!’ He tightened his arms round the fitting. The pixies released his ears and began circling above his hands, apparently deciding what to pull next. With the far wall behind them, I aimed above his grip, threw the strip and spoke the binding charm.

Both creatures stiffened in the brief pale flare. They struck the empty desk below while Neville stayed where he was, shaking hard enough to keep the fitting moving. I told him to keep holding and turned towards the next burst of blue. A cluster had landed on Ron’s books and was pulling a cover apart between them.

‘Away from that desk!’ I shouted. Ron withdrew his hands and Harry ducked below the edge. I waited until both were clear, then threw a second preparation and gave the charm. Its flare caught the top of the book; the pixies locked and fell among the pages they had scattered. The little crackle of spent paper vanished beneath the noise elsewhere.

The next group clung to a curtain. A girl was trying to recover her bag directly beneath them, too near the place I needed to cast. I called her towards me and told her to leave it. She glanced at the strip in my hand, then scrambled away from the wall. I released the third charge only after she passed me, and the curtain sagged beneath the rigid bodies tumbling into its folds.

Near the lectern, the remaining pixies fought over Lockhart’s wand. He was still by the door, shouting advice across a room which had suffered enough from his contribution. I held my final close-spread strip and made myself stop long enough to aim. Missing would leave me choosing among preparations meant to shove or burn, neither of which I wanted loose among frightened classmates.

‘Petrificus Totalus!’ I cast into the group when they crowded round the stolen wand. It dropped first, followed by blue bodies striking the floor. I kept my hand near the pouch while looking above the cupboards and behind the damaged frames. Nothing else was flying, though loose pages continued settling through the air.

Neville’s breathing sounded terribly loud overhead. I called Harry to help me, told Ron to get the cage ready and asked Hermione to check behind the cabinet for fallen pixies. None of us needed another one escaping beneath a desk while our attention was elsewhere. I warned them to keep fingers away from mouths, then pushed a solid desk beneath the light fitting.

Harry steadied it while I climbed up. We brought a chair across to give Neville somewhere nearer to put his foot, but he could not immediately let go. His fingers had tightened round the metal, and every movement set the light swinging. I took his arm and told him what to do one step at a time.

‘A little lower,’ I said. ‘The chair’s under your foot. I’ve got you.’ He found it at last and shifted his weight, catching my shoulder hard enough to hurt when his grip released. Harry kept the furniture steady while I helped Neville down onto the desk. Getting him to the floor took longer than stopping the pixies, and I was grateful for every second in which nothing tried to lift him again.

He pressed both hands to his ears. Blood marked one finger when he lowered it. I checked that he could stand while Lockhart rose from his place beside the door, brushed dust from his robes and recovered his wand. He looked over the classroom with an expression I had already seen being practised on the walls.

‘Excellent, Mr Mercer!’ he said. ‘An admirable demonstration of the approach I wished you to discover. Ten points to Gryffindor.’ He smiled towards the remaining students, apparently preparing to explain why we should be pleased. Neville leaned a little against my arm, making the award difficult to appreciate.

‘Were we meant to discover the part where you hid by the door as well?’ I asked. Lockhart’s smile faltered, and Ron made a sound behind me which would have been a poor attempt at coughing even if I had not known him. I pointed out the blood on Neville’s hand. ‘He needs the hospital wing.’

Lockhart agreed at once, calling it a sensible precaution. The lesson ended while people gathered what could still be gathered from the desks. Harry and Ron finished placing the immobilised pixies in the cage, including the ones Hermione had found behind the furniture. I checked the latch myself. Having relied on the teacher to deal with it once, I preferred to see it fastened.

Hermione brought Neville’s bag. We waited until the doorway was open and the way clear, then began helping him out. Lockhart touched my sleeve as I passed him. He suggested that I visit his office for a discussion, using the easy familiarity he had displayed in the bookshop.

‘Our interests do overlap, Oswald,’ he said. ‘Books, inventive magic, the proper presentation of one’s work.’ I looked back at the fallen photograph near his desk and told him I had work to do. His hand dropped from my sleeve. I followed the others into the corridor before he could find a more attractive description of the invitation.

Outside, I stopped beside Neville to make sure he could walk without swaying. Four prepared strips were gone, and the shoulder he had caught was beginning to ache over the bruise left by the book. We had contained the creatures and got him down. Lockhart had awarded points as though that meant his lesson had succeeded.

I had wanted Defence to teach me something useful before I needed it. Instead I was taking another friend to the hospital wing and thinking about which preparations I ought to replace. Harry walked on Neville’s other side while Hermione cleared a path through students coming towards us. I followed them, unwilling to let the satisfaction of making my spells work excuse why I had needed them.