I Swung a Sword at Hogwarts

Friday.

In Defence Against the Dark Arts class, Lockhart acted as if nothing had ever happened.

His teaching style was still awful, especially since he had a few students come up to play the roles of trolls and werewolves to reenact his "glorious" past.

"This is the worst class I've ever taken," Neville groaned miserably. Even Malfoy hadn't escaped being dragged into it — he'd been made to act like a vampire.

John still didn't gain a single point. Originally, Lockhart had wanted John to play a Tibetan Yeti.

But when he saw the murderous look in John's eyes, he didn't dare push it any further.

Even Hermione was starting to have her doubts. After all, how could someone who wrote such excellent essays be this clueless in person?

She was extremely conflicted.

"Neville, why are you carrying a sword?" Ron, still sulking after accidentally launching his wand into Professor Flitwick's head during Charms that morning, turned and noticed Neville carrying a sword on his back.

Harry was surprised. "Are you going to fight Malfoy with it?"

"No, it's John. He said he wants me to become stronger—he even said I should become a Sword Saint."

Neville could feel the strange looks from all around and felt awkward carrying the sword, but John told him to get used to it.

His words reminded Harry of the time John had fought a troll with a greatsword in their first year. He mused, "Maybe John's just protecting Neville from Malfoy. After all, Malfoy's terrified of him."

Ron thought that carrying a sword didn't exactly make Neville into John, but then again… maybe it wasn't impossible.

"Let's go visit Hagrid tomorrow," Harry suggested.

Hermione didn't have any plans that day, so she agreed.

As the four of them walked down the corridor, John stepped out of a nearby doorway.

"Hey there," John greeted them. "Ron, I was just looking for you."

Ron blinked, confused. "Me? What's up?"

"You forgot? I promised to fix your wand."

John held up a small satchel and smiled. "I gathered some materials over the past few days. Let's see if we can repair it."

Ron grabbed his hand, excited. "That's amazing, John! You don't know how terrible this wand has been—it hit Professor Flitwick in the head today!"

"Yikes… yeah, that's rough."

John took the wand, which had been broken into two pieces and crudely taped back together.

The repair job was so rough even a dog would shake its head at it.

"Aspen wood and unicorn hair?"

"It was Charlie's. After he graduated, it was passed on to me," Ron admitted, a little embarrassed. His family wasn't rich, and even his wand had to be handed down from his older brother.

John shook his head and said regretfully, "In that case, I'd advise giving up on this wand."

"What? Please, John—don't say that. I don't have the money for a new one!"

Ron panicked at the idea it couldn't be repaired. He didn't want to receive another Howler from home.

Harry, ever the secret rich boy, offered kindly, "Ron, I can give you the money for a new one."

Ron looked uncomfortable. He didn't want to spend a friend's money.

"It's not that," John clarified. "This wand is broken beyond use. But we might be able to salvage the core and match it with new wand wood. I happen to have a pretty good material."

As Mr. Ollivander had always said — wizards choose the wand, but the wand also chooses the wizard.

John suspected that Ron's frequent spell failures might be because of a wand mismatch.

He pulled out the unicorn hair core and handed the aspen wood back to Ron.

"It'll take about a week. In the meantime, you can use this."

John handed over his spare wand. "This one also has a unicorn hair core."

Though the length was shorter than Ron's old one, it was still usable.

"Alright, I'll be heading off. Neville, you're coming with me."

He dragged Neville away, waving goodbye to the rest.

...

Neville underwent John's grueling training regimen, and by the end, he could barely lift his arms.

John had cut a fine branch from the Whomping Willow to use as new wand wood. Its heightened sensitivity might make for a superb wand.

On his way back, he ran into Lockhart.

The fraud of a teacher smiled at him.

"Mr. Wick, would you mind joining me in my office for a little chat?"

Lockhart extended an invitation. John wondered what game he was playing.

Still, he wasn't worried. It wasn't like Lockhart was another one of Voldemort's followers, right?

He nodded and followed him to the second-floor Defence Against the Dark Arts office.

The room was filled with photos of Lockhart — clearly, the man was vain and obsessed with fame.

Once they were seated, Lockhart opened with, "I heard you defeated a troll in your first year? Remarkable talent for such a young wizard. Of course, it's nothing compared to winning Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile five years in a row."

Even while praising others, he couldn't help but brag.

John stared at him with a blank expression, which made Lockhart increasingly uncomfortable as he talked.

"Ahem… I wanted to ask how you view me—uh, I mean, how you view Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Lockhart had come to Hogwarts for the fame. Though a bestselling author, his actual skill and the authenticity of his stories were often questioned.

To silence his critics, he volunteered to teach at Hogwarts.

What he hadn't counted on was the infamous curse placed upon the Defence Against the Dark Arts position by the Dark Lord.

His first lesson had already made him a laughingstock. After today's disaster, he realized his glamorous image among students was crumbling fast.

He noticed that both Slytherin and Gryffindor students looked at John with a certain respect.

This sparked another idea.

Sincerely, Lockhart said, "It's not that I'm incapable, but you know, being a celebrity keeps one so busy. So I was thinking of hiring an assistant to handle a few things."

"So, you're saying your teaching sucks, and you want to ditch the responsibility?"

John glanced at him and said bluntly, "No offense, but surely you've heard the rumors about this cursed teaching position? It's not exactly a job people stick around for."

Lockhart flushed. He hadn't expected his "heart-to-heart" to be met with such scorn.

He protested, "Nonsense! I'm Gilderoy Lockhart! Recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class, and winner of—"

"Alright, fine. I can help you — but only during the second-year classes. I'm too busy otherwise."

John cut him off, increasingly convinced Lockhart's books were ghostwritten.

Lockhart's face darkened. John had hit a nerve. He couldn't hire a separate assistant for every year group, and now it was clear this boy didn't respect him and suspected the truth.

To protect his image as a great wizard, Lockhart decided to act first.

As John turned to leave, Lockhart pulled out his wand. "Obliviate!"

It was his signature spell — the very one he'd used to steal countless heroic tales from other witches and wizards.

A smirk crept across his face. As long as John forgot their conversation, he could go back to his usual lazy teaching routine.

But just as the spell activated, John's protective charm flared — a Shield Charm neutralized the Memory Charm.

John's face darkened. This guy had dared attack him in the school?

He turned slowly, eyes cold, and said, "Looks like you're not as good a person as you pretend to be."

"Why… why didn't it work?" Lockhart stammered, shaken — his unbeatable Obliviate had failed for the first time.

John raised his wand and aimed it at Lockhart.

A flash of white light exploded in the office, cracks spiderwebbing across the walls.

All of Lockhart's framed photos were obliterated. The man himself slumped against the wall, his face pale with fear.

"Wait! I'll leave Hogwarts, I swear! Just don't hurt me!"

Lockhart panicked. He hadn't expected the boy to actually retaliate.

And that spell had been aimed right at his head — if it had hit, his skull would've exploded like a balloon.

While begging for mercy, Lockhart tried to reach for his wand again.

Just as his fingers neared it, John blasted a hole into the floor right beside his hand.

Lockhart froze.

John narrowed his eyes, thinking about how to deal with him next.