Bathsheda, Aurora, Septima, and Charity were spread out across Aurora’s floor, ankles tucked under them, surrounded by the soft chaos of pillows, snack tins, and one floating bottle of wine that kept drifting just out of reach.

“I got this carpet from Afghanistan last year,” Aurora said, tossing a handful of pistachios into a bowl. “Astronomy conference. Dust, goats, and one man who kept trying to read my palm between lectures.”

Septima ran her hand over the carpet’s edge, nodding. “Feels good.” Then, without missing a beat, “Did you get lucky with a star-master or not?”

Aurora threw a cushion at her face. “You’re all obsessed.”

Charity caught the pillow mid-air and hugged it. “That’s because you never deny it properly.”

“It’s because there’s nothing to deny,” Aurora muttered.

“Liar,” Bathsheda said, already swirling her glass. “I’ve seen the way you preen when we bring it up. Next thing you know, she’ll be casting constellations on her ceiling like a diary.”

“That was once,” Aurora snapped, red creeping up her cheeks.

Charity raised a brow. “Oh my god, it was real?”

Aurora pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Merlin, you’re like students with a rumour. I can’t sneeze without someone asking if it’s symbolic.”

Septima laughed softly. “Everything’s symbolic when you’re an astronomer.”

“Only if you’re sentimental,” Aurora said, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, and that only made them laugh harder.

Bathsheda leaned in, looking far too delighted. “Don’t change the subject. Who was he?”

“There was no he,” Aurora groaned, yanking the wine bottle down to refill her glass. “It was a bloody visual aid for the symposium.”

Septima nodded solemnly. “Ah yes. The ‘symposium.'”

Charity snorted. “Did your symposium kiss you goodnight too?”

“Do you want me to throw you off the tower?”

Bathsheda grinned. “Let her finish her drink first.”

Aurora made a dramatic show of drinking straight from the bottle.

Charity huffed into her wineglass. “I was actually hoping to meet a handsome professor here, but so far we’ve got an old eccentric headmaster, a lone wolf teaching Defence, who I’m reserving judgement on until the curse finishes with him, no disrespect to Flitwick, but he was like a father when I was a student, Hagrid, bless him, too obsessed with anything that’s not human… and Snape.”

Aurora choked on her pistachios. “Wow.”

“Don’t ‘wow’ me,” Charity muttered. “You’ve seen the staffroom.”

Bathsheda grinned. “She’s not wrong.”

“Snape doesn’t even react unless it’s to sneer,” Charity went on. “He talks like we’re all beneath his quill.”

“Technically, we are,” Septima said. “He’s Head of House.”

“That man hasn’t smiled since the Goblin Rebellion,” Charity snapped. “And even then, only because it ended with blood.”

Aurora snorted. “I think your bar might be a little high.”

“I’m not asking for much!” Charity threw a peanut at the floating wine bottle. It missed. “Just a man with working knees, minimal curses in his past, and a sense of humour.”

Bathsheda leaned back, swirling her glass. “That rules out every professor except Rosier.”

“Well, he is taken,” Septima said, and all three of them groaned in unison.

Bathsheda didn’t even try to hold it in. She threw her arms up like she’d just won the bloody Triwizard Cup. “He’s taken. By me, thank you very much!” She flopped back on the bed with a theatrical grin. “Merlin, that felt good to say out loud.”

Aurora sipped her wine, unimpressed. “You’ve been saying it out loud for years. Every staff meeting, three corridors, and once in the owlery.”

Septima let out a sigh and sank deeper into the cushion, melting into it. “I was hopeful with Lockhart. Who knew he was a fraud.”

Aurora snorted. “Everyone who spent more than ten minutes near the man. Or read his books with both eyes open.”

Charity tilted her head. “Still shocks me. How did no one notice for that long?”

“Too busy being charmed by his teeth,” Aurora muttered. “Or too thick to question a man who wrote about taming Banshees with his singing voice. We knew the moment he walked into the staff meeting last year.”

“He did sparkle a bit,” Septima added, mostly to herself.

Aurora made a face. “He wore lilac dragonhide boots in May. Indoors. Should’ve known when he asked if the basilisk was French,”

Charity blinked. “Wait, he said that?”

“First staff meeting. Said the name sounded continental.”

Septima reached lazily for the floating wine. “We can thank Rosier for exposing him. He made a list. Every single one of Lockhart’s claimed achievements, matched them to the real people who’d done the work. Well, everyone except the Feng Shui Marauder. Heard that one’s still a mystery. Not blaming though.”

She shivered, pulling her robes tighter. “That man… never mind. I don’t even want to name him.”

“Marauder aside…” Aurora nodded. “He cross-referenced texts, tracked citations, dug up the original interviews. Even managed to find the bloke who actually cured that entire village of cursed canaries. Turns out it was just some poor Irish hedge-witch and a stick of salt.”

“He found everything,” Septima added. “Even the bad translations.”

Charity’s face lit up. “I read that. It was brilliant. Neat as anything. Proper takedown.”

“Gave the credit to everyone who’d been Obliviated, too,” Aurora said. “Sent copies to the board.”

Septima hummed. “That’s the kind of revenge I like. Boring. Scholarly. Irrefutable.”

Bathsheda grinned. “It was the footnotes that killed him.”

Aurora raised her glass. “To footnotes.”

Glasses clinked.

“The board nearly fainted,” Bathsheda said with relish. “Half of them thought Lockhart was untouchable, the other half were still buying his shampoo.”

Charity blinked. “He had a shampoo?”

“Branded,” Aurora said grimly. “Smelled like dragonfruit and fraud.”

Septima laughed, low and mean. “He should’ve marketed hubris instead. Stronger scent, lasts longer.”

“Cass told me he almost included a bibliography of Lockhart’s unpaid debts,” Bathsheda added. “Decided it would be unsporting.”

“That’s restraint,” Aurora said. “If I’d found that much evidence, I’d have printed it on posters.”

Septima reached for a peanut, popped it in her mouth, and added, “Remember his chapter on the Wailing Widow of Wrexham?”

Charity gave a little laugh. “Didn’t he say he seduced her ghost to silence?”

Aurora snorted. “She’s still haunting Wrexham, still wailing. Interviewed last year. Called him a ‘pompous man-pigeon with trousers too tight to trust.'”

“Too tight to trust,” Bathsheda repeated, cracking up.

Aurora sipped. “Now that’s a book I’d read.”

Septima leaned back, smirking faintly. “They printed it as a dramatic expose. ‘Lockhart’s Legacy: The Lies Beneath the Smile.'”

Aurora sighed. “You know what really annoyed me about him?”

“Everything?” Septima offered.

Aurora waved that off. “No. I mean, yes. But mainly, it made people think glamour was genius. That noise and sparkle meant knowledge.”

Bathsheda huffed, “That’s always been the trick, hasn’t it? Be loud enough, shine bright enough, and no one asks where you got your stories.”

“Until someone ruins the show,” Septima said.

“With grudge,” Aurora added.

Bathsheda raised her glass again. “To grudges.”

Charity tilted hers in answer. “And to professors with too much time on their hands.”

Aurora chuckled. “And too many receipts.”

***

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle…

McGonagall walked, back straight, bun tighter than most castle bolts. She was heading for Flitwick’s office. Just the usual Easter break ritual. When classes thinned out and students scattered like startled sheep, the professors had their own way of passing time. This week’s excuse, Interdepartmental Academic Review and Pedagogical Peer Reflection (read gossip).

When she arrived, Sprout was already planted in the armchair closest to the fire, boots off, feet up, and half a biscuit in her mouth.

“Oh, Minerva. Firewhisky?” Flitwick asked from where he stood on a stool behind the drinks trolley.

McGonagall didn’t pause. “Always.”

He poured three glasses, handing them out, then lowered himself into the high-backed chair with the sort of sigh that meant his knees had spent the whole day protesting the existence of staircases.

They drank.

First sip was fire, second was forgiveness.

McGonagall sat back, pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “If Trelawney asks me one more time if I’ve seen the signs of Saturn in Lupin’s hairline, I will hex her teacups into fine dust.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Sprout said cheerfully.

Flitwick chuckled into his glass. “Lupin’s still alive, then?”

“For now.”

“Hmm,” he mused, swirling the whisky. “Snape looked ready to boil him into broth the other night.”

Sprout reached for the biscuit tin. “Maybe he’s writing a book. On the Passive-Aggressive Potions Master: A Study in Brooding and Bad Lighting.”

McGonagall arched an eyebrow. “Chapter one: Why My Hairline Blames Gryffindor.”

Flitwick nearly choked. “That’s cruel.”

“Accurate,” Sprout said, taking another sip. “But cruel.”

She then leaned back and said, “What’s your take on Rosier?”

McGonagall didn’t answer right away. She swirled her glass. “Effective.”

“Mm,” Flitwick murmured. “Not the type what I expected from a Rosier.”

“He’s not his brother.”

“Not even close,” Sprout agreed. “Saw him give a Hufflepuff ten points for correcting his pronunciation on a cursed fungus.”

“That’s because he respects intelligence more than bloodlines,” McGonagall said. “It’s principle with him.”

Sprout bit into another biscuit. “He’s good with the kids. Not coddling. But fair. Even the Slytherins don’t flinch around him.”

“Cassian’s sharp,” Flitwick said after a moment. “Bit too sharp, maybe. Gets under the others’ skin. Especially Severus.”

McGonagall smiled thin. “That may be half the reason I like him.”

“What is the other?” Flitwick grinned.

Sprout gave a soft chuckle. “It’s the cheek, isn’t it?”

McGonagall didn’t rise to it. “He’s modern. Knows when to push. And when not to. That’s rare.”

Flitwick tilted his head. “He’s hiding something, though.”

McGonagall glanced at him. “Aren’t we all?”

“Mm. But his is recent.”

Sprout shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t end with another basilisk, I’m happy.”

There was a pause.

“Wouldn’t put it past Hogwarts,” Flitwick muttered.

McGonagall finished her whisky. “I’ll take a cursed ceiling over another Ministry investigation. One more owl from Fudge and I’ll transfigure his quill into a beetle and set it loose in his hair.”

Sprout snorted into her drink. “Can’t wait to see the Prophet headline for that one.”

McGonagall got up and reached for the bottle. “Refills?”

Three glasses clinked.

“Always.”

—

While this chapter might seem like it’s failing the Bechdel Test, that wasn’t the intention. In my simple mind, the chapter was following a straightforward opening to ending sequence, and since my limited brain cells fail the complexity check, I had to tie the conversation to the bits I wanted to reveal here, namely, what happened to Lockhart and his victims.

Aside from the participants, the chapter was really on Lockhart, his downfall, and how Cassian brought justice to the people he’d Obliviated. But yeah, I can see how my choice of characters in that setup could cause the misunderstanding. Thanks, and I hope this helps.

(Check Here)

Here, nothing happened. Again.

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