183: Nolan’s Bad Temper

Utter nonsense.

Nolan didn't believe a single word of Lockhart's ridiculous excuse.

This wasn't "differentiated instruction" or "tailored teaching."

No—this was pure idiocy.

If a professor could hand out this kind of quiz, there were only two explanations: either Gilderoy Lockhart was an irredeemable narcissistic buffoon, or he knew absolutely nothing about actual Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Honestly, what a joke.

Nolan von Draugr hadn't come to Hogwarts to waste his time listening to this idiot ramble about his own greatness. He had come to learn magic.

So why the hell was he supposed to sit here and listen to this fool?

Without hesitation, Nolan incinerated the parchment with a flick of his wand, watching it curl into ashes before standing up. His grip tightened around Eve's wrist.

"We're leaving," he said coldly. "This class is a complete waste of time."*

Eve, surprisingly, didn't protest at all. She swiftly packed up her books, and the two of them strode out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom without a second glance.

Lockhart and the students stared after them, stunned into silence.

Nolan, however, had no regrets.

"I can't believe this," he muttered as they walked through the corridors, his frustration clear. "I thought we'd actually have a decent professor this year—but look at this mess."*

Eve offered a sympathetic smile. "Maybe it's just hard for Hogwarts to find a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The position is cursed, after all. Only wizards who are either extremely confident or extremely stupid would accept it. Lockhart, obviously, is the latter."*

They moved quickly through the empty halls. Most younger students were still in class, and the sixth and seventh years were likely studying in their common rooms.

The castle was eerily quiet—a rare occurrence during the daytime.

Eve's eyes lit up with excitement. "I've never skipped class before!" she admitted, grinning. "Not even in primary school, back in the Muggle world! I don't even know what people do when they have free time while everyone else is in class!"*

Nolan chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Oh? If you enjoy it so much, we could skip a few more. You know, not every Hogwarts class is important. We could start with something boring… like History of Magic."*

"Hey! History of Magic is important!"* she protested immediately.

"Oh, listen to yourself," Nolan teased.

That Evening—Slytherins Returning from Herbology

The Slytherins made their way back to the castle, chatting about that afternoon's lesson.

"Nolan, did you see it?" Miles called excitedly. "That Mandrake I pulled out looked exactly like Roosevelt!"*

Montague frowned. "Roosevelt? Who's that?"

"A President of the United States during World War II," Eve explained. "A rather remarkable leader."*

Montague looked even more confused. "Uh… okay, but what's World War II?"

Eve sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, I should've known better than to ask a pureblood that question."*

Miles, meanwhile, was still boasting. He slung an arm around Nolan's shoulder. "Come on, mate, did you see my Roosevelt or not? Huh? What are you even thinking about?"

Nolan's gaze was distant. "Mandrakes are useful potion ingredients," he murmured. "Maybe I should stockpile a few…"

As they entered the castle, they ran into a group of Hufflepuffs, who immediately began whispering amongst themselves.

The moment they spotted Nolan, their hushed conversation grew even louder.

Eve tugged on his sleeve. "They're talking about you."*

"Oh, of course they are!" Miles laughed. "After all, our dear Nolan has been putting on quite the show lately! First, he kicked a rude, disrespectful Gryffindor across the Great Hall, and now he's skipping class with his girlfriend to dodge that insufferable Lockhart. So badass. Who the hell would still call him some prim and proper pretty boy now?"*

"I'm not violent," Nolan said flatly. "I'm always calm."*

"Nolan just hates being photographed," Eve cut in, then hesitated. "…And maybe also hates Lockhart?"

She glanced at him. "You were in The Daily Prophet over the summer, remember? You wouldn't let a single photographer take your picture. It's not your fault that Gryffindor boy didn't get the hint."*

Montague sighed. "But honestly, who doesn't hate Lockhart? You have no idea what he did after you left—it was an absolute disaster. Problem is, we don't have the guts to skip class like you did. If we did, Lockhart would dock points, and Snape wouldn't be happy about that."*

As they walked, Miles and Montague continued detailing the chaos that had unfolded in Defense Against the Dark Arts after Nolan and Eve had left.

When they entered the Great Hall, they immediately noticed a tall figure waiting by the Slytherin table.

Miles let out a groan of despair.

"Oh, bloody hell... Lockhart's here for you, mate."*

Nolan merely shrugged and continued walking, leading the group of Slytherins forward. He didn't even spare Lockhart a glance as he took his seat.

Poor Professor Lockhart.

He knew he had to talk to Nolan.

Of course, he had considered docking points and leaving the problem to Severus Snape. After all, if there was anyone who could handle a troublesome, sharp-tongued student like Nolan von Draugr, it would be the fearsome Potions Master.

But to Lockhart's dismay, he soon realized that even Professor Snape seemed reluctant to deal with the boy.

And that? That was worrying.

What was he supposed to do? Ignore the fact that Nolan refused to attend his classes? If he allowed it, who else would respect him as a professor?

Nolan von Draugr wasn't just any student—he was one of the most influential figures of his year. If someone like him deemed Defense Against the Dark Arts worthless, then Lockhart's reputation would collapse.

So, despite the humiliation, Lockhart maintained his signature brilliant smile and waited beside the Slytherin table for Nolan to return.

Unfortunately, he hadn't expected this little brat to ignore him completely.

The professor's dazzling smile froze on his face.

It took him a moment to recover before he finally cleared his throat and forced himself to speak.

"Ahem—Nolan, I must say, I deeply regret the—ah—disagreement we seem to have had regarding my teaching methods..."

Lockhart lowered his voice and took a seat beside Nolan, trying to sound reasonable.

Nolan, however, didn't even look up. He continued buttering Eve's bread with an unreadable expression, answering in an almost lazy murmur:

"There's no disagreement, Professor Lockhart."*

Lockhart brightened immediately. "Ah, wonderful! So, I can expect to see you in my next class, yes?"

"I wouldn't count on it, Professor," Nolan replied coolly. "Unlike your lessons, I actually have important things to do."*

Lockhart's face darkened.

"More important things?" he asked stiffly. "Such as?"

Nolan finally looked at him, his gray-blue eyes glinting with mischief.

"Who knows?" he mused, setting the butter knife down. "Maybe... spending time with Eve? Drinking tea? Chatting about interesting things?"

With deliberate ease, he stood up and reached for the pudding bowl, casually scooping a generous portion into Eve's dish.

"One thing's for sure," he added, his tone indifferent. "I won't be wasting my time sitting in a meaningless class. Even if I live as long as a high elf, I wouldn't want to waste my lifespan like that. Don't you agree, Eve?"

Eve, who had been completely immersed in reading one of Nolan's handwritten notes, barely registered the conversation.

Still holding her spoon between her teeth, she absentmindedly responded, "Mm? Oh—yeah, sure. Whatever you say."*

Nolan turned back to Lockhart with a mocking smile.

"See, Professor? No conflict between us at all," he said smoothly, reaching for the silver pitcher of special tomato juice—his usual drink. "You can continue teaching your books, and I can continue doing something worthwhile. Just like today. Isn't that wonderful?"

Lockhart's face had gone an alarming shade of pale green.

Realizing there was no winning this battle, he stiffly stood up and stormed away from the Slytherin table, his pride in tatters.

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