Wrangling with Wrinkles
A/N: Acknowledgements as usual to J K Rowling, who owns the copyright of all characters (except Buffy).
The action takes place at some time after the events of OotP, and is in fact a sequel to "Trafficking with Triffids", although it is not necessary to have read that first.
Prologue: February 13th
The exquisitely manicured hands trembled with anticipation as they opened the letter and spread it out flat. "My dearest, my darling, my dream-lover," it began, "I long for you, I yearn for you, I can't wait to make you my Valentine…" Like all its predecessors, which had been arriving in a steady stream ever since Christmas, it was unsigned, but it was also considerably less explicit than most of them. "I pride myself on being pretty broad-minded," the reader reflected, "but really some of these letters would bring a blush to anyone's cheeks…"
February 14th, morning
To Ron and Harry it seemed as though the whole castle had gone potty over Valentine's Day. Why, even Moaning Myrtle had left her bathroom and was sitting in a corner of the Great Hall, coyly holding hands with a ghost they had never seen before. As they followed Hermione to the Gryffindor table, they noticed a change at the staff table on the dais: Snape was nowhere to be seen, but in his place, wearing plum-coloured robes and waving genially to the students, was Gilderoy Lockhart. The other teachers didn't seem too happy about this; they were all sitting as far away from him as possible.
"Lockhart!" Ron gasped. "I didn't know he had recovered! I mean, I suppose he has recovered?"
Hermione reluctantly withdrew her gaze from the direction of the staff table. "You should read the "Daily Prophet" more closely," she snapped. "Only last Halloween, he was charged with stealing some triffids, but fortunately the Wizengamot accepted his defence that he had found them wandering loose and was keeping them until he could find their owner."
"Sounds fishy to me," said Ron. "And what's that plonker doing here anyway? Not teaching, surely?"
Hermione had gone rather red. "He was a very good teacher," she said shrilly, "his lessons were really interesting."
As it happened, they didn't have long to find out. First lesson of the day was double potions with the Slytherins, and when they gathered in the dungeon waiting for Snape, Lockhart swept into the room, now wearing robes of peacock blue: evidently he had found time to change after breakfast.
"Hallo, hallo," he called. "Don't worry about your potions master, he's just had to visit his mother, who's been taken ill. And recognising that I know even more about potions than he does, he pleaded with me to stand in for him while he's away. Fortunately, I was able to clear a few days in my crowded schedule, and oblige an old friend." All the girls were gazing at him in raptures, but sensing perhaps that some of the boys were sceptical about these claims, he went on: "Oh yes, I didn't defeat the basilisk just by brute force, you know. As soon as I had worked out where to find it, I set off, with Harry and Ron following me, and with my usual foresight I took my special anti-deglomerating potion to smear on Harry's sword – for full details, see the forthcoming second volume of my autobiography, "Magnificent Me". Advance orders now being taken at Flourish and Blotts.
"And now, I have a very special treat for you: you can help me test my famous new range of skin-care potions. This one is for curing wrinkles – not that any of us here have any problems in that way," he winked roguishly at the female students, "but you may know some less fortunate colleagues or relatives who could benefit from a regular application. "I am putting the formula on the board." He tapped the blank board with his wand, and it promptly collapsed to the ground and broke in two. "Never mind," he went on, "it was getting in the way there. And you'll find a second set of instructions on a piece of parchment pinned to the store cupboard. But I want you all to use different amounts of powdered troll toenail and of flobberworm droppings, and to keep a careful note of the exact quantities you use. Then we can see which makes the most effective potion. Right, begin now!"
The class went to work. Soon all the cauldrons were simmering away, but Harry noticed that whereas his potion was a murky grey, Hermione's was bright yellow and frothy, while Ron's looked like decayed treacle. Looking around, he could see potions of almost every colour and consistency.
"Right, that's enough," Lockhart called, "now's the time to test them. And for this, I've borrowed someone who's as wrinkly as they come – meet Buffy the bulldog." He prodded with his foot under his desk, and an elderly and arthritic bulldog emerged, blinking sleepily at the assembled class. "Now, Neville, let's start with you. Bring your cauldron up here, and we'll give Buffy a dose and see how far it cures his wrinkles."
The bulldog, now wide awake, was backing away in alarm. Neville gathered up his cauldron, but as he started to carry it to the front, he tripped and fell, dropping the cauldron whose contents splashed liberally over Crabbe and Goyle. Within a trice, their black robes had changed into long pink dresses. "Help, what's happened to me?" shrilled Goyle: not only had his voice shot up a couple of octaves, but he had also developed a decidedly prominent bosom, to go with the pink dress. Crabbe, who had received less of Neville's potion, was in a slightly better state: he at least was still flat-chested.
"Yes, well, one or two slight side-effects there," said Lockhart briskly, "but the point is that they are now totally free of wrinkles. Off you go, boys, to see Madam Pomfrey. The rest of you, your homework is to write a poem on four sides of parchment on the benefits my skin care potions will bring to humanity. Class dismissed!" And with that he swept hurriedly from the dungeon.
February 14th, evening
Severus Snape was in a particularly foul temper, even by his own exacting standards. Someone had confounded him, someone had sent him on a false errand to visit his mother (who although delighted to see him, had been in perfect health), and someone had it seemed persuaded him to ask Lockhart of all people to take his place. How had this happened? He had still only the haziest of recollections, but gradually his memory was returning.
Once back at the Castle, he hastened to his office, ignoring all polite enquiries about his mother's health. There, a quick inspection of his private stores confirmed his worst suspicions: his stock of the adductive potion, a new and supposedly highly secret alternative to the confundus charm that he had invented, was missing. If that had been surreptitiously administered to him, it would explain everything: after taking it, he would have been amenable to any persuasion, however unreasonable. And now he knew how, he had only to remember who. And when he did, that person would pay. Dearly.
Epilogue: February 15th, just after midnight
The cells of the Ministry of Magic are situated at its lowest level. No dementors guard them, but they are protected by an awesome array of charms that even a very talented wizard would find almost impossible to break. Gilderoy, although he would never admit it openly, knew in his heart of hearts that there was not the slightest chance he could escape.
The watch wizard had been on his rounds at midnight, and now he was quite alone, his whole world in ruins. Unemployed and hard up, he had schemed to wangle a full-time job at Hogwarts and then use the students to research a commercially viable potion – schemes which had comprehensively failed.
"No-one else even writes to me any more," he reflected bitterly, as he reached for a piece of parchment, "not even little Gladys Gudgeon. Oh well…" and sighing, he picked up his quill and began for the umpteenth time to pen the familiar words, "My dearest, my darling, my dream-lover…"
THE END