Harry Potter and the Looking Glass House

by Potter47

After Harry's fifth year, a new neighbor turns up on Privet Drive--what does he want with Aunt Petunia? Why are the students acting so strangely--cursing even their closest friends? And will the new professor present answers--or only more riddles? Pre-HBP

2. The Return of Gilderoy Lockhart

HARRY POTTER and the
LOOKING-GLASS HOUSE
by Potter47

— CHAPTER TWO —

THE LONG-AWAITED RETURN
OF GILDEROY LOCKHART

The days crept by—the first of August, then the second, the third, all utterly uneventful. A week had passed before anybody knew the difference—the days hot, humid, blending into one another like a ghost into a hazy mist—and soon, August was nearly a third over with.

Before Gilderoy Lockhart's appearance on Privet Drive, Harry might have expected to spend these days lazing about on his bed doing nothing in particular—maybe enjoying the year's harvest of birthday presents (which, as it happened, included a book of Quidditch photographs from Ron, continually reenacting some of the most spectacular plays from the previous season; a box of chocolates from Ginny; and a tiny note from Fred and George promising a brilliant surprise to arrive within the next few days, a sentiment which made Harry more than a teensy bit wary)—but indeed, the days progressed in a far less enjoyable fashion.

Harry had been increasingly on edge since the morning of his birthday, when he had first seen Lockhart downstairs, merrymaking with Aunt Petunia. He'd spent the majority of the following days crouched in front of his window, peering out across the street at number seven, as though he thought it might explode at any moment. Really, he was no better than all the housewives of Privet Drive, who spent their time snooping on the neighbors in a no-doubt similar fashion.

This, however, Harry did not mind so much—what irked him to a far greater degree was Lockhart's inability to remain cooped up in his new house for long—invariably, he would turn up at the door of the Dursleys' home in the early afternoon and spend hours chatting away with Aunt Petunia over a seemingly endless supply of tea, only departing when Uncle Vernon was due to be home from work. Harry spent these hours sitting beside his bedroom door, which he left open just the slightest bit so that he could hear the goings-on below. It seemed to him that Lockhart and his aunt had rapidly become the very best of friends, and he did not like it one bit.

So far, Lockhart had given no impression whatsoever that he recognized Harry—or, indeed, that he was a wizard at all. Of course, any admission of the magical variety would have immediately soured the budding friendship with Petunia—but arrcercertainly, making friends couldn't really be Lockhart's only intention in moving to Privet Drive? It had to have something to do with Harry... and more than likely, it had something to do with Lord Voldemort.

As soon as Harry had returned to his bedroom on that first day, he had written two very similar letters, both regarding Lockhart's arrival—one to Hermione, sent with Hedwig, and one to Ron, sent with Pigwidgeon, who had (along with Errol) just delivered the Weasleys' gifts to him. He wanted to know what they thought Lockhart might be up to, and what he should do about it. Just before giving the letters to the owls, he remembered to jot down hurried thank-yous for the presents, as well.

The replies had both arrived by the next evening. Hermione's came first, which Hedwig dropped rather unceremoniously onto Harry's head before flying back into her cage—Harry thought perhaps she was tired of flying back and forth to Hermione's house, and wanted something a bit more exciting to do.

"Sorry, Hedwig," said Harry as he tore open the envelope. "Next time, maybe."

Dear Harry,

That certainly does seem to be rather out of the ordinary, but I don't think there's any sense in jumping to conclusions… Dumbledore's said many times that you're perfectly safe at your aunt and uncle's, so if Lockhart had any intention of doing you harm, surely he wouldn't be able to come that close?

You probably won't even entertain the idea, but I do think it might be possible that the whole thing is a coincidence. (Don't you harrumph at me, Harry, hear me out!) The last time we saw Lockhart, he seemed almost completely out of sorts, but he HAD been making progress, remember? Well, maybe he's recovered enough so that he could function in Muggle society but not quite enough to be able to live as a proper wizard, and it was just sheer coincidence that the house they assigned him to was so close to yours? I've looked it up, they DO do that sort of thing at St. Mungo's—temporary relocation, so that the patients don't have to stay in the hospital quite so long—and the more I think of it, the more it seems to be the only reasonable explanation…

Regardless, I think you'd be wise to write to Dumbledore, just in case—he should know about anything unusual, don't you agree? Let me know if anything else happens, and I hope to see you soon.

With love from,

Hermione

Ron's reply came soon after, and it sounded slightly different:

Harry,

ARE YOU BLOODY JOKING? This has got to have something to do with You-Know-Who. I would've sooner expected Ludo Bagman to move into the flat above Fred and George's shop—things like this don't just HAPPEN, you know?

Do you reckon maybe it's a Death Eater using Polyjuice? I asked my dad if Lockhart was still in St. Mungo's, but he said he wasn't sure, he'd ask around at work, but I'll let you know when he gets back to me... My dad thought I was just curious, you know, but Ginny's been looking at me funny ever since, she thinks something must be up for me to ask such a random... Anyway, be careful, don't do anything stupid.

You'll be out of there soon anyway, although I don't know the details. I overheard Fred and George talking to Dad about something big and secretive happening next week, so hopefully I'll see you soon.

Ron

Harry did not feel even the slightest bit relieved having read the letters. If anything, they only added to his confusion. Part of what Hermione had said made sense: he was supposed to be protected here at the Dursleys, and Lockhart had walked right into the front hall without any problems. So did that mean Lockhart didn't want to hurt him? Was that how it worked? He wished that Dumbledore had explained to him how the protection functioned in a bit greater detail…

Dumbledore.

That was where he certainly disagreed with Hermione. Dumbledore was busy enough as it was, organizing the Order's resistance against Voldemort—surely he didn't need to be bothered with Lockhart's appearance, strange as it might seem, considering that nobody had actually been threatened in any way? Besides, Dumbledore had trusted Lockhart back in Harry's second year—now, it wasn't hard to imagine the headmaster advising Harry that everyone deserved a second chance, no matter how they might have acted in the past.

Harry looked out his window at number seven, once again, and shook his head. The house was utterly unthreatening. It looked just as it had always looked, before Harry had ever thought to pay it the slightest bit of attention—indeed, it looked just like all the other houses on Privet Drive. It was more than a bit hard to believe there was a real danger to beware inside that house—even if he had seen Lockhart with his own eyes.

But then—just as he was watching the house—he thought he saw something peculiar. Had that been the flash of a spell illuminating one of the windows on the first floor? It was gone as soon as it had come, so Harry couldn't be sure. Maybe it was just a trick of the light—the sun shone as bright as ever, reflecting bright off of the windowpanes of number seven. There was no way to know for sure—unless it happened again.

And so, Harry continued to watch—and watch, and watch. Nothing else appeared for a few minutes—and Harry was about to resign himself to another long day of futile snooping when, quite unexpectedly, the front door of number seven burst open and Gilderoy Lockhart appeared. This in itself was nothing new—Lockhart had, of course, emerged far too often for Harry's tastes, seeming always intent on an afternoon with Aunt Petunia—but this time, he was not empty-handed. Instead, he held a very large platter, which served as a showcase for a most elaborately assembled pudding—far more impressive than the one Aunt Petunia had carried across the street in the opposite direction, a few days before. Lockhart seemed almost sickeningly pleased with his creation from the look upon his face, and began to whistle a merry tune as he made his way across Privet Drive, being sure to look both ways before stepping into the road, his elegant confection sparkling in the sunlight.

Harry switched positions, hurrying back to his place by the bedroom door, to listen to the conversation as it drifted up from the front hall.

"Oh! Gil, it's simply lovely…"

"You inspired me, Petunia, I simply had to try one of my own!"

There was that voice again—so familiar, so false. Harry wasn't sure if he could take very much more of it. He held his wand, clasped in his hand—part of him longed to simply confront the man, to demand he reveal what he was up to. It wouldn't really be illegal, would it? He wouldn't be using magic in front of anybody who didn't already know about it. But then, if Lockhart were really up to no good, Harry had no idea what he was up to, and so he couldn't very well prepare for how he might react.

"It seems such a shame to waste this on just the two of us," said Aunt Petunia, her voice glowingly affectionate. "It's so beautiful, you ought to throw a dinner party or something, show it off to all the neighbors…"

"But I made it for you," said Lockhart, his voice turning silky in a way Harry didn't like at all. He wished—for perhaps the first time in his life—that Uncle Vernon would come home early. Harry imagined Petunia's blush was lighting up the entire downstairs.

"Oh, Gil…"

"You go on, try it first… I'm just dying to know what you think!"

Harry heard the gentle clinks of dishes and silverware as Petunia prepared to eat her helping of the pudding. After a minute, the sound of enjoyment, and then:

"Oh, it's delicious, Gil! Simply to die for…"

Another clink as she hurried to take another bite.

"Oh, I am so glad you like it," said Lockhart, his wide smile evident in his tone.

"Aren't you going to eat any yourself?" asked Petunia, still eating bite after bite.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Lockhart. "I'm stuffed, simply stuffed. But you have plenty of mouths to feed over here… I'm sure your son would enjoy it very much, and your nephew… Harry, yes?"

Petunia's tone became notably less natural.

"Oh. Yes. Harry. Lovely boy."

"Pity he didn't stick around to chat when I met him," said Lockhart. "Seemed to be such a charming chap."

"Oh, he is, certainly," said Petunia. She paused, and then, uncertainly: "You don't mind if I have just a little bit more…?"

"Oh no, certainly, go right ahead, it's all yours. But what was I saying? Ah, yes. Harry, Harry. I would love to speak to him some time. Perhaps he would like to visit me across the road sometime, for tea?"

Petunia sounded even odder than before, when she answered. "Oh yes, that's a fabulous idea. He is such a delightful young man. I'm sure he would love to."

"Oh, jolly good!" said Lockhart. "Ah, look at the time! I do have to be getting back, there is something I've got to be working on at home, but I hope you enjoy the rest of the pudding, and be sure to share with your lovely boys! Harry can visit any time he likes, I'll be at home all afternoon."

"Oh, don't go so soon—?" said Petunia, struggling to swallow a mouthful while speaking, which was more than a bit shockingly rude for her. "Vernon won't be home for another hour at the least—"

"I'm sorry, dear, I must be going!"

And then, with a soft smacking noise that sounded alarmingly like a kiss, he left. (Harry could only hope it had been on Petunia's cheek, but he didn't like thinking about anything of the sort, regardless.)

As soon as the door had shut, Petunia's voice rang out up the stairs:

"HARRY POTTER! DUDLEY! COME DOWN HERE!"

Harry blinked, unsure of what to do—she would surely be trying to convince him to go over to Lockhart's house. Reason (which sounded an awful lot like Hermione) told him that venturing into the house of a man who'd attacked him, for a spot of tea, would probably be more than a bit unwise. At the same time, there was the nagging longing to discover what on earth Lockhart was up to—and maybe, that would be revealed to him if he went to number seven…

"WHY?" hollered Dudley from his room.

"There's puddi—" began Petunia, but before she had finished the word, Dudley's bedroom door slammed open, and Dudley himself began thundering down the stairs. Harry grabbed his wand, tucked it into his pocket, covered it with the end of his t-shirt, and followed his cousin.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Dudley was already decimating an overly large serving of the dessert, and Petunia had a much smaller dish in her hands. She offered it to Harry, who shook his head.

"Oh, I insist," said Petunia, smiling an unnatural smile. "It's just scrumptious. Truly."

Harry took the plate and sat down at the table. He didn't eat it—instead, he watched Dudley as he devoured his own serving with Olympic speed.

"Harry," said Petunia, still using that strange, most unPetuniaish voice. "Gil invited you over to his house today for tea, and I have to insist you oblige. We have to be good neighbors, after all…"

"Aunt Petunia," he said. "How much do you really know about this Gil fellow?"

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "He's a wonderful man—isn't he, Dudley? Wouldn't you go over there if Gil were to invite you so graciously into his home?"

Harry looked back to Dudley, who had always seemed just as disapproving of Lockhart as his father. Surely Dudley would—

"Oh definitely," Dudley said, nodding vigorously as he shoveled more pudding into his mouth. "I love Gil."

Harry raised an eyebrow at his bulging cousin. It seemed that the pudding had cleared away all Dudley's doubts about Lockhart, which wasn't exactly surprising.

"Really, though," he said. "You just met him a week ago, and now you're—"

"Harry Potter, don't you dare insinuate that Gil is anything but the finest of gentlemen—you only met him for a few seconds, I hardly think you are qualified to judge his character—"

"Actually," said Harry, "I've known him for years."

Petunia furrowed her brow, confused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Harry thought this might be the best tactic—maybe Petunia would refuse to have anything to do with Lockhart if she knew the truth. She had always despised magic, after all…

"Well," he said. "You're not going to believe me, but Gil is a wiz—"

"DON'T YOU DARE!" shouted Aunt Petunia, suddenly fuming. "You will not besmirch Gil's name in my house—you'll go over there this instant or you'll not be eating any meals for the rest of the holidays!" And with that, she grabbed the plate of pudding from Harry's place at the table and marched away with it, slamming it down onto the counter as an exclamation point.

Evidently, she did not believe him.

Harry sighed, eyeing the pudding as it sparkled in the bright sunlight of the countertop. Suddenly, he recalled the flash of light he thought he'd seen earlier, just before Lockhart had appeared with the pudding the first time he'd seen it sparkle in the sun. Looking back at his aunt, acting so strangely, the pieces connected in Harry's brain: Lockhart must have tampered with this pudding.

He grasped the handle of his wand, beneath the table, and resolved himself: if Lockhart was going to magically convince Harry's relatives into doing his bidding—getting Harry to come across the street—then Harry would have to confront him. Lockhart was hardly the greatest duelist in the world, anyway—surely Harry would be able to handle anything he might throw his way.

"All right," said Harry. "I'll go have tea with Gil."

"Off you go, then," said Petunia, and before Harry had made it to the front door, she was eating his untouched plate of pudding, making savory noises and seeming to enjoy herself beyond measure. Harry found this somewhat disconcerting.

It was overwhelmingly warm outside. Harry was used to the heat, spending most of his days with his bedroom window open to spite the Dursley's air conditioning, so that owls could come and go freely, but still, he found the air exceedingly oppressive as he stepped out the front door. It was as though his whole body was about an inch from the fire in the Gryffindor common room—and he found himself wishing that he owned a pair of short pants.

There were, of course, more important things to worry about at the moment, however—what would he find inside the house across the street? What if the living room was filled with Death Eaters? What if it was all just a clever trap, to lure him into Voldemort's clutches? That seemed unlikely, what with the protective charms of Privet Drive—but still, he held his wand tightly, while trying to keep it hidden.

He rang the doorbell of number seven—it chimed a loud, cheerful song for a moment, before the door sprung open, and Harry was met with the familiar face of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Harry, Harry, Harry!" Lockhart exclaimed, sing-song and cheery. "How delightful to see you again! Come inside, come inside—it has been too long…"

There it was—he knew.

As soon as Lockhart shut the door behind him, Harry raised his wand.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, expecting Lockhart to pull out his own at any moment.

"Ah, ha ha!" chortled Lockhart. "I see you're not using the proper dueling position—now, didn't I teach you anything at my little Dueling Club, dear boy? Come now, let's get that tea—"

"What…" Harry repeated, unrelenting, "…are you doing here?"

"Oh do be patient, we'll get to that in a moment—won't you make yourself at home, first?"

Despite himself, Harry took his eyes off of Lockhart and glanced around the place—the room itself appeared precisely the same as the Dursleys' front hall, only reversed. At first, he thought it was painted a different color as well, but on second glance, the abundance of brown surrounding him was not the walls at all, but an inordinate amount of cardboard boxes. Evidently, Lockhart had yet to finish unpacking.

"I'll put on the tea," said Lockhart, "you go have a seat in the living room. You'll know where it is, of course…" He trailed off, disappearing into the kitchen.

Harry, somewhat reluctantly, did as he was told. The living room was, once again, filled to the brim with cardboard, although it also held a pale purple loveseat with a fancy-looking gold design embroidered on the cushions, and a matching armchair. Harry sat in the chair—somewhat worried that if he chose the larger couch, Lockhart might get it in his head to sit directly beside him—and from his new vantage point, he could see another notable item which was very definitely not encapsulated in cardboard.

Above the fireplace, where in the Dursleys' household resided an assortment of photographs of Dudley at various stages of rotund childhood, Lockhart had situated a large, golden mirror. It was ornately crafted—very reminiscent, Harry thought, of the Mirror of Erised, but considerably smaller. Harry looked at himself in the mirror for a minute, half expecting to see his family reflected beside him, but no—it was just him. The only difference he could see was that his lightning scar was facing the opposite direction—which was to be expected, of course.

The high-pitched whistle of a teakettle stirred Harry from his reverie, and he looked away from the beautiful mirror—Lockhart soon appeared with the steaming hot pot of tea, along with two mugs dangling by their handles from the fingers unengaged by the pot. He nudged a cardboard box over to the couches with his foot, placed the tea and the mugs atop it, and sat down on the loveseat Harry had declined.

"Now," said Lockhart, pouring two mugs of tea, "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here!" He chuckled and took a sip of his own tea.

"Yes," said Harry, accepting his mug with one hand but placing it right back down on the cardboard-box-cum-coffee-table. His wand was still at the ready, although it didn't seem that Lockhart had his own anywhere handy.

"Well," said Lockhart, "I have just been released from that dreadful hospital! And I am eager to get back to work, you know—"

Harry blinked.

"What do you mean, get back to work? You don't think—after all you did—you don't think you're going to go back to teaching at Hogwarts—"

"Oh no, no, of course not!" said Lockhart hurriedly. "Well. I suppose I should start from the beginning, eh?"

"That would be fine with me," said Harry.

"Well. Let's see. When I was about to be released from St. Mungo's, the Healers—dreadful, just dreadful people, really—they encouraged me to remain in the Muggle world, you see, until I'm fully back up to snuff in all senses, back up to my usual magical expertise—well. They certainly expected a bit more of me in that regard, didn't they? Thought I'd be charming the pants off of all the witches—oh dear, that was a terrible example, but you know what I mean! They—well, they thought I'd be quite tremendously magical, you know, from what I wrote—"

"—from all your lies, you mean," Harry reminded him.

"Tsk tsk, it's rude to interrupt, Harry. Where was I? Ah yes. They felt it would be best if I tried my darnedest to blend in for the time being, and told me to pick any nice little Muggle village and they would clear up all the details—I could move right in, you know. And I thought to myself, what on earth am I going to do in the Muggle world?"

So far this sounded quite a lot like Hermione's theory. Harry wasn't sure if he believed it, however. Lockhart continued:

"Well—then I said to myself—what is my calling? And of course! I am a born writer, as you know, and who did I know who would be just fascinating to write about?"

Harry was quite sure, from past experience, that Lockhart's next word would be "ME!" or "Myself!" but instead, he said:

"Why, you of course! The Muggles will think your life is just remarkably good story-telling, won't they? They'll be simply enchanted! A fantasy novel! "Harry Potter"—such a ring to it, such a glorious ring to it, as a title, you know. And so I told my Healers, my awful companions of so many empty years, I told them: Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. They thought nothing of it, of course. But here I am! And now it comes to the kicker, the climax, the big moment: Harry, I simply must interview you, if you would let me? Please, dear boy. My livelihood depends on it."

Harry could hardly believe he hadn't heard wrong—perhaps he had fallen asleep, very suddenly, and dreamt that Lockhart had said… that? It seemed so silly, so innocuous, so anticlimactic.

"Let me get this all straight," he said. "You're here—after all this time, after trying to erase me and Ron's memories, you get out of the hospital and you've moved in across the street from me—and you make friends with my aunt, and you give her that pudding to make me come across the street to talk to you… because you want to write a book?"

"Precisely!" exclaimed Lockhart, clearly delighted that Harry had followed along satisfactorily. "Exactly true!"

"You… want to write a children's book about my life and publish it as fiction? For Muggles to buy?"

Lockhart looked slightly puzzled, now. "Why, yes," he said. "That's what I've just told you."

Harry still wasn't sure if he could believe this—if Lockhart's words were to be taken at face value. But it certainly didn't sound like Voldemort at work, anymore—this sounded very much like Lockhart being Lockhart.

"Not a chance," he said.

Lockhart's face fell dramatically. "But why?" he asked.

"I'm not going to sell my life story to you, or to anybody else—" His mind wandered back to Rita Skeeter's attempts to report on his life, two years before, and how terribly that whole situation had been. He didn't feel like repeating it, even if no one would know the stories were true.

Lockhart did not seem ready to take no for an answer.

"Oh, please, Harry—don't make me beg—I'm a poor man, you know—hospital bills are absolutely through the roof these days, you have no idea… I would pass a certain percentage onto you, of course…"

"I'm not interested in your money, Lockhart, and I'm not going to help you."

"Oh, dear, dear boy, please—just imagine it! The long-awaited return of Gilderoy Lockhart to the bestseller lists! Not quite the same lists, of course—but still—"

"No."

Harry stood. Lockhart looked miserably disappointed, and he didn't feel like watching him mope about—it was not an attitude that suited him, and really, it was somewhat unsettling to see.

"I think I'm done here," he said, and headed back for the front door.

"But—you haven't even touched your tea!"

Harry almost laughed. Did Lockhart really think he would be so stupid as to drink the tea, after what he'd done to Petunia's pudding?

"No thanks," said Harry. And with one last glance at the ornate mirror above the fireplace, Harry left number seven, Privet Drive behind, its inhabitant dismally glum upon his purple loveseat. Harry was nearly halfway across the street when he heard a strange whistling sound—almost like the sound of the air whizzing past on a broomstick—and he stopped, turning to glance down the street for the source of the noise. His eyes widened—he couldn't move, even though he knew he should.

An enormous Ferris wheel was rolling, speeding towards him down the length of Privet Drive, faster than any car had ever done—and at the top, laughing manically as they piloted the wheel, were two very familiar, identical redheads.