Chapter 5

"You say his book did this to him?" Hagrid asked, frowning.

Ron looked up briefly from the bucket that Hagrid had procured for him, and which was rapidly filling up with slugs.

"Actually, it was the picture of – " Here, the boy was interrupted as several more slugs emigrated from his mouth to the bucket. " – that pretty bloke on the back cover."

Hagrid blinked.

"So, it was Lockhart's picture," he said slowly. "Not surprised. Man himself's a bit of a—"

"Now, that isn't fair, Hagrid!" Hermione broke in. "What've you got against Professor Lockhart?"

"He was just by, unloadin' a lot of useless advice on how I oughter be doin' my job. An' he wound up with a speech about how to get my beard soft n' silky wit' his special line of hair-care products!"

"Ooh! He's achieved his lifelong secret ambition, then!" Hermione squealed excitedly. "I'm so glad for him!"

"Rrr-ugh!" Ron said, spewing forth several new slimy friends.

Hagrid shook his head.

"Miserable thing fer a book t'do t'someone…"

Harry nodded, but Hermione made a small noise of protest.

"I don't think it's right to blame the poor book," she said. "I'm sure he was only trying to help."

"Will you stop sticking up for him, Hermione?" Ron exclaimed in annoyance before disappearing once again into the bucket, which was becoming quickly lined with slugs. "This is really disgusting…"

Hermione looked rather as though she agreed, and seemed to be fighting with herself over whether to give into instinct and get as far away from the slugs as possible, or to stick close to Ron in gratitude for the fact that he had got this way trying to stand up for her.

"So, the book just randomly turned on ye while you were carryin' it, eh?" Hagrid said, shaking his head. "Dangerous things, these books. S'why I never bothered with 'em meself."

"Actually," Hermione spoke up slowly, blushing ever so slightly, "the book didn't cast the spell on him until he tried to throw it at Draco after Draco called me some name or other."

"Bloody disgusting name," Ron gasped.

"Yeah, it was," Harry agreed, grimacing. In truth, he had no idea what it had meant, but for everyone to react the way they had, it had to be bad.

"Actually, I meant that Draco's a bloody disgusting name for anyone to give their kid," Ron admitted in between bouts of slug-spewing. "But what Malfoy called Hermione was pretty bad, too."

"He said I didn't take baths, or something," Hermione said, wounded. "And that's not true at all! I take baths all the time! The bath is one of the best places to read, especially when it's a bubble bath, and you just lie in the warm water and soak for hours, and—"

"Hagrid, Ron's nose just started to bleed, too," Harry broke in urgently. "D'you think that's something to do with the charm that book put on him?"

Hagrid grinned.

"No, I think that's from somethin' else."

Harry blinked.

"Uh…okay. So, Hagrid, what is a Mudblood, anyway?"

Hagrid's jaw tightened in anger.

"Ye don't mean that's what Malfoy called her!"

"Right! That was it," Hermione exclaimed. "Mudblood!" Then she frowned. "Somehow I have the feeling that I should be having an angst moment right now. Ooh! That's right! We have a book with us! Ron, can I borrow your copy of Voyages With Vampires for the moment?"

"Just keep it away from me," Ron said emphatically between mouthfuls of slugs, inching away from the girl and the book.

"So, woul' ye tell me, Harry," Hagrid began reproachfully now that it seemed apparent that Hermione was blatantly not in need of comforting and reassurances, "what's this I been hearin' 'bout you givin' out signed pictures, an' me not gettin' one? Thought we were friends, Harry. Grave disappointment."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Hagrid," Harry said consolingly. "Honestly, yours was one of the first I sent. Perhaps Hedwig simply lost it somewhere and didn't let me know? I'll send another next time I'm in the Owlery."

"Er, Harry," Hermione began much more tactfully than she might have dealing with someone who hadn't promised to give her a very nice tiara to borrow this year. "I think Hagrid was only joking."

"Oh," Harry said, crestfallen. "Er, yeah! So was I! Only…joking. Right. Heh-heh-heh…ugh."

"I'm starting to feel even sicker," Ron groaned.

"Me, too," Hermione said, rolling her eyes slightly. "I might need to share that bucket, Ron."

"Just mind the slugs."

"When the two of yeh 're done with yer little moment, come see what I've got growin' out back," Hagrid called with a grin, beckoning the three to the garden outside his cabin.

"Argh!" Harry yelped as his eyes lit on several massive pumpkins. "It's a hostile takeover by vegetables! I knew it would happen someday!"

"They're fer the Halloween feast," Hagrid explained with a chuckle.

"You mean, the produce army has chosen Halloween for the day of their attack?!" Harry gasped. "How diabolical!"

"Uh…Harry," Ron began, tapping his friend on the shoulder. "They're not attacking. Hagrid's just growing them."

"I knew that," Harry rejoined, not missing a beat despite his great amount of internal fumbling to regain his mental bearings at this revelation. "So, what've you got to feed a pumpkin to get it the size of a Buick?"

"Uh…er…it's just a little somethin' I whipped up," Hagrid coughed, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "And, y'know, a bit of extra help."

"So, is this by any chance a little "magical help"?' Hermione asked, a little disapprovingly. "Still, you've done a fantastic job. Almost," she added with the air of one making a great concession, "as good as my Engorgement Charms."

"That's just what little Ginny said when she was here t'other night," Hagrid said, then frowned. "Sort of."

Then, just as Ron was about to remark on this, Hagrid's bearded face took on a sly look.

"Now, if ye ask me, there's a little girls whose day'd be made brighter by one o' yer signed photos, Harry."

"Do you think so?" Harry asked, frowning thoughtfully. "When did you say Ginny's birthday was, Ron?"

"Uh, Harry?" Hermione began hesitantly.

"Yeah, I guess it doesn't necessarily have to be for her birthday," Harry conceded.

Hermione leaned over to murmur to Ron, who was looking as though he could very easily dive for the bucket again at any moment,

"Was he like this last year?"

"Ah, Potter, Weasley, there you are," Professor McGonagall's voice rang through the air as though she had been camped there the entire morning, waiting for the first strike of a foot against the floor of the Entrance Hall.

At this point, she happened to glance up at the narration.

"Which I haven't, of course," she added, eyes shifting slightly nervously. "And I certainly haven't been roasting marshmallows and crocheting doilies to pass the time."

Ron and Harry exchanged uneasy looks as Professor McGonagall edged her way over to the campfire mysteriously placed in front of the room, with a pot of marshmallows, a long skewer, and a pile of doilies next to it, and made a quick, surreptitious motion with her wand.

"I could've gone for some of those marshmallows," Harry muttered to Ron as the campfire and doilies vanished. His stomach rumbled in agreement.

"Oh, enough!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed impatiently. "I was here for a reason. I think. And it wasn't entirely to roast marshmallows and finish these doilies. Em. Now why was I here?"

"Were you going to tell Harry and Ron about their detentions?" Hermione asked with just a wee bit of sadistic glee.

"Ah, yes, that was it," Professor McGonagall proclaimed. "Thank-you, Miss Granger. Constant help, you are."

"Er. You're welcome," Hermione said, blushing proudly at these words and guiltily as Ron and Harry shot her simultaneous glares.

"Weasley, you will be polishing trophy cases, mopping floors, washing walls, gardening, doing a bit of laundry—"

"You're sending him to the Dursleys for detention?!" Harry exclaimed, horrified.

"No! With Mr. Filch!" Professor McGonagall replied, annoyed.

"Can't I go to the Dursleys' instead?" Ron pleaded.

"No! And Potter, you will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail. He said there would be plenty to keep you busy for an evening, but personally, I have my doubts," McGonagall confided.

"Oh, no! Can't I go help Filch instead?"

"Absolutely not, Potter."

"Well then, can't I take on a pack of rabid Pippi Longstockings with both hands behind my back?"

"No!"

"Don't be so ungrateful, Harry," Hermione chimed in before sighing wistfully. "It sounds like a lovely evening…"

"Rrr…" Ron added as Professor McGonagall suppressed a roll of her eyes.

"Eight o'clock, both of you. And Miss Granger, don't you mysteriously show up with Mr. Potter."

"Oh, alright," Hermione sighed sadly.

"Rrr…"

Harry slogged miserably down the corridor at five minutes to eight, toward Professor Lockhart's office.

"Oh, woe is me…I hate this…I hate detention…I hate people who like detention…I hate people who cause me to be in detention…I hate people who like causing me to be in detention…"

"I hate you, too, Potter," Professor Snape informed him coldly as he happened past.

Harry scratched his head.

"Er…that was odd."

"And by the way," Snape continued in a growl, "your father was a big meanie!"

With that, he ran away, weeping loudly.

"But nothing compared to the oddness of that," Harry continued, shrugging helplessly.

"The oddness of what, Potter?" a cheery, beaming voice with all the intelligence of a rutabaga inquired from behind him as he watched billowing black robes disappear quickly down the corridor.

"Oh, never mind," Harry sighed. "Let's just get this over with."

"Anxious, are you?" Lockhart laughed fondly, ruffling the boy's hair. "I must confess, I would be, too."

"I hate everything," Harry groaned as Professor Lockhart led him into the office and bade him be seated before a massive stack of envelopes.

"Why don't you get started addressing those envelopes?" Professor Lockhart suggested, winking. "One of my favourite parts, personaly, second only to reading the adoring words of my many fans."

"Er, Professor Lockhart?" he ventured timidly, glancing about at the dozens of portraits of Lockhart in his various favourite outfits that decorated the room.

The blond man looked up.

"Hmm?"

"Why do you have all these pictures of yourself?"

"Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry," Lockhart laughed. "Have you ever heard the axiom that one must love oneself before one can love another?"

"I'm guessing you're very, very ready to love another, sir," Harry muttered, deeply regretting having asked.

"I hate to brag," Lockhart grinned. "But I do excel in matters of self-confidence as much as I do in everything else."

"Ugh," Harry groaned.

Really, there was little more to say…

It was several hours later, the candles burning low, the moon high in the sky, the various Lockharts in the portraits on the walls starting to nod off, Harry himself starting to nod off, when it happened.

He had just scribbled out little Danielle Patterson's address onto an envelope, when he heard it: a soft but terrifying voice, its sibilant, blood-curdling tones cutting through the silence of the room like a goose through a sausage-grinder.

Hit me, baby, one more time…

Harry looked up immediately, frowning.

"Er, Professor?"

Lockhart beamed up at him.

"Yes, Potter, what is it?"

"Did you just turn into a woman and ask me to hit you, baby, one more time?"

Lockhart thought long and hard about this, one finger to his chin.

"No, not that I recall."

"Strange," Harry commented, shaking his head. Then he looked up hopefully. "So, can I go yet?"

Lockhart peered at the clock, and then gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Has it been four hours already?!"

"I know; it doesn't seem like it," Harry said, carefully refraining from voicing his private opinion that it seemed more like it had been forty than four.

The blond man shook his head sorrowfully.

"That means we only have three more hours to go!"

Harry whimpered painfully.

Lockhart regarded him sympathetically.

"Yes, I know, Harry; we have had fun, haven't we?"

"Brilliant fun," Harry replied flatly in a tone that no one on earth could have possibly mistaken for genuine.

Well, almost no one.

"And I'm afraid I won't be able to give you a treat like this your next detention, either," the man continued sadly. Then he seemed to perk up. "Well, enjoy it while you can, Harry. Enjoy it while you can."

"Y-yeah; enjoy it. Right. I'll do that," he assured Lockhart. Then, under his breath, "Someone kill me."

"So, what do you think it means?" Ron asked wonderingly.

"I don't know," Harry whispered back, trying to ignore the scent of various household cleaners hanging thickly about the redheaded boy. "Lockhart says he didn't hear it."

"He could've been lying."

"But why would he lie about not hearing a voice singing bits of annoying songs about playing Black Jack?"

Ron blinked.

"That's a good point."

"Y-you don't think this is something to do with…You-Know-Who, do you?"

"Oh, likely," Ron snorted. "You're bloody Harry Potter! Nothing happens to you without You-Know-Who being at the bottom of it! You could get a cold, during cold season, like everyone else in the castle, and they'd probably say it was a curse by You-Know-Who."

Now it was Harry's turn to blink.

"You'd think You-Know-Who would have better things to do with his time…"

End Notes: Okay; I've been looking back over the past five chapters, and I really have to shake my head in dismay at the characterizations I'm working with. I've turned Harry into Lockhart the Pocket Edition, Ron into Hermione's possessive guy-who-appreciates-her-many-charms, Hermione into the no-common-sense type of model student, Colin Creevy into a mini-pervert, Oliver Wood into a violent psycho, Snape into goodness-knows-what, and the Voice From the Chamber into a pop star! I really need to stop writing late at night before Draco decides to take up belly dance next chapter. Hmm… :o)

On the bright side, I've kept Lockhart completely in character, if only because it isn't possible to make him any more absurd than he is already. It's the same problem I had with the Dursleys. :o)