"Gilderoy, dear, it's too late to be still up," the attendant said quietly to the man busily at work, signing his name again and again in his script that improved very little. "You don't want to wake the other patients, do you? Put the quill away, and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is Christmas."
"Yes, yes, I know," Gilderoy Lockhart responded wearily as though he had had this conversation with her numerous times, "but I have to finish these. My fans would be so pleased if on Christmas Day, they received an autographed picture of me!"
The attendant looked at him pleasantly and said, "All right, but you ought to get to sleep after just a few more. Your fans will be glad no matter what day they receive their pictures."
Gilderoy Lockhart bent down to refocus on his work. His signature looked as if a 10-year-old boy who was just beginning to learn to write in cursive had gotten ahold of the glossy, moving pictures of the man smiling his trademark grin broadly. His time spent in the Closed Ward had improved his condition little, just to the point where he now remembered why there were so many adoring fans of his. Before this, he had only been certain of the fact that the letters he got in the post begged for them. However, with this small improvement, his arrogance had risen immensely, and he would stay up all night, attempting to sign every one of the photographs with which he had been supplied.
After he had finished with ten or so of the autographs, he placed them with reverence on his bedside table, along with his fancy quill and bottle of ink. And the last thing he saw on the inside of his eyes before he fell into a deep slumber on a cold winter's night was his own beaming face.