Something Like the Truth
Book One: How to Disappear Completely
Chapter Seven: Just another One of Those Days
A/N: Sorry but this one's a bit short. Thanks for reading and special thanks to those who either added this story or left a comment. On that note, please enjoy!
With regrets high, Harry walked vigilantly into Lockhart's office. Faintly nudging the door open, he tentatively peered around it to be greeted by a flop of curly golden locks and a flash of pearly whites. Lockhart glanced up from a spill of letters upon his desk to glance over at Harry. He beckoned him further in the lion's den with another flash of a bemusing smile. Harry felt the swarm of regret as it gathered near the bottom of his stomach with every step closer he took. He made no attempt to smile in knowing it would never appear. Instead, he simply looked at Lockhart, waiting to hear all about his punishment.
"There's the scalawag!" Lockhart beamed down upon Harry, unaware of the nervous tension and pounds of reticule and regret he placed upon the small twelve year old boy.
Dragging Harry by the sleeve for the remainder of the way towards his desk, Lockhart placed Harry into a highly embellished chair that looked to be too exquisite to be owned by a teacher. A look around the heavily decorated room concluded his assumptions that it must have been artifacts from his travels. Regardless, the treasures Lockhart seemed to fancy the most were the countless number of self portraits that garnished his wall. He even had the audacity to sign a couple.
Harry moaned and sank further in to the cushion of the high back upholstery chair, his spine refusing to stand straight in this situation as it sagged limply. Its rough material scratched the surface of his bare arms, leaving him with an uncomfortable impression.
He wished he could have traded with Ron or even Abigail at the moment as Lockhart settled down into a drawn out speech of his "accomplishments." Harry would have been baffled if he actually did any number of the things he mentioned, considering he couldn't even control a minute number of pixies.
An audible sigh found no trouble in escaping his lips as he rounded up a few envelopes to address. Apparently it was his grand task of helping Lockhart with his fan mail. The benevolent ring of Lockhart's voice, uncanny as it was, when explaining his detention still rung through out his ears. Lockhart seemed to be under the impression that he was doing Harry some sort of noble favor by humbly allowing him to listen to his brags and address his fan mail.
Harry happened to stumble upon one with familiar writing as it laid partially open on the glossy oak desk. The faint scent of lilac tickled his nose as he held it securely in his hands. Lockhart was in the middle of explaining his gallant rescue of a small town from a pack of ruthless werewolves and was otherwise preoccupied, allowing time for Harry to frantically read the letter. Naturally it spoke highly of Lockhart and his travels, granting him luck on his further ones, as well as allowing means to expand his ego with kind words that were wasted upon him. Reaching the bottom he mercilessly managed to stifle a choke of laughter. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he scanned the name once more to be sure. There in perfect cursive stood Percy's name in a fresh gloss of red ink. He was slightly surprised that it did not read Prefect Percy but decided not to challenge it at the moment.
"Wonderful isn't it?" Lockhart managed to evade the limelight for a split second to check on Harry. He mistook Harry's tears of laughter, as he often did. "One of my biggest fans. He writes to me every week."
Harry felt the need to bolt out of his seat to share this with Ron and anyone else who was interested. Yet, he managed to refrain himself. He rifled through some of the other letters, realizing Lockhart wouldn't mind as long as it pertained to him. Several unknown names passed by in a daze until he came across some he recognized. There was the familiar loopy writing of Mrs. Weasley, the scratches of Neville's pen, and the perfectly straight lines of Hermione's. Harry made a mental note to discuss this further with them as well as Ron and Abigail.
The hunt for interesting letters soon became a snag in his enjoyment after realizing the majority of the letters followed a similar pattern. First they opened up with what a wonderful man Lockhart was followed by more gracious adjectives and almost always ended on 'Love' right before their name.
Harry found this, as well as listening to the continuous blabber of Lockhart, immensely boring after a while. Several times he caught his gaze wondering towards the clock, in hope of presenting it with a pleading expression will somehow quicken its pace. All his efforts remained futile as the dull ache in his hand grew significantly as he scribbled down what seemed to be the hundredth address for the evening. The purple ink blotched into several ill written numbers followed by several letters that looked to be written by a child.
Quickly adding a "yeah" into the one sided conversation Lockhart was having, Harry reached for another envelope. Every now and then Lockhart would say a phrase distinctly loud enough for Harry to hear, resulting in him unable to miss it. Words such as "fame," "celebrity," and "power" were used continually through out his speech, rendering Harry the impression of not wanting to listen.
Harry's hand sprawled out across the cream envelope, prepared to ache more as he dabbled its surface with violet ink. The bright intensity of the color seemed to blend into the lightly colored parchment producing a massive headache for him. After this experience, purple was sure to not be his favorite color.
And then it came.
A faint murmur settled through out the room, chilling it with its hiss. Harry instantly dropped his quill and strained his ears for the faint nose. It wavered in the room, tuning in and out like a rising tide. Low and barley audible, it called out through the darkness. The sputtering of his hiss quickly growing as it grew to a sound Harry could understand. Then it spoke.
"Come," it beckoned through out the still of the night in a voice that could freeze the living. The world seemed to pause as its gruff voice sliced the stillness of the room. The faint sound of pounding whispered in Harry's ears long enough for him to realize it was his own heart beat, strengthened by the power of adrenaline.
"Come to me . . . Let me rip you . . . Let me tear you . . . Let me kill you." The words dangled in the air, leaving an imprint fresh upon Harry's mind. Everything else faded to black. The spitting of the candles, Lockhart's murmurs, and even Harry's own heartbeat could no longer be heard. The only thing left was the ominous silence.
Everything flooded in all at once: the scribbling of ink against parchment, the last dying words of the candles as they fought valiantly against the wind, the incoherent babbling of Professor Lockhart, the arrhythmic pace of his own breath, the knocking his heart gave against the confinement of his chest, everything. Not for the first time in his life and certainly not the last, Harry was unsure of what to think.
Involuntarily, Harry sprang from his seat. Stray lines of violet ink collided into the letters, smudging numbers and street names. "What?" Harry heard his startled voice echo through out the room. The sharp prick of his tightened skin was hard to ignore as a ring of chills cascaded down his back, raising the hair upon his neck.
Mistaking his frazzled appearance, Lockhart beamed down upon him. "I know!" he shrieked with joy before continuing his jabber about his collected works. "Six months on top the best seller list! My boy it is a rare honor indeed!" His idyllic words contrasted greatly towards the horror of the murmurs Harry just experienced which inexorably made him question the man's continuous excitement.
"No." A dubious expression was sure to have crossed Harry's face as he hastily explained. "The voice – didn't you hear it?"
"Sorry?" Lockhart forced out a puzzled expression but still failed to conceal a faint smile, probably thinking it was all some grand joke. "What voice?"
"The voice – the voice that said – didn't you hear it?" Harry's continuous stammers were enough to gain the blatant concern of Lockhart. The color of his face drained a few pigments until it was a starch white. The bright teal in his eyes dulled to a gray as his gaze remained peculiarly fixed upon Harry.
"What are you talking about?" Lockhart nervously rubbed a pale hand over his knuckles before offering a ludicrous explanation for the unprecedented matter. "Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy. Great Scott!" he exclaimed once the realization of the time dawned on him. "And no wonder. We've been here nearly four hours! Funny how time flies, isn't it? Especially when you're having fun." He continued to explain to Harry the importance of not getting in trouble even if it is for the fame of it all. He couldn't expect a treat like this every time he received detention.
Dazed and thoroughly confused, Harry left. The small chat with Lockhart did little to settle his mind.
The grand staircase was in sight, offering countless rooms of wonder but the one Harry was only interested in was the one that offered a nice warm bed. Mentally and physically exhausted, he embarked on his journey up the stairs only to find himself staggering upon the first step.
"Are you alright Harry?" Abigail was soon beside him, offering her assistance by placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
He managed to dodge her question through his own curiosity. "Did you just get out from Snape's?"
He witnessed her brow furor as she glanced him over in a notion of suspicion. "Yes. It took a while for the silencing charm to wear off." Her voice was airy in a way that seemed to float around him, taking a minute for the words to truly sink in.
"Silencing charm?" Harry repeated incredulously as if he never heard of such a thing. "He put a silencing charm on you?" The anger was soon rising in his voice at Snape's audacity to do such a fowl thing. He was no heart of gold but this seemed incredibly rash even for him.
"Apparently he isn't a fan of show tunes," she muttered under her breath before her voice regained its composure. "You didn't answer my question. Are you okay? You look as if you've seen a ghost." Her eyes scanned his, a clash of blue against green. Something she found didn't please her for her questions continued to pester.
Ignoring his voice of conscious, he gave into his fatigue and answered any question she produced. A rushed explanation of his detention was forced into the air. He left an extremely narrow area for details as the rush of his explanation lingered upon the true basis of it, unsure if he should really confide in her with this information. In a split second decision, the air coming out of his lungs miraculously managed to turn itself into words, words that described the disembodied voice he heard earlier.
He watched on in regret as her friendly smile faltered before appearing forced while the color drained from her skin, reducing it to a translucent pigment. Her mouth unhinged itself from it clamp only for her words to be drown out by nearby footsteps.
"Loitering in the halls after hours are we?" Snape's upper lip curled in satisfaction of the hunt. "Seems another detention is in order to break your rebellious spirits."
"You just spent four hours with me, professor," Abigail's voice came off as blunt and other wise uninterested. "Do you honestly want to spend another four with me?" Her head tilted to the side in curiosity as she began to hum something that sounded distinctly familiar to West Side Story.
Harry, quite exasperated by the day's turn of events was in no particular mood either to be hounded by Snape and his infernal accusations of misdemeanor. He glared at the man, wishing it could produce the power to severally burn him. It seems his conversation with Abigail would be cut short for the evening due to a series of misfortunate events. However, it left something for them to discuss next time.
"Very well," his voice was drawn out as if he were contemplating something of great importance. "Ten points from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Now, get back to your dormitories immediately." His upper lip remained curled in a snarl as his eyes narrowed down upon her.
It took little encouragement for the two students to scamper off back to their dormitories, Abigail nearly having her foot trapped by the faulty step on the stair case due to her lack of coordination.
Abigail, much like Harry, wasn't sure what to think. One thing was for certain though; nothing could prepare them for what's to come.