Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to the authors, producers, and companies with whom the material in question is affiliated.
A/N: Thanks everyone who reviewed! Keep them coming, please. They definitely motivate me to take better care of myself, and as a result, to take better care of this story. This chapter's a bit longer. Mist Shadow made an excellent point about the professor's magical ability and was completely right about Lockhart's abilities. I've remedied the discrepancy here.
On that note there will be times that I change things from cannon on purpose. I say this as a warning for down the line. This is an alternate universe with an alternate Harry and the Metacrisis Doctor, so expect some differences in characterization, setting, etc., here and there.
Thanks again for reviewing. I may not respond to every one of them individually, but I do read them all, and I love hearing what you think.
To whomever nominated me for the BetterinTexas fanfic awards: Thanks so much for your appreciation. I'm honored. I believe folks can vote on facebook if anyone cares to do so.
Chapter Nine – Broken Truce
21 September 2013
Daphne and Hermione sat in the stands with Neville, a little ways apart from the Slytherin spectators who pointedly ignored them, while the Slytherin team hopefuls lined up on the pitch below. Harry and Draco weren't the only two vying for spots on the team. Flint remained the team captain, and no one expected he'd give up his position to play reserve, so it seemed fairly certain he'd be a chaser again. Nearly twenty other Slytherins joined the existing team on the field, many of them second and third years. Crabbe and Goyle stood with other prospective beaters, along with Millicent Bulstrode, who had looked like she had grown half a foot over the summer.
But Hermione and Neville didn't waste time speculating about the outcome of the trials, content to let the Slytherin among them give her analysis of the political play unfurling below.
"It's just for show, of course," she explained. "Everyone already knows Draco's going to be on the team because his father sent Professor Snape a full set of Nimbus 2001s this morning, and Harry's too good to risk leaving off, so that just leaves three spots. Shafiq's a good player, but he's a little too decent and a little too foreign for Flint's tastes, especially compared to Montague, who everyone knows wants to be a chaser, too. Although–"
Daphne paused and eyed the other candidates.
"Shafiq knows all of that, too, so he'll be going for keeper. He has the reflexes to manage."
Hermione frowned as a handful of fliers took to the sky, passing quaffles in a drill designed to test their coordination and dexterity.
"That's horrible, Daph," she admonished. "I haven't a clue how you all manage not to kill one another when all your housemates are ranking you like that."
The brunette shrugged.
"It's only politics," she said simply. "We keep our differences civil, for the most part. We're just more honest about the way the world works than your average Puffs and Gryffs. The majority of our house comes from old or positioned families, and that comes with a certain pressure to perform. It may not be moral to your self-imposed standards, but we're very aware of how the hierarchy works."
"Well," Neville grumbled. "What about Pucey?"
The Slytherin smiled.
"Adrian? Oh, he and Harry are still cordial, but he decided not to try out this time around. He's rather gifted in Ancient Runes, and he's trying to take the O.W.L. early rather than have twelve classes next year. He said he'd rather cram over the next two summers and take the N.E.W.T. independently, after, but he needs the O.W.L. score to qualify."
Hermione hummed an impressed sort of sound and scanned the rest of the Slytherin crowd for the boy in question.
"And Shafiq bribed him, of course," Daphne added.
Her Hufflepuff friend sighed deeply, and Neville laughed at them both but was cut short as a bludger zoomed close over the stands. They ducked and whistled for Bulstrode, who rapidly caught up with the projectile to send it hurtling toward Crabbe.
By the end of the hour and per Daphne's predictions, Flint picked Shafiq for keeper, Montague and Draco for chasers, Harry (who had not been contested), and Millicent with Kyle Hooper (who returned from last year). He also chose several reserve players, but Daphne assured them the second-string players would never participate in a game unless someone died, so important the team members thought their roles.
However, the topic of conversation they chose at some point between leaving the stands and walking toward the castle thoroughly distracted Hermione to the point she couldn't spare a thought to the roster.
Hermione enjoyed being a Hufflepuff immensely, although she had found it a little difficult during those first days of her first year to reel in her tendency of overwhelming people with her overlarge capacity for information. She credited Susan Bones most for her steep learning curve in that department. The girl had very helpfully pulled her aside and explained something Hermione had never considered before.
"Why do you feel it's so important to know so much and share all that with everybody?" she had asked, not unkindly.
She had answered immediately.
"Well, I think knowledge is the best way to get anywhere in life."
She remembered Susan laughing, then, and she was nearly upset by it and would have been very hurt if not for what the girl said afterward.
"Then you should be in Ravenclaw, but you're not. You're here. I think you want friends, and I think you want to do something with that huge brain of yours," she smiled gently. "Hannah and I feel maybe you're measuring yourself by how much you know, but I don't think you realise how you affect everyone around with you the way you use that knowledge. You don't have to be the smartest for people to like you. You're nice, and that's enough for most. Just something to think about."
The girl had not understood what Susan meant at the time, but she recognised Susan wasn't trying to be mean to her, so she quietly went to bed that night thinking about the girl had said. She spent the next few days watching Harry Potter, because she knew he was just as clever as she was. She listened to her dormmates and classmates, and quickly saw that her encyclopaedic-fire-hose method of interacting never connected with anyone. Susan had been right, and she came to understand she was worth a whole lot more than a studying partner. The revelation came nearly a week into classes, and several things clicked into place for her that never had before. All of a sudden, she had a whole dormitory of friends who wanted to know her opinion on things rather than what she knew about their homework topics. She didn't feel like she was stuck in a bubble anymore – a sensation she'd carried with her all through primary school.
As a result, she started to enjoy all sorts of conversations exploring a wide range of topics, but none of her prior experiences prepared her for Daphne's new favourite point of discussion.
"So, do you 'Puffs have a ranking?" the brunette asked casually.
Hermione blinked as she tried to wrap her mind around the idea. She had the feeling she'd missed something earlier in the conversation.
"What?"
Hannah and Susan giggled ahead of them on the path.
"What?" she asked again, a little indignantly.
"Oh, Cedric Diggory's definitely first," Hannah offered. "Someone managed to plant Filibuster's Wet-Start Fireworks in the boy's bathroom last year, and he came upstairs in naught but a towel."
"What?" Hermione gasped, blushing scarlet at the unbidden mental image. "When was that? A-and what in the world brought that up?"
Daphne rolled her eyes.
"Were you not paying attention, Granger? The ranking. I just said Wallerston's leading ours, followed by Pucey, Ford and Swami, although I think Abje's only that low on the list because the others consider him too foreign. His face should make him first on any scale, including the boys'."
"What?" the bushy-haired girl asked again. "We're ranking boys?"
"Aren't you supposed to be the cleverest student in our year?" Daphne complained. "Do try to keep up."
Hermione felt Susan link arms with her and lean in conspiratorially. Her strawberry-blonde hair caught the breeze to tickle her friend's face, and the girl impatiently batted at her unapologetic assailant, who responded by jabbing her in the ribs.
"Don't tell me you don't find anyone handsome?" Hannah teased. "Lockhart cuts an impressive figure."
Her friends snorted or made some other sound of disbelief or humour. She huffed and kicked a pebble on the path with unnecessary force. It skipped across the slightly damp earth to disappear in the grass.
"I might have thought so if I never heard him open his mouth," Daphne sympathised. "Oh, and if I hadn't found out the 'gorgeous waves of spun gold' were a wig."
"I just don't think it matters all that much!" Hermione insisted. "I mean, aren't we opposed to that objectifying rubbish?"
"You can't tell me you never look," Susan giggled. "Don't you fancy-"
"No! Don't you dare!" Hermione gasped, flushing scarlet. "I know where you sleep, Bones!"
The others exploded in a round of giggles so infectious that, by the time they reached the castle with Neville (who had gamefully ignored their conversation in favour of chatting with Dean Thomas), Hermione mostly forgot her embarrassment.
…
In the pitch, the newly minted team mounted their brooms and immediately launched into their first training exercises for the season. Flint, ever the hard taskmaster, started them on sprints back and forth from goalpost to goalpost. His amplified voice called harsh criticism for any flier whose tumble turn lacked precision or speed enough to satisfy his high standards. The burly fifth-year set of a cannon-blast with his wand, and the green blurs slowed to hover around their captain.
"All right, you lot," he ground out after cancelling the amplification. "We're going to do a practice game to see how dull you got over the summer."
He turned to shout over his shoulder.
"RESERVES! GET 'YER LAZY ARSES UP HERE!"
The previously relaxed group on the ground rapidly mounted the seven Nimbus 2000s (also gifted by Lucius Malfoy specifically for the reserves' use), and shot into the air. Flint shot a spell at the trunk below to release the snitch and bludgers, blew his whistle, and sent another spell at the quaffle to launch it into the air. A muted cheer swept the moderately full stands, where most of Slytherin had taken seats to watch the daring flight. Flashes went off in one of the teacher's boxes, signalling the castle's resident shutterbug's presence. Someone screamed, and a sound of combined anxiety and excitement swelled over the pitch as a figure dove toward the ground. Regardless of house, anyone within hearing distance of the quarter-full stadium heard the shouts, all praising one name:
POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!
The screams only grew louder with the boy's tightly controlled turn to chase the elusive snitch over the stands. As if sensing its hunter's rapid gain, the little gold ball halted midair and reversed direction, but instead of slowing from his neck-breaking speed, the boy barrel-rolled. He clung to the broom with interlocked legs and one straining arm. The other restrained the snitch. Quick, blinding flashes went off on the other side of the pitch.
POTTER! POTTER! POTTER! the students screamed.
One spectator, however, slunk back in his seat with an ugly snarl twisting his face.
"You see what I mean, Rita?" he said with a tone of affected exasperation. "Dangerous stunts, exactly as I told you."
The witch he addressed smirked and adjusted her jewel-encrusted spectacles, and her magenta lips curled in a parody of concern. On her knee, an acid green quill skipped back and forth across a notepad, rapidly recording her thoughts and the details it detected around the pair.
"Oh yes, Gilderoy, I see exactly what you mean," she simpered. "It's so very lucky you've decided to mentor him, isn't it? Such unseemly behaviour and undue adulation can't be good for a young man."
"My thoughts exactly," Lockhart flashed his blindingly white teeth. "Unfortunately, he's not been very receptive to my tutelage. It's a shame, indeed, since he is such a bright young boy. He's a delight in classes, always willing to assist in demonstrations, makes near-perfect marks in all his classes. I just think all this attention, what with that business with You-Know-Who, combined with the little incident last year-"
Rita twisted one of her white-blonde curls around her forefinger. Her murky green eyes glinted with interest, and she leaned forward.
"I'm so sorry, but I've not the slightest idea what you're referring to," she gushed. "You must tell me everything."
Lockhart's ever-present grin widened, and the smile lines around his eyes crinkled.
"Dear Lady, I'd do anything to assist our young Mr Potter. I do think with your assistance, we'll steer him on the right path, indeed."
1 October 2013
He woke to a tickle in his ear. Harry swiped lightly at the feeling, but it persisted to travel over his cheek and under his nose. Grumbling, he cracked open sleep-crusted eyes and huffed at the little face looking back at him.
"It's too early," he complained. "Can't it wait?"
"A female waits outside," Kilat hissed, raising her head a little higher to peer into her human's eyes. "Sshe is upssset. She radiatesss heat."
"Fine," the boy huffed.
He sat up slowly so as not to disturb the snake unduly and offered her his wrist. The serpent, who had grown too large for her pouch, happily wrapped around the proffered limb with an affectionate squeeze. Harry summoned his dressing gown and glasses with an absent twirl of his fingers. He shrugged on the warming charmed garment with a small groan of relief. Unfortunately, the spell failed to affect his toes. Too tired to discover why they hadn't come at his beckoning, and unwilling to dig in his dresser for a pair of socks, he endured the chilling flagstones for the short walk to his door. As his familiar promised, a girl stood there with her arms crossed over her chest and a Prophet tucked in her elbow.
"About bloody time," Daphne whispered, her eyes flashing.
Building on the precedent she set the previous year, she pushed past him without waiting for his invitation and plopped unceremoniously into the armchair beside the round stove.
"Good morning to you, too," Harry griped.
He closed the door and shuffled closer to the heat source, by which he'd thrown down a fluffy shag rug requisitioned by the ever-industrious Cuddie from Hogwarts' many storerooms. His toes tingled at their proximity to the sudden warmth. Kilat, who deeply disliked the cold seeping into the castle as the last dregs of summer faded away, hissed an unintelligible sound of delight.
"No, it's not," she snapped at her normal volume. "Have you read anything by Rita Skeeter?"
The boy blinked and yawned, shaking his head.
"I've seen her by-line under sensationalist headlines," he mumbled. "I made a point to read other journalists' work."
"Excellent, then I'm sure this won't surprise you overmuch, then."
Daphne thrust her copy of The Daily Prophet under his nose, and Harry reluctantly unrolled it to take in the front page. The headline glared up at him from the top edge of the page, stretching its entire width in bold, crisp Serif typeface. Underneath, a hugely blown-up photograph followed his rapid dive toward the Quidditch pitch. Somehow, the photographer had managed to zoom in on his face. His hair had blown back to uncover his scar, his eyes gleamed, and his grin stretched maniacally across his face.
Any Quidditch player would identify with that feeling, but juxtaposed beside its headline, Harry had no doubt what reaction the story would elicit.
...
Boy-Who-Lived Out of Control: Desperate or Deranged?
Mentors and Teachers Concerned
Oct. 1, 2013 – Sr. Correspondent Rita Skeeter
Sunshine streamed down on the green Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Students of every house gathered to watch this year's tryouts or put their names forward in hopes of joining their house teams. With such a talented pool to pull from, it is no wonder hundreds of students left the shadowed indoors to watch the excitement unfold. Children came and went with their favourites and cheered on their friends; however, no applicant drew more attention than the Boy-Who-Lived.
At first glance, 12-year-old Harry Potter appears unremarkable and undistinguishable from his year-mates. One might not notice him amongst his fellow Slytherins at all if viewed in a crowd, but closer inspection reveal traits not everyone might admire.
"He's a bit smaller than I like for our aggressive tactics," said 5th year team captain and chaser Marcus Flint, 15. "But I knew the minute he got on a broom that he'd lead us to the cup. We haven't lost a game since he started as our seeker."
Further discussion with his housemates revealed differing opinions on their youngest teammate, however.
"He bullied his way on," said 6th year Slytherin Quinn Jorgensen, 17. "Everyone knows it. No one has the nerve to say anything to him because of his parents and his lackeys. After he killed that troll last year, he's gotten away with everything he's wanted."
Further investigation corroborated Jorgensen's claim concerning the troll, which reportedly entered the castle Oct. 31 last year by way of an unsecured drainage tunnel. Students agreed the late professor Quirinus Quirrell said he witnessed the beast wandering Hogwarts' hallowed halls. His colleagues and the headmaster reportedly responded to the threat quickly and efficiently, and had circumstances proceeded as one might have expected from the school's capable professorship, except for one boy's actions.
"He wouldn't listen to Prefect Walters," Jorgensen said with a deep scowl. "He rushed off by himself before anyone could stop him. The professors had already gone after [the troll], so there wasn't anything the other prefects could do without putting the rest of us in danger."
Second-year Slytherin Pansy Parkinson, 12, explained the aftermath.
"He got back to the common room within thirty minutes of our arrival, covered in white dust and soaked with water. He was still holding his wand, and he really stunk," she said. "He was covered head-to-toe in grey blood. We found out the next morning he'd killed it. Slytherin won a tonne of points for 'saving a fellow student', but mostly everyone was scared what else he could do if he could slay a fully-grown mountain troll."
Parkinson elaborated Potter had involved three of his year-mates and friends in the dangerous enterprise, which would have killed one of them if not for the skills and efforts of Hogwarts' resident healer, Poppy Pomfrey, 62. Professor for defence against the dark arts class Gilderoy Lockhart, 32, expressed his own concern over the Wizarding World's alleged saviour and also revealed another side to the boy who had charmed so many.
"I was ever so surprised to receive his letter," Lockhart explained with a modest smile. "I had long ago thought to make myself available to Harry in case he needed someone to talk to. No one knew where he was or whom he was living with, so I sent him a note with a little about myself and my own experiences with those harmed by the dark arts. I thought to be a comfort to him after all he'd lost. I almost overlooked his letter because it got sorted with my fan mail, but the muggle postage marks stood out."
The professor recounted what he thought to be Potter's plea for help in better understanding his place in the society he had so recently returned to. The two exchanged letters throughout the summer, and their mentor-apprentice relationship grew until they agreed to meet at Lockhart's book signing in Diagon Alley Aug. 1st. The professor loosed a long sigh and lost his expression of good cheer.
"I had thought to formally reintroduce Harry into society, as we'd discussed, since he had few allies and no knowledge of his rich heritage. I also wanted to surprise him with my new appointment as professor, which I specifically pursued in order to be a greater help to the Boy-Who-Lived," Lockhart said and frowned. "But when he joined me at my table, I immediately felt something was wrong, and what followed only confirmed my suspicions. He denied our friendship, and used my confusion in order to pull his own sort of publicity stunt. I didn't hold it against him, though. Quite the contrary. He's a child, and it was my fault for not fully preparing him for that sort of attention."
Lockhart made a gesture of helplessness and smiled as he watched his young protégé fly across the pitch below.
"After I met him again at school and became acquainted with his parents, the professors Smith, I finally understood. His desire to speak to me hadn't come from honest curiosity and humbleness, as I'd thought, but a crippling need to be valued."
Third-year Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith, 13, opened up about the previously unknown wizard and his wife. He described them as cripplingly intelligent and said their appearances rivalled their prodigious skill.
"You wouldn't think it since she's a squib, but Professor [Roselyn] Smith has taught us a lot already about what muggles have done to modernise. She's completely changed the course, and there's talk the International Education Coalition will certify her curriculum for N.E.W.T. certification," he explained. "But Potter's off his rocker. I don't know what happened there. Maybe he feels inadequate next to them."
Lockhart expanded on the young Hufflepuff's musings with his own observations. He said while they often eat meals and assist their biological daughter in her studies, they're rarely seen in their adoptive son's company.
"Now I can't blame them, of course," said the defence professor with a shrug. "It's entirely understandable, really. Of course, a man has to provide for his family, and what better way to keep a close eye on a child so in need of guidance than teaching at his school? I think the trouble is that dear Rose may not have realised how large a job teaching at a magical school should be. Poor thing's probably so frantic to impress the community and the headmaster that she's let a few things slip. Easy to do, you know, even with magical ability. She can't help it."
Meanwhile, Potter's trend of needlessly involving himself in dangerous situations continues. Last year's 'Troll Incident,' as the students of Hogwarts refer to it, preceded a confrontation with Quirrell himself over the Philosopher's Stone, which had been granted to the school in trust so as to ensure the future of generations to come.
"He was possessed," Pomfrey said in relation to the attempted theft. "How Potter got mixed up in it, I'll never know, but that poor boy spent a week in one of my beds for all his silly heroics."
Public records show Quirrell as deceased as of June 8. No witnesses were available to comment on what happened in the stone's repository or what caused Quirrell's mysterious demise, but students and staff speculate Potter and Quirrell engaged in a violent confrontation resulting in mortal injuries to the late professor.
"I think that mess sparked a sort of addiction in the poor boy," said Lockhart. "If I had known, I would have never pulled him in front of an audience before he was ready."
After their meeting in Diagon Alley and the subsequent start of term, Potter allegedly turned to other methods by which to place himself in the spotlight. In addition to practicing dangerously advanced spells in and outside of classes, year-mates said his mania for advancement and recognition often shows itself onto the pitch. The accompanying photo shows the child's exhilaration in the face of possible death risked for public lauding. Classmates and teachers both agree he takes unnecessary risks in the name of showmanship, and often experiences near misses with bodily harm to himself and others. Professors specifically noted his work on building a muggle airship, which he intends to fly without magic upon its completion with his friends, placing them in danger.
"It's all my fault, really, since I got him started before I realised where his head was at," said Lockhart with moisture in his eye. "Therefore, I've committed to helping him return to the right path and to sort out the confusion he must be feeling. No matter what, I refuse to let him go it alone. He's an asset to our world, and someone ought to do take him under wing, so why not me?"
Parkinson, who lamented the loss of several of her friends to Potter's influence, worried about the young boy's mental and emotional development combined with his apparent power.
"Of course, I hope Professor Lockhart can help him, but I also think there may come a time when we all just need to let go of the idea we grew up with," she said with a frown and furrowed brow. "Harry Potter's just not the boy we all thought him to be, and he's a danger to himself and everyone around him. Everyone's terrified to see what he does next."
.
Harry's mouth worked soundlessly. His brain picked up on the important parts after so many years of studying with his dad's tutelage and the Doctor's frankly ridiculous toolbox of memorisation techniques, but that didn't make it easier for him to accept.
Lockhart had gone to Skeeter, gossip columnist extraordinaire, in order to publicly establish himself as an authority figure in his life, and he'd set the stage by disparaging his mother's parenting skills and painting him as some adrenaline junky with an emotional imbalance and possible mental illness.
The comments about Rose grated him worst of all. The students of Hogwarts knew Harry well enough to either dismiss or ignore the article in fear of self-alienation. Despite his placement in Slytherin, his friends and close acquaintances across every house made it impossible for rumours to spread too far before someone righted the record. His mum, however, only had a month's exposure to the students at Hogwarts, and only to the very small portion that either attended her classes or participated in the dirigible project. Lockhart had painted her as either an incapable or uncaring mother neglecting her duty toward her son. The article as a whole very efficiently blamed his instability on her alleged failings.
"My brother has friends who work at the Prophet," Daphne explained while his brain worked to sort through his reeling thoughts. "He forwarded me a copy when he realised some of the article was about what happened last year. They haven't actually gone out, yet, but I thought you might want to see before it disrupted breakfast."
"Shush," he snapped. "Just give me a minute to think."
Kilat massaged Harry's wrist in an affectionate, undulating squeeze, and the sensation grounded him enough to refocus. He pulled together the disparate memories, observations, and ideas flashing across his mind's eye like rapidly played video clips. Under soothing brush of her inherent magic and the familiar warmth of her smooth scales, his vacillating emotions calmed, and he quickly settled on a way forward.
"All right," he finally breathed. "If you want to come with me, I'm going to wake Mum and Dad. And Dumbledore'll need to do something about it if random strangers are coming onto the grounds without his permission, and we can ask him to make a formal statement to the prophet to clear up some of the misconceptions. We can have my parents call him to their quarters, even."
Daphne flipped her long flaxen hair over her shoulder, and the tense line between her brows deepened.
"Harry, dear, the sort of people who follow Lockhart's endeavours and read those silly books about you aren't the smartest lot," she quipped. "They're petty and mean-spirited, and an article like that is going to whip up a backlash in line with the Reconquista. A statement in the paper isn't going to do much."
The boy stared at her incredulously.
"People bound books with the skins of their enemies in those conflicts."
The girl's sharp eyes narrowed.
"Our society is based, as you say, on automatic wish fulfilment, and we arm our eleven-year-olds with lethal weapons," she deadpanned. "There's a reason why Weasley's pushing the Muggle Protection Act so strongly. Did you think I woke you up at four in the morning because I thought this was going to be a minor embarrassment and inconvenience?"
Harry sighed but nodded his acknowledgement. He rose slowly to his feet, noting for the first time that Daphne had already dressed for the day in her usual crisply pressed robes.
"Today, if you please? I rather like your mother and would rather not have to deal with you or the Doctor if she's irreparably damaged by the end of the day because someone put an ashwinder in an exploding envelope."
Kilat hissed her displeasure at the prospect of someone killing a fellow serpent so callously. Harry grimaced at the idea of an ever-burning magical snake coming into contact with flesh. He hissed a soft, soothing word to his familiar and made a twisting motion with his wrist. Daphne's armchair twirled rapidly, making its occupant squeak in surprise from her new position facing the wall.
"You could have just asked," she huffed a little petulantly.
Her housemate rolled his eyes as he pulled on his clothes and summoned Pepper-Up from the depths of his everything-trunk.
"Would you have listened?"
He straightened his tie, righted the chair's position, and opened the door for the girl, who sauntered out ahead of him with her usual good humour somewhat restored.
"Of course not," she smirked. "But if you really cared beyond what propriety dictated, you'd have put on your serious face and sincerely made your wishes known to me ages ago."
Harry flushed and felt immensely happy Daphne didn't understand parseltongue when Kilat voiced her interpretation of his raised temperature and heartrate.
"Human hormones are ssstrange."
…
Contrary to Daphne's expectations, the Doctor and Rose responded to the obvious challenge and with shrugs and smiles. Harry, she noted, seemed more concerned than either of his parents, who simply grinned and assured their son they had things in hand.
"Don't worry," Rose winked as she spread butter on her toast. "Your mum's unwritten time before. I can handle a few bored housewives and fan-boys."
The Doctor poked his head out of the kitchen. Daphne watched with mild surprise and appreciation as the man flipped an omelette one-handed without ever looking at the pan.
"Also, stop worrying about Draco's dad and Dobby," he commanded with an easy grin. "We've got some ideas to help the poor chap, and our castle-wide map-and-monitoring system's nearly online. Everything'll be fine, really. Oh, and stop building confounding spells into your guerrilla warfare. I know it's funny to watch him flounder about and wonder what's wrong with his wand, but you really ought to give him a chance to use countermeasures. On the same note, I definitely would not not not disapprove somewhat escalated tactics in light of trying to smear your mum."
Rose rolled her eyes.
"I do disapprove of anything really physically or mentally harmful," she sighed a little regretfully. "He's a prat, but we've got rules about that sort of thing, assuming he doesn't point his wand at anyone."
The paper arrived that morning to a mixed reception. Those who did not like Harry for one reason or another enjoyed the read, and those who fawned over the defence professor seemed to pity him. However, after Harry's two-week vendetta against the supposed authority on his 'emotional instability,' most did as he had predicted and laughed. The Weasley twins, who Harry hadn't much talked with since the beginning of term, even went out of their way to warn people of his arrival whenever they passed in the halls.
"Watch out! Potter's clearly unhinged-" George cried, swooning into his brother's arms.
Fred caught his twin in a dramatic embrace.
"Nooooo!" he moaned in a high-pitched vibrato. "He's killed you with his friendship. We should have known better than to share that cake with him!"
The utter ridiculousness of it effectively snuffed out the possibility of negative reactions from Harry's peers. Anyone who spoke badly of him based on the article quickly found themselves at the butt of the twins' and others' jokes.
But the morning after the story broke, a legion of owls flew into the great hall, many bearing scarlet envelopes and strangely wrapped parcels. Rose eyed the swarming flock, calmly stood, slipped the Doctor's faithful screwdriver into her hand, and released a high-pitched, trilling hum on the unwitting messengers. A moment later, the owls bearing unsolicited mail for her had left the way they came.
"Dare I ask?" Snape drawled from his usual seat on the woman's left.
"Made them all think I was elsewhere," she hummed, retaking her seat with a sly smile.
The potions master quirked a dark brow rather than voicing the obvious question.
"Oh, somewhere over the Atlantic, I think," her stormy green eyes glinted with mischief. "But some might have gotten confused and returned to sender, too."
He smirked. The students watching their interplay wisely decided there was more to the supposed squib than they thought, and the castle quickly calmed to its pre-scandal state. Some students still spoke badly about her, but no more than they did about any professor they didn't like.
Once reassured of his family's continued safety and overwhelmingly positive reputation among the students, Harry and his friends nullified their cease-fire in favour of more drastic measures than heretofore considered. Hermione, who felt especially indignant over the implications of the article against her friends and against her gender, dove back into the invention of retaliatory strategies with the maniacal fervour she usually reserved for research. Hannah and Susan seemed not to mind sitting by her for hours, working on homework while she pored over obscure texts detailing runes of every language and arrangement.
Under the Doctor's new guidelines, their work reached new heights of deviousness. To that end, Harry called upon the most feared and respected mischief-makers in the castle. Contrary to what the gingers' marks and attitude implied, Harry, the Ravenclaws, and most of the Slytherins had quickly realised the twins could not be measured by what they were seen to be doing.
No, most knew enough to judge them by the things that went unseen.
This reasoning led Harry to don his cloak late on a Friday night and creep through the halls to the second floor, where the library's upper level entrance opened directly into the restricted section. His scanner undid the locking and recognition charms built into the door, and a slightly higher pitched frequency smoothly pushed the bolt back into its chamber. The heavy oak panel silently swung open and closed a moment later with a soft click.
In the dark and stillness, and in the absence of its usual occupants, the library seemed to breathe with a life of its own. A tingle slid down the back of Harry's neck, and the smell of books mingled with the subtle flavour of Hogwarts' own, ancient magic. Without his wand lighting the way, the boy moved slowly among the floor-to-ceiling shelves to avoid teetering stacks of books, askew chairs, and the occasional uneven flagstone. He followed the zinging sensation he had come to recognise as other wizards, and before long had made his way into the 'Special Access' portion of the Restricted Section.
Whereas the staff of Hogwarts limited certain areas of the library based on age and special-case bases, very few ever received permission to pass the wrought iron gate barring entry to the schools' most precious and dangerous texts. Magic was dangerous as it was wonderful, and a good part of the founders' reasoning behind building an institution in the first place was to discourage independent study without a little training and grounding. To go against such wisdom often led to catastrophic results.
Harry remembered a little ruefully that the Doctor had learned that lesson the hard way. The idea he could harness the power woven into his Time Lord DNA by wielding a focus had been a little too tempting for him before he began work on his masteries. Armed with a wand and a screwdriver, the Doctor secluded himself in a time-locked lab in Torchwood for the specific purpose of testing the limits of magic before he even begun scientific trials. According to his uncle Jack, ten minutes of real time passed before the Doctor pushed the emergency release button inside the lab. He returned to his friends ashen-faced, and firmly told everyone (including Torchwood's new Wizless-born recruits) to never, ever, ever follow his example.
When Harry asked his father to elaborate on Captain Jack's recollection, the usually cheerful man sighed and ran his hands over his face.
"I might have accidentally reached across realities and nearly unmade everything. I managed to make it so it'd fix itself, but it was a very close thing," he explained. "The other me had to re-do the big bang with him at the centre of it all. We talked a bit and he managed to find away to recreate himself with a friend's help, but it was a near thing. Anyway, I nearly made a mess of things for us, too. So, yeah. Really, really, really, really not good."
Fortunately, most wizards lacked the deep knowledge the Doctor possessed, so they were less likely to break time or reality or anything in between. Still, that left quite a bit of mischief to be made. In little over a year spent in and learning about magical society and magic itself, they discovered wizards had often caused quite a lot of trouble throughout history. The vampire species began as a demon summoning gone awry. 'Demons,' as it turned out, were merely beings pulled across dimensions. They could be as large as giant squids or as miniscule as a bacterium – Which explained the sudden appearance of the Black Plague and the absence of any natural resistances to it among humans. Attempts to delve into magic, the vortex itself, usually resulted in the death of the person who initiated the exploration. It was also possible to create a black hole, to harness enough energy to channel it into a weapon of mass destruction, and to encapsulate rifts in time.
The Restricted Section's age-regulated area held tomes that posed dangers to the users themselves and anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. The Special Access area of the Restricted Section delved into those studies that had the potential to wipe populations off the map or poke holes in other dimensions.
Unnatural dark loomed in the space behind the gate of twisting wrought-iron vines and leaves. The scant starlight filtering through the windows and skylights seemed not to touch the metal, and Harry couldn't see the continuation of the tall bookshelves between which the portal stood. The boy gripped his wand tight in his right hand and his scanner in his left. The pad of his thumb swiped across its screen. A low, whirring hum cut the tingling, ringing stillness. Finally, the sonic signalled the end of its work with a slightly higher-pitched note, and the gate swung forward into the shadows. His fingers adjusted the grip on his wand, and he took a tentative step forward. He still couldn't make out the bookshelves on either side of him, though he felt their proximity.
Harry felt strongly reminded of a scene from Disney's Aladdin and wildly hoped a giant sand creature wasn't about to crush him in its gaping maw.
Walking blind, he continued on with a death grip on his wand and a torchlight spell on the tip of his tongue. The spell-muffled tap of his trainers against stone sounded like metal-toed dancing shoes to his straining ears. His breath felt quick and raspy. The zing of electricity against his skin strengthened.
"What was that?"
The whisper froze him, his heart racing, until his brain caught up and assigned the voice to its owner. Smiling with relief, Harry removed the cloak and stuffed the unnaturally light, liquid-like fabric into the pocket of his sweatshirt.
"Fred?" he hissed. "George?"
A sharp, papery shuffle answered him, and he had to fight the urge to throw a banishing hex when he felt two hands wrap around his biceps and pull him forward. The horrible, oppressive dark disappeared, and suddenly the starlight looked bright against the stone and woodwork of the perfectly normal-looking aisle.
"How'd you find us?" the twin on his left asked.
"How'd you get through that?" his brother added.
After the building tension in his gut, the Slytherin had to fight the urge to laugh just to release his nerves.
"You're both too good at what you do to be studying the normal fare, and no one ever sees you in here, so I figured you were sneaking in," he explained, settling on a wide grin. "Is that some sort of spell you cast back there?"
The twins exchanged a mildly impressed look, shrugged, and crossed their arms simultaneously. Without his brain racing with the possibilities of what horrors lay ahead of him in the deepest depths of the library – he fought another laugh at that – his senses returned to their usual level of close-proximity awareness, and easily determined the identity of each ginger.
"Yeah," George smirked. "It's not as good as Peruvian instant darkness powder-"
"We're going to import that stuff whenever we save up enough to start our bigger enterprises-" Fred cut in.
"-But it's pretty good in a pinch. Found it in here, actually," the former continued. "It's a ward that completely blocks light from passing through, kind of the opposite of what an invisibility cloak does."
Harry filed that away as a topic to research later, while the twins tilted their heads in sync to examine him with calculating stares.
"So what can we do for you?" they said together.
Still feeling a bit giddy, he couldn't help breathing a soft laugh.
"Gentlemen, I have a proposition for you."
What followed would later be remembered as one of the most entertaining weeks in Hogwarts' recent history.
And so, while reports of potions and transfiguration accidents swept the United Magical Kingdom of Great Britain, Scotland, and Northern Ireland resultant of returned envelopes of questionable origins, a certain professor found himself visiting Madam Pomfrey's domain far more often than any other resident of Hogwarts.
Professor Gilderoy Lockhart wasn't an idiot, as Harry had told his friends, but he was proud.
After two weeks of finding himself inexplicably incapable of undoing spell effects Lockhart knew he could unravel – Most had, after all, affected his outward appearance, and he spent more time and magic on his looks than anyone else he knew – The professor felt eager to regain the respect owed him by his students and admirers. So when Harry resumed his attacks on Lockhart's person, as he thought he might, the professor knew he needed to make a spectacular recovery. He had an audience to impress and educate, after all.
The trouble had begun unexpectedly, as always.
Lockhart frowned and paused as he stood from his desk while the most curious sensation he'd ever experienced washed over him. He frowned at his class of sixth-years, which quietly continued working without so much as glancing at him. He experimentally wiggled his toes in his boots and ran a hand through his hair, only to pause as he caught a glance of himself in the reflecting dish standing beside his desk.
Potter had decided to dress him as a pink creature of some sort. He sighed after a closer examination. He looked like a pink cat-creature had attempted to swallow him. His head seemed hooded in pink and crowned with a pink feline face, snout and rounded ears. His hands appeared encased in oversized paw-like gloves. He also observed a long, blunt, twitching pink tail waving at him over his shoulder.
He rubbed his hands together, though, and felt his palms touch without impediment, and he still recognised the delightful brush of silk against his skin. Thus assured he hadn't actually lost his clothes, this time, he circled around his desk for more room.
"Kálesekaréft!" he encanted.
A beautiful gilt-framed mirror appeared with a puff of blue smoke. He saw several students watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he could hear a little muted laughter. The professor smirked. It was only an illusion, and Potter had apparently forgotten to suppress his reaction, this time around.
"Oh dear," he sighed aloud after a short self-examination. "This won't do at all."
He turned in a slow circle and snorted at his swaying tail. He briefly wondered where such a ridiculous idea had come from as he took several slow steps back. Lockhart blinked and frowned, taking a few experimental steps forward. Music accompanied his footsteps. Jazzy, bass-y, saxophone and finger-click-ridden theme music heralded his movement no matter how slowly he walked and only stopped if he stopped.
"Ha-ha!" he grinned, wagging a brow at the snickering students before him. "My final ambition's realised. I have theme music."
The students outright laughed at that, with him, he noted smugly, more than at him.
"Before I get rid of this, would anyone mind telling me what exactly I'm supposed to be?" he asked good-humouredly. "I'm very curious."
Hesitantly, a girl at the back of the room whose name he couldn't recall raised her hand, and he quickly gestured at her to speak.
"You're the Pink Panther, Professor," she giggled. "It's a muggle cartoon."
"Ahhh," he nodded, fixing his expression to one of recognition. "I thought I recognised the melody. Well, why don't we have an impromptu lesson, since we've been afforded the opportunity?"
Several heads perked up at that, and his grin stretched wider.
"Class, what you see here is an illusion. My clothes feel as they did before, and I can't feel any of the apparent additions to my wardrobe," he informed them. "Now, you may not know this, but an illusionary spell like this, when appropriately applied, could save your life if you should ever find yourself in inhospitable territory."
He waved his wand with a flourish, and the boy who sat front and centre suddenly looked like a very elderly, feeble man wearing a yellow raincoat. His students made appreciative sounds as another flick of his wrist restored the boy to his usual appearance.
"While simple glamours disguise features, full-on illusion spells trick the mind into seeing something that isn't there. They take a bit of power and practice to apply, but they're harder to see through. Keep in mind if you ever use it that a touch would still reveal the fallacy," he explained, preening in the attentive gazes of his students while he paced back and forth in front of their desks to the music Potter had supplied. "As you noticed, there's no incantation. Much like freeform transfiguration, this charm's all about your intent and focus. For an in-depth explanation, and tips on how to perfect this technique for yourselves, you're welcome to read ahead to chapter fifteen of Voyages with Vampires, in which I fooled a coven into thinking I was one of their own with various masking and disguise spells."
With an elegant flourish, he willed the illusion to fall and smiled when his hands, shoes, and robes returned to view. He grinned, and several students clapped.
"Now, for the music. Anyone care to identify some possibilities?"
He frowned when no one offered up an answer.
"Nobody? Oh, come, now. You are N.E.W.T. students!"
One of the red-haired Gryffindor boys raised a hand. Lockhart nodded his acknowledgement.
"Sir, it's back."
"Er- What's back, my boy?" the professor frowned.
"The illusion, Professor."
Bugger, he thought.
"Not to worry, Wesley-"
"It's Weasley, sir," a girl with mahogany ringlets interrupted.
Weasley flushed, but looked pleased. Lockhart grit his teeth and doffed his hat.
"Of course, my dear," he allowed. "Who would like to demonstrate a summoning charm for me?"
The same Ravenclaw stood with a frown.
"Sir?"
He smiled indulgently and gestured to himself.
"If the spell was not applied to my person, why might it reassert itself?"
"Oh," she said in recognition. "It's an enchantment on an object that's spelled to affect whatever it touches, and your counter-spell only worked for as long as it took for its runes to recharge."
"Exactly. Would you be so kind as to summon it to you?"
However, no matter what combination of 'Accio enchanted prank object' the girl tried, nothing responded to her spell.
"Er-" he forced a laugh. "Whatever it is is stubborn, isn't it? You lot go ahead and finish your assignments. I'm going to nip back to my rooms for a quick wardrobe change."
He quickly took the stairs back up to his apartments and stripped out of his clothes. An hour, three showers (to wash away any possible potions), four outfits later and after six attempts at overriding the illusion with one of his own, the professor gave up and made his way down to Healer Pomfrey's lair. He very much wished there were fewer muggle-born students in the school. Apparently, the kar-toon's subject added to the enjoyment of his predicament for anyone he passed. The sheltering, soundproofed doors barring the general population from the convalescing provided some relief to the giggles and jeers following his jaunty footsteps.
Madam Pomfrey; however looked not amused by the professor's appearance in her infirmary. The woman's nostrils flared, her lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed as she brusquely tugged a privacy curtain around her only patient in residence.
"Poppy," Lockhart greeted genially "Good afternoon."
The matron's sharp gaze swept him from head-to-toe, and a short jab of her wand produced a series of ghostly numbers and letters he couldn't decipher despite their proximity to his face.
"Professor," she gritted through clenched teeth. "From my diagnostics, there's nothing wrong with you, so why, pray tell, are you here?"
Scarlet sparks shot from her wand, and Lockhart wisely got straight to the point.
"I've done everything in my power to undo this illusion or override it," he rushed, performing the counter-spell to demonstrate.
The healer's brow quirked at his momentary success before the illusion resumed and he once again resembled an overgrown child in footie pyjamas.
"And before you ask, I've spent an hour bathing and changing to determine if it was something on my person," he sighed. "Unfortunately, I experienced not a dot of success."
"Indeed?" she muttered. "Well, onto a bed with you, then. Lie still as you can while I scan you."
The defence professor complied and settled in while the witch cast several multicoloured investigative charms and spells over his prone body. He counted her ninth attempt before she finally stood straight and slid her wand back into the pocket of her crisp white apron. Lockhart sat up and swung his pink fuzz-covered legs over the side of the bed.
"It's very cleverly executed, I'll tell you that," she shrugged with a small smile.
The man's usual grin twisted and twitched a little.
"It would have to be in order to resist my spellwork," he agreed ruefully. "Did you locate the issue?"
"I think so," she said lightly. "Did you eat corn at lunch, Professor?"
"Er-" he frowned and blinked. "Why, yes. Yes, I did."
"Well that's the perpetrator," she explained, resting her hands on her hips. "I'm afraid you'll just have to wait it out. The indigestible parts of the corn kernels you ingested are layered anti-detection and summoning enchantments, along with a whole host of local wards to prevent interference with the illusion. It's possible to drain them, of course, as you could any illusion; however, the kernels are still still inside you. You can't stop your own magic from recharging the spells because of their proximity."
"So there's nothing you can do?" he managed after processing for a moment.
She smiled and withdrew her wand. Her dextrous fingers spun it like a baton.
"I never said that," the healer countered almost sweetly. "I'm happy to provide you with a laxative to speed things up a tic, if you'd prefer."
The gleam in her eye made him shudder at the thought of the assuredly degrading and violent prospect.
"Er-" he laughed nervously. "That's quite all right, Poppy. I'll just return to my quarters, then, shall I? May I use your floo?
Pomfrey's brow twitched before her features affected a sympathetic expression.
"Afraid not, Professor. Official transit and emergencies only. You understand."
Lockhart grimaced, slid off the bed's edge, and tugged down his temporarily invisible waistcoat out of habit.
"Of course," he managed on the way to the door.
Outside, a small crowd had gathered to confirm what the rumours had told them. The professor did his utmost to stand straight and walk as if he didn't have odd theme music and a swaying pink tail following him around.
Although he polished up on and performed revealing and protection spells on all his food and drink thereafter, Potter (for he knew the boy was responsible by his mild smile in class) still managed to make a spectacle of him on a near daily basis. Sometimes, he could reverse the damage and return to his business. More often, what should have worked triggered a second spell effect more humiliating than the last.
The first time he experienced the unwelcome phenomenon, he ended up dancing on the head table miming and singing 'I'm a Little Teapot' a the top of his voice, which effectively prevented him from attempting any sort of countermeasure. The headmaster eventually stopped chuckling long enough to immobilise and levitate him, and Lockhart was put to rights in short order. In comparison, growing a donkey's ears, which happened the following morning, hadn't been so bad.
He gave an impatient huff.
Gilderoy had already spent more time studying in his short time as a professor than he ever remembered doing as a student. On the other hand, the challenge had given him several opportunities to show his humble acceptance of the ceaseless harassment. In addition, his new skills at item detection, personal warding, and runic-based protection provided excellent material for his upper-level classes, in which he'd heard whispers about the lack of practical lessons. Thankfully, his research had also yielded what he hoped would be his salvation from the onslaught. He smirked to himself and turned to page of the large how-to manual.