Disclaimer: I only own my own personal brand of insanity and annoyingness - don't blame J. K. Rowling for that. But the rest is hers.

AN: Thanks for reviewing, guys, you're the best readers in the world! Now, both you and I know there is no way to ascertain that, but it makes us all feel good, so I'll just leave it at that.

Chapter 21: Of Ladies and Lockharts

"Oi, Tippy, another round of butterbeer!"

"Yes, sir, Master Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry grinned as the cheery elf popped off, leaving Harry, Terry, and Michael alone in their little, secluded nook of the Hogwarts kitchen. He tilted his nearly empty mug to the side, swishing the caramel coloured liquid about. "This stuff, it's actually quite nice, you know - I do think it might be rather brilliant, actually. I wonder why they didn't serve it at the feast."

Terry dipped his finger in the foam. "Uh, the fact that's it's got alcohol in it?"

Michael snorted. "Yeah, imagine a bunch of drunk first years."

At that, Harry began to cackle, the gleeful noise soon descending into raucous laughter.

Michael quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"J-just...drunk...ha!" he gasped out, "Drunk...Luna - snorkacks! And nargles...ha- hi-imagine, all the first years drunk! L-luna, and Weasley...and...haha...that kid in Slytherin with the attitude! He..., ha! And Colin!" He suddenly sobered, shivering. "Colin Creevey...drunk..."

Terry, in turn, now burst out in laughter, as Michael rolled his eyes. Colin Creevey was a first year just sorted into Gryffindor...who wouldn't stop asking Harry for his autograph, and rather reminded him of Dobby the house elf. At first, Harry found it quite amusing - but that amusement, before long, turned to annoyance. When 'Professor' Lockhart joined in the spectacle, initiating a lecture on fame and obliging your fans, Harry was plagued with a combination of horror and fury, and using his uncanny (or rather, uncontrolled) skills in transfiguration, transfigured Lockhart's clothing into a rather lovely pink, frilly frock (design, circa 1882, for the use of young girls, of course), making a desperate escape. He had given his all to avoiding the two assailants for the last two days.

Suddenly, three mugs of butterbeer popped into existence in front of them, immediately snatched up by the three boys.

"Here's to the successful exorcism of Professor Cuthbert Binns -" Harry began grandly, holding his mug above his head.

"Again..." Michael muttered.

"- May he rest in boringness for the rest of his pathetic afterlife."

"Amen," Terry said, taking a big gulp of the sweet drink.

"You do realize this is the third time that particular bit of conversation has taken place tonight," Michael drawled. "The same toast, over, and over, and over again..."

"And I could say it a thousand times more," Harry replied, grinning, "And it wouldn't get any less satisfying."

Michael simply scoffed, turning his attention to the mug of butterbeer in his hands.

"Which reminds me, I've been meaning to ask you two..."

"No." The answer was stiff and simultaneous.

Harry pouted. "I haven't even asked you anything yet."

"We know what you're going to say, mate," Terry said, "You want us to help you do away with Lockhart now."

Harry gaped. "Terry...you never told me you were a legillimens."

Michael rolled his eyes at his antics. "I still don't understand why you hate the man so much."

"Aside from the evil pedophile, serial killer-wannabe, 'I'm a sociopathic conman and I enjoy being a walking fashion disaster' vibe I keep getting off him?"

"Yeah, aside from that."

Harry let out an explosive sigh. "You have read his books, right?"

"Well, I know they're terrible, but -"

"No, it's not even that," Harry interrupted, "They're completely inconsistent - in every way. It's impossible that he's actually done everything he says he's done. And yet he parades about, declaring it was all him. Either he's a complete nutter or he's a glory snatching liar. Either way, both prospects irk me."

Terry shrugged. "You said yourself that he's an idiot, mate -"

"Yeah, an idiot, sure, but not about everything! He can't be. No matter how silly his fans are, he wouldn't be this famous if he was completely witless, if there was nothing more to it. He's incompetent, but still - you know, he was a Ravenclaw."

Both boys gaped. "No way."

"Yes way," Harry retorted, "Incompetent as hell, but I'd bet my right arm he's hiding something - being an excellent liar myself, I can say with absolute certainty that though that man's ability to tie his shoes is arguable, he's a top notch liar."

Michael squinted unhappily. "But how do you know?"

Harry shrugged in return, chugging down some more butterbeer. "Same way I knew about Quirrell. No one that lame can't not be evil."

Professor Narcissa Malfoy gingerly set down a pile of books at the desk in the front of the room, looking over the awkwardly shifting room of second years, obviously unnerved by her controlled silence. The sound of her footsteps amounted only to the sharp clicks of her heels; her presence was otherwise quiet and tranquil, and for some reason, the prospect of shattering that was one not even considered.

"What," she began suddenly, her voice cold, soft, and clear, "Is history?"

There was a chorus of blinks and shuffling feet.

The woman's eyes narrowed disapprovingly. "When I ask a question, I expect it to be answered."

Hermione Granger's hand immediately shot up.

Professor Malfoy froze as she laid eyes on the bushy-haired Gryffindor, left eye twitching as she seemed to wage an internal battle for a moment, before she all but choked out with a stiff face, "Yes, Miss…Granger."

Hermione nodded gratefully and spoke up. "History is the study of past events – it studies the origins and roots of these events, the details of how they happened, and also why they happened."

"…very good." Mrs. Malfoy quickly regained her composure. "The history of magic, then, should study the origin of magic, and the events surrounding it, as well as its development over time. That is what we will start to study this year."

Lavendor Brown's hand inched upward.

"Yes, Miss Brown."

"But didn't we do that last year?"

Professor Malfoy sniffed distastefully. "Cuthbert Binns was my History Professor also, Miss Brown, and so I know full well that what the late Professor Binns taught was not history – it was pages and pages of obscure historical fact. I know very well that you do not, nor will ever care who created the first flying broom and who first designed pewter cauldrons. You may, however, be interested, in the social reform that originated the sport of quidditch, and what sort of potions inspired the creation of a cauldron made from something other than silver. I will be teaching you history – which is not facts, but a reality – the reality of what once was, and gave birth to what we have today." She gazed at all of them piercingly. "Where, then do you think we will be starting?"

There was some hesitation amidst the students, before Anthony hesitantly suggested, "The beginning?"

"That is correct, Mr. Goldstein. The beginning of magic - the beginning of our civilization." She waved her hand gracefully, causing all the old, decrepit looking books lining the edge her desk to stand up in a row. "Can anyone tell me what these texts are?"

Harry look around the room of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, finding them all staring blankly at the row of books. Honestly, was he the only student who ever looked in the 'Ancients' section of the Hogwarts library? He sighed, slowly raising his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"The Theogony, The Iliad, The Aneid, Voluspa, and Havamal."

A small smile fleeted across the professor's lips. "And what, Mr. Potter, do these four texts have in common?"

"They're all poems – and, they all provide invaluable insight into early European paganism."

Many of the students were looking very confused at this, a few cringing, or looking slightly concerned.

"These are not stories," Professor Malfoy said, garnering some incredulous looks, "At the very least, they did not begin as thus – over the years they were embellished with fantasy, and were writ as such. But the secrets underlying these fantastic plots give us the origin of magic – the origin of witches and wizards….as children of the gods. There are some who would rather deny this heritage, and have you all ignorant of these facts. But they are not teaching this class – I am."

"Professor Malfoy had better be careful," Anthony mumbled as the second year Ravenclaws sat down at the table.

Kevin frowned at him. "Why?"

"Most pagan practices were outlawed during the time between the Renaissance period and Grindelwald's reign. Most of the stories that went along with them faded into obscurity," Padma piped up from behind them, before walking off to join Mandy on the other side of the table.

"Sorry," Kevin said, squinting, "I'm still not getting this."

Stephen glanced over at him amusedly. "If the ministry hears what she plans to teach us, then they may get suspicious of her. Especially given her husband's...reputation."

"Why?"

"Because," it was Michael who spoke this time, "It was only the old dark pureblood families that resisted the changes…families like the Blacks and the Malfoys. Most still are very unhappy about it, and some people think that this is what started the war. Paganism, in the context of history, carries a very bad stigma in the Ministry's eyes."

"But why were pagan practices outlawed in the first place, I wonder?"

The all jumped, hearing Hermione's voice as she sat down beside Harry, frowning thoughtfully, Neville beside her, seeming quite preoccupied with his egg sandwich.

"Most pagan magical practices carry a great deal more risk than normal spells, among other things," Harry muttered from beside her.

Michael snorted, murmuring "other things…" under his breath.

"What do you think about it, Harry?" Kevin asked him.

"To pepromenon phygein adynaton."

"Huh?"

"It is impossible to escape from what is destined," Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice drifted over them all, as she also sat down at the Ravenclaw table.

Harry nodded gratefully at her. "In that spirit, I would think that it is also impossible to escape from what has already occurred. It is simply a matter of what you choose to ignore."

"It's sort of like wearing red shoes," Luna said, smiling serenely, as though in the midst of a pleasant daydream, "You can't get away from the red, and you can't get away from the shoes, because you're wearing them."

"Exactly."

Terry smacked his head against the table. "That didn't make any sense…"

Harry scowled at him. "Yes, it does." He turned to Hermione, looking for support. "Doesn't it, Hermione?"

But Hermione, unfortunately, was sitting with her head in her hands, a sulky expression on her face.

Harry sighed exasperatedly, and could not help but wonder if her sudden sour mood was a result in what was her and Luna's first meeting.

(flashback begins…now!)

"Even though I don't have the class, I'm going to try and get an appointment with the arithmancy professor," Harry said, looking over the notes that Hermione had written over August.

Hermione nodded excitedly, the enthusiastic movement shifting the hard, awkward library chair. "I'd really like to talk to Professor Babbling, actually – I've found runes to be the most fascinating subject I've studied! One would think it would be rather obscure, being such an ancient art, but there are so many different branches of study and research! And you wouldn't believe the old lore on their origins, and all the ways that they can be used!"

"It is spectacular, isn't it –"

"Hello Harry the Horrible."

Harry glanced behind him, a smile lighting his face when he saw Luna Lovegood standing there, glancing wide-eyed between him and Hermione. "Hello Luna the Lunatic, why don't you sit down with us?"

"Why thank you." She smiled serenely at both of them, sitting down at the other side of the table.

"So what do you think of your classes so far?" Harry asked, pointedly ignoring the confused and slightly incredulous look on Hermione's face.

Luna tilted her head in thought. "They're rather wonderful, I suppose. Though…Professor Snape – I do think I need to speak to the nargles about him. He might need a bit of cheering up."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, lips twitching.

"What's a nargle?" Hermione suddenly said, drawing Harry's attention.

"They're little mischievous things that live in mistletoe."

"But they're wonderful company," Luna added.

"There's no such thing!" Hermione blurted out incredulously.

"Yes, there is," Luna said, fixing her piercing stare on Hermione, who shifted slightly under the scrutiny. "You're just like Professor Snape, you know."

Harry choked back a laugh, as Hermione instantly reddened. "What's that supposed to mean!"

"It means," Luna replied, "That you have a distinct lack of wrackspurts in your brain."

"What's a wrackspurt?" Hermione asked faintly.

"They're little buzzing creatures that eat your rational thought," Harry answered, Luna nodding beside him.

"But isn't it good that I don't have them then?" asked Hermione, shocked that she was even having the conversation in the first place.

Luna shook her head. "Not necessarily." She leaned in close, a dazed but sombrely conspiratorial look on her face, as she said grimly, "Because if there are no wrackspurts in your head, then the blubberfigs move in."

Hermione glanced frantically at Harry, who only shrugged.

"Not sure what those ones are."

"They make you narrow minded and not very fun at all," Luna explained, "If you don't get rid of them, you'll die an old spinster."

"Well that can't be good," Harry muttered bemusedly.

Hermione could do nothing but sputter at that, glaring at Harry.

(flashback ends…now!)

Ever since that encounter, Hermione had pointedly avoided Luna's company. Harry was quite confused, because he couldn't imagine someone not liking Luna, but he figured that she would get over it eventually. Shaking his head and refocusing on the conversation, Harry sighed. "Well, it still makes sense."

"Just keep telling yourself that, mate."

"Did you speak to the arithmancy professor?" Hermione asked abruptly, her voice slightly stiff as she attempted to change the subject of the conversation.

"Yeah, yesterday evening – she gave me a list of books to check out in the library…but I've got to get through Defense against the Dark Arts first." He shuddered.

"I've no idea why you dislike Professor Lockhart so much!" Lisa suddenly snapped from across the table, "He's a lovely man! And so brave to…" She sighed dreamily.

Harry snorted at that.

Lisa's glare returned full force. "Well it's true! Can't think of a reason for you to hate him –"

"The reason's quite simple, really."

"Oh?" she returned skeptically.

Harry leaned across the table conspiratorially. "I don't think he's human."

Luna was nodding sagely behind him.

"Well, then what is he?" Hermione asked distastefully from beside him – much to his chagrin, he had already discovered that Hermione had already fallen under the creep's spell as well.

Harry's eyes darted between them. "…an alien."

Hermione blanched, and Lisa blinked. "An alien?"

"Yeah…sent to earth by the Dark Lord of the Sith to blind us all to death with his dastardly smile – those bleached teeth will just get brighter, and brighter, and brighter, until, one day, POOF!"

Several at the table jumped.

"We all turn to ash."

Terry rolled his eyes, "Mate, that's really not going to happen."

Harry shrugged. "You never know. Either that, or he'll rot all our brains with his stupidity –" he was cut off as his head was smashed forward, courtesy of one Hermione Granger.

"Honestly," she said furiously, "You've got to show more respect! Going around, disregarding rules and insulting teachers!"

She swept out of her seat, stalking back toward the Gryffindor table.

Harry glanced back questioningly at Neville, who usually made a habit of following Hermione around like a little lost puppy. "You're not going after her?"

"I believe Sun Tzu would advise against it."

Harry laughed. Apparently some Chinese-style Slytherin cunning was doing Neville some good.

"Me," Professor Gilderoy Lockhart began five minutes after class was meant to start – he had ambushed Harry in the hall, placing an insistent hand on his shoulder and starting to, once again, go on about obliging his fans and the glories of fame and heroism; alarmed and caught off guard, Harry had planted an instinctual kick between the man's legs. Masculinity proven, the blonde menace arrived late, immediately strutting to the front of the class where he picked up Anthony's copy of Travels with Trolls, and mimicked the ridiculous, winking grin on the front. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award…but I don't talk about that –"

"But you are," Harry mumbled inaudibly.

"- I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

Perhaps that had worked on the Hufflepuffs, or maybe even the Gryffindors, but the Ravenclaws simply looked unimpressed with the weak humour. Harry was wishing that he had a bucket of rotten fruit with him.

"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books – well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about – just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in."

The man trotted through the rows of students, smiling magnificently at them all as he handed the test papers out. Returning to the class, he declared loudly, "You have thirty minutes – start – NOW!"

Harry looked down at the three pages with mounting horror, before a rather pleased grin came over his face.

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?

Gilderoy Lockhart does not know what colour is, because he never made it past preschool.

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

To create a clone of himself so he can finally engage in his dirtiest narcissistic fantasies.

3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

Committing suicide. Oh, wait, he hasn't done that yet – never mind, ignore that…I don't know.

4. What is the name of Gilderoy Lockhart's mother?

The thing in the closet. Or Medusa. I forget. Either way, she's very disappointed in him.

5. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite food?

The pureed entrails of little boys drunk from a baby's skull. Seasoned with a dead hooker's eyelashes.

6. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite outfit?

His Madonna cosplay. Obviously.

7. Who was Gilderoy Lockhart's first love?

Himself.

8. Who was Gilderoy Lockhart's second love?

His mirror.

9. Who was Gilderoy Lockhart's third love?

He had a secret crush on Lord Voldemort as a boy.

10. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's middle name?

Moron.

Harry was grinning all the way down to the last question:

54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday is on February 29th; his mother held off until then, so that she would only have to celebrate his birthday once every four years. His ideal birthday gift would be either a life or a nice shiny revolver so he could blow his own brains out. I'm sure he'd enjoy some multicoloured sex toys, though.

Harry smirked when Lockhart gathered up all the papers, beginning to rifle through them at the front of class, paling dramatically as he read through one of them – causing all eyes to land on Harry, who smiled innocently.

Regaining his composure, Lockhart looked over the class. "Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with the Werewolves more carefully – I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples – though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogdeds Old Firewhiskey!" He winked in a manner that was probably supposed to be alluring in some way, but only came out ridiculous.

Harry was sure, if the second year Ravenclaws weren't so horrified - who would have thought that their defense teacher would be even worse this year? - they would be laughing their heads of; even Padma, who had previously been thrilled that the fashion disaster would be teaching them, was starting to look doubtful. It appeared that only Lisa was holding onto hope, and hers was quickly failing.

"And so," Lockhart continued, oblivious to his students' dead stares, "To business." He bent down behind his desk – Harry silently begging that his pants would split in the process – lifting a large, covered cage onto it.

"Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room –"

Harry snorted. That was bloody unlikely.

"- Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm. I must ask you not to scream," he said, voice lowering grimly, "It might provoke them."

With a flourish, he whipped the cover of the cage. "Yes – freshly caught Cornish pixies!"

At that, Terry could not help but burst out in raucous laughter.

Meanwhile, Harry stared at the cage musingly. Pixies were attracted to bright colours, weren't they?

"Yes," Lockhart smiled at Terry.

Harry could not help but notice that Hogwarts uniforms were black, unlike Lockharts colourful garb…

"Well," Terry barely managed through his giggles, "They aren't exactly dark creatures, are they? Let alone dangerous…"

Using a subtle nudge of wandless magic, Harry spun the cage slightly, so that the door was facing away from the students, and toward the professor.

"Don't be sure!" Lockhart declared condescendingly, "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be! Why once, while in Wales, I found a nest –"

"Alohomora."

And suddenly, all hell broke loose.

The nest of tiny, blue winged creatures burst out upon Lockhart, tackling him to the ground, tugging on his hair, cheeks and clothing, causing the man to shriek in surprise. Harry was grinning at the man's loud sputtering as he leapt out of his chair, shouting "Come on!" to his housemates, quickly ushering them out of the classroom as their movement caught the attention of some of the pixies, who began to dart after them with viciously mischievous grins on their faces. Once all the students, plus a few pixies, managed to evacuate, Harry pointed his wand at the door, uttering a quick locking charm. He doubted that Lockhart would be able to counter it anyway.

"Harry!" he suddenly heard Anthony snap, "You did that, didn't you!"

Harry cast his eyes over the students, observing their mixed looks of incredulity, shock, disapproving, and pride.

"Oh, come on. Can any of you say, truthfully, that he didn't have it coming?"

There was a long pause, his year mates glancing at each other with thoughtful expressions on their faces - Harry could clearly see the cogs turning in their minds. Finally, they all simply shrugged, content with being early for Herbology.

The next morning officially initiated the second week of classes – the Ravenclaws had Potions first thing, along with the Hufflepuffs.

Severus Snape was, without a doubt, in a foul mood. Now, normal people, when in a foul mood, scowl a great deal, snap on occasion, and often indulge in self-pity, curling up in a dark corner – but Severus Snape was no normal person; as it was so, the snarky, ill-tempered Potions Professor made quite sure that all his students knew exactly how incensed he was.

Hannah Abbot had already fainted three times, and Ernie, who looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, had not been allowed to take her to the hospital wing, being scolded for even attempting to wake the poor girl up. Zacharias Smith had been whacked over the head, three times, Terry had been the unfortunate victim of a stinging hex, and Harry was being constantly insulted. Not that he minded, really – he found it rather amusing.

"Abbot! How many times do I have to say it! Poison Ivy leaves need to be shredded, and berries need to be diced – on more dunderheaded blunder and I will shred and dice you, and use your mangled remains for a potion that requires the entrails of witless girls!"

She fainted, again.

BANG!

One of the cauldrons in the back on the Hufflepuff side of the room suddenly blew up, and was now oozing a sickly green goo onto the floor.

The class watched in stunned, horrified silence as the foul-smelling liquid slowly covered the floor, coinciding with the rate that a visage of cold, unbridled fury crept over the professor's face.

"Get out…" it started as a whisper, but not for long, quickly descending into a fiendish bellow, "Get out! NOW!"

In a flurry of whimpers and terrified gasps, the second year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs stampeded out of the room – that is, all but one Harry James Potter, who, unnoticed, slipped a four and ten of wands back into his pocket.

"Did you not hear what I just said, Potter?" Professor Snape spat dangerously.

"Oh, I did. I just felt bad, leaving you so…distraught," Harry said, sighing melodramatically.

"Potter…"

"I know what's got you down, you know – there was a staff meeting last night."

"Very astute of you," the professor sneered derisively, "Now if you don't –"

"And following it, you were left with the unquenchable urge to crucio Gilderoy Lockhart into insanity."

The professor's entire face twitched.

"The reason I know this is because, you see, I had my first class yesterday with him, and I was left with the same urge."

"Potter, if you do not desire to scrub this floor for the next two hours, I suggest you get out now."

Unfazed, Harry crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap. "You see, professor, I think we see eye to eye on something for once – we both want Gilderoy Lockhart gone, and in the most painful way possible."

Harry could practically see the mixed emotions swirling around in the professor's black orbs, a determinedly sour expression coming over his face. "You must truly be a spoiled, arrogant fool like your father if you think you can coax me into assisting you in getting rid of a professor that doesn't meet your high expectations. I would expect more intelligence and less Gryffindorish pride from a Ravenclaw."

Harry shrugged. "It was worth a try." He rose from his seat, gathering his books and heading toward the door.

"Potter." The frosty reluctance was evident in the professor's voice.

Lips twitching, Harry halted.

"The truth is oftentimes a painful thing, is it not?" the Professor said bitingly.

A grin stretched across Harry's face. "Yes sir. It really is."

"Whatchya lookin' at?"

Jean's voice cut through Harry's contemplative observation of the two letters in his hand. "One's from the Weasley twins." He smirked. "Detailing the arrangements for my first client."

"Ooh…" Jean said, eyes lighting up. "Who is it?"

Harry glanced down at the short note. "One Lavender Brown is requesting a palm reading. The time is two nights, in a closet on the fifth floor. The fee will be one galleon."

"Aww, come on. You gotta charge more than that!"

Harry shrugged. "It's just a palm reading, and we're just starting out – we've got to build up our clientele if we want to charge more."

"I guess…what about the other letter?"

"It's from Gringotts," Harry replied as he ripped the envelope open, pulling a few pieces of parchment out. His brows furrowed as he read through the letter, eyes rapidly flitting from line to line.

"Well, what does it say?"

"It's about the Black accounts, from Griphook." He grimaced. "Bugger. My head already hurts." He sighed, glancing over at the portrait. "My initial assumption was that due to the chaos after the war, the Ministry didn't want various relations to the Black family – and there are a lot; almost every witch or wizards seems to have some Black blood in them – making a fuss over who got what, so they just closed the account. But based on Griphook's research, that can't be the case – no one could possibly stake any claim on the Black fortune except for Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, me, and to a lesser extent, Barty Crouch Senior and Augusta Longbottom. Bellatrix Lestrange is in Azkaban like her cousin Sirius Black, and Barty Crouch and Augusta Longbottom are both stark supporters of the Ministry's reforms, and would have no interest in the fortunes of a 'dark' family. The money and control of the estates should have been divided between the remaining living members of the Black Family, and secondarily, to Professor Malfoy and me. Instead, the Ministry froze all the accounts."

Jean blinked. "How did they manage that?"

"That's what I don't understand. And Griphook seems confused too. Sirius Black was disowned in 1975 – Lord Black was Orion Black, Sirius's father, and after Walburga Black disowned Sirius, the legitimate heir was Regulus, Sirius's younger brother. After Regulus died, even though he was disowned, Sirius became the heir again, because there were no other possible heirs; upon hearing this, he wrote and filed a Will at Gringotts (instead of at the Ministry, oddly enough…) as the future Lord Black. After Regulus and Orion died, Walburga became the acting head of the family with the permission of Acturus Black, Orion's father, who left the country during the war and never returned; under normal circumstances, Sirius would have been made Lord Black right away, but because he was disowned by Walburga, he was unable to become Lord Black until her death in 1985. So basically, Sirius was heir to the House of Black from his birth in 1959 until he was disowned in 1975, and then again, after Regulus's death in 1979 until 1985. He was completely obsolete from 1975 until 1979, and then was made Lord Black in 1985."

Jean whistled. "That's some impressive research. Gotta love those goblins..." But then he grimaced. "Not that that's not confusing all on its own, but I don't see what you're so perplexed about."

Harry sighed. "When the Ministry froze the accounts, they allegedly did so because Sirius Black was a dangerous criminal with unknown connections and intentions, and his will and money were to be preserved as possible evidence or for prevention of further crimes. But here's the thing – Sirius's will didn't even become valid until 1985. The money was never his. Aunt Walburga never even noticed that the accounts were frozen, because she had everything she needed outside Gingotts, and was probably too beside herself with grief to care. Aunt Cassie and her brother Pollux probably noticed, but I think they wouldn't have wanted to place political and financial burdens on top of her already deteriorating health. So the accounts remained untouched, and no one's cared to look into it since."

Jean whistled. "That has cover-up written all over it."

"I know…it's like…" he frowned, remembering his brief meeting with Lucius Malfoy, "It's like the raids they conduct, to confiscate 'dark' artifacts – it's almost as though the Ministry wants to control the economic flow of the British wizarding community…" He glanced at Jean questioningly.

Jean shrugged. "I've always known the British Ministry was just a bunch of power-hungry control freaks. I wouldn't be surprised."

Harry snorted at the portrait's flippancy. "But why? I mean, if that was the case, what do they have to gain by controlling wizarding culture, society, and economics?"

Jean chuckled. "Oh, come on, coz, that's obvious."

"Er, no it isn't."

"Kid, what do people want most?"

"Uh…happiness?"

"Nope."

Harry sighed irritably. "What then?"

Jean raised an eyebrow, looking at Harry piercingly, before he shook his head. "Meh…you'll figure it out eventually."

Originally, Harry and Professor Snape were going to become accomplices in a dastardly plot to poison Lockhart - but I decided that that was a little over the top, even for me (and I love over-the-topness). So, yeah, I'm going the subtler route.

Anyway, thoughts on the chapter? Loved it? Hated it? Feeling the sudden urge to review it?