lxxii. blithering idiot
Two weeks passed the students of Hogwarts by, and in those weeks it wasn't uncommon to hear Mr. Lockhart's loud, officious voice careening through the corridors whenever they headed off to class. He seemed to pop up everywhere: outside on the grounds when they strolled to Herbology, telling everyone who'd listen about the herd of Centaurs he befriended in Germany; in the Transfiguration corridor, strutting about in a cloak with literal peacock feathers on the hem; trailing Professor Flitwick, who couldn't walk fast enough to escape the man's lengthy stories. Harriet saw him try to give Snape advice on potioneering and she thought the poor blighter was going to lose a limb.
Annoying or not, however, there were no new spooky messages on the walls, instances of hissing voices, or Petrifications while Lockhart bandied about, and so Harriet assumed he was either brighter than he let on or was making such a nuisance of himself the invisible not-a-Gorgon couldn't keep on with their dastardly scheme. Sometimes the wizard trailed Longbottom, rambling about managing fame and expectations, trying to wrangle the Boy Who Lived into a book deal. "A seventy-thirty split in profits, of course, being my idea," Harriet heard Lockhart say one day, bracing herself against the need to roll her eyes. Used to the attention, Neville formed an easy camaraderie with the wizard, and managed to divert his attention back toward his other doting fans or the Chamber itself.
Harriet had never been so glad Professor Dumbledore decided to keep the truth of Voldemort and her scar a secret whenever she saw the pair together.
Though nothing of note happened for a fortnight, Hermione was still determined to brew a Polyjuice Potion and learn what the professors knew. Where that sudden, intense distrust came from, Harriet couldn't say—but she considered it possible Professor Quirrell's betrayal last term had shaken Hermione more than any of them knew. Certainly, Harriet had been terrified, but she'd never trusted authority figures to the extent Hermione did; her grade school teachers never took her side against Dudley, always reprimanding her to quit telling lies when she said he hit her. Being confronted with stark evidence of a professor's frankly evil personage probably unsettled Hermione greatly.
It was a Thursday, an hour or so before class let out, and the second year Slytherins had their weekly free period. Harriet hurried along, already late to what was supposed to be a clandestine meeting with her friends…in a loo. Every witch knew the toilets on the second floor were bloody atrocious, what with Moaning Myrtle in residence, the ghost of an old student who haunted the place and popped through the stalls while you were trying to do your business. Of course, Harriet never had that issue because the ghosts always avoided her—which she suspected had something to do with Set, who was also the reason she was running late.
Why he felt the need to knock everything off of Runcorn's carrell like some prissy cat, Harriet would never know.
She hurried along, fidgeting with her robes until they laid flat, one sock shorter than the other, her hair more of a nightmare than usual after waking from an overlong afternoon nap. Harriet yawned as she hopped up the steps to the second floor—and paused, seeing Mr. Lockhart peeking into a broom cupboard. He didn't seem to be up to anything nefarious; rather, he looked peaky and nervous as he peered into the cupboard and fiddled with his wand as if trying to buck up the courage to open the door fully.
Harriet came up next to him, and though she didn't hear any suspicious snake voices, she pulled out her wand as well. "What're you looking for?"
Mr. Lockhart jumped half a foot in the air and nearly whacked Harriet in the face when he whipped his wand about and dropped the bloody thing on her head. Rubbing her scalp, Harriet scowled at the wizard and bent down to pick it up.
"You gave me a fright there!" Lockhart said with a weak attempt at a laugh, one hand on his chest. His blond hair flopped over his brow like the wet down of a half-soaked duck, the hem of his gaudy robes crooked as if he'd tripped over them a time or two. He accepted his wand back from her and pointed it again at the ajar door. "I say—what, what are you doing out of class at this hour?"
"Free period," Harriet replied, shrugging. She edged around him to see into the dark cupboard. "Is there something in there?" Harriet swore if Lockhart got her eaten by a cursed mop, she'd come back and haunt him.
"Ah—well, I'm on patrol—looking for ne'er-d0-wells, protecting everyone, as you like—and I heard a, uh, suspicious noise…."
Lockhart's normally blinding smile flickered, and he looked very near passing out when Harriet—growing impatient—nudged the door open fully with her foot. A sudden buzzing filled the air, something black and glittering darting toward them, and Lockhart shrieked as Harriet flicked her wand. "Petrificus Totalus!"
The wizard's shriek still echoed in the corridor as the two Doxies bounced off his head and fell, stiff as boards, to the floor below. Harriet gave Lockhart another harsh, disbelieving look, then bent to pluck the Doxies up and stuff them into a pocket. Livi had developed a taste for the gross things while at Grimmauld, so he'd appreciate the treat.
Meanwhile, Lockhart was quick to prevaricate, though the bloke sounded like he'd nearly had a heart attack, his voice warbling several octaves too high. "Thank you for the assistance—though I had it all under control, of course! Very dangerous, Doxies. Venomous, you know."
They were not, in fact, venomous in the slightest, but Harriet said, "Uh-huh," anyway. They stared at one another in awkward silence.
Harriet honestly couldn't see why the others were crazy over the wizard. She didn't understand. Was that what growing up did to you? The third year girls had attended a special class with Madam Pomfrey and had come back to the common room whispering about hormones and periods and changes—all things Harriet did not like the sound of in the slightest, but unfortunately she'd have to deal with it sooner rather than later. Was that what made Hermione, the smartest witch Harriet knew, act like such a numpty whenever Lockhart came strutting by?
Harriet huffed. "You should write fiction."
"P-pardon?"
"Your books. You should write your own fiction, considering there's not a lot of other wizarding fiction writers out there, and yours isn't half bad. Then, you wouldn't get sent by the Ministry to do these kinds of things and make a total hash of it."
Lockhart paled, then goggled at Harriet like she'd shouted something vaguely obscene and highly offensive. He didn't say anything in response, and so the bespectacled witch took the chance to scurry off, leaving the fancy wizard gobsmacked in the hallway. She made it to the loo without further incident, pushed in the door—and found Elara and Hermione inside, staring at a wall.
"Err—what are you doing?" She felt like she was asking that a lot today.
Hermione blinked and stirred. "You're late," she said, more from reflex than a need to chastise. "Myrtle was here a moment ago, complaining as she always does—and then she stopped mid-sentence, gasped, and flew through that wall there."
"I told you it meant Harriet was almost here," Elara commented.
"I always thought it a coincidence the ghosts never appeared around her, but now I'm not as certain. Maybe it has something to do with your curse scar? Ghosts are highly sensitive to magic and might be repelled by it."
"Mmm," Harriet replied. Hermione might not have noticed the evasion, but Elara did, her gaze sharpening as the shorter witch quickly cleared her throat and changed the subject. "Anyway, sorry I'm late. Got distracted out in the hall—so why d'you want us here?"
Shaking her head, Hermione returned her attention to the matter at hand. "I thought this would make an excellent place to begin brewing the Polyjuice; no one ever comes in here because of Myrtle."
"Yeah? Well, what about Myrtle? Will she tattle on us?"
"I couldn't say, honestly. According to Hogwarts: A History, the ghosts are under no obligation to report on the students to the staff unless they're injured or a threat to others—but they're also under no obligation to keep silent, either. I believe Myrtle's just bored and lonely enough to not go reporting us to Professor Dumbledore."
Harriet nodded along, though she had a queasy feeling in her stomach at the thought of brewing a potion in a ghost's loo. It didn't sound very sanitary to her.
"Did you manage to get the book, Elara?"
The taller witch inclined her head and reached into her robe pocket, revealing a book loosely bound in brown paper she quickly shed.
"That's not from the library," Hermione said slowly.
"It's from a library. That library being my own." Elara held the book out to Hermione, and Harriet could see the familiar crest on the bottom of the spine as the witch impatiently waved the tome about when Hermione failed to grasp it. "I had Kreacher send it to me from home. Mind, I'll probably return for the hols and find out he's tossed the whole library searching for it, but this is still much simpler than trying to bribe a teacher into signing a permission slip for the Restricted Section."
Grumbling, Hermione took the book and cradled it gently in her hands. "Oh, gross."
"Gross?" Harriet asked.
"It feels—." Her nose scrunched, handing the text over. "Not pleasant."
Indeed, when Harriet's fingers brushed the cover, she was almost overcome with the sudden desire to hurl the book as far as she could. It felt as if she'd taken hold of something not quite solid, a half-frozen gelatinous thing that sent a sharp prickling alighting through her hand and danced in her skin like tiny little feet. It felt—familiar, but uncomfortable, like the stuffy dark of the cupboard at Privet Drive. Harriet did not like it and quickly shoved it back to her friend.
"It's a text of Dark magic that's sat in a Dark house for decades, Hermione. Of course it's not pleasant."
Shivering once, Hermione lowered herself to sit on the damp floor in front of the sinks and Elara and Harriet did the same—though Elara opted for perching on her bag, folding her hands together on her knees, curling her lip slightly. As Hermione parted the book and began looking through the pages, Harriet peered at the room itself. Everything was slightly off-color, drab with dust and age, the floor stained by years of water damage, cobwebs bearding the ceiling like fungus under a log. All the mirrors had long since been broken, the window itself obscured by limescale as thick as Harriet's finger. It was a distinctly unsavory place, exactly where someone might find illegal potions brewing going on.
"Here." Hermione spread the book open in her lap, running a single fingertip down a page crammed with tiny print and gruesome drawings. "This is it here. Hmm…" She turned the page, frowning. "…it's a tad more complicated than I'd hoped, what with the leeches needing to be bled as to not contaminate it, and it'll take twenty-one days for the lacewing flies to stew. The knotgrass also presents a problem, as it needs to be harvested under a full moon. Some of the rest will be difficult to procure."
Elara's brow rose, and she craned her neck to look at the book without scooting closer on the grubby floor. "Could we buy the flies? I don't know if Slug and Jiggers would take the order, but there are other apothecaries."
"No," Hermione said, still reading. "The fee would be exorbitant, and I wouldn't trust whoever filled the order to stew them properly. Besides, not many potions call for stewed lacewing flies; any potioneer with half a brain would know what we were up to." She sunk her teeth into her lower lip as she carefully closed the book again, a small furrow appeared between her brows. "We should be able to start right away. I have my kit and spare cauldron, and the flies themselves are used in standard potion making. The second part of the brew will be a bit…difficult, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." She smiled, shaking out her bushy hair as she climbed back to her feet. "In the end, I hope all this is unnecessary. Mr. Lockhart should be able to catch whoever is causing this chaos, and we can get back to studying without worrying about being Petrified…."
She said the words, and yet Harriet knew Hermione didn't feel them; they rang hollow, empty, and the other witch wouldn't quite meet their eyes as she tucked Elara's smuggled book into her satchel and brought out a collapsible cauldron so she could start on the flies. Elara took the opportunity to leave, muttering about Snape and making sure no one went looking for them and caught them out making mischief. Harriet helped Hermione begin prepping ingredients, working in companionable silence, and once they moved the cauldron into one of the stalls, she leaned against the partition and stared into the dark, bubbling water.
Hermione hoped all this wouldn't be necessary, but it would be, because Gilderoy Lockhart was a fraud, and Harriet suspected the adults were well aware of that fact. Why, then? Why bring him? Why would the Minister send a blithering idiot to Hogwarts in their time of need?
Grim, Harriet didn't think she would like the answer to those questions.