Snake-Song II

Last Chapter: Harry begins to learn about physical training, receives a visit from Dobby - who he placates - and returns to Hogwarts.

For the first day of his second year, Harry awoke clear-headed. Above him hung the familiar yellow-piped black curtains of his four-poster bed. He felt himself smile. He was at Hogwarts again, with a whole year ahead... with so many things to see, and so much magic to learn.

It was exciting - even more exciting than his first year, when it was all new. He wondered if his dance with Tom Blue had only deepened his desire to grow, to become a better duellist. Didn't people talk about that? About how brushes with death made the world richer afterwards?

He got up, performed his morning ablutions, then began his giswiftēn wand movements. But not those from Tips and Tricks, the disjointed tome he'd picked up before his first year. No; tucked away in the appendices of Muscular Wizardry he'd found examples of intermediate-level exercises he'd never seen before. At the time, the discovery had made him leap from his chair with glee. Now they just made his wrist ache.

Strongsong had included them as proof of Paraphysiology - the idea that witches and wizards tended to possess some physical advantages over Muggles - arguing that the complexity of the rotations of the wrist would eventually, inevitably, cause injury to a Muggles' wrist, but not a magical's. Harry wasn't sure about that; they definitely made his joints sore. All he knew was that they would make him stronger, so he fought through the pain.

Eventually he completed his set and, while the rest of his year was still asleep, shouldered his satchel. Climbing the stairs, he saw that the Common Room was even emptier than usual so early in the day. He took his wand from his holster. "Tempus."

Curling lilac smoke spun from his wand, slowly coalescing into the shape of a clock.

"Oh," Harry muttered to himself. His face was faintly burning, though there was no one to see his embarrassment; it was even earlier than usual. Ridiculously early, even for him.

Deciding there was no point wasting his time, Harry changed his plans. He crept back down to the dormitories, changed into a light robe, and made his way to the grounds. Thankfully, the hinges of the Hufflepuff barrels were well greased; they swung open silently.

Harry stepped out cautiously, peering out past the indent in the wall. Nothing. A blanket of quiet was draped over the corridor. Slowly, but with increasing confidence, he began to walk.

The castle was… strange so early in the morning. Eerie, almost. Hogwarts felt relaxed, sleepy, yet expectant - tense, somehow, all at once. A curious energy seemed to crackle through the gothic corridors, invisible to the thousands of sleeping portraits, yet totally obvious to Harry himself.

Or perhaps he was imagining it? He was certainly imagining Filch creeping around a corner, demanding to know why he was sneaking around so early. Truthfully, Harry wasn't sure if he was allowed to wander around the corridors at half five in the morning. It didn't matter; there was nobody awake to punish him.

He made for the nearest exit - an old postern gate* - and found himself squinting up at the morning sun. It was a glorious day. The sky was bright and blue, as cloudless as polished sapphire. The sun was warm but not overpowering. Harry breathed in, enjoying the scent of fresh air, freshly cut grass and herbs. It was a halcyon day of summer.

The Black Lake was glinting in the distance; Harry made for it, knowing the breeze that blew off the water would cool him down. He stopped by the lake's edge and warmed up, following Strongsong's advice as best he could. Five minutes later, legs felt well stretched, his blood was flowing, and he set off for his first ever proper run.

Five minutes later, he stopped. A sharp pain was shooting up his side. He let himself fall to the ground. "Ah, Merlin," he groused into the grass. It was tickling his nose.

Stitch, the kids at his Muggle school had called it. He knew as soon as the pain flared what had happened; a mistake Muscular Wizardry had predicted. Beginner's over-enthusiasm. When he'd started to run, he'd felt like nothing could stop him; he felt energised, alive, so he ran faster, pushed harder. He ought've ran slower and paced himself.

Harry heaved himself up into a proper sitting position and waited for the pain to fade. He had plenty of time. Ten minutes later he was back at it, this time jogging at a quarter the pace of before.

Soon his mind began to wander. He watched the birds in the distance, circling over Hagrid's vegetable patch; he saw the way the rising sun sent shimmering, blinking diamonds over the still waters of the Black Lake; he enjoyed the way the faint breeze wafted against his reddening forehead.

Yes, he thought, it was beautiful. It was just perf-

"-Oh, hullo!"

A girl burst past him then, waving back at him without a care in the world. Harry blinked, pulling up in surprise. What? Where had she come from? "Er, hello, er, Davids!" he called. The girl didn't deign to look back at him, but shook her head.

Harry winced; now he'd stopped, he realised that the slight pain in his calves wasn't slight at all, that the heat on his forehead could fry an egg and, most importantly, that that girl's name wasn't Davids at all. "Idiot," he muttered to himself. He knew he'd usually be blushing now, but his face couldn't get any redder. He really needed to learn his classmate's names. He had been with them a whole year, after all.

None of them were awake when he returned to the Common Room, just a few upper years. They ignored him, not even blinking at his apparel or exhaustion, and he ignored them in turn. He took a second shower, dressed in his school robes, and sat in his customary seat.

As was also customary, Susan joined him soon after. "You've been running," she said as soon as her back touched the armchair.

Harry peered over his book, trying his best to stop his surprise showing on his face. Was every girl he met going to do this today? "How do you know? I've just showered."

Susan shrugged. She wasn't even trying to be enigmatic. At that moment, she just was.

There was another moment of silence… then she blurted out impatiently; "Do you think we'll get Defence early in the week?"

All her sense of mystery fell away at once. Harry smiled slightly to hide his bemusement. Why was she so interested in Lockhart? "I have no idea. We'll know by breakfast though. All I know is that there is no settling-in time in second year - we're straight on to lessons."

"That's true," she said, playing absently with her plaited hair. "But really Harry, you should be more excited - Lockhart's got an Order of Merlin, you know! He's gone to the Kingdom of the Gorkhas* and found a Yeti, and…"

And Susan went on and on… and Harry found solace in his Transfiguration textbook.

When it finally arrived, breakfast was a blessing for his hungry stomach. He ate ravenously while everyone else talked about their holidays: two rashers of bacon, two sausages, an egg and some strange wizarding greenery called lengwort (one of the few wizarding-specific ingredients served at Hogwarts). It tasted a little like he imagined warm, salted celery might taste; theoretically, it was awful. Actually, he quite enjoyed it.

He was washing it all down with sweetly contrasting pumpkin juice when Professor Sprout passed out the schedules. Susan took hers eagerly. "Wednesday!" she cried. Megan Jones groaned next to her. Harry scanned down his own paper. Ah; the first DADA class was set for Wednesday.

"Looks like Lockhart's heart remains locked away," Wayne said, smirking. "For now, anyway."

Megan turned to glare at him. Harry looked on, still no less bemused. Lockhart's heart? What? He shrugged to himself and carried on eating. He took seconds a few minutes later.

The sausages were so good. Meaty and warm and he was so, so hungry and-

"-Harry? Harry?"

Harry blinked. "Sorry, sorry, what?"

He looked up; Ernie was staring at him, as were half the second years.

"You've been looking at your plate like you want to eat it - the plate I mean, as well as the food."

Harry felt his cheeks redden. "Oh, er, I'm hungry."

Beside Ernie, a very tanned Justin Finch-Fletchley looked at him as though he were mad. "If you say so."

Unfortunately, the first class of the new year was scheduled to be History of Magic. The subject - once again - was the Goblin Rebellions, though this time a different set thereof. Worse, Professor Binns hadn't manifested a personality within the span of the summer holidays. Being a ghost, that would be miraculous.

Harry considered using the time to re-read his year's Transfiguration notes in preparation for the afternoon class. He quickly decided it was pointless; he could almost recount his notes off by heart. It was all too simple. Instead he rested, knowing Strongsong's recommendations surrounding recovery time. His first session, he knew, had been far too enthusiastic.

Transfiguration proved to be as unchallenging as he'd predicted. Second year was to be a first true introduction to animate-to-inanimate transfiguration (that was, transfiguring something alive into an object). Ched's Rule was the cornerstone to animate-to-inanimate; the more vital the subject, the stronger its Wyrdscield* - a fossilised term that meant something like 'wardshield'. Continental Europeans often called it Invariabilis Corpus, the unchanging body. It was what prevented wizards from transfiguring each other during duels.

"A dragon," Professor McGonagall said in her prim, stern voice, "is the apex example of a powerful Wyrdscield; a simple door-mouse an example of the opposite. That is why-" the Professor waved her wand in three long motions; a dozen rattling cages floated in from a backroom, "why we shall today be turning mice into pebbles - and fear not, I can return them to their original form."

Harry heard Megan Jones squeak in fear.

Wayne chuckled beside her. "Whatever would Lockhart say, Megan? Be brave."

Megan proceeded to faint at the sight of her mouse. Harry's mouse was very placid, with large black eyes that peered up at him from within its cage. He still turned it into a pebble.

Tuesday's classes proved equally dull, albeit for different reasons. Hufflepuff descended to the dungeons (which were actually not far from their own kitchens) for Potions in the morning, and ascended to the second floor for Charms in the afternoon. Though Snape was no longer so hostile as he had become the year before, Harry wouldn't forget how he'd been treated; that soured his introduction to the likely-useless Swelling Solution. Professor Flitwick, on the other hand, remained the most pleasant of all the Hogwarts' teachers, as well as the shortest. Nor were Charms any more difficult than the year before. Harry couldn't help but be frustrated with it all, though he knew Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were just following their set curriculums. It wasn't their fault it was too easy.

Near as frustrating was Susan's burgeoning excitement as Wednesday drew near then, finally, dawned. Harry had risen early to exercise, his first run since Monday - making it his… second ever run - and Susan was already up. She was battling between restless energy and crashing exhaustion. Her eyes blinked open and shut as she peered crustily around the empty, darkened Common Room.

"Fancy a run?" Harry said.

Susan looked at him blankly.

Harry snickered, then smiled all the way to the grounds. He didn't meet Davis this time. And he certainly didn't meet Davids. This time he managed to pace himself, while Susan had fallen asleep in her chair by the time he returned, soaking with sweat. He left her to rest.

Breakfast seemed to awaken her fully; with each bite, Harry marvelled as the light gradually returned to her blue eyes. None of the girls - and at least half the boys - had fared much better. Had they all struggled to sleep last night?

It didn't stop Hannah Abbot gushing as they walked to class; "Oh, everyone's going on about Voyages, Vampires, Valentines! but Wandering with Werewolves is just incredible!" Susan nodded along enthusiastically. It was almost bizarrely out-of-character, Harry thought.

But he kept it to himself. Wayne's comments about Lockhart hadn't been well received; he doubted his would be either.

The door was open, portentously so, when they arrived. They were on the third-floor corridor which, just last year, had been out-of-bounds. Apparently, this was the traditional home of Defence classes; the older students generally called it 'towerside'. Ernie stuck his head into the classroom, peered around, then shrugged. "Nothing," he said. He didn't dare go in, but looked at the other boys expectantly.

Justin froze; Wayne smirked but did nothing… and Harry sighed. The girls were looking at the doorway as though it were the entrance to holy ground. "Fine," he said. "Let's go."

He walked in, took a long scan of the room, and sat at the nearest desk. There was no trick, no ambush; it was just a room, albeit an attractive one.

For Lockhart's classroom was as different to Quirrell's as could be; while Quirrell's was dark - so dark that sometimes students would trip over each other's feet while leaving or entering - sunlight streamed into this room from tall windows, whose glass was elegantly stained. Harry saw immediately why it was called towerside. The walls were built like a small hall, connecting to an enclosed tower. A picturesque staircase curved around its edge, leading to a small doorway, which was also open. That, Harry thought, must be Lockhart's office.

The others filed in soon after, peering around in wonder and no small excitement. They fidgeted at their desks as time ticked on, and still Lockhart did not appear. Eventually they began to whisper; then, fighting each other for audibility, they began to talk.

Still, Lockhart did not appear.

Harry sat still and silent, but let his eyes wander. There was, he saw, a most spectacular skeleton of a massive animal hanging right above them. It was not something one might see in a Muggle school, for more reasons than one.

Suddenly, the chatting began to fade. First back to whispers, then to naught. Harry cast his gaze back down. Lockhart was there, his dark blonde hair curled in artful waves, his turquoise robes meticulous, standing on his office landing, looking down at the class.*

Who, as one, seemed to hold their breath.

Even Harry - for a moment at least - found himself spellbound.

"Let me introduce yourself to your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher-" Lockhart seemed to stand taller then, a glimmer in his blue eyes, "-me. 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. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

That was a strange line; a few people tittered.

Harry felt his stomach begin to turn.

"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-"

He sauntered down the stairs, handed out the tests manually (which itself was worrying), then returned to the front of the class and said; "You have thirty minutes - start… now!"

It would not be an exaggeration to see that Harry had a bad feeling about this. He read the first question.

1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?

2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

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

There were fifty-four questions, each as moronic as the one before.

Harry groaned. There would be no useful DADA this year. Nothing to help his duelling. He'd have to make other arrangements.

Half a mind-numbing hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and skimmed through them right there in front of 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 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 Ogden's Old Firewhiskey!"

Lockhart grinned crookedly and gave an impish wink.

He was going to hold this over Susan forever. It was a pity she'd sat behind him; he'd have loved to watch her face fall as she realised how much of a buffoon the idiot was.

"However, Miss Megan Jones knew perfectly not only my favourite colour but my favourite singer, the lovely Celestina Warbeck! Top marks to her, if she may raise her hand…"

Megan, as bade, raised her hand. She was practically vibrating in her seat. Harry wanted nothing more than to smash his head against his desk, then chuck himself out of one of those lovely arching windows. He loved the wizarding world… but how could this happen? How could the premier school in the country employ this… chortling fool.

Ignorant to Harry's disdain, Lockhart awarded ten points to Hufflepuff, then proceeded to reach behind his desk and pull out a cage, whose bars were covered by a turquoise cover that matched Lockhart's robes.

"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. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

Harry did not so much as twitch. Nothing dangerous could possibly be locked in that cage.

"I must ask you not to scream," said Lockhart in a theatrical whisper. "It might provoke them."

As the class leaned forward, Lockhart whipped off the cover. "Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."

Ernie snickered.

Lockhart turned to him. "Oh?"

"Um, well…" Ernie seemed to be turning into a human raspberry at the attention. "Um, they're just not, you know, particularly - dangerous, I think."

"You think? Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger patronisingly. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"

The pixie was about eight inches high and as blue as frozen lightning. It looked nothing like the Seelie pixies he'd briefly encountered in Fairyland. This Cornish pixie was… feral, with an evil pointed face and a mightily shrill voice. The moment the cover had been removed, it had begun to curse at them in its own strange language, flying from side to side and rattling the bars.

"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of it!"

He opened the cage.

The class shrieked.

Harry sighed, unholstered his wand, and cast; "Relashio."

The spell sailed like a rocket, aided by its quick vector speed, and hit the pixie square. Though Relashio's purpose was merely to force its target to drop whatever it was holding, it could resemble a knock-back jinx when overcharged, or when it hit something with a lesser magical resistance.

The pixie was thrown back into its cage, cleanly knocked out.

Harry holstered his wand.

And Lockhart turned his twinkling eyes straight to him. "I'll be," he said melodramatically. "Harry Potter - living up to his name! But give your classmates some time in the sun next time, will you? Not all of us can be so destined."

He was slowly walking past the desks, heading straight for Harry. The eyes of the class followed him. Harry grit his teeth.

"Still, a wonderful showing my boy, a magnificent jinx. I would've used a proper knock-back - but you know, with experience…"

Harry did his best to weather Lockhart's pomposity for the rest of the lesson. While the fool droned on about pixies, Harry was imagining just one thing.

After what felt like five hours, the moment finally arrived when the class filed out the door. He turned straight to Susan; "I told you so."

Susan didn't glare daggers so much as swords.

Two days later, they learned that Harry's competence had convinced Lockhart that second years were actually all exceptional. He'd then unleashed an entire mischief of pixies on the Slytherin-Gryffindor class, where they'd run havoc.

As funny - and alarming - as that was, Harry was too busy to care. He did the bare minimum in classes; he withdrew even further from his classmates (excluding Susan). Lockhart was useless; Gabriel was gone.

He had to do it himself.

Fortunately, he knew a lot of decent duelling partners from the Self Defence Club.

Unfortunately, few of them were willing to practise with him.

Some didn't want to skirt Hogwarts' rules around abandoned classrooms; others just didn't like him. Gabriel was beloved by many; from their perspective, he'd - in the words of Adelita Land - 'driven her out of the castle.' That had stung; but he could console himself with the knowledge that no one truly knew what had happened in the third-floor corridor that night.

Less easily rationalised was the fear that they just didn't like him. The thought assaulted him in quiet moments, and he could not help but recall the conversation he'd had with McConnell after their duel… Because you don't have any other friends.

McConnell, he knew, hadn't really said that; no one had yet said as much aloud. They thought it, though, and said thought haunted him. It sent further into his training as the weeks went by, further into isolation.

And, as the weather cooled and October loomed, the warning of Dobby the House-Elf faded further and further from his mind…

Glossary:

A postern gate is a proper name for a secret door in and out of a castle, one usually kept hidden for strategic purposes. The famous scene from Helm's Deep in the Lord of the Rings employs a postern gate; I'm sure you know the one.

An early modern name for present day Nepal. The Gorkhas - now Gurkas - expanded through the 18th century before becoming a British vassal state.

The DADA classroom as it has become in our minds was an invention of the films. In cannon, there is no tower nor any stairs. Lockhart picks up a book and points to himself in his introduction. Obviously, much of the following dialogue - and broader beats - are word-for-word from the source. There is no reason to change them.

A/N:

The traditional 'settling back in' chapter - and likely the shortest chapter I'll write for some time. Lockhart, of course, is an unavoidable topic, whatever you think of him.

NEXT CHAPTER:

Harry and Alan… 'talk'; Harry speaks to Hermione Granger once more, and the Chamber… well, you can guess.

Read it next time on The Duellist… or on D-iscord, where it is already out; or read that and the chapter thereafter on P-atreon.