Certain Dark Things || Book Two

xxxii. 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?"