Chapter 111: The Persistent Lockhart

It took a fair amount of effort to get Colin Creevey to leave before Harold Ollivander could finally enjoy his first bite of steak and kidney pie. "Harold, did you go to Lockhart's office?" Ron leaned over and asked. "No. Why?" "Oh, nothing... It's just, people are saying he stood outside his office like a stuffed peacock all morning." "He's not a stuffed anything," Hermione snapped. "Professor Lockhart was simply waiting for a very important guest." "A very flashy one, apparently," Ron muttered. "Everyone says he was dressed like a peacock in bloom." "That was a dress robe!" Hermione huffed. "Only worn on formal occasions as a sign of deep respect for distinguished visitors." Harold cut off another bite of pie, but he already had a good guess about who that "important guest" was. Rita Skeeter. Which probably meant Lockhart was also the one who leaked the story to The Daily Prophet—unable to resist the temptation of front-page fame. But then... why had Rita come looking for him first? He was just a humble wandmaker, dabbling in wood and magical creatures—at least, that's how she described his grandfather, Garrick. Sure, Harold had some name recognition, but nothing compared to Lockhart. His most notable "accomplishment" at school was breaking into the dormitory twice. A minor legend among students at best. So why had Rita waited in that corridor, as if she knew he'd be coming out of the library? Tom Riddle? The name rose in Harold's mind again, deepening his suspicions about Lockhart. If Lockhart was behind all this, why was he so obviously loitering outside his office? Harold sighed. Good wand cores were rare, but Tom Riddle's constant meddling was starting to wear him down. Worse, he wasn't even sure which things were Riddle's fault. That uncertainty annoyed him even more. He couldn't help blaming Dumbledore a little too. All this time, and the headmaster still hadn't tracked down the student holding the diary? If things kept dragging on, Harold might just tell Harry. With his courage and tenacity, Harry could surely fight through every obstacle, find the diary and the basilisk... Or maybe not. Harold pictured Harry's sleep-deprived face and thought better of it. He already felt guilty enough for fobbing off Colin on him. Sending Harry into the Chamber of Secrets sounded like a bit much right now. Better wait a little longer. Besides, there was still a chance this wasn't Riddle at all. That enchanted note could've just been a generic fear-inducing magical trap, designed to unsettle whoever found it first. There were plenty of charms like that in Hogwarts. ... Still, after lunch, Harold made an excuse to visit Lockhart's office. And yes—Ron was absolutely right. Today, Gilderoy Lockhart looked exactly like a peacock. His dress robes were a pale cornflower blue, embroidered with intricate patterns that shimmered in the light. These patterns formed a giant, gleaming "GL" on his chest—his initials. The cuffs were ruffled and white, adorned with a single sparkling amethyst, and the golden lace at the collar only made things worse. Harold had no idea how this was considered fashionable. Then again, he hadn't visited a real clothing shop in a while—unless school robes counted. "Oh—Harold!" Lockhart's face flashed with a moment of disappointment, but he quickly masked it with an enthusiastic smile. "Another autograph? You really are one of my most loyal fans. But no matter—what kind of hero would I be if I didn't indulge my admirers?" He was already pulling out a massive peacock-feather quill. "Not a book this time, Professor." Harold fought the urge to recoil from the flamboyant pen. Honestly, it was hideous—worse than a Quick-Quotes Quill, and absurdly overpriced. Who else but Lockhart would ever buy something like this? "I need to borrow three books from the Restricted Section," Harold said, laying a parchment on Lockhart's desk. "It requires a professor's signature." Lockhart glanced at the list: Talking Tomes: Advanced Curse Theory, Singing Silverware & Conversational Diaries, Dangerous Human Transfigurations. "Aren't you a little young for these?" he asked, eyebrows rising slightly. His eyes lingered on the word curse. "Why not ask Minerva?" "Because I think you understand curses better than Professor McGonagall," Harold replied, watching him carefully. "In Breaking Up With Banshees, you neutralized the curse from the Wanlun Wraith with nothing but ginger root powder." "Ah, yes, yes! One of my favorite chapters—Breaking Up With Banshees, brilliant bit of work, if I may say so myself." Lockhart beamed, then with a grand flourish, scrawled his name across the parchment. "Now remember—no mischief!" "Of course, Professor." As soon as Harold left the office, he casually tore off the top two titles from the list. He'd made those up. Those books didn't even exist. But again, Lockhart had shown no sign of recognition. Maybe Harold really was overthinking things. He brought the remaining slip to Madam Pince at the library. "Dangerous Human Transfigurations?" she eyed him skeptically, then glanced at the signature with even more suspicion. Eventually, she muttered, "Another Transfiguration request... Wait here." Apparently, the signature had passed inspection. That book had been referenced more than once in the transfiguration journals Harold subscribed to. Scholars agreed—it was an undeniably dangerous text, but also an indispensable resource in advanced transfiguration studies. McGonagall had refused to let him borrow it before, but Lockhart had unwittingly helped him out. A few minutes later, Harold left the library with a thick, red-covered tome in hand. Back in the Gryffindor common room, Ron was once again locked in battle with his homework. "How am I still eight inches short? I measured it!" "Try writing bigger," Harry suggested. "It's already bigger than Neville's!" Harold blinked in surprise. "Harry? You're... here? Doing nothing?" Could it be? Had Oliver Wood finally been taken away by Dementors for player abuse? "The match is tomorrow," Harry explained. "Oliver gave us a day off to relax. Said it was vital for mental preparation. First time I've slept past seven all week." Harold could actually hear the joy in his voice. Sleeping till 7 a.m.—what a luxury. Ron, on the other hand, rarely got out of bed before 8:30. And that was only because navigating Hogwarts' staircases ate up time. Otherwise, he'd probably sleep in till nine. Honestly, maybe the Dementors should drag Oliver away. His obsession with Quidditch was bordering on madness. Just like Lockhart's obsession with front pages. "You don't look relaxed," Harold noted, sitting down. Harry's face was scrunched up in stress. His body was stiff as a board. Supposedly, he was doing homework—but his parchment was still blank. Ron's... wasn't much better. His Potions essay looked like it had been written with the express goal of offending Snape. Harold suspected a blank page might actually get a higher grade. "Is the opposing team really that strong?" Harold asked casually. "Slytherin," Harry groaned. "Their players are average—but they all ride brand-new Nimbus 2001s. It's going to be tough to beat them." "You should've let me swap out your broom handle," Harold said slyly. "Give me one night, and I'd hand you back a fully upgraded Nimbus 2000—with a wand core." "Uh... maybe not," Harry laughed nervously. Never mind the rules—he couldn't even guarantee the broom would still fly after Harold worked his 'magic' on it. But Harold waved it off. "The rules only say you can't use a wand during matches. Doesn't say anything about building a wand into your broom..." Before Harold could pitch his idea any further, Harry changed the subject. "So what's that book you're holding?" "Ah, something I just checked out from the library. Want to read it?" "No thanks!" Harry waved it off immediately. "Shame," Harold said. "Takes a professor's signature to borrow. Hard to get your hands on." Harry barely registered it. He was just happy to be awake and breathing. Reading outside of class? No chance. "You coming to the match tomorrow?" Harry asked. "You didn't come last year." "I did go," Harold said indignantly. "I remember you caught the Snitch in five minutes." It was true. Harold didn't care much for Quidditch. One match had been enough. But this year, he would be there. Most students—and even the professors—would be at the game. With the castle practically empty, it felt... unsafe. The chance of another basilisk attack was slim, but not zero. He couldn't petrify himself again. And if someone cast a Blasting Curse while he was immobilized? Well, that would be the end of him. Best to stick with the crowd. Safety in numbers. (End of Chapter)