Chapter 37: HJP
Chapter Text
Hermione Granger sat on the plush, comfortable couch, her gaze unfocused as she stared into the warm, crackling fireplace. The soft, golden flames flickered and danced in front of her, casting a cozy glow across the room. The gentle warmth of the fire was a welcome relief from the chill of the large, elegant room in Potter Manor. Despite the beauty of the house, it felt eerily empty to Hermione. It had been weeks since she'd arrived, and while the house was grand and full of life, it still lacked the sense of normalcy she had back at Hogwarts.
Sirius and Emma had been working tirelessly to help her adjust to her new condition, which—while thankfully not permanent—still felt deeply unsettling. Andromeda, a trusted friend of the family, had been sending over potions that were slowly helping Hermione return to her original form. The fur that had covered her body was almost completely gone now, but remnants still lingered. Her skin, though less furry than before, still had traces of soft hair on her face, and the distinctive cat ears perched atop her head, along with the tail that flicked restlessly behind her, were stubbornly visible. It would take another week or so for everything to return to normal, but Hermione could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
As she sat there, she flexed her fingers, a small smile creeping onto her lips. The transformation was slowly receding, but some things had remained. Hermione couldn't help but laugh softly to herself as her nails, sharp and glinting in the firelight, extended into claws, a feature that Andromeda had warned her might be permanent. But honestly, Hermione didn't mind. It gave her a sense of power, a hidden weapon at her fingertips that no one could take away. The claws, though harmless now, were a reminder of the magical abilities she had developed through her transformation—abilities she never would've known she had if not for this strange accident. She could still sense things with a heightened awareness, hearing footsteps in the far-off distance, smelling faint traces of perfume or food that no one else would notice. Even her eyes were sharper now, able to track motion with an intensity and clarity that almost made her feel like she was watching life unfold in slow motion.
She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on the sensations—the crackling fire, the soft rustling of the wind outside, and the rhythm of the house settling. This, in some strange way, felt almost like a blessing. She had cat-like instincts without the need to transform fully into an Animagus, and while it was unnerving, there was a thrill in it too. Her transformation had opened a door to a world of senses she never knew she could tap into.
Hermione's ears twitched involuntarily, flicking toward the hallway outside. She heard a familiar voice just beyond the door, and her heart gave a small leap.
"Mum?" Hermione called, her voice filled with a mix of curiosity and longing.
Almost immediately, Emma's head appeared from the doorway, her warm smile lighting up the space. "I must say, that really is an amazing ability," Emma chuckled as she walked into the room, her one good eye dancing with amusement. "I can't even sneak up on you anymore."
Hermione rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "It's not funny, Mum," she said, a little petulantly. "I can't even go to school like this. The ears, the tail… I'm missing my classes!" She sighed dramatically, her tail flicking behind her in annoyance. "I miss Harry and the others. I'm missing everything! I hate this."
Emma sat down beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I know, darling," she said softly, her voice full of sympathy. "But you're not alone in this. We're here, and we'll get you back to normal soon."
Hermione huffed, not entirely convinced, but she appreciated her mother's efforts. She couldn't shake the frustration that had been building inside her, a frustration that had been growing ever since the transformation began.
Sirius appeared just then, entering the room with his characteristic smirk. He draped an arm casually over Emma's shoulder, looking far too pleased with himself for Hermione's liking. "So, Hermione," he began in a teasing tone, "why don't you tell us why you used Polyjuice potion in the first place? I've been asking Harry, but he's not saying anything, and you're keeping mum too."
Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, folding her arms defiantly. "You won't hear anything from me either, Sirius," she retorted, her tone firm and unyielding.
Sirius let out a dramatic sigh, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. "Alright, alright," he muttered, his eyes twinkling. "No need to be so secretive about it."
Emma chuckled lightly, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "Come on, love, let it go for now," she said, giving him a playful kiss on the cheek before standing up. "Come on, Hermione, let's eat lunch. It's getting cold."
Sirius scowled half-heartedly. "Lunch? Are we preparing sardines or tuna again for Hermione?" he teased as he followed them toward the dining room. Hermione could hear the grin in his voice, and her ears twitched in irritation.
She walked past him, her claws visible, and in a playful gesture, flashed them at him. "Joke around again, and you won't be marrying my mother," she warned, her voice a low hiss, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone.
Sirius yelped dramatically, stepping back in mock horror. "Merlin, I was just joking!" he cried out, hands raised in mock surrender.
Hermione smirked, showing no mercy as she marched ahead, dragging Emma along with her. Sirius followed behind, muttering under his breath, but Hermione didn't care. She was too irritated to entertain his jokes.
Potter Manor, while beautiful, felt strange without Harry. Hermione missed him—missed all of them. The house felt far too empty, especially without the usual banter between her, Harry, and their friends. It seemed like Sirius had only two modes: being an annoying tease and a fatherly figure that didn't always understand the boundaries. And while her mother was doing her best to keep things light, the absence of Harry made everything seem dull. She missed the familiar comfort of Hogwarts, the hustle and bustle of the students, and most of all, she missed Harry's constant presence.
When they entered the dining room, Hermione's stomach growled loudly. She glanced at the meal that had been prepared, and immediately, her face fell. Fish. Again. Her favorite food when she'd first arrived, but now, it felt like she was being treated like a pet. Every meal since her arrival seemed to consist of nothing but fish. She loved the taste, but it was getting old, and Hermione couldn't help but feel like they were feeding her just like they would a cat.
With a resigned sigh, she sat down at the table, pushing the plate of fish aside. She tried to ignore Sirius and Emma's soft laughter, the easy affection between them. It made her feel even more alone. She wanted to go back to Hogwarts, back to her friends, and back to the life that she knew.
xxxxx
Harry Potter was a mess. He had felt this way for weeks now, an unsettling emptiness that made it hard for him to concentrate. He wasn't the type to admit it, but without Hermione around, everything seemed off. The dull ache in his chest seemed to weigh him down, pulling his attention away from anything else. Even with his friends, Ron, Luna, and Draco trying their best to cheer him up, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness that gnawed at him. The school was bustling around him, but all he could think about was Hermione—her absence left a silence that no amount of chatter could fill.
It wasn't just that she was his girlfriend; she was his anchor. Her cleverness, her voice, her presence in everything they did together. Her laugh had a way of lifting the atmosphere. It felt like Hogwarts was quieter without her, even in the loudest corridors or busiest classrooms. It was as though the room lost its spark.
Dumbledore and McGonagall had caught him multiple times trying to summon his house-elves to take him back home. At first, Dumbledore had simply given him a warning, kindly suggesting that Hogwarts needed Harry Potter more than Harry needed to return home. But the more times Harry tried to make the call, the harsher the consequences became. He ended up with a day of detention after one particularly desperate attempt, and then another. The strictness of the rules felt heavier with every passing day, but Harry couldn't stop himself. He was just too tired of missing her. The detentions almost cost him their Quidditch match, which only made the whole thing worse. Quidditch had always been something to look forward to, but without Hermione there cheering for him from the stands, the win felt hollow.
His friends were ecstatic about the victory, of course. Ron had pounded him on the back so hard that Harry's ribs had ached for a day. Draco had thrown his arms around him, grinning smugly in that way only Draco could. Harry appreciated their efforts, but it was different. It wasn't the same without Hermione there beside him, smiling, her hands waving wildly in the air, shouting his name like it was the most important thing in the world.
The story they'd concocted—an emergency at home that required Hermione to be homeschooled—seemed to be enough to explain her absence to most of the school. Harry knew it had caused a few whispers among the students. A family emergency that kept a student from attending school for weeks? It wasn't exactly the most believable story. But then again, this was Hogwarts, and rumors ran rampant about anything that seemed even remotely unusual. Still, the gossip had died down eventually, as these things always did. Harry wasn't sure if it was because people had lost interest or because his friends had worked hard to suppress it.
And in the meantime, the preparations for Lockhart's expose had already begun. The plan was set in motion, with everyone waiting for the right moment to take action. They all knew it would be a while until he was back at Hogwarts, so for now, there wasn't much to do but wait. It was a strange sense of limbo. While they waited, Harry, Draco, Ron, and Luna spent hours in the Room of Requirement—studying, bickering over the best strategies for defense, and of course, practicing the few defensive spells they could remember from their past lessons. Sirius had sent them books on advanced defensive magic, knowing how dire things were without a proper DADA professor. Harry found it helpful, even though it often turned into a tangle of arguments as they attempted to teach themselves spells they weren't quite ready for.
Luna, ever the optimist, had been a good friend to Harry during this time, pulling him out of his solitude by suggesting walks through the Forbidden Forest or trips to the library. She never seemed to mind when he couldn't offer more than a halfhearted response. It was clear she was trying to cheer him up, though in her usual Luna way, she never made it too obvious. Harry could tell, though. He knew she was also feeling the weight of Hermione's absence, but she'd been handling it in her own peculiar, gentle manner.
Harry hadn't said much to Luna about what happened with the Polyjuice Potion, but he knew she felt guilty. She had been the one to help Hermione brew the potion, and though Harry had told her it wasn't her fault, Luna had withdrawn into herself for a while. After offering her pudding as a peace offering, Harry and Luna had mutually agreed not to bring it up again. It was a sensitive subject, and neither of them wanted to stir up any more guilt.
Still, Harry missed her, and it was hard not to feel the hole she left behind. He could tell that Luna, for all her eccentricities, was trying her best to fill in the space that Hermione had occupied. But it wasn't the same. No matter how many stories about Nargles Luna told him, it wasn't the same as Hermione's clever banter and the way she'd always find a way to make him smile.
Harry sighed, watching Luna as she placed yet another pile of vegetables on his plate. He liked Luna. He did. But right now, what he wanted more than anything was for Hermione to be here, sitting next to him, laughing about the same ridiculous things they used to. Instead, he found himself stuck in a daydream as Luna continued on about Nargles—those mischievous creatures that only she seemed to believe in. He wished, just for a moment, that Hermione could be there. He missed everything about her—her intelligence, her determination, the way she made him feel like everything was going to be okay. She wasn't just his best friend—she was his confidante, his equal.
The food was bland without her, and the conversation seemed emptier, like it lacked the spark that Hermione always brought. Harry couldn't stop thinking about her. He couldn't wait for the day when she'd be back at Hogwarts, when things would feel right again.
xxxxx
It was a month and a half before the end of term at Hogwarts, and Ron was absolutely panicking.
Without Hermione, life had descended into utter chaos, especially when it came to studying. She was the one who always had the perfect schedule, color-coded charts, and a relentless knack for pushing them to prepare well in advance for exams. Ron had grudgingly followed her advice, which had saved him from flunking more than once. He even had great grades last year because of it. But now, without her, the absence of structure felt like an enormous void.
Harry and Draco weren't much help either, despite their intelligence. Harry, for instance, was brilliant—no denying that—but he could pull answers out of thin air without even trying. It was maddening. Worse still, he was lazy when it came to studying, often brushing off the need for practice entirely. Draco, on the other hand, had his own strange methods, rewriting chunks of text from their textbooks onto parchment over and over again, apparently memorizing by the sheer act of writing. It worked for him, but Ron couldn't fathom that kind of patience.
Ron needed someone like Hermione, who could explain things in a way he understood without making him feel like a complete idiot. He needed her logical plans, her understanding nods, and even her sharp, exasperated sighs.
That morning, hope arrived in the form of an unexpected care package. Sirius Black had sent it to Harry, and the moment it arrived, Harry couldn't contain his excitement. He practically dragged Ron, Luna, and Draco to the Room of Requirement to open it together.
Inside the package, there was something for everyone. Ron's heart leapt when he spotted the neat stack of notes and a lesson plan, meticulously tailored to guide him through the upcoming exams. It was so quintessentially Hermione that he let out a triumphant shout, clutching the pages like they were a lifeline.
For Luna, Hermione had included a collection of charms written on a parchment designed to enhance the Marauder's Map each one infused with Hermione's explanation and attention to detail.
Draco, however, received a collection of hair products, including a bottle of sleek, glossy Muggle shampoo. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, a mixture of amusement and bemusement on his face. "Wow," he muttered, his voice tinged with mock offense. "I don't know if I should be flattered or insulted."
"Let's be honest," Harry snorted, smirking at Draco. "You didn't actually need anything from Hermione."
As the group burst into laughter, Harry turned his attention to his own share of the package. Carefully, he pulled out a dark green diary with the initials H.J.P. embossed in gold on the cover. Beneath it was a folded letter, a handful of wizarding photographs, and five vials of a familiar potion. Harry's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly pocketed the potion without a word.
While Ron and the others were busy examining their gifts, Harry sat back and unfolded Hermione's letter, his eyes scanning the familiar, neat handwriting.
'Dear Harry,
I'm sure you're missing me terribly. I hope I'll be back for the last month at Hogwarts. It feels like I've missed so much. You, obviously, but also our friends, the classes, the library, and even the professors.
My cat ears are finally gone! My hearing is back to normal, though it's still sharper than it used to be. My tail has started to recede, but it's still there. Hopefully, it'll disappear soon so I can return. For now, I can hide it under my skirt, but the Healer insists I wait until it's completely gone. If I accidentally damage it, it might become permanently part of my body.
You wouldn't want me stuck with a tail, would you? That would be weird.
I've included some photos for you. Mum's been fascinated with wizarding photographs lately, so we've been experimenting. For now, you'll have to make do with pictures of me and my cat-like features.
Mum has been acting strangely, though. I think it's because of the wedding she's planning, but there's something about her behavior that I can't quite explain.
Don't worry—it's not the potion! Speaking of which, I've been experimenting with it. You might find some immortal birds flying around Potter Manor when you return home. Don't be too surprised!
Missing you terribly. I hope I can see you soon.
Love,
Hermione
P.S. The diary is a gift from Sirius! Write in it, and the words will appear in my diary too. It's like having our own private way of talking.'
Harry frowned as he read the letter, pausing at the mention of a "wedding." His brow furrowed, and he reread the line, but before he could linger on it, his curiosity shifted to the diary.
Without hesitation, he pulled out a quill, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile as he dipped it into ink and began writing.
The cheerful chaos in the Room of Requirement continued around him, but Harry's focus was solely on the blank pages of the diary, the promise of Hermione's reply making him forget everything else.
xxxxx
Hermione sat at her desk, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window of her room at Potter Manor. The warm golden rays cast a soft glow over the polished wood surface, illuminating the maroon leather cover of the diary in front of her. Her tail, sleek and furred, swayed slowly behind her, betraying the nervous anticipation she felt. The embossed initials on the diary's cover gleamed faintly: H.J.P.
A delicate blush dusted her cheeks as she traced the letters with her finger. They were, of course, Harry's initials, but Sirius had cheekily pointed out that they could be hers someday, too. The memory of his mischievous grin when he handed her the diary as a peace offering made her giggle softly.
"Hermione Jean Potter," she whispered under her breath, shaking her head to dispel the thought. The idea made her heart flutter and her blush deepen, but she refused to entertain it further—at least not out loud.
With a deep breath, she opened the diary, its crisp pages waiting for her quill. The enchantment Sirius had placed on it was brilliant, allowing her and Harry to communicate instantly. She wondered if Harry had already figured it out, her tail flicking back and forth with an energy she couldn't quite suppress.
Then, just as her nerves began to creep in, ink bloomed across the blank page in familiar handwriting.
'Hermione?'
Her tail shot straight up, and she let out an involuntary squeal of delight. Grabbing her quill, she dipped it hastily into her inkpot, nearly spilling it in her eagerness, and began to write.
'Harry! How was the gift?''
'Hermione! I can't believe it. Am I actually talking to you?'
'Yes! It's a neat gift, right?'
'It is. Are you really Hermione?'
'Yes, I am. Why do you ask? Can't you believe me?'
'When was the first time I kissed you? On the lips?'
Hermione rolled her eyes, an amused smile tugging at her lips. 'Trust Harry to be cautious,' she thought, shaking her head fondly. Sirius had certainly trained him well, but it was endearing how protective he could be, even in something as innocent as a magical diary.
Her tail swished as she imagined him sitting somewhere, fidgeting nervously while he waited for her reply.
'My, my, Harry. You must miss me terribly to be thinking about that.'
'Answer me first,' came his swift response.
'Oh, alright. It was before leaving for Hogwarts. I made you bleed.'
She sat back, grinning as she awaited his reaction. It didn't take long.
'You are my Hermione! Merlin, I miss you!'
The words sent a giddy thrill through her, and she hugged herself briefly, trying to contain her excitement. 'My Hermione.' The words echoed in her mind, making her cheeks burn brighter. She almost banged her head on the desk in her flustered state.
'Yes, Harry. It's your Hermione. Now, what are you lot up to? Any update on that stupid professor?'
'I heard that he's awake and will be back by this week. Things are going well with planning, but I plan on dealing with him alone.'
Hermione's smile faded, replaced by a furrowed brow as she read his reply. Her quill hovered over the page as she bit her lip, considering her words carefully.
'Alone? You can't do that, Harry. As talented as you are with spells, he's still a full-blown wizard! Not to mention his skill with Memory Charms!'
She tapped the quill against her chin, a nervous habit she'd picked up last year. She knew Harry well enough to understand that once he made a decision, it was nearly impossible to dissuade him.
'Don't worry. Don't forget. I'm quite a big wolf,' came his reply, a teasing undertone evident even in his handwriting.
'Being big doesn't necessarily mean you'll do great. In fact, it'll just make you slow and a big target for spells.'
'You'll be surprised by the amount of experiments we've done while you're not around. Did you know I'm immune to some spells when I'm in my giant version?'
Hermione's eyes widened. 'Really?! That sounds amazing! It's a pity I wouldn't be an Animagus.'
'Don't worry. You have me. You can just ride around on my back. Or cuddle me in my smaller form.'
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at his cheeky reply.
'What do you intend to do with Lockhart when he arrives?'
'Deal with him immediately. I have the evidence ready to be sent out to the Aurors and some photos and more information for Skeeter.'
'I'm sorry I couldn't help out much.'
'Don't worry. You've done enough. Just stay put in the house, and by the time you arrive here, the place will have one less stupid professor.'
Hermione sighed, resting her chin in her hand as her tail swayed lazily behind her. Despite her worry, she couldn't help but smile. Harry's confidence was both reassuring and exasperating, and she knew she would always support him, even when she wanted to knock some sense into him.
Her hand brushed against her tail, the soft fur reminding her of her predicament. She couldn't wait for it to disappear entirely—it would mean she could finally return to Hogwarts and see Harry and their friends again. Until then, at least she had this diary, a small lifeline that kept her connected to the person she missed most.
xxxxx
True enough, Gilderoy Lockhart returned to Hogwarts that week, striding into the Great Hall with a theatrical flourish, his robes billowing slightly as if he'd charmed the very air around him. A pristine white bandage was wrapped around his right hand, and another was neatly tucked over his temple, just visible beneath his carefully coifed golden hair. Ron and Draco exchanged dubious glances as they observed him making his grand entrance.
"Do you reckon those bandages are even real?" Ron muttered, his brow furrowing in suspicion.
"Doubt it," Draco replied with a disdainful smirk. "Probably just for show. Anything to keep up appearances."
Despite the supposed injuries, Lockhart's face looked flawless—completely unmarred by any sign of damage. His teeth gleamed brilliantly as he flashed a radiant smile at a group of enchanted first-years, and his hair seemed to catch the light in just the right way, as though perpetually caught in a soft breeze.
"I think he has some glamour charms on him," Luna observed softly, her dreamy voice cutting through their musings. She stood slightly apart from the group, her serene expression giving no indication that she found Lockhart's behavior anything other than peculiar.
Draco raised an eyebrow at her, but her comment intrigued him. The boys turned their attention back to Lockhart, scrutinizing him more carefully. If one looked closely enough, there was indeed something faintly unnatural about his appearance. A faint shimmer seemed to ripple across his skin whenever he moved, a telltale sign of magical concealment.
Harry stood slightly apart, his emerald eyes narrowing as he observed the professor. His fingers twitched at his side, and the familiar weight of his wand felt almost tempting. A small, mischievous part of him itched to cast a quick Finite, just to see what Lockhart looked like beneath the glamour. He imagined the man's real face, perhaps dotted with blemishes or sporting a crooked nose, and the thought brought a slight smirk to his lips.
Luna, standing close enough to sense his intentions, placed a gentle hand on Harry's arm. "That's not the plan, Harry," she murmured, her voice as calm and steady as ever.
Harry sighed and glanced down at her, the irritation in his eyes softening. "I know," he replied, his tone begrudging but laced with fondness.
Lockhart, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the scrutiny he was under. He strode to the center of the Hall, clapping his hands together and beaming at the gathered students. "My dear, wonderful pupils!" he exclaimed, his voice ringing out as if he were addressing an adoring crowd. "It is such a delight to be back among you after my most harrowing ordeal!"
The corners of Draco's mouth twitched downward, and he crossed his arms. "Harrowing ordeal, my foot," he muttered.
Lockhart carried on, launching into a dramatic recount of his supposed attack. "It is no secret that there are those out there who envy my fame and my talents," he proclaimed, pressing a hand to his chest as if to ward off the imaginary daggers of jealousy. "But even in the face of such treachery, I remain committed to my mission of spreading knowledge and inspiration!"
Harry's scowl deepened, and his jaw clenched slightly. The pompous tone grated on his nerves, but he held his tongue, reminding himself of the bigger picture.
Lockhart paused for effect, then added with an air of reluctant resignation, "However, as much as I would love to continue my tenure here at Hogwarts, it is with a heavy heart that I must announce my decision to end my contract at the end of this year. Fear not, for I shall return to my travels, where I will continue to uncover the mysteries of the magical world and bring them to life in my books!"
"Oh, great. More rubbish for the shelves," Draco muttered, his sneer deepening.
"Tell me about it," Ron agreed, rolling his eyes.
The group exchanged knowing glances, their thoughts aligning on Hermione's carefully compiled notes. She had painstakingly detailed the inaccuracies and outright fabrications in Lockhart's published works, not to mention the mounting evidence of his other misdeeds. The professor's departure couldn't come soon enough.
Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "It makes me wonder," she mused aloud, "if it's really that easy to publish books." She turned to Harry, her silver-blue eyes wide with curiosity. "Do you think they'd publish one if I wrote about Nargles?"
Harry blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard, before breaking into a small smile. "I guess?" he said, his tone light and amused. "Maybe if you had some photo evidence, it'd be more convincing. If not, don't worry—I'll help you publish it. I'm rich, after all."
Luna's laughter was soft and melodic, a sound that seemed to cut through the tension lingering in the air. She knew Harry's response was half-teasing, but she appreciated his willingness to entertain her ideas. It was one of the things she liked most about him—his ability to make her feel seen and heard, even when others might dismiss her as odd.
As Lockhart wrapped up his speech with a flourish and a sweeping bow, the group exchanged exasperated looks. The professor might have fooled some of the younger students, but to them, his act was as transparent as the glamour charms on his face.
"End of the year can't come fast enough," Draco muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.
Ron nodded emphatically. "Agreed. Good riddance."
Harry, however, said nothing, his thoughts already moving beyond Lockhart's theatrics. He cast one last glance at the professor before turning back to his friends, a small smile playing at his lips as he listened to their banter.
xxxxx
It was a brisk afternoon, the kind where the crisp autumn air nipped at their faces, and the low sun bathed the castle courtyard in a golden glow. Harry, still slightly flushed from Quidditch practice, lounged with his friends near the stone fountain at the center of the courtyard. The soft murmur of students passing by and the distant call of an owl lent an oddly serene backdrop to the group's animated chatter. Ron was recounting a botched attempt at a revenge prank against the twins, Draco was half-listening while fidgeting with his wand, and Luna, as usual, was gazing at the sky as if searching for invisible creatures.
Harry, leaning against the fountain's edge, was just about to comment when an all-too-familiar voice shattered the peace.
"Ah, Harry Potter, there you are!"
The words sent an immediate ripple through the group. Harry's grin froze mid-smile, transforming into something that looked more like a grimace. Slowly, he turned to see none other than Gilderoy Lockhart striding toward them with his usual theatrical flair. His violet robes swished dramatically with each step, and his gleaming teeth caught the sunlight as he stretched his arms wide in a mock gesture of camaraderie.
Harry clenched his fists by his sides, the urge to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Lockhart's face almost unbearable. A sudden, steadying hand on his back made him pause. Luna's touch was gentle, but her gaze, filled with nervous determination, spoke volumes. Behind her, Ron's ears had turned a vivid shade of red, and Draco's sneer deepened, though they both plastered on unconvincing smiles as Lockhart finally closed the distance.
"I must say, it was hard to talk to you lately. I almost feel like you were avoiding me!" Lockhart exclaimed, his tone dripping with mock injury.
Harry forced a laugh, loud and unsettling enough to make his friends flinch. "Nonsense, Professor! Why would I do that? You've just been busy with your adoring fans—it's hard to catch you without a crowd. But anyway, I'm here now. How have you been? Hopefully, you're doing well."
Lockhart's face lit up as if Harry's words had been an elixir for his ego. "Better than ever! Fortunately, my hair didn't suffer!" He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed locks, which shone unnaturally in the afternoon light. "And my teeth!" He grinned, the effect almost blinding.
"That's... great," Harry replied, his smile so tight it looked painful.
Lockhart's gaze shifted, scanning the group until it landed on Hermione's usual spot. "Anyway," he began, feigning a concerned frown, "have you seen Hermione Granger? She's been doing splendidly with her essays, but I've noticed her absence from some of my classes lately. I hope everything's alright. I even prepared a few personal notes for her—just some tips for a student as brilliant as her." His voice dropped conspiratorially. "A little private tutoring before I leave Hogwarts for good."
Harry's vision blurred with red. He didn't realize he'd taken a step forward until Luna's fingers tugged his robes. Her calm voice was a lifeline. "Harry," she murmured, her tone low and soothing.
Behind him, he could hear the faint sounds of Ron muttering curses and Draco's sharp intake of breath. The tension among the group was palpable, each of them teetering on the edge of an outburst.
Harry forced himself to exhale. "Ah, yes," he said smoothly, though his jaw tightened with every word, "unfortunately, Hermione had a family emergency and has been excused from school. She's back home at the moment."
Lockhart's disappointment was almost laughable. "Ah, what a shame," he sighed, though his smile returned almost instantly. "I would've liked some time alone with her before I go. Don't tell anyone, but she is my favorite."
Harry's eye twitched violently. His fingers curled tighter into fists, nails biting into his palms. Every fiber of his being screamed to act, but the plan—the plan—held him back. Barely.
"I think she's your favorite too, Professor," Luna interjected, stepping forward with an ease that seemed almost surreal. Her airy tone and serene smile belied the steel in her words. She pulled something from her pocket and extended it toward Lockhart. "Here, Professor. Hermione wanted to give this to you once you returned, but she was worried it might be too late when she came back."
Lockhart's eyes lit up as he took the quill, an extravagant eagle feather that glinted in the light. He twirled it between his fingers, his grin widening. "Well, isn't that thoughtful! Don't worry, I'll be here until the end of term. She'll still have plenty of time to meet with me."
Luna let out a soft laugh, the kind that usually preceded one of her whimsical musings. "Maybe," she said lightly.
Lockhart didn't seem to catch the undercurrent in her tone. With a final flash of his pearly whites, he excused himself, striding off toward the castle with the quill still in hand, admiring it as if it were a prized trophy.
The moment he was out of earshot, the group erupted.
"The rest is up to you, Harry," Luna said quietly, her gaze steady.
Ron growled, his fists trembling at his sides. "Shred his limbs apart, Harry."
"Kick his balls for me," Draco hissed, his gray eyes dark with fury.
Harry didn't respond. His expression had turned cold, calculating, and utterly resolved. He simply nodded, his eyes fixed on Lockhart's retreating form.
It all ends tonight.
Chapter 38
Notes:
Have you guys seen the baking show of the Weasley Twins? Holy hell, that was amazing! I don't know what I expected but it was amazing to see how crafty the bakers were when it comes to baking stuff related to Harry Potter. I loved the Luna Lovegood cake very much! And the realistic Horse Patronus cake too!
Chapter Text
Gilderoy Lockhart landed with a thud on the cold, unforgiving stone floor, the impact forcing a sharp gasp from his lips. A loud, undignified shriek followed as he scrambled to sit upright, cradling his arm as though it would somehow ward off the panic bubbling inside him. His fine robes, once immaculately pressed and glistening with a sheen of charm work, now bore smudges of grime from the floor, a small indignity compared to the stark realization that he had no idea where he was.
The room stretched out before him, cavernous and foreboding, its vastness eerily reminiscent of the Great Hall at Hogwarts but stripped of its warmth and grandeur. No enchanted ceiling loomed above, no playful flickers of starry night or golden sunlight. Instead, the ceiling was shadowed and oppressive, swallowing what little light emanated from scattered lampshades placed sporadically along the walls. The dim light cast long, spindly shadows that danced with every flicker of the flames, transforming the space into a sinister maze of dark corners and shifting shapes.
Lockhart's breath hitched as his eyes darted around, searching for a way out. There were no doors—none that he could see, at least. No windows to the outside world, no telltale signs of where he had been taken. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he reached for his wand, gripping it tightly like a lifeline. His carefully cultivated facade of confidence faltered as he whispered spells, one after another, each word leaving his lips with increasing desperation. Nothing worked. The air here felt thick and heavy, as if even magic itself refused to answer him.
"Hello?" he called, his voice quivering despite his attempts to mask his fear. "Is anyone there? It's me, Gilderoy Lockhart!" He plastered on a brittle smile, though no one was present to see it. "Surely someone can help—"
The sound of movement behind him made him whirl around, nearly dropping his wand in the process. His heart leapt in relief as he spotted Harry Potter stepping out from the shadows, his emerald eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. Relief washed over Lockhart, his smile growing wide and genuine for the first time since his arrival.
"Harry!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying a note of hope. "What's going on? Where are we?"
But something about Harry's presence was off. He was dressed in stark black robes, far removed from the typical Hogwarts uniform, the fabric clinging to him like shadows given form. His posture was relaxed, almost too relaxed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. Lockhart's elation faltered slightly, but he clung to it desperately. Surely, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was here to rescue him.
"It's a property I own, Professor," Harry said casually, his voice light and conversational, but there was an edge to it that sent a chill crawling up Lockhart's spine.
Lockhart frowned, the words unsettling in their simplicity. "A property you own? Ah, so we must not be at Hogwarts," he ventured cautiously.
Harry's grin widened, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes. "That's right, Professor. We're not at Hogwarts."
Lockhart chuckled nervously, waving his hand as if to dispel the unease creeping into his chest. "Well, we should return! It's nearly time for dinner, you know." He forced a laugh, but it echoed hollowly in the cavernous space.
"Dinner?" Harry repeated, his voice carrying a strange amusement. He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, slightly crumpled piece of bread and a bottle of water, holding them up like some kind of offering. "Ah, you mean this. Don't worry, Professor. I brought you dinner."
Before Lockhart could respond, Harry tossed the bread and bottle onto the filthy floor. The sound of the bottle clattering against the stone was deafening in the oppressive silence. Lockhart stared at the meager meal, his stomach twisting—not with hunger, but with unease. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Harry, who stood with a serene, almost pleasant expression on his face, as if they were merely discussing the weather.
"W-What's going on?" Lockhart stammered, his voice cracking despite his best efforts to maintain his composure.
"You tell me," Harry replied, his grin widening to an almost predatory degree. He began to pace slowly, his fingers lightly grazing the walls as though testing their strength. "After all, you've been the center of attention for so long. Surely, you must have some idea why you're here."
The professor's grip on his wand tightened, his instincts screaming at him to act. But before he could muster the courage, Harry turned back to him, his movements swift and deliberate. With a flick of his wrist, Harry sent a disarming spell flying toward Lockhart. The man's wand shot from his hand, clattering onto the floor before Harry scooped it up with a casual grace. Lockhart barely had time to react before a sickening crack echoed through the room. Harry had snapped the wand in half, the pieces dangling from his fingers like broken relics.
"Can't have you casting memory charms now, can we?" Harry said smoothly, his voice dripping with mockery.
Lockhart's mouth opened and closed, words failing him as he stared at the shattered remains of his wand. Panic surged through him, his mind racing for an escape, a plan, anything.
Before he could gather his thoughts, a house-elf appeared beside Harry, its large, bulbous eyes gleaming in the dim light. Lockhart barely had time to register the sight before the two vanished with a soft pop, leaving him alone in the suffocating darkness, his shattered wand at his feet and the eerie silence pressing in from all sides.
xxxxx
Hermione bit her lip, her eyes darting across the bold, damning headline that practically screamed off the front page of the Daily Prophet:
GILDEROY LOCKHART, A FRAUD AND A PEDOPHILE!
The words felt almost too surreal to be true, even though they were printed in black and white for all to see. Her grip on the edges of the newspaper tightened, her knuckles paling as she devoured the detailed article with equal parts revulsion and grim satisfaction. Each line seemed to drip with more scandalous revelations than the last, laying bare the tangled web of lies and atrocities committed by the once-lauded Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Emma Granger, seated nearby, wore an expression that was equal parts disbelief and fury. Her scowl deepened with every sentence, her lips pressing into a thin, unforgiving line. Hermione could sense the anger radiating from her mother as her eyes skimmed over the sordid details. The article left little to the imagination: a cascade of evidence exposing Lockhart's fraudulent claims, recounting how his so-called "heroic" tales had been plagiarized from wizards and witches he had victimized and erased from memory.
But even that was not the worst of it.
The most horrifying revelations were the accounts from unnamed students—heart-wrenching testimonies of how Lockhart had charmed and manipulated them, coaxing them into his office or, worse, his private quarters. The descriptions of the acts he committed were cloaked in careful language, but the implications were unmistakable. Hermione's stomach churned, her chest tightening with anger and disgust at the thought of what those students had endured under his supposed mentorship.
Beside her, Emma slammed the paper down on the table, the sharp sound breaking the silence like a crack of thunder. "That man," she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "How could anyone like him ever be allowed near children? How could this... this monster have been trusted to teach you?"
A mirror near them broke and Hermione sighed thinking she might have done some accidental magic due to her fury. Hermione didn't reply immediately, her mind still swimming with the weight of the revelations. A small, vindictive part of her was grateful that Harry had taken matters into his own hands.
Harry.
She couldn't help the flicker of pride that rose within her at the thought of her boyfriend. He had acted swiftly and decisively, as he always did, exposing Lockhart in a way that ensured the man would never again harm another student.
Sirius Black, Head Auror and Harry's godfather, had been livid when the evidence came to light. According to the article, an anonymous tip—delivered via owl to the Auror Department—had included not only a meticulous breakdown of Lockhart's crimes but also photographs taken discreetly. One such photograph showed Lockhart with his arm draped around a young student, guiding them into his classroom. The images had been damning enough to launch an immediate investigation.
Sirius had wasted no time assembling a team to storm Hogwarts and arrest Lockhart. Hermione could almost imagine the scene: Sirius's eyes blazing with fury, his voice a sharp bark of commands as he prepared his team to apprehend the man who had betrayed the trust of so many.
But by the time they arrived, Lockhart had vanished.
Hogwarts staff, even Albus Dumbledore himself, had been left baffled by the professor's sudden disappearance. Dumbledore's customary twinkle had been absent in the aftermath, replaced by a rare and profound solemnity. He had assured the Aurors he had no knowledge of Lockhart's whereabouts, though Harry shared that he couldn't help but notice the unspoken tension between him and Professor McGonagall during dinner that evening.
McGonagall's disgust had been palpable. Her sharp glares at the headmaster were almost as cutting as her words when she muttered something scathing under her breath about his decision to hire the "stupid disgusting fool." Harry hadn't dared to ask what she said, though he was certain it hadn't been complimentary.
Of course, Harry had played his part perfectly. Publicly, he had expressed outrage and disappointment, giving an exclusive quote to Rita Skeeter herself. "I want him brought to justice," he had declared, his words splashed across the front page in bold type. To further solidify his resolve, Harry had pledged a bounty of 500 Galleons to anyone who could provide information leading to Lockhart's capture. The gesture had earned him admiration from his classmates, who now saw him not just as the Boy-Who-Lived but as a champion for justice.
Other Lords followed suit and also pledged money, wanting to catch the criminal.
But privately, Harry's actions had gone far beyond mere words. Hermione knew he had promised the victims that he would help them recover, offering to fund sessions with a Mind Healer to aid in their healing. It was a gesture that spoke volumes about his character, though he rarely acknowledged it when she tried to praise him.
And then there was the matter of Lockhart's actual whereabouts—a secret Harry had kept even from her.
Hermione had pressed him about it, but he had remained tight-lipped, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips whenever she brought it up. All she knew was that Lockhart had been dealt with. Quietly. Permanently.
The thought brought a chill of satisfaction, tempered only by the weight of everything the article had revealed. Harry had handled it, as he always did, with a quiet efficiency that left no loose ends.
For the first time since the scandal broke, Hermione allowed herself a small smile. The victims would have justice, and Lockhart would never hurt anyone again.
xxxxx
Lockhart couldn't believe his eyes. His trembling fingers gripped the edges of the Daily Prophet, his knuckles turning white with anxiety as he stared at the damning article that had been printed in bold letters. The once-beautiful, charming facade of Gilderoy Lockhart had long since crumbled, and now it was his turn to face the consequences of his deceitful, predatory actions.
Harry, sitting across from him, was leisurely munching on a sandwich, his dark eyes watching Lockhart with an unsettling calmness. A cup of tea floated before him, the liquid swirling with a smooth grace as though defying gravity itself. There was no table. Just the eerily quiet room, the clinking sound of Harry's spoon against his cup, and the distant echo of the wind howling outside, a ghostly reminder of the isolation of this place.
Lockhart could barely bring himself to look up. The bread and water Harry had left for him, the only remnants of a meal, were mocking in their simplicity. He barely touched it. The scent of fresh food was unbearable, too much to handle with his nerves frayed and his stomach twisted in fear.
"Beautiful article, isn't it?" Harry's voice was quiet, but the words pierced the air like a knife. He grinned, leaning back as if relishing every moment of Lockhart's discomfort. "Imagine my surprise when some people even insisted to have you dealt with a Dementor's Kiss almost immediately."
Lockhart's breath hitched. His eyes went wide, his lips parted in disbelief. He wanted to scream, to shout out his innocence, but the words died in his throat.
His once-perfect features—now a grotesque reflection of his true self—seemed to crumble with every passing moment. The glamour charms that had masked his age, his thinning hair, and the faint scars on his face had long faded. There was no longer a trace of the handsome, heroic man who had once charmed the wizarding world with his fake tales. What was left was a frail, decrepit figure, more akin to the aging criminals that Harry had encountered in the dark alleys of Knockturn Alley.
Lockhart's hair, now a patchy, thinning mess, made him look almost unrecognizable. His cheeks sagged, hollow, and his once-pink lips were cracked, chapped. The picture of the man who had preened in front of mirrors was gone. All that remained was the pathetic wretch before Harry.
"Can I just say," Harry continued, his tone unbothered, "man to man, you should probably eat more eggs and fatty fish." He let out an exaggerated sigh, his eyes flicking to Lockhart's thinning hair. "Hermione says that helps a lot for people with problems like yours."
The casualness of Harry's words only made the situation feel more sinister. Lockhart's face contorted, desperate for some kind of escape. Harry's words felt like poison, each one more venomous than the last. And Harry wasn't finished.
He gestured toward his own hair, messy but thick and full, a stark contrast to the pitiful state of Lockhart's. "You might want to try it," Harry said with a devilish grin, the cruelty in his tone clear. "It's a little embarrassing when someone looks worse than they did before their glamours."
Lockhart's breath quickened. He could barely make sense of the mocking words as his own shame boiled beneath his skin. "W-Why are you doing this?" His voice cracked, trembling as he dropped to his knees in a desperate plea. His tears fell freely, though his pride was long gone. "I didn't do anything!"
Harry's eyes narrowed, cold and unwavering. "I was there, Lockhart." His voice, quiet yet seething with fury, cut through the room like a blade. "I was there at the corner of your quarters. When you did those unspeakable acts."
Lockhart's face drained of color as Harry reached into his black robes, pulling out a parchment and letting it unfurl. The paper landed with a soft thud, and the names were there—names of girls, of victims—victims of his manipulation, his cruelty, his darkness. Lockhart's hands trembled as he stared at the evidence, the undeniable truth staring him in the face.
"To think you'd even try to touch my own woman," Harry hissed, his voice low and dangerous. The words were a warning, venom dripping from his every syllable. "You should be thanking me for not killing you here, right this moment."
Lockhart's body seemed to shrink further, the weight of Harry's words suffocating him. His heart pounded in his chest, his breaths shallow. His eyes were wide, bloodshot with fear, but it was too late. The damage was done. The truth was out, and now, there was nothing left to do but suffer the consequences.
Lockhart barely registered the flick of Harry's wand, barely had time to react as Harry's cold, unfeeling voice rang out again.
"Crucio!"
The curse hit him like a lightning bolt, a wave of pain crashing through his body, tearing through every nerve ending in a relentless tide. Lockhart's scream echoed in the air, raw and full of terror, as he writhed on the cold stone floor. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, his back arching in agony, as his body became a puppet, twisted and pulled by the cruel magic. The pain was unbearable, searing through his bones like molten fire, and yet Harry held the wand firm, counting the seconds in his head.
Sirius had taught them all about the Crucio curse. How it was a tool, a weapon to instill fear. It was never meant to break a person completely, to shatter their mind. Only to hurt them, to make them realize the depth of their fear. Harry had learned this lesson well.
Ten seconds passed, the echo of Lockhart's scream still ringing in Harry's ears as he slowly released the spell.
The stench of urine filled the air. Harry's lips curled in disgust as Lockhart collapsed, his body twitching violently from the aftershocks of the curse. The once-proud professor was now a shell of a man, crumpled in a heap, his mind barely holding on as he continued to sob, helpless and broken.
Harry paused for a moment, his eyes scanning Lockhart's pathetic form. His face was twisted with a cruel satisfaction, but there was a flicker of something else—something darker. He didn't hesitate. With a swift, cold motion, Harry kicked Lockhart between the legs, sending the man into a new round of frantic writhing.
Lockhart's screams were nothing but pitiful gasps now, his mind fractured, his soul lost. But Harry was done.
With a single command, Harry called out for Kreacher, the house-elf's name slipping from his lips like a summons to the shadows. With a soft pop, Kreacher appeared in the room, his dismal face reflecting the gravity of the moment.
Harry turned without a word, vanishing into the air with another soft pop, leaving the broken Lockhart behind, helpless in his defeat.
xxxxx
The damp, stifling air in the room seemed to weigh heavier on Lockhart with each passing day. Six days. Six days of unrelenting dread, of sitting in the dark, jumping at every noise, every creak of the walls, every faint rustle of the unseen. His nerves were frayed to the point of breaking, and his once-polished demeanor had crumbled into a pitiful mess of fear and desperation.
The Boy-Who-Lived—or whoever was masquerading as him—hadn't struck him again since the first day, but the memory of that agony was enough to keep him in line. Ten seconds under that cursed spell, and it was as if the very essence of him had been scorched. Lockhart flinched at the thought, clutching his knees to his chest as he rocked back and forth.
Harry Potter—or the monster pretending to be him—arrived again today, just as he always did.
This time, Harry sauntered in with a yawn, as though his visit was little more than a chore. His untidy black hair caught the dim light, and his green eyes—once a symbol of hope—now gleamed with something cold, something terrifyingly calculating. There was a wand in his hand, but Lockhart's sharp, desperate gaze immediately noticed it wasn't the same one he'd seen before.
"You… you have more than one wand?" Lockhart stammered, his voice trembling as much as his hands. The revelation hit him like a punch to the gut. This boy had layers of menace he hadn't even begun to comprehend.
Harry ignored the question, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as he tilted his head, studying the broken man before him.
"You know," Harry said casually, "I've been wondering. Just how skilled are you with memory charms, Lockhart?"
The question was deceptively simple, but the undercurrent of danger made Lockhart's blood run cold. His mind scrambled for an answer—should he lie? Bluff his way out of this? But the boy's piercing gaze left no room for deception.
"I—I mastered them," Lockhart stammered, his voice a desperate croak. "I can cast them perfectly, implant fake memories, erase the real ones, whatever you need. I'm the best—no, the best at it!"
Harry's lips twitched into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Brilliant," he murmured, almost to himself. "You might actually be useful."
The faint glimmer of hope sparked in Lockhart's chest. Was this it? Could he finally turn this nightmare around? He straightened slightly, the barest hint of confidence returning to his voice.
"I'll help you! Anything you want! Just say the word, and I'll do it!" he pleaded, his hands clasped together like a penitent man praying for salvation.
But Harry frowned, pacing slowly around the small room. "You see, that's the thing," he said, his tone thoughtful. "How could I possibly trust you? You're a liar. A cheat. A pathetic excuse for a wizard who preys on young girls. Scum."
Lockhart winced at the venom in the words but didn't bother protesting. What was the point? The only thing that mattered now was survival.
"I'll swear an oath!" he blurted out, his voice rising in desperation. "I'll bind myself to you with magic—anything to prove my loyalty!"
Harry stopped pacing, his head cocking slightly to the side. For a long, heavy moment, he stared at Lockhart, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, his body began to shift.
The transformation was as sudden as it was terrifying. Harry's form twisted and expanded, his limbs stretching and contorting until a massive black wolf stood where he had been moments before. Its fur was darker than the shadows of the room, its eyes glowing with an unearthly green light. The beast growled, a low, guttural sound that sent shivers racing down Lockhart's spine.
Lockhart scrambled back, his back hitting the cold stone wall as he gasped for air. The wolf bared its teeth, stepping closer, its claws clicking against the floor. The sheer size of it was overwhelming, its presence suffocating.
Then it barked—a deafening, earth-shaking roar that reverberated through the room. Lockhart screamed, covering his ears as he crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down his face.
When the sound subsided, and Lockhart dared to look up, the wolf was gone. In its place stood Harry, his wand once again in hand, his expression as cold and unyielding as ever.
"Excellent," Harry said, his tone almost cheerful. "Let's do that oath, then. You know what will happen if you try anything funny."
Harry reached into his black robes, producing a wand with an elegant flick. This one was different too—sleek and polished, with an aura of quiet menace. Without hesitation, he tossed it toward Lockhart, the wood clattering at his feet.
"Pick it up," Harry commanded, his voice as sharp as a whip. "Make the oath. Swear to follow my orders without question."
Lockhart's chest heaved, his breath ragged and shallow, as he steeled himself for what he knew was inevitable. His hands trembled, slick with sweat, clutching his wand like it was the only anchor tethering him to reality. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, but there was nowhere to run. His mind raced, spinning through every excuse, every charm, every pathetic escape plan. Nothing fit.
The fear clawed at him, tightening its grip with every passing second. The dread was suffocating, a cold tide that rose higher and higher until it finally broke something inside him. He couldn't think. He couldn't strategize. He could only act.
"Diffindo!" Lockhart screamed, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. The curse leapt from his wand in a jagged streak of light, hurtling toward Harry. For one brief moment, Lockhart felt a sick thrill of triumph.
The spell struck. A thin line of blood welled up on Harry's shoulder.
But Harry didn't flinch. Not even a twitch.
Instead, he moved—swift, deliberate, and eerily calm. Like a serpent coiling in perfect rhythm, he sidestepped the curse's full brunt, allowing it to graze him as if inviting Lockhart to try harder. His cold, piercing eyes locked onto Lockhart's, sharp enough to slice through the bravado Lockhart tried so desperately to muster.
And then, Lockhart froze.
The blood on Harry's shoulder didn't linger. It beaded for a moment, bright and stark against his pale skin, before the wound began to close. The flesh knitted itself together with unnerving speed, leaving only unbroken skin behind. No scar. No sign that anything had ever happened.
The room fell deathly silent. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. Harry, with maddening indifference, wiped the spot clean with the edge of his robes, as though brushing away a trivial inconvenience.
"You didn't even cut me properly," Harry said at last, his voice low and edged with disdain.
Lockhart's wand slipped in his grip. His mouth opened, but no sound came at first. His mind couldn't process what he'd just seen—what stood before him. Finally, in a hoarse, trembling whisper, he managed, "W-W-What are you?"
The fear in his voice was palpable, raw and unfiltered. His knees felt weak, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears. "You can't… you can't be…"
Harry smiled then, but it wasn't warm. It wasn't even human. It was a predator's grin, all sharp edges and cruel intent. "Your worst nightmare," he replied smoothly, his voice like velvet over steel. The words landed like a death knell in the pit of Lockhart's stomach.
"Now do the oath, Lockhart," Harry continued, his tone as unyielding as iron. "It's your only way out of here alive."
Lockhart's wand hand fell limp at his side. His resolve—fragile as it was—shattered like glass. The reality of his situation crashed down on him with suffocating force. There was no bargaining here, no charming smile or half-baked scheme that could save him. The boy—no, the thing—standing before him wasn't like anyone else he'd ever faced. And Harry was right. If he didn't comply, there would be no escape.
Lockhart's chest tightened, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, the shadows in the room stretching closer, suffocating him in their silent judgment.
"Do it," Harry said again, his voice cold enough to freeze bone.
The words carried a finality that sent a shiver down Lockhart's spine. His knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself, forcing his body upright even as his pride crumbled to ash. His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything, any sliver of hope. There was none.
With trembling fingers, Lockhart raised his wand, his lips dry and quivering as he prepared to do the one thing he never thought he would—swear allegiance to Harry Potter.
The words hovered in his throat, thick and suffocating. The man who once prided himself on his charm, his poise, his mastery of deceit, was now nothing more than a broken shell. And as he began to speak, his voice cracked under the weight of Harry's unyielding gaze.
The boy who had just healed a wound like it was nothing. The boy who was far more terrifying than any wizard Lockhart had ever faced.
The boy who wasn't giving him a choice.
xxxxx
The crushing weight of his choices bore down on Harry like an unforgiving storm, relentless and suffocating. Each step he'd taken down this dark path had stripped away another piece of himself, leaving him raw and exposed. The room's oppressive stillness amplified the pounding of his heart and the shallow rasp of his breath, the only sounds that broke the heavy silence.
Harry's grip on his wand tightened. The cool wood felt alien in his hand, like a weapon that had fused itself to his skin, a reminder of the curse it had cast and the life it had touched. The Unforgivable Curse lingered in his memory, a grotesque echo that refused to fade, its icy tendrils coiled around his soul. He couldn't shake the sensation—the ripple of dark magic coursing through him, the perverse satisfaction it seemed to draw from his pain. The thought alone made him want to hurl the wand across the room, to be rid of it forever.
But he couldn't.
Not yet.
The stakes were too high, and failure wasn't an option. Lockhart's life—or death—wasn't just a moral dilemma; it was a necessary sacrifice in the name of something greater. That truth didn't make it easier to swallow. It didn't make Harry feel any less like he was slipping further into the abyss.
His thoughts wandered to Hermione. If she could see him now, what would she say? Would she understand why he had to do this? Or would she look at him with the same disgust and fear that now churned in his own stomach? The memory of her laugh, her brilliant eyes, her sharp words, all felt like fragments of a life that belonged to someone else. He wished, more than anything, that she were here—not to condone his actions, but simply to remind him of who he was, of who he used to be.
But Hermione wasn't here. No one was. Harry was alone in the suffocating dimness, with only Lockhart and his own guilt for company.
Across the room, Gilderoy Lockhart's terror was almost palpable. His trembling hands gripped his wand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to life. The faint light of a single torch cast eerie, flickering shadows that danced across the cracked stone walls, making the space seem alive with whispers of doom. Beads of sweat rolled down Lockhart's temple, his face a mask of desperation as he stared at Harry with wide, pleading eyes.
"I… I, Gilderoy Lockhart…" he stammered, each word dragged from his throat like a death sentence. His voice cracked, barely rising above a whisper as he continued. "…swear on my magic to follow Harry Potter's orders."
The words hung in the air, a fragile thread of sound that seemed to vibrate with tension. Lockhart's wand emitted a faint glow, the light trembling before flaring into brilliance and fading. The unyielding magic of the oath settled like a heavy shroud, binding him with chains that neither of them could see but both could feel.
Harry gave a curt nod, his face unreadable, though his stomach churned. "Good," he said simply. His voice was flat, devoid of any triumph or satisfaction.
From within the folds of his robes, Harry pulled out a small, inconspicuous box. A flick of his wand, and the box expanded, its surface shimmering faintly as it grew to its full size. The lid creaked open, revealing a modest but neatly prepared meal inside.
"Eat," Harry ordered, his tone clipped and cold. "You'll need your strength."
For a moment, Lockhart froze, his eyes darting between the food and Harry as if trying to decipher some hidden motive. Then, as though some primal instinct overrode his hesitation, he lunged forward. His movements were frantic, bordering on feral, as he tore into the meal. The sounds of his ravenous eating echoed grotesquely in the stillness, each bite a reminder of how far he'd fallen.
Harry stood a few paces back, his arms crossed and his expression dark. He watched with a mixture of contempt and detached pity as Lockhart devoured the food. Fury simmered just below the surface, a cold, quiet anger that seemed to thrum in his veins, giving him focus. This was the man who had tried to destroy everything—the man who had pushed Harry to this breaking point. And yet, here he was, reduced to a pathetic shadow of his former self, groveling for scraps.
When Lockhart finally finished, he leaned back, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robes. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, but there was a strange light in his eyes—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, or the faintest trace of relief.
"W-Well then," Lockhart began, his voice shaky but tinged with forced cheer. "I suppose we should… er… get on with it, yes? What would you like me to do, Harry?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took a long, deliberate moment to study the man before him. Lockhart's forced grin, his trembling hands, his pathetic attempt to appear cooperative—it was all so transparent, so pitiful. A coward when cornered, a sycophant when given the chance to survive.
Finally, Harry spoke, his voice as cold and sharp as a blade. "Gilderoy Lockhart, I order you to kill yourself with the Killing Curse."
The words struck like a thunderclap, reverberating through the room and freezing the air. Lockhart's smile faltered instantly, his face draining of all color. His wand slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground, though he didn't seem to notice.
"W-What?" he stuttered, his voice rising to a shrill, panicked pitch. "No… no, you can't mean that. You wouldn't… you're not serious…"
Harry's gaze didn't waver. His green eyes, so often warm and full of life, were cold and empty, like shards of frozen glass. "I mean it," he said softly, his tone carrying a weight that seemed to press down on the room. "Do it. Now."
Lockhart dropped to his knees, his entire body trembling as tears streamed down his face. "Please!" he sobbed, his voice cracking. "Please, Harry, don't do this! I-I'll confess to everything! I'll turn myself in! Just don't make me—please, I'm begging you!"
Harry's expression remained impassive. His heart clenched at the sight of Lockhart's fear, but he shoved the feeling aside. There was no room for mercy here, no space for hesitation.
"Kill yourself, Lockhart," Harry repeated, his voice low but unyielding. "That's an order."
The magic of the oath began to take hold. Lockhart's body convulsed, his magic rebelling against his refusal to obey. A faint shimmer enveloped him, a ghostly glow that seemed to seep from his very being. His screams echoed through the chamber, raw and guttural, a sound of pure agony.
Harry forced himself to watch, his jaw clenched and his fists tight at his sides. This was his choice, his responsibility. And he would bear it, no matter how much it tore him apart.
With one final, wrenching cry, Lockhart's body gave out. The glow faded, leaving him crumpled on the cold stone floor. His wand lay beside him, lifeless and forgotten.
Harry approached slowly, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. He crouched down, picking up Lockhart's wand with a grim expression. "Pathetic," he muttered, his voice laced with disdain.
Straightening, Harry turned and walked away, his shadow stretching long behind him as the room swallowed Lockhart's still form.
xxxxx
The Room of Requirement appeared before Harry, its door a dark silhouette against the dimly lit corridor. His hand trembled as he reached for the handle, the cold brass biting into his skin as if the castle itself disapproved of his actions. The door creaked open, revealing the space within—dimly lit with flickering candles, shadows dancing across the walls as if alive, whispering his guilt back to him.
Harry stepped inside, his legs unsteady beneath him. The room had changed since he last used it, accommodating his deepest need as it always did. At its center stood a single bed, its crisp white linens glowing softly in the flickering candlelight. Perched on the edge of the bed was Luna Lovegood, her pale blonde hair falling over her shoulders like threads of moonlight. She was engrossed in a book, her dreamy expression calm and detached from the world around her.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Luna looked up, her wide, silvery eyes meeting his. In an instant, her serene expression faded, replaced by concern as she took in the sight before her. Harry's face was pale, his green eyes hollow and rimmed with redness. He was shaking uncontrollably, as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him.
"Harry," she whispered, her book slipping from her hands and landing on the floor with a dull thud. She was on her feet in an instant, crossing the space between them as if propelled by instinct. Harry stumbled forward, his legs buckling, and Luna caught him just as he fell into her arms.
"I-I did it," he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. His words were barely audible, muffled against her shoulder. "I killed Lockhart."
Luna froze for a fraction of a second, her arms tightening protectively around him. Slowly, she lowered them both to the floor, her knees sinking into the thick rug beneath them. Harry clung to her as if she were the only thing tethering him to reality. His sobs wracked his body, raw and uncontrollable, and his breath came in shallow, desperate gasps.
Luna's hand found its way to his back, her fingers moving in slow, soothing circles. Her other hand cradled the back of his head, her fingers weaving gently into his messy black hair. "Shh," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "It's okay, Harry. You're safe now. I'm here."
"I killed a man," Harry choked out, his voice breaking with anguish. "I killed a man, Luna."
Tears welled in Luna's eyes, though her voice remained steady. "No, Harry," she murmured, her tone unwavering in its quiet certainty. "You didn't kill a man. You stopped a monster. You did what had to be done. He deserved it."
Harry shook his head against her shoulder, his fingers gripping her robes as if letting go would shatter him completely. The weight of her words could not reach him, buried as he was beneath the crushing guilt and the memory of Lockhart's final moments. The sound of Lockhart's scream, the shimmer of his magic dissipating into nothingness—it haunted him, replaying in an endless loop in his mind.
"I still did it," he whispered. "I still… I still—"
"You did it because no one else could," Luna interrupted softly, her voice firm yet gentle. "You did it to protect the people you love. That's what makes you different from him. That's what makes you good, Harry."
Her words hung in the air, their weight pressing against the suffocating silence that followed. Harry didn't respond, his sobs beginning to quiet into soft, shuddering breaths. Luna continued to hold him, her own tears slipping silently down her cheeks and soaking into his dark hair. She didn't try to pull away or shift, even as her legs began to ache from their position on the floor. Her only focus was Harry, broken and trembling in her arms.
Time seemed to lose meaning as they remained there, wrapped in each other's presence. The flickering candlelight painted their forms in warm golds and deep shadows, as if the room itself sought to shield them from the outside world. At some point, Luna began to hum, her voice soft and lilting, the melody carrying a strange, ethereal comfort.
Harry's breath hitched as the tune reached his ears, a memory stirring deep within him. It was Pandora Lovegood's lullaby—a simple, haunting melody that had accompanied his childhood naps during her visits to his home. He remembered Pandora's gentle hands tucking him in, her voice a soothing balm that had lulled him to sleep despite his protests. It was a sound that had always felt like safety, like home.
The memory wrapped around him now, intertwining with the warmth of Luna's embrace and the gentle rise and fall of her breath. His body began to relax, the tension in his muscles releasing as the lullaby worked its quiet magic. Slowly, his sobs faded entirely, replaced by deep, even breaths.
Luna felt his grip on her robes loosen as his body grew heavier against hers. She continued to hum, her voice never faltering, even as her tears dried on her cheeks. When she was sure he had fallen asleep, she adjusted her hold, cradling him like a fragile thing that might break if handled too roughly. She rested her cheek against his messy hair, her eyes drifting closed as she whispered a silent prayer to the stars above.
The Room of Requirement, ever watchful, dimmed its lights further, casting the pair in a cocoon of shadows and warmth. And for the first time that night, Harry's restless mind found peace in the quiet hum of Luna's lullaby.