Chapter Six: Detention
At eight o'clock that evening, Lockhart was seated in his office, replying to his fan mail as usual.
A knock sounded at the door. It must be Harry Potter, here for his detention.
"Come in, little one—you've finally arrived."
"Good evening, Professor. Is there anything I can help you with?"
Lockhart looked up and saw Hermione instead. "Where's Harry? He was meant to be here. Is he trying to shirk his duties?"
"No, Professor. Harry's helping Ron with polishing the trophies. I came here voluntarily."
"Oh no, Miss Granger. If you haven't done anything wrong, I don't require your services. I can manage perfectly well on my own."
Lockhart had originally planned to build a connection with the Boy Who Lived, but instead it was Hermione. She was only thirteen—utterly uninteresting to him. "Go on back now. I appreciate the thought."
"Professor…" Hermione's eyes reddened, her voice trembling as though she were about to cry. "I only wanted to help."
"…Alright. Perhaps you can write a few letters for me," Lockhart conceded. Hermione would grow into a beauty one day; that much was obvious.
"Okay, Professor!" Hermione's face lit up instantly; her previous sorrow disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. She hopped over and plopped herself into the chair.
"Well then, start by replying to Miss Vinton for me."
"These envelopes smell lovely, Professor," Hermione murmured as she picked up her quill.
They certainly did—he'd sprayed them with a perfume containing a harmless dash of aphrodisiac, a fashion trend among the upper class to keep fan enthusiasm alive. Naturally, Lockhart would never say such things to a child.
"Having any trouble with your studies lately? And how's that book I lent you going?" he asked lightly. Since she was here, he might as well raise the affection level of the saviour's future teammate.
"Hm~ it's very good! But not as fascinating as your adventure books, Professor."
"Haha, really? I'm honoured Miss Granger thinks so. Right, now let's reply to Sir William. Your handwriting is quite elegant."
"Yes. My parents began teaching me handwriting when I was little, and my teachers often praised me."
"What do your parents do, Granger?" Lockhart asked casually.
"They're both dentists, Professor. Do you know what a dentist is?"
"Of course—it's the Muggle profession that deals with teeth. I went to one as a child. Not my fondest memory."
"Professor, have you lived in the Muggle world? I thought powerful wizards like you would have grown up among wizards."
Lockhart chuckled. "I'm a half-blood, Granger. My father was a Muggle nobleman; my mother was a witch. When I showed a bit of magic as a child, my mother was delighted. But I didn't know I was a wizard until I turned eleven. Before that, I thought I simply had special abilities—thought I was meant to be the saviour of the world."
"Hah! So even someone as remarkable as Professor Lockhart was once like me." Hermione felt suddenly much closer to him.
"Those pure-blood wizards who think themselves superior all grew up like Muggles when they were small. Young witches and wizards can't control their magic, and teaching them too early could get them hurt."
"Hmph! No wonder those Slytherins act so arrogant—they're not that impressive in class," Hermione said with a sniff.
"That's right. I prefer outstanding students to pure-blood pedigrees."
"Professor, I'll definitely study hard!" Hermione said eagerly.
"Don't pressure yourself. I believe in you," Lockhart said, amused.
The atmosphere warmed, and Hermione shuffled her chair a little closer bit by bit, trying to sit nearer to her idol.
Lockhart glanced up and caught her staring at him. He smiled helplessly.
Hermione flushed scarlet and turned away quickly.
Now Lockhart found himself studying her. Fair skin, neat long eyebrows, a delicate nose, rosy cheeks—but her bushy hair did hinder her appearance. Still, she was a pretty girl in the making, though for now she remained a child with a touch of baby fat.
He suddenly thought of his previous life. Where he came from, dating anyone under fourteen was considered statutory rape… Good Lord, why was he even thinking about this? What did that have to do with Hermione? He let out a quiet laugh at himself.
——
He laughed aloud without meaning to.
Hermione noticed and became nervous. "Professor… is something wrong? Do I look silly?"
"No, no. You just reminded me of my first love back at school. She was every bit as sweet as you," Lockhart said quickly.
"Really?" Instead of blushing, Hermione's eyes widened in excitement. "Professor, I want to be your girlfriend."
Lockhart froze. A thirteen-year-old confessing to him? Didn't she like Ron? Would this mess with the plot?
Before he could respond, Hermione suddenly giggled. "I'm only joking, Professor."
The mood instantly turned awkward. So young—and already teasing people. What an annoying little know-it-all.
"Ahem—Hermione, my girlfriend back then didn't have hair nearly as messy as yours. Don't you ever fix it?"
"Every time I comb it, it's a mess again by morning. Sometimes I want to cut it all off." Hermione sulked as she tugged at her curls.
"I've got some hair conditioner here. Hold on."
Lockhart rummaged through his bag and produced a small bottle. He'd once considered making a fortune selling the stuff, but it was too expensive to produce with bird-egg yolks and far too unstable. Still, he used it himself. "Here—take it as thanks for helping me. And remember to style your hair before class."
"Wow, thank you, Professor!"
Lockhart enjoyed the look of surprise on her face—until something struck him.
Oh no. Harry was supposed to be helping with the letters tonight. On his way back, he'd originally overheard the Basilisk's voice. But now Hermione had interfered. Would that change things? Was Harry safe?
"What's wrong, Professor?"
"Hermione, it's late. Let me escort you back. You may come help with the letters again when you've time."
"Oh—Merlin, it's eleven o'clock!" Hermione jumped; it was well past curfew. "I won't trouble you, Professor—I'll go myself."
But Lockhart, worried about Harry, grabbed Hermione lightly by the wrist and hurried toward the corridor.
As they crossed the hall, they ran into Harry and Ron.
"Good evening, Professor. Um…"
Ron had spotted Lockhart holding Hermione's hand; Hermione instantly yanked her hand away.
"Harry, Ron—I'm relieved you're both fine. Hermione, head back with your classmates."
"What d'you mean, 'we're fine'? Lockhart'd love it if we were in trouble," Ron grumbled as they walked back toward Gryffindor Tower.
"It's late at night—Professor was worried about you!" Hermione snapped.
"Hermione, why are you getting mixed up with Lockhart? Be careful—he might be some sort of… creepy child-obsessed weirdo."
"Don't you dare insult him!" Hermione flared.
Harry wasn't listening to the argument at all. His mind was stuck replaying that strange voice he'd heard earlier.
Was it a hallucination? A warning?
"Shut it, Ron," Harry cut in impatiently. "He's our professor. Show some respect."
——