Effervescence | h.p.

ii | viii. a dead man's party

Barely setting a foot in the cool entrance hall after their visit with Hagrid, the group of four heard a voice ring out;

"There you are, Lupin-Black — Potter — Weasley." Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern. "You will all serve your detentions this evening."

"What're we doing, Professor?" said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp the would release a slug or two.

"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," said Professor McGonagall. "And no magic, Weasley — elbow grease."

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.

"Potter will organize the Potion supply closet and help Professor Snape in any way he needs," McGonagall informed Harry, making his face drop completely.

"Oh no — Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" said Harry desperately.

"Certainly not," said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. "And it would do you well to take the prescribed punishment without questions," she said harshly.

"And you, Lupin-Black, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail," Professor McGonagall said with a slight eye roll.

"His — fan mail?" Lyra repeated incredulously. "Seriously?"

"I find it best not to ask questions with Professor Lockhart," McGonagall responded with exasperation. "Eight o'clock sharp, all three of you," she finished sternly.

Ron, Harry, and Lyra all made their way into the Great Hall in states of deep gloom, Hermione behind them with a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression.

"Filch'll have me there all night," Ron complained, thinking he got the worst deal. "No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning."

"I'd swap anytime," said Harry. "I have to be with Snape until he's through with me," he shivered.

"I would swap, Ron," Lyra said. "I like cleaning the house. It's relaxing. But now I'll be answering Lockhart's fanmail . . . he's already in my nightmares, this'll make it even worse," she grimaced.

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away after that, and now it was five to eight. Lyra walked at her normal quick pace along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. Clamping her lips together with her teeth from the inside, she knocked on the door.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart was beaming down at her.

"Ah, here's the scalawag!" he said. "Come in, Lyra, come in — "

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart, a few of them signed by the same person the pictures captured. Another large pile lay on his desk.

"You can address the envelopes!" Lockhart told her, making it seem like it was a gift from the heavens. "This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine — "

Slowly, the minutes snailed by. "Fame is a fickle friend, Lyra," Lockhart would occasionally say, another frequent phrase being "celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that."

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching Lyra. She moved her hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. It must be nearly time to leave, she thought miserably, hopeful that she may soon be finished, please let it be nearly time. . . .

And then she heard something — something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans. It was a voice, chilling the bone marrow — a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.