Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin

Chapter 39: The Final Lesson of Gilderoy Lockhart

14 February 1993 (nearly three months ago)
The Great Hall on the morning of Valentine's Day

"There are worse ways to celebrate the holiday, I suppose, Gilderoy" said Flitwick with twinkling eyes. "I still recall the chaos you unleashed on the school on Valentine's Day in 1980."

"Chaos, Filius?" he said in confusion. "I'm sure you exaggerate."

"Exaggerate, my boy?" the diminutive professor said with a laugh. "You sent 800 Valentine's messages to yourself! We had to cancel lunch because of all the owl droppings befouling the Great Hall!"

Lockhart stared at his fellow Ravenclaw as if trying to figure out if he was joking. Then, he laughed. "Ha-ha! You know I'd quite forgotten about that bit of foolishness! I don't remember if I apologized at the time for however many points I cost Ravenclaw, but if not, I eagerly do so now."

"Oh, water under the bridge, my boy. Water under the bridge." Flitwick laughed. On the other side of him, however, Snape observed the conversation silently and with an odd expression.

After breakfast, Snape made his way back to his private room. It was a Sunday and he had no classes nor anything else to distract him. Lacking any other way to procrastinate, he paced the room for almost ten minutes before he finally surrendered. As much as he hated the thought of what he was about to do, at the end of the day, Severus Snape cared about Hogwarts and its students. And that meant that some things were more important than both pride and practiced bitterness. Snape exhaled through gritted teeth. Then, he stepped over to the fireplace in his private quarters and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire.

"Potter Manor," he spat into the flames almost angrily. Seconds later, a house elf appeared in the flames and inquired as to the Potions Master's business. "Tell Lord Potter that Severus Snape wishes to speak with him about an urgent matter."

The elf nodded and scampered off. Several minutes later, James Potter, still his pajamas and with unbrushed hair, stuck his head into the green flames. He looked decidedly happy at the sight of his old rival. "Snape, it's early. What do you want?"

"It's nine-thirty, Potter. People who actually work for a living have already been up for hours. In any event, this is not a social call. I wish to speak with you both in your capacity as an auror and as a parent to two Hogwarts students."

"Is Jim in trouble again?" he asked with concern. "Or Harry?"

"No more so than is usual for either of them. No, Potter, this is a matter of a more generalized concern." He hesitated. "I want to talk to you about Gilderoy Lockhart."

8 May 1993
Gryffindor Tower

Ron jerked awake in his bed from yet another nightmare. He'd been having those with increasing regularity, and the worst part was that he could never remember anything that happened in them. Well, not quite – he could always remember a recurring theme of riding around as a prisoner in his own mind while some ... thing wore his body like a suit and walked around in it. He rarely remembered what the intruder did with his body, just a vague recollection of being trapped alone in the dark. But this one was different. He still didn't remember any specifics, but he had a strong impression that his dream had involved laughing at the body of Headmaster Dumbledore as he lay helpless on the floor. And then ... something about chickens. Ron reached for his wand and cast a quick Tempus. 6:45 a.m. He sighed. It was a Saturday, and he'd planned to sleep in and catch up on his rest, and yet here he was once more – wide awake after some stupid nightmare.

The youngest Weasley boy yawned and got up out of bed to head to the bathroom and wash his face off. Once there, he reached for the faucet but then stopped and looked at his hand. There was something on palm, something brown and sticky. He pulled the hand up to his nose and sniffed. The smell was coppery and familiar, and for just a moment, a chill ran down his back as he wondered how on earth he could have woken up to find dried blood on his hands. Then, he shuddered for a few seconds in response to the disturbing mental image of something slithering through his mind and hungrily devouring the thoughts of concern and fear borne of his discovery. Shaking his head, the boy washed his hands and face thoroughly before heading back to bed. By the time he fell back asleep, the blood stains had already been forgotten.