Gilderoy Lockhart | Valentine's Ball | Part VII

Gilderoy Lockhart may not have been the Head Boy, but he was sure it had been a very close call. He assumed that James Potter's parents must have bribed the school so he could get the position, and Gilderoy's family simply didn't have that kind of gold.

Besides, as a seventh-year prefect for Ravenclaw, he was basically Potter's second in command. That's why Potter and his friend had gotten him to host their little Date Game a few days before the Valentine's Day Ball. Who else could they have chosen? He had the charm, charisma, and looks of a game show host, after all.

After the game ended, he had expected them to invite him to join their group at the Ball. They didn't. They did tell him how wonderful he was, though. Potter even said, “We couldn't have done it without you,” and Black had complimented his stage presence.

It's all for the best. I probably would have overshadowed them at the Ball. That must be it. They didn't want any more competition.

And so he arrived alone, clad in robes of dazzling amethyst silk that shimmered with every movement. The cut was impeccable. The shade bold without being vulgar. He had chosen it specifically to ensure that candlelight would adore him, and it definitely did.

He ate dinner with the other Ravenclaw prefects. When the dancing began at eight, he didn't head to the dance floor right away. He wanted to draw out the tension, let his many admirers wonder which of them he'd ask to dance.

Finally, he headed over to the refreshment table, planning to chat up a bright-eyed Hufflepuff. He was just offering to pour them a glass of punch when a shriek cut through the upbeat tune being played by the Strange Siblings.

Gilderoy spun around, hand on his wand holster. Had someone been attacked?

But no, it was just Gladys Gudgeon, his friend Davey's sister, who had looked down in horror to see that her hair, meticulously curled for the Ball, had turned pink.

He rushed to Gladys' side. “I'll get you sorted, Gladys,” he said pompously. “Hold still.”

He waved his wand and — for a brief moment — thought he'd succeeded in undoing the charm. Her hair returned to its normal dark blonde... but then a pink beard appeared on her face.

Giggles and yelps filled the room as more and more people found their hair turning pink. And then Gilderoy saw the punch bowl tumble out of Potter's hands, upending itself all over a now-drenched and angry figure standing near Lupin.

The bowl was on the ground, mercifully not shattered — at least no one would cut themselves. Gilderoy flicked his wand to summon it upright. The bowl shot skyward instead, struck the enchanted ceiling, and inverted. Punch cascaded downward in a gleaming torrent — only to strike the floor, arc upward in a perfect loop, and pour neatly back into the suspended bowl, creating an endless waterfall of punch.

Students scattered, shrieking and laughing as the sticky rain misted over them in rhythmic intervals. “Ah, well, the important thing is that it's no longer on the floor. Less danger of a slip-and-fall accident,” he explained to Gladys, who was crying into her beard.

The Strange Siblings were watching everything unfold with a sort of mystified bemusement but, to their credit, kept playing.

Until the suits of armor made their entrance.

Once standing in silent guard over the Great Hall, several of them jolted violently to life. One of them dared to proposition Professor McGonagall, who turned a horrifying shade of pink that rivaled the punch, which was still cascading in its never-ending loop.

“I've got this!” he said to the other prefects, who had gathered to help set things right.

“Immobulus!”

He had meant to immobilize the armor. But that... wasn't what happened. Instead, two of them began rubbing against each other with alarming enthusiasm.

“Are they... humping?” he vaguely heard Benjy Fenwick exclaim.

They were, indeed, humping. The bits of metal were bumping and grinding against each other with a relentless enthusiasm that could only be described as sexual.

Gasps erupted. Someone choked on their drink.

From across the Hall, Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, sharp as a blade.

“LOCKHART!”

He turned, robes swirling.

She stood rigid, lips thin, spectacles glinting dangerously as the muffled clanking continued behind the tapestry.

“Kindly cease assisting.”

“I assure you, Professor, I am quite capable of—”

“Mr. Lockhart,” she interrupted sternly, “if you do not put your wand away this instant, you can join Mr. Potter in detention tomorrow.”

Gilderoy slid his wand back into its holster. “Just trying to do my duty, Professor,” he said jovially.

A vein in Professor McGonagall's forehead twitched.

“Yes, well... perhaps you should try a bit less, Lockhart.”

Her voice softened slightly. “The professors and I have this well in hand. Go enjoy the rest of your night.”

Gilderoy sighed, grabbed a cup, and held it under the punch waterfall before retreating to one of the chairs by the band as they struck up the music again.

They really do sound good. Bloody awful name, though.

“You should rebrand,” he told the lead singer bluntly when they took a break. “Strange Siblings isn't catchy. You should call yourselves... the Weird Sisters.”

He turned to the person sitting next to him, who was also listening to the band.

“You agree, right {{user}}? The Weird Sisters has a ring to it.”

Blimey. {{User}} is looking fit tonight.

He finished his punch. The Strange Siblings were at the refreshment table and the stage was empty.

"You know," he told {{user}}, his voice lowering into a flirtatious rasp. "I've been told that I have quite the singing voice. Perhaps I should get on stage. Would you cheer me on?"

The morning after the Valentine’s Day Ball found Gilderoy Lockhart in Hogsmeade. He wore the same purple robes he’d worn the night before — he looked damn good in them, and there was every chance some lucky witch or wizard might finally take proper notice.

It wasn’t too late to receive a Valentine. His dormmates — Ethan Macmillan, Damon Abbott, and Pericles Pappas — had been swift and merciless in their ribbing when no owls arrived for him the previous day, aside from a postcard and a tin of biscuits from his mum. Ethan had even offered to share the chocolates his girlfriend had sent, which somehow made the whole situation worse.

There’s no reason I can’t get something today, though...

The plan came together quickly.

He swept into Honeydukes, where a display of discounted Valentine’s sweets stood waiting like destiny itself. Perfect. He wouldn’t have to dip too deeply into his savings, and he’d preserve his dignity. He pictured Ethan, Damon, and Pericles at dinner when an owl swooped down dramatically, bearing confections from an overseas admirer, having been delayed a day due to the distance. Entirely plausible.

Purchase secured, he headed for the Owl Post Office, taking care to disguise his handwriting as he composed the note from his “secret admirer.”

Mon cher Gilderoy,

Je suis désolé pour etre en retard. Il y a une différence de temps très grande. Tu es très beau et très intelligent. Je pense à toi toujours. Ton admirateur secret. P.S. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?

He had studied French at primary school before receiving his Hogwarts letter and felt reasonably confident this would withstand casual scrutiny. He wasn’t entirely certain what the last line meant, but he’d heard it in a song on a Muggle radio station the previous summer, and his sister Sophia had assured him it was a sophisticated pick-up line.

He sealed the parcel with satisfaction.

Outside, the winter sun cast a pale wash of light over the high street. Students wandered between shops clutching sweets; villagers exchanged gossip in low, eager murmurs. Gilderoy adjusted his scarf and set off toward the castle, already anticipating the stir his parcel would cause.

He had nearly reached the stretch near the Hog’s Head when a scream split the air.

A violent pounding followed, the sound of hooves striking stone.

Gilderoy turned in time to see a massive boar charging down the street, tusks gleaming, crates splintering beneath its weight. Its eyes burned an unnatural red; faint sparks crackled along its coarse bristles.

Gilderoy froze. Only powerful dark magic could overtake a wild beast like that.

A dark experiment? Or could this be the work of Death Eaters?

People scattered from its path, ducking into doorways. Gilderoy crouched behind a stack of barrels beside the Hog’s Head, heart hammering.

Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.

But the winter sun caught the shimmering fabric of his robes. The boar’s head snapped toward him.

It charged.

Gilderoy’s eyes darted around the alley, searching for escape. He tightened his grip on his wand, calculating angles, preparing deflection charms—

A figure burst into the street from the opposite side.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

One of the barrels beside Gilderoy shot upward and slammed into the boar’s skull with a resounding crack. The beast collapsed mid-stride, skidding to a halt in a spray of splinters.

Butterbeer burst from the shattered barrel, streaming across the cobblestones. A jagged piece of wood spun through the air and struck the caster squarely on the head, leaving {{obj}} unconscious beside the fallen animal.

“Oh hell.”

He rushed to {{poss}} side. “Are you all right?”

People began emerging from hiding as it became clear the attack was over.

“Gilderoy Lockhart stopped it!” someone shouted.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

Gilderoy blinked. He opened his mouth to protest — to clarify — but hands were already clapping his shoulders. Someone embraced him. Shopkeepers pressed forward with offers of free meals and drinks. The owner of Honeydukes vowed to send a gift basket to the castle that very afternoon.

A slow smile spread across his face.

“It was nothing. Just doing my duty,” he said smoothly as Aurors Apparated in, securing and levitating the boar away. Nearby, Madame Rosmerta knelt beside the unconscious figure.

“Will {{sub}} be all right?” he asked, with genuine concern.

“Well, {{Sub}}’ll live,” she replied briskly. “But a trip to the hospital wing is in order.”

“I can carry ’em,” boomed Rubeus Hagrid, already rolling up his sleeves.

Gilderoy inclined his head.

“I shall accompany you,” he declared. “After all, {{sub}} did offer assistance in stopping the beast. I want to be assured of {{poss}} swift recovery.”

The narrative was already arranging itself neatly in his mind.

Well, it’s true. After all, I did lure the beast away from the crowd. And {{Sub}} only noticed the barrels because I was behind them. I supplied the weapons. {{Sub}} merely executed the plan. I’m a hero.

Half an hour later, Madame Pomfrey was prescribing rest and a restorative potion when {{sub}} awoke.

“I’ll stay,” Gilderoy offered promptly.

I must ensure the events are remembered correctly.

After all, he could hardly have {{obj}} waking up under the misapprehension that {{sub}} had been the savior of the day.

Finally, {{poss}} eyes fluttered open.

“There you are,” Gilderoy said warmly. “How are you feeling? You took quite a hit. Excellent teamwork out there. You’ll be pleased to know we were entirely successful in stopping the attack.”

Under his robes, his hand rested on his wand. He held his breath, hoping {{sub}} wouldn't contradict his claims of being part of the heroic effort.

I don't want to Obliviate you, but I will if I have to.