Adventures of Harriet Potter

Gilderoy Lockhart

The next day, however, Harriet barely grinned once. Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long House tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harriet and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, who had her copy of Voyages with Vampires propped open against a milk jug. There was a slight stiffness in the way she said "Morning," which told Harriet that she was still disapproving of the way they had arrived, even after comforting Harriet as she'd cried for hours before going to bed. Neville Longbottom and Lydia Inkwood, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone Harriet had ever met. Lydia was a sharp faced and graceful girl who only had trouble remembering the insignificant gossip that Lavender and Parvati seemed to thrive on.
"Mail's due any minute — I think Gran's sending a few things I forgot." Harriet had only just started her porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville's head and, a second later, something large and gray fell into Hermione's jug, spraying them all with milk and feathers. "Errol!" said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak.
"Oh, no —" Ron gasped. "It's all right, he's still alive," said Hermione, prodding Errol gently with the tip of her finger. "It's not that — it's that." Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to Harriet, but Ron and Neville were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode. "What's the matter?" said Harriet, confused. "She's — she's sent me a Howler," said Ron faintly. "You'd better open it, Ron," said Neville in a timid whisper. "It'll be worse if you don't. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and" — he gulped — "it was horrible." Harriet looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope. "What's a Howler?" she said. But Ron's whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to smoke at the corners. "Open it," Neville urged. "It'll all be over in a few minutes —"
Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol's beak, and slit it open. Neville and Lydia stuffed their fingers in their ears. A split second later, Harriet knew why. She thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling. "— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —" Mrs. Weasley's yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen. "— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRIET COULD BOTH HAVE DIED —" Harriet had been wondering when her name was going to crop up. She tried very hard to look as though she couldn't hear the voice that was making her eardrums throb. "— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME."
A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron's hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Harriet and Ron sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again. Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top of Ron's head. "Well, I don't know what you expected, Ron, but you —" the bushy haired girl started. "Don't tell me I deserved it," snapped Ron. Harriet pushed her porridge away. Her insides were burning with guilt. Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for her over the summer . . .
But she had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules. Harriet took hers and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first. Harriet, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione seemed to think they had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again. As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harriet, Ron, and Hermione had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart. Professor Sprout's arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Harriet spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings.
Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming. "Oh, hello there!" he called, beaming around at the assembled students. "Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels . . ." Harriet detected a sense of falsehood in Professor Lockhart's statement, but chalked it up to her cramps and the yuck regularly leaving her body.
"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self. There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harriet caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. She was about to follow Ron and Hermione inside when Lockhart's hand shot out. "Harriet! I've been wanting a word — you don't mind if she's a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?" Judging by Professor Sprout's scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, "That's the ticket," and closed the greenhouse door in her face. All while Harriet wore a ("Help me") look on her face.
"Harriet," said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head. "Harriet, Harriet, Harriet." Completely nonplussed, Harriet said nothing. Hoping to get it over with as she was not in the mood for fame games. "When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself." Harriet had no idea what he was talking about. She was about to say so when Lockhart went on, "Don't know when I've been more shocked. Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harriet, Harriet, Harriet." It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when he wasn't talking. And be completely unaware that her anger was flaring, fueled by Morgana's little gift making her hormones rise off the charts. "Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I?" said Lockhart. "Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn't wait to do it again."
"Oh, no, Professor, see —" she said, trying to control her temper, she didn't need to knee a professor in the bits and earn another detention on the first day of term. "Harriet, Harriet, Harriet," said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping her shoulder, in a manner that made her flinch as she flashed back to all the times Uncle Vernon had punished her for being a girl. "I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you've had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head — but see here, young man, you can't start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you're older. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking! 'It's all right for him, he's an internationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I'd say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" He glanced at the lightning scar on Harriet's forehead. "I know, I know — it's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have — but it's a start, Harriet, it's a start."
He gave Harriet a hearty wink and strode off. Harriet stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering she was supposed to be in the greenhouse, she opened the door and slid inside.
Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored earmuffs were lying on the bench. When Harriet had taken her place between Ron and Hermione, she said, "We'll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?" To nobody's surprise, Hermione's hand was first into the air. Harriet let her have the chance to answer, her own mood was still volatile from the combination of Morgana's little gift and Lockhart's assumptions about her. After all, she'd give anything in the world to have her mum and dad back.
"Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative," said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook. "It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state." Harriet smiled at her friend and hugged her briefly. "Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout. "The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?" Hermione's hand narrowly missed Harriet's glasses as it shot up again. "The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it," she said promptly. "Precisely. Take another ten points," said Professor Sprout. "Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young." She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Harriet, who didn't have to see the roots to understand what Hermione meant by the "cry" of the Mandrake.
"Everyone take a pair of earmuffs," said Professor Sprout. There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn't pink and fluffy. "When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered," said Professor Sprout. "When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right — earmuffs on." Harriet snapped the earmuffs over her ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard. Harriet let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear. There was a difference between knowing and seeing after all. Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.
Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs. "As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet," she said calmly as though she'd just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. "However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here — compost in the sacks over there — and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it's teething."
She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder. Harriet, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harriet knew by sight but had never spoken to. "Justin Finch-Fletchley," he said brightly, shaking Harriet by the hand. "Know who you are, of course, the famous Harriet Potter. . . . And you're Hermione Granger — always top in everything" (Hermione beamed as she had her hand shaken too) "— and Ron Weasley. Wasn't that your flying car?" Ron didn't smile. The Howler was obviously still on his mind. "That Lockhart's something, isn't he?" said Justin happily as they began filling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. "Awfully brave chap. Have you read his books? I'd have died of fear if I'd been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic. My name was down for Eton, you know. I can't tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart's books I think she's begun to see how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family. . . ."
After that they didn't have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes didn't like coming out of the earth, but didn't seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Harriet spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot. By the end of the class, Harriet, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall's classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Everything Harriet had learned last year seemed to have partially leaked out of her head during the summer. She was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all she managed to do was give her beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding her wand. Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn't pleased.
Harriet was relieved to hear the lunch bell. Her brain felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the classroom except her and Ron, who was whacking his wand furiously on the desk.
"Stupid — useless — thing —" Ron muttered. "Write home for another one," Harriet suggested as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker. "Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back," said Ron, stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag. "'It's your own fault your wand got snapped —'" Harriet sighed as she momentarily excused herself to the lavatory, where she changed her tampon. She figured she'd write to Mrs. Weasley on Ron's behalf.
They went down to lunch, where Ron's mood was not improved by Hermione's showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons she had produced in Transfiguration. "What've we got this afternoon?" said Harriet, hastily and wisely changing the subject. Certain Ron would appreciate it. "Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione at once. Harriet groaned, Lockhart was the last person she wanted to see at the moment. "Why," demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, "have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?" Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously. They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again. Harriet and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Harriet became aware that she was being closely watched. Looking up, she saw the very small, mousy-haired boy she'd seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Harriet as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harriet looked at him, he went bright red.
"All right, Harriet? I'm — I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera hopefully. "A picture?" Harriet repeated blankly. "So I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead" (his eyes raked Harriet's hairline) "and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you" — he looked imploringly at Harriet — "maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"
"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?" Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy's voice echoed around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. "Everyone line up!" Malfoy roared to the crowd. "Harriet Potter's giving out signed photos!" Harriet's temper flared dangerously. "No, I'm not," said Harriet angrily, her fists clenching. "Shut up, Malfoy." She was seeing red and each of her cramps was egging her on. "You're just jealous," piped up Colin, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe's neck. "*Jealous?*" said Malfoy, who didn't need to shout anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself."
Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly. "Eat slugs, Malfoy," said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way. "Be careful, Weasley," sneered Malfoy. "You don't want to start any trouble or your mummy'll have to come and take you away from school." He put on a shrill, piercing voice. "'If you put another toe out of line' —" A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this. "Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter," smirked Malfoy. "It'd be worth more than his family's whole house —" Harriet raised her fist. Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and whispered, "Look out!"
"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. "Who's giving out signed photos?" Harriet started to speak but she was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around her shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harriet!" Pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with humiliation, Harriet saw Malfoy slide smirking back into the crowd. She struggled against Lockhart's hold, wanting to kill the ponce who had landed her in such a mess. "Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll both sign it for you." Harriet felt such burning rage in that moment that her struggles turned to trying to knee Lockhart in his bits.
Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes. "Off you go, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harriet, who was wishing she knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to his side. Particularly as she felt more yuck leaving her body and needed to change her tampon again. "A word to the wise, Harriet," said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much. . . ." Deaf to Harriet's stammers, Lockhart swept her down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.
"Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Harriet, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but" — he gave a little chortle — "I don't think you're quite there yet." Harriet tried mentioning that she didn't want to be famous, especially for surviving when her parents had died. But Lockhart refused to listen to her.
They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let Harriet go at last. Harriet yanked her robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where she busied herself with piling all seven of Lockhart's books in front of her, so that she could avoid looking at the real thing. The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of Harriet. "You could've fried an egg on your face," said Ron. "You'd better hope Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Harriet Potter fan club." Harriet glared murderously at her best friend. "Shut up," snapped Harriet. The last thing she needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase "Harriet Potter fan club."
When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front. "Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!" He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly. Harriet was unamused. "I see you've all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in —" Harriet was excited, she'd remembered each and every spell by heart and could hardly wait to show her skills on an exam. When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class and said, "You have thirty minutes — start — now!" Harriet looked down at her paper and read: