The Spiteful Sorting Hat

Gilderoy Lockhart

"This is my friend, Herbivorus Pandey, but you can call him Herb! He's the one who was telling me that if you develop the photos in a special potion, they'll move!"

"Get off me," Pandey said with a cringing expression, "And I did not say you could call me Herb!"

"Oh, Herb! You're such a kidder!" Creevy said with a laugh, "Anyway, do you think you could take a picture of me and Harry Potter?"

Pandey's struggle to get away from Creevy came to a sudden halt. He stared at Harry, then his eyes traveled up to Harry's scar, and his mouth fell open.

Creevy took his stunned silence as agreement, and he began to hang his camera around Pandey's neck, all the while giving him instructions on how to take a photo. Harry was wondering how he could politely decline Creevy's request without crushing his spirit, when their bustle finally attracted the attention of Draco Malfoy and his group of goons.

"What's this?" he asked in a mocking tone. He'd been in a sour mood since early that morning when he found Blaise's snake in his bed. "Not content with the article in the Prophet, Potter? Have to take pictures with your many adoring fans now?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry warned. But Malfoy had only just begun.

"Next you'll be handing out autographed portraits, I suppose? How soon can we expect your autobiography?"

"Did somebody say autobiography?"

Gilderoy Lockhart sailed into view, wearing robes of palest lavender and smiling his bright, unnaturally white smile. Harry wanted to hide under the table, but he knew that would only draw more attention to himself. He settled for directing a glare at Malfoy, who seemed unable to contain his amusement as Lockhart rested his hand on Harry's shoulder in what Harry assumed was meant to be a fatherly gesture. He resented it immediately.

"Ah, Harry! I should have guessed!" Lockhart spied the camera in Creevy's hands and gave a jovial laugh. "Taking pictures, I see! Developed a taste for it after our meeting, I daresay." He shook his head from side to side sadly and continued, "Harry, Harry, Harry... I suppose you do have some fame, but you must try not to let this go to your head. After all, the first years may idolize you, but you have a long way to go before considering an autobiography. You're only ten years old, after all. Plenty more for you to experience!"

"Actually, Professor," Blaise said, quickly coming to Harry's rescue, "We were just discussing your memoirs. My mum has been writing me, and she says it's a magnificent book. When she's finished, she'll be sending it straight to me."

"Ah yes! I thought you seemed familiar. Young master Zabini isn't it?" Lockhart asked, disengaging his hand from Harry's shoulder to shake with Blaise. "And how is Mrs. Zabini? So glad to hear she's enjoying Magical Me."

"She's fine," Blaise said with a slight cringe. Harry knew he'd owe him for this interference later. Reminding Lockhart of his mother was clearly not something Blaise would do for just anyone.

Lockhart seemed to recall himself, and added as an afterthought, "And Mr. Zabini? He's doing well, I trust?"

"My father is dead," Blaise said flatly.

"Oh really? So sorry about that, my condolences," said Lockhart. His tone was contrite, but his smile told a different story. He was even bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, obviously elated to hear that the subject of their discussion was single.

"Terrible thing, a boy your age not to have a man around the house... no father figure," Lockhart said musingly.

"Oh, I've had plenty of those," said Blaise, "The last one disappeared without a trace. He's presumed dead."