Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, it belongs to JK Rowling, etc, etc. Anyone who thinks I do own Harry Potter is an idiot.

Potter: A History

Detention with Lockhart

'…I know, I know,' Lockhart said in his bogus voice, 'fame can be intoxicating. It can go to the head. Believe me, I know, but that's no excuse. It doesn't mean you're better than anyone else.'

Harry wanted to bang his head against the desk, or better yet – Lockhart's head. How long had he been sat this office, mindlessly writing out addresses for Lockhart's pointless autographs? The whole tedious chore was only compounded by the Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers endless meandering lecture, which somehow seemed to always wander off into stories of self praise, before inevitably returning to the point: don't allow fame to make you think you're superior. The irony of the situation was not lost on Harry.

'I tell myself it's not your fault Harry. It isn't. A boy like yourself, growing up with a past like yours, people always praising you – how could it not go to your head?'

Harry thought about pointing out how he'd been ignorant of his so-called fame for the majority of his life, but decided it wasn't worth it. Lockhart's ignorance might have been amusing, if only he wasn't so annoying.

'Oh dear, look at the time; I seem to have kept you longer than I intended. Ah, how time flies when you're having fun, ey Harry?' Lockhart winked at him. Harry wanted to vomit. 'Well, off you go then, and - '

But Harry was already out the door, and didn't hear, or care, what the elaborate phoney had to say.

He moved quickly, in a hurry to get as far away from Lockhart as possible. A faint voice caught his attention, pulling him to a stand still. What was that?

'Kill. Tear. Rip.'

Harry looked around, trying to find the source of the voice. He saw no one. The corridor was deserted. This can't be good, he thought.


Harry turned his ear towards the wall. The voice seemed to be coming from there. He pressed his ear up against the cool stone and listened.

'Let me kill you… let me tear you… let me rip you…'

Harry drew back away from the wall, frowning.What kind of magic was this?

Unnerved, he practically ran back to the Slytherin dormitory. Malfoy was sat on his bed, nursing an aching wrist (his detention involved cleaning and polishing the trophy room), when Harry burst in.

'Woah Potter, Dementors on your trail?'

'No.' Harry busied himself in his trunk, not really needing anything, only something to take his mind off of what had just happened.

'You're really freaked, what happened?' Malfoy smirked. 'Lockhart try to rape you?'

Harry made a disgusted face and Malfoy laughed.

'Seriously though, what happened?'


'Oh come on, not again. How many times do we have to have this conversation.'

'Zero, as far as I'm concerned,' Harry replied shortly.

'You still don't trust me. After everything I've done for you.'

Harry simply ignored him. Malfoy scowled. There was a tense silence, broken suddenly as Blaise Zabini barged into the room, hands raised in victory.

'Oh yeah, who just snogged the hottest fifth year in Slytherin, Victoria Hodgins? Me – that's who!

'Bollocks,' Malfoy said.

'Well, there was some ball action, but a gentleman never tells.' Zabini grinned.

Harry took the chance to slip out. He needed a walk, both to get away from Malfoy and to think over what he'd heard in the wall.