The night air over Hogsmeade carried a crisp chill, the sort that bit lightly at the fingertips and made every lamplight shimmer just a little more golden. Aurora walked beside me, her cloak glimmering faintly with starlight charms, the perfect image of ethereal grace.
When we reached the castle gates, she hesitated. "You're not going to bed yet, are you, Gilderoy?" she asked, smiling up at me. "The sky's clear tonight. I was going to do a little stargazing, care to join me?"
A simple question, yet one that twisted the knife of guilt deep into my chest. Believe it or not, I too can feel a bit of guilt once in a while.
"Ah, as tempting as that sounds," I said, flashing what I hoped was a regretful-but-charming smile, "I really can't. I promised… well, let's say I have to oversee some faculty business. Dreadfully dull, I assure you. Numbers, paperwork, things that make even a Quidditch match sound restful."
Her expression softened, she bought it. "Another time then," she said with a slight blush, before turning toward the Astronomy Tower stairs.
"Count on it," I called after her, giving a gallant little bow before retreating down the corridor.
Once I was alone, my mask of professional integrity slipped away, replaced by curiosity and anticipation. I pulled out the folded slip of parchment that Rosmerta had slipped into my hand at the Three Broomsticks earlier. The parchment still carried a faint trace of her perfume, sweet honey and oak-aged mead.
[Midnight. Back door. Don't keep a lady waiting.]
I sighed dramatically. "Well, Lockhart, it seems you're simply too irresistible for your own good."
By the time the clock struck twelve, I was striding through the misty back streets of Hogsmeade, cloak billowing, hair perfectly arranged despite the wind (a man must have his priorities). The back door of the Three Broomsticks stood ajar, warm light spilling into the darkness.
Rosmerta appeared in the doorway, her usual tavern dress was gone, replaced by a Hufflepuff Hogwarts' uniform. A teasing smirk curved her lips.
"Well, Professor Lockhart," she said, voice rich as butterbeer, "you certainly took your time."
I put a hand dramatically over my heart. "Ms. Gappleford," I said, catching her tone instantly and stepping into the game, "late again, are we? I distinctly remember assigning you detention for excessive flirting with the faculty."
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. "Oh? And what exactly does this detention involve, Professor?"
I stepped closer, lowering my voice just enough to let the words hum in the air. "A stern lecture," I said, "followed by… perhaps a practical demonstration on proper classroom behavior, and maybe a bit of physical punishment if that isn't sufficient."
She laughed, low and musical, and the sound wrapped around the room like silk. "Then by all means, Professor," she said, backing toward the firelight, "educate me."
The door shut softly behind me, sealing out the cold.
…
By the time I returned to the castle, the world was painted in shades of blue and silver. The lake shimmered like liquid glass, and the turrets above glowed faintly in the moonlight, a suitably dramatic backdrop for the triumphant return of a man of my talents.
The great oak doors closed behind me with a resonant thud, and I allowed myself a moment to bask in the quiet grandeur of the entrance hall. The portraits along the staircase were mercifully asleep, sparing me from awkward questions or knowing smirks.
My footsteps echoed up the corridor toward my office. Every few paces, I caught the faintest scent of Rosmerta's perfume clinging to my cloak, warm, heady, and just a little too distracting. I smiled to myself.
"Well," I murmured, "an evening well spent, if I do say so myself."
When I pushed open the door to my office, the familiar scent of parchment and polish welcomed me. The candles, as always, lit themselves at my arrival, bathing the room in golden light.
And there, on my desk, as if placed by divine providence (or perhaps by my ever-efficient house elf), sat a single glass of freshly poured orange juice, chilled, perfectly pulpy, and glistening with condensation.
I didn't even question it. I set down my cloak, rolled my shoulders, and raised the glass high like a toast to my own reflection in the mirror above the mantel.
"To success, charm, and… remarkable time management," I said, then took a long, satisfying swig. The cold citrus cut through the warmth still lingering in my chest.
I set the glass down with a soft clink, leaned back in my chair, and let out a low chuckle.
When I thought back to the events at the Three Broomsticks I couldn't help but mutter to the empty room, "Gilderoy, you dirty little doggy."
The mirror gave an approving wink.
I grinned back. "Don't look at me like that, I'm a professional."
And with that, I kicked my boots up on the desk, folded my hands behind my head, and closed my eyes, the ghost of Rosmerta's moans still ringing pleasantly in my ears.
…
Sunday mornings at Hogwarts are, in my professional opinion, one of the castle's finest inventions. The air smells faintly of toast and ink, the students are too sleepy to cause chaos, and the staff have just enough energy to pretend everything is under control.
I awoke in excellent spirits, possibly due to the invigorating effect of citrus or the undeniable satisfaction of an evening well concluded. The sunlight streamed across my chambers, catching on the rows of perfectly arranged portraits of myself. Each one, naturally, managed to look just a touch smugger than I felt.
"Good morning, Handsome," I greeted the nearest painting, giving it a jaunty salute.
"Good morning, Handsome," it replied, right on cue.
After a luxurious shower (lavender-scented, of course), I selected a robe of soft teal with gold trim, understated brilliance, as I like to call it, and made my way toward the Great Hall. My reflection in a passing suit of armor nodded in approval.
By the time I arrived, most of the professors were already seated. McGonagall was scanning the Daily Prophet with a look that could curdle milk, and Aurora Sinistra was stirring her tea with that slow, elegant rhythm that made even ordinary gestures look celestial.
"Good morning, colleagues!" I announced as I swept into the room, cloak billowing just enough to make a first-year gasp when it almost cloaked him in the face. "Lovely weather, isn't it? Bracing, brilliant sort of morning!"
"Someone's in an unusually good mood," Flitwick piped up from his stack of cushions.
"Isn't he always?" said Hooch dryly, though I detected a smirk tugging at her lips.
Aurora glanced up, her dark eyes curious. "I hope you slept well after such an eventful day in Hogsmeade."
"Like a baby hippogriff after its first flight," I said smoothly, pouring myself some coffee. "A touch of fresh air does wonders for one's complexion."
"Indeed," McGonagall said without looking up, her voice perfectly neutral, which, for Minerva, meant highly suspicious.
"Professor Sinistra," I continued, leaning just slightly toward her, "I must thank you again for your company yesterday. I can't remember the last time I had such a pleasant conversation about constellations and cocoa beans."
She smiled faintly. "I should thank you for dragging me out of the tower. Though I do wonder how you managed to have energy left afterward. I was exhausted."
I nearly choked on my coffee. "Natural stamina, my dear," I managed, with an unflappable grin. "A Lockhart family trait."
Aurora chuckled, shaking her head. "Of course."
The conversation drifted to more mundane matters, like next week's lesson plans, Peeves' latest rampage involving pumpkin juice, and a rumor that Argus Filch was attempting to ban "all laughter after curfew." I contributed where appropriate, though I may have been somewhat distracted by the faint scent of Rosmerta's perfume that still clung to my nose.
By the end of breakfast, McGonagall folded her paper and gave me a pointed look over her spectacles. "Professor Lockhart, a word in my office when you have a moment."
I smiled brightly. "Of course, Minerva. Always happy to collaborate with my esteemed deputy headmistress."
As she swept out of the hall, Flitwick whispered to me, "Best of luck, my boy."
I gave him a confident nod, though inside I couldn't help but wonder what precisely Minerva had found out, if anything.
Ah well. Gilderoy Lockhart has handled dragons, dementors, and dreadful hairstyles. One Scottish cat lady with a quill hardly stands a chance.
…
By the time I reached McGonagall's office, she was already waiting behind her desk, parchment neatly stacked, quill in hand, and an expression that could only be described as administratively lethal.
"Ah, Minerva!" I greeted cheerfully as I stepped in. "Always a delight to…"
"Sit down, Gilderoy."
I froze mid-gesture. The warmth in her tone rivaled a blizzard on the Scottish Highlands.
So I sat like a little firstie on their first detention.
McGonagall's eyes, sharp as a phoenix quill, fixed on me. "Would you care to explain why, during what was supposed to be a supervised, orderly Hogsmeade visit, several fireworks bearing your likeness erupted over the main square?"
"Ah, yes, those!" I said, clasping my hands. "A creative tribute from my adoring students, no doubt. Flattery, you see, Minerva, it's not something one can simply discourage without damaging young spirits."
She blinked once, slowly. "Creative tribute?"
"Entirely spontaneous," I added helpfully. "Shows initiative, imagination, and school pride! I should think the Board of Governors would be delighted…"
"The Weasley twins were caught attempting to smuggle a crate of those fireworks past Madam Rosmerta's broom closet." Her tone suggested she was not delighted. "Their explanation was that you, quote, 'appreciated a bit of spectacle.'"
"Ah… context," I began delicately. "What they meant was that I appreciate controlled spectacle. The artistry of mischief, if you will, not the chaos itself."
"Controlled," she repeated.
"Yes," I nodded solemnly. "Why, if I hadn't intervened personally, who knows what havoc might have ensued? I took immediate, decisive action."
"Which was?"
"Erm…" I smiled brightly. "A firm verbal warning. Delivered with moral gravitas. You should have seen their faces, chastened, repentant, practically trembling with guilt!"
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You let them go."
"I redirected their youthful energy! A subtle difference, but crucial. You can't simply stamp out creativity, Minerva. It must be guided!"
"Guided into setting off fireworks of your own face?"
"Well, one must work with what one has," I said modestly.
She exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a growl. "Gilderoy, you were entrusted with supervising the students, not encouraging their antics. This sort of permissiveness sets a terrible example."
"On the contrary," I said earnestly, leaning forward, "it teaches initiative, leadership, and most importantly, discernment! The twins now know that mischief can only flourish where artistry meets responsibility."
"Responsibility," she echoed, her tone arid enough to parch deserts.
"Precisely!" I beamed. "A valuable life lesson, and I dare say, handled with a touch of Lockhart finesse."
McGonagall regarded me for a long, silent moment. Then she said, in the tone of one issuing an immutable decree, "You will be supervising their detention this week."
My smile faltered. "Detention?"
"Yes. Tuesday evening. And if even one spark, literal or metaphorical, flies under your supervision, I will personally ensure you spend a week cleaning the trophy room. Without magic."
I opened my mouth, closed it again, and decided that silence, for once, might be the wiser course.
"Understood?" she asked crisply.
"Perfectly," I said, mustering a contrite expression. "You can always count on me, Minerva. Their detention shall be… enlightening."
"I have no doubt," she said dryly, returning to her parchment.
Taking that as my cue, I rose and made for the door, pausing just long enough to flash her a winning smile. "Always a pleasure to collaborate with you, Minerva. You keep me humble."
"Someone has to," she murmured.
I closed the door behind me, exhaled, and adjusted my robes. "Well, Gilderoy," I muttered under my breath, "from midnight rendezvous to student discipline. Truly, a man of many talents, what would this school do without you?."
…