Ron was starting to regret agreeing to the "assistant" part of his deal with Lockhart.
The trophy cabinet gleamed like it had been polished by house-elves with a grudge. Every shield, cup, and plaque reflected his freckled face back at him, what was he supposed to clean here? Was Lockhart just trying to show off how great he is?. And there, shining brighter than the rest, because of course it did, was a golden plaque engraved in elegant script:
"Best Son Award."
Ron frowned, squinting at it. "Blimey… Best Son? What's that even for?"
He turned the plaque around in his hands. It was polished so thoroughly that it could have served as a mirror. Stranger still, it looked better maintained than Lockhart's Order of Merlin, Third Class.
Lockhart appeared at his side, smiling in that effortlessly dazzling way of his. "Ah, you've found one of my personal favorites! A little something my dear mother gave me. I've kept it in mint condition ever since."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You take better care of it than your Order of Merlin medal."
Lockhart sighed wistfully, brushing imaginary dust off the plaque. "Well, one can receive many medals from the Ministry, but one's mother only ever gives one Best Son Award. Sentiment, Mr. Weasley. Never underestimate it."
Ron snorted, muttering under his breath, "Yeah, bet you never let her forget it either…"
"Hmm?"
"Nothing, Professor!"
Lockhart clapped his hands together, inspecting Ron from head to toe. His expression shifted from amused to horrified. "Oh no, no, no, no! Absolutely not! My apprentice cannot, must not, be seen looking like… like…" He gestured vaguely at Ron's patched robe and worn jumper. "A walking fashion disaster!"
Ron turned bright red. "It's not like I've got a choice! Mum's got to buy clothes for all of us. I get Percy's hand-me-downs, and he gets Bill's, and Bill probably got them from some dead wizard!"
For once, Lockhart didn't laugh. His expression softened. He looked at the boy for a moment before saying, "You know, I wasn't always dressed to dazzle."
That made Ron blink. "You weren't?"
"Oh, heavens, no." Lockhart leaned against the cabinet, arms folded, voice lowering conspiratorially. "When I left Hogwarts, I had a dreadful falling-out with my family. They didn't quite see the brilliance that was about to blossom before the world's eyes."
Ron blinked, unsure whether to feel bad for him or just marvel at how easily Lockhart managed to praise himself mid-story.
"I was a half-blood without money or connections. No one wanted to hire me, too handsome to be taken seriously, too inexperienced to be trusted." He gave a dramatic sigh. "I survived doing odd jobs, scrubbing cauldrons, repairing things in a second hand shop, even writing the odd obituary for the Daily Prophet."
Ron frowned. "You wrote obituaries?"
Lockhart winced. "Yes, dreadful business. But! Even in those dark days, I refused to let the world see me looking shabby. If I couldn't afford fine robes, I would make my own look as if they were. I practiced repair charms until they gleamed like new."
He straightened up and smiled again, all charm restored. "And today, Mr. Weasley, I shall pass that invaluable knowledge to you!"
Ron blinked. "Wait, really?"
"Of course! Take off that robe."
Ron hesitated. "Er… here?"
"Mr. Weasley, magic is not for the shy! Off with it."
Ron reluctantly shrugged off his robe, revealing the grey jumper of his Hogwarts uniform that looked in an even worse state than the robe. Lockhart drew his wand with a flourish and began tracing elegant patterns through the air.
"Observe carefully! Reparo Vestimentum!"
Threads glowed, knitting themselves tighter. The frayed edges smoothed out, dull fabric brightened, and the black robe suddenly looked like it had just come off a shelf at Madam Malkin's.
Ron's jaw dropped. "That's brilliant!"
Lockhart smiled, clearly pleased with himself. "Yes, I know. Now, your turn. Focus on the weave. Picture it whole and new. Don't force it, guide it."
Ron pointed his wand at his jumper's sleeve, muttering the incantation. "Reparo Vestimentum!"
A spark of magic fizzed. The sleeve twitched, the color deepened slightly, but the patch near the elbow stubbornly remained.
"Better!" Lockhart encouraged. "But you must believe in the image of perfection. Magic responds to confidence, as all things do."
Ron squinted, biting his lip. "Reparo Vestimentum!"
This time, the patch sealed neatly, and the whole jumper looked almost new. Ron stared at it in disbelief. "Blimey… I actually did it!"
Lockhart grinned. "Splendid! You see? A good wand helps, but it's the wizard who brings out the best in it. Now, whenever you're looking a bit threadbare, you can fix yourself up in seconds. Style and self-respect, Mr. Weasley, never optional."
Ron chuckled awkwardly. "Thanks, Professor. Guess this is a better lesson than polishing trophies."
"Indeed! Though both shine beautifully when treated properly."
Ron rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. For all his boasting, Lockhart could actually teach something useful once in a while, and not just about looking good, though he'd never admit that.
…
When Ron left the office, his polished jumper gleaming almost as much as his grin, the room finally fell quiet. The lingering scent of polish and parchment hung in the air, and the fire in the grate burned low, crackling softly.
Lockhart leaned against the edge of his desk, smiling faintly to himself. "Well, that went rather well," he murmured, straightening his robes. "Teaching, mentorship, charity. Gilderoy, you're becoming downright noble."
But the smile faltered as his eyes drifted toward the old Best Son Award glinting faintly inside the trophy cabinet. For a long moment, he just stared at it.
He remembered the day he got it, how his mother, Euphemia Lockhart, had clapped her hands with pride, her face radiant. She'd been a witch of modest fame, a creator of charming little domestic spells and was very good at dealing with magical pests. Nothing that made it into The Standard Book of Spells, her charms were too specialized for that.
And those very same spells had been the seed for his first book.
He closed his eyes. The memory came sharply now: him, fresh out of Hogwarts, arrogant and hungry for recognition. "Mum, people will love it! I'll dedicate it to you! Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests!' doesn't it sound great? I included your name here as well, as my mentor."
But she had refused. Said it wasn't right. Said magic meant to keep a home running smoothly didn't belong in the hands of opportunists or gossip magazines. And if he really wanted to make a book, it should at least be with spells of his own creation.
They'd fought, his first real shouting match with her. Words he couldn't take back. He'd stormed out, vowing to make his name without her help. And he had.
Except when he came back a year later, flowers in hand and apologies rehearsed, she was gone. Just a month after he'd left, a heart attack.
His father hadn't spoken a word. His sisters, both with the same blue eyes, but duller than his, had only looked at him like he was poison.
"She worried herself sick over you," his eldest sister had said, voice trembling with restrained rage. "You broke her heart, Gilderoy."
He swallowed hard, staring into the fire. The words still echoed like a curse.
He'd tried for a while, tried to mend things, write letters, send gifts, but every time he'd gone to the door of their small cottage in Yorkshire, it stayed shut. Eventually, pride took over where grief couldn't.
It had been eight years since he'd seen any of them. Eight years of applause, book signings, awards, and photographs, and not once had he seen a single familiar face among the crowds. Of course they wouldn't show up, his father a muggle, his sisters both squibs, they all hated the world of magic thanks to him.
Lockhart sat heavily in his chair. His fingers toyed absently with the feathered quill on his desk. He thought of Ron, awkward and poor but unbroken, smiling at the simple joy of fixing a jumper. There was something almost… pure in that.
His mother would have liked the boy.
The thought made his chest tighten painfully. He blinked hard and forced a smile that no one was there to see.
"Ah, sentiment doesn't suit you, Gilderoy," he muttered, straightening the stack of parchment on his desk until the edges aligned perfectly. "Best to focus on the present. The past only wrinkles the skin."
Still, as he prepared for bed that night, his hand brushed the small framed photograph hidden behind a stack of his own portraits, a picture of a smiling witch with kind eyes, her arm around a much younger, far less polished Gilderoy.
He paused, then carefully turned the frame face-down.
"Goodnight, Mother," he whispered.
The fire crackled softly in reply.
…