November 14, 1992, Saturday
The stands shook beneath the roar of hundreds of excited voices. Even the grey November clouds hanging over the Quidditch pitch couldn't dampen the energy that buzzed through the air. This wasn't just any match, it was the match: Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Students were wrapped in scarves of scarlet and green, waving banners and shouting themselves hoarse. Somewhere in the crowd, I sat in the staff section, my robes perfectly pressed, my scarf a neutral silver (one must at least pretend impartiality), though I did have a Gryffindor pin tucked discreetly beneath my cloak.
Beside me, Aurora Sinistra sipped from a steaming flask of cocoa, her eyes tracking the players as they circled overhead. "You're unusually quiet, Gilderoy," she remarked.
"Merely observing, my dear Aurora," I replied smoothly, leaning back with my usual poise. "A great author must study the drama of sport, the poetry of motion, the sheer… spectacle of it all."
She gave me a skeptical glance. "You mean you're waiting for an opportunity to insert yourself into the spectacle."
I smiled. "You wound me. I only intervene when absolutely necessary."
As if on cue, the first Bludger screamed past, narrowly missing Harry Potter by inches. I raised an eyebrow. The boy swerved sharply, the rogue iron ball curving back like a guided missile. That was definitely Dobby's handiwork.
"Hm," I mused aloud. "That Bludger's flying with more determination than some of my fans."
"Someone tampered with it," Aurora said, frowning.
"Ah, sabotage," I murmured, pretending to be intrigued. "Nothing like a brush with danger to add excitement to the afternoon."
Down on the pitch, chaos unfolded. The Bludger pursued Harry relentlessly, ignoring every other player. He twisted, ducked, dove, and looped, his broom a blur of motion. Even from here, I could see the boy's jaw set in stubborn determination, oh yes, definitely his mother's spirit.
Malfoy, meanwhile, was doing his level best to show off, tossing his pale hair dramatically each time he flew near Potter. I could practically hear his drawling commentary from here.
"Looks like Mr. Malfoy is trying to imitate Miss Chang's seduction strategy, although it doesn't seem to be working. I suppose Mr. Potter just isn't a wizard's wizard."
Aurora almost spat out her cocoa. A bit of it even came out through her nose as she looked at me with a mixture of blame and laughter.
Then came the moment of calamity. Draco attempted to block Harry's path, but the rogue Bludger shot between them like a cannonball. There was a loud crack, and Malfoy's broom spun out of control. He tumbled spectacularly into the mud, narrowly missing a Slytherin Chaser.
"Ah," I said mildly, "the boy's sense of balance seems to have deserted him."
"Gilderoy," Aurora said warningly, still wiping her nose, but I just waved a hand.
Harry, however, wasn't done. The Bludger came at him again, this time connecting. A sickening thud echoed across the pitch as his arm bent at an angle nature never intended. Yet, astonishingly, the boy didn't stop. With his good arm clamped to his side, he leaned forward and, Merlin's beard, caught the Snitch in his remaining hand before collapsing onto the field.
The crowd exploded in cheers and gasps, students leaping from their seats. Madam Hooch's whistle shrilled.
I was already on my feet.
"Well, time to earn my paycheck," I muttered, striding down from the stands as the applause thundered around me. As I went, I swung my wand lazily and blasted the rogue Bludger into harmless shards before it could take another swing at poor Mr. Potter.
By the time I reached the pitch, the Gryffindor team had gathered around Harry. His face was pale, his right arm limp and twisted. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley looked ready to faint.
"Step aside, everyone," I announced with my best heroic tone, sweeping my cloak back as I knelt beside the boy. "Professional at work!"
"Professor Lockhart, sir," Hermione stammered, "Madam Pomfrey…"
"Ah, yes, yes, Madam Pomfrey is excellent," I said briskly, examining the damage. "But she's not here right now, and I am. Worry not, Miss Granger, I happen to be quite adept at mending bones."
Internally, I added dryly: Provided I remember the correct incantation this time.
Poor Potter looked at me with a mixture of pain and dread. "Professor, are you sure…?"
"Absolutely," I said with unshakable confidence, though I could feel Aurora's eyes on me from the sidelines. I raised my wand dramatically.
Now, in the original timeline, let's call it my less informed iteration, I distinctly recall saying Brackium Emendo. That, as it turned out, was utter nonsense. I'd accidentally reversed the phonetic root and wound up removing the bones entirely. I still have nightmares about that… sloshing sound.
But this time, dear reader, I had done my homework. "Brachio Emendum!" I declared clearly, channeling the spell with just the right emphasis.
A soft golden light enveloped Harry's arm, and he gasped, but this time, the limb straightened, the broken bone realigning with a faint click. The swelling subsided. Within moments, the arm looked perfectly whole.
The students stared in awe.
"See?" I said brightly, giving the boy's shoulder a pat. "Good as new!"
Harry flexed his fingers gingerly. "It… it doesn't hurt."
"Of course it doesn't!" I conjured a roll of bandages with a flick of my wand, wrapping his arm neatly before producing a light cast. "Now, the bones are mended, but they'll need a bit of time to settle, two days, no strenuous movement, and absolutely no Quidditch practice until then."
"Yes, sir," Harry said, still stunned.
"Excellent," I said, tightening the last knot. "And, Harry, one more thing." I leaned in conspiratorially. "Let's not mention this to Madam Pomfrey, shall we? She tends to take it personally when someone does her job for her. And between you and me, I'd rather face a pack of Cornish Pixies wandless than one of her lectures. Merlin knows I already get enough of those from Professor McGonagall."
The boy gave a small, awkward smile.
And speaking of the devil, Professor McGonagall, who had just arrived on the field, was eyeing me with her usual mixture of suspicion and reluctant approval. "Well, Lockhart," she said dryly, "you seem to have outdone yourself for once."
I beamed. "Merely fulfilling my duties as a responsible and dazzling educator, Minerva."
She rolled her eyes but said nothing.
As the Gryffindor team carried Harry off to thunderous cheers, I dusted off my robes and turned to Aurora, who had joined me at the edge of the pitch.
"You see?" I said, flashing a grin. "I told you, I only intervene when absolutely necessary."
Aurora shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're impossible, Gilderoy."
"Yes," I replied with a wink. "But I'm also brilliant."
The crowd roared one final time as Harry held up the Snitch triumphantly, and I couldn't help but think, somewhere out there, the old me was grimacing in embarrassment.
This time, at least, I got it right.
…
The Gryffindor common room was a riot of red and gold that evening. Banners hung from the rafters, enchanted to ripple and gleam like molten firelight. Someone had bewitched the ceiling to show tiny Snitches darting between floating candles, and the table by the fireplace groaned under the weight of food pilfered from the kitchens, pumpkin pasties, treacle tart, and enough butterbeer to fill the Fat Lady's portrait twice over, courtesy of the Weasley twins, who had snuck out to Hogsmeade to buy a couple of crates.
Harry sat slumped in an armchair by the hearth, his arm resting in the neat cast Professor Lockhart had conjured. It didn't hurt anymore, Lockhart had actually done a good job, but the attention was beginning to feel almost worse than the injury.
"Blimey, Harry," said Seamus, clapping him on the back, nearly jarring his arm. "That was brilliant, catching the Snitch with one hand!"
"Yeah, especially after that Bludger nearly flattened you," added Dean, passing him a butterbeer. "You're mental, you know that?"
Harry managed a weary smile. "Thanks… I think."
Hermione, perched on the arm of his chair, gave him a proud look. "You were incredible, Harry. Even with your arm broken, you didn't give up."
Ron, sprawled across the rug with a mouthful of treacle tart, nodded emphatically. "You should've seen Malfoy's face when he fell, looked like a dazed ferret."
That sent a wave of laughter through the nearby group, but Hermione frowned slightly. "He could've been hurt, Ron."
"Yeah, but he wasn't," Ron said, grinning. "Just covered in mud. Probably made his hair softer."
They laughed again, and the sound mixed with the warmth of the fire and the constant hum of celebration around them.
"Speaking of miracles," Hermione added, glancing at Harry's arm, "I can't believe Professor Lockhart is also proficient in healing magic. That's really complicated magic, you know?"
Ron nearly snorted his butterbeer. "I know! I thought for sure he'd turn your arm into jelly or something."
Harry chuckled, though he still remembered Lockhart's confident smirk when he said, 'Professional at work!' "I'll admit," he said, "I didn't think it would work either."
"Well, it did," Hermione said, sounding impressed. "I might have to ask him for a few tips, it could really be useful, considering all the trouble you both get into all the time."
Ron leaned back with a grin. "He's been all right lately. I mean, still full of himself, but he's teaching me some good tricks."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Tricks?"
Ron puffed out his chest slightly, lowering his voice to mimic Lockhart's polished tones. "How to hold your wand just so. How to keep your hair in place during duels. How to flash your most heroic grin when the moment calls for it."
Hermione giggled. "He did not teach you that."
"Oh, he did," Ron said with mock seriousness. "He calls it 'Stage Presence Under Pressure.'"
At that moment, a group of third-year girls across the room glanced their way and whispered to each other behind their butterbeer mugs. Ron caught their eyes, straightened his shoulders, and gave them a dazzling smile worthy of Lockhart himself.
The girls burst into giggles.
Harry groaned. "You're turning into him."
Ron smirked. "Better Lockhart than Filch."
Before Hermione could reply, Fred and George appeared, balancing a tray of snacks between them.
"Care for a biscuit, dear brother?" Fred asked innocently.
"Or perhaps a handful of these ever-so-perfectly ordinary fudge cubes?" George added, eyes glinting.
Ron eyed them suspiciously. "You've tampered with them, haven't you?"
The twins gasped in mock offense. "Us? Tamper with food?"
"Never!" Fred said.
"Not unless it makes people turn blue," George added under his breath.
Dean, overhearing, snorted and reached for one anyway. "Can't be worse than the last time."
Ten seconds later, his eyebrows started flashing scarlet and gold. The entire room erupted into laughter, Fred and George bowing theatrically as if performing onstage.
Hermione tried to look stern but couldn't hide her grin. "You two are impossible."
"Thank you," the twins said together, bowing again before vanishing into the crowd.
The party went on for hours, the room buzzing with laughter, chatter, and clinking mugs. Yet amid the noise, Harry found himself glancing toward the doorway.
"Funny," he said after a while. "I haven't seen Colin all evening. You'd think he'd be here taking pictures, he never misses a chance."
Ron looked around too. "Now that you mention it… I haven't seen Ginny either."
Hermione frowned. "Maybe they turned in early?"
"Yeah," Ron said, though his voice carried a trace of unease. "Probably."
Harry nodded slowly, but something about the thought made his stomach twist, just faintly. The fire crackled, throwing long shadows against the wall, and for a fleeting moment, he felt that same creeping chill he'd sensed weeks ago in the corridors.
The celebration raged on around him, but the warmth of victory didn't quite reach the corner of the room where the shadows lingered.
…