Richard had had enough of Lockhart's overfamiliarity. He smoothly raised his cane, shifted his grip to the middle, hooked the upper part around the professor's arm, and pushed it off his shoulder. Gilderoy never let his smile slip for so much as a second; he immediately pretended that he had been about to remove his arm anyway.
"Sir," Richard said, his voice as cold as Arctic ice, seeming to chill straight through the listener, "you appear to be mistaken. I do not chase cheap fame. The Nobel Prize is a prestigious award for scientific achievement. Many people consider me a genius, though I do not. I would ask you not to invent things or take gossip at face value. Good evening, Mr. Lockhart."
Gilderoy was utterly incapable of understanding not merely hints, but even a practically direct, only slightly veiled invitation to go somewhere far away. The students watched Grosvenor's suffering with smiles on their faces, Draco Malfoy taking the greatest delight of all. Among the professors, only McGonagall wore a vindictively satisfied smile. She was thoroughly enjoying the torment of an upstart student—or so she considered him.
"Richard! Richard! Richard!" Lockhart seized Grosvenor firmly by the shoulder again, only this time it was the same side on which Richard was holding his cane. "I understand. Once you've given in to that temptation, you begin to crave fame almost desperately. I bear a great deal of responsibility for this, because as your professor, I set you an example. Naturally, the intoxicating thrill of it all went straight to your head. But you must understand: if you want people to notice you, you shouldn't begin by quarrelling with your professors. Please, be more careful in future. All right?"
"Of course, sir," Richard replied with a nod, shifting his cane into his other hand.
Grosvenor's movement did not escape Lockhart's notice. Still smiling, the DADA professor casually released the boy's shoulder and continued,
"Once you're older and have finished school, you'll have all the time and opportunity in the world... Yes, yes, yes, I know exactly what you're thinking right now!"
Richard's right eyebrow shot upwards once again. A thought flashed through his mind:
Oh, really? If you actually knew what I was thinking, I doubt you'd be talking so calmly. It's impossible to keep looking that radiant while hearing this much mental swearing and this many curses directed at you.
"Richard," Gilderoy continued, "right now you're thinking, Lucky him. He's a world-famous wizard!"
Richard's second eyebrow followed the first one somewhere towards his hairline, while his eyes widened in astonishment.
Oi! he practically screamed in his head. Nothing of the sort. I'm thinking, why don't you go fuck your—
"When I was twelve, I was still nobody and nothing as well, just like you are now," Lockhart continued meanwhile.
"Sir!" A growling edge entered Richard's voice. "I am not going to stand here and listen to your insults. Being a professor does not give you the right to throw words like that around."
Richard's cane pressed against the bewildered Gilderoy's chest. Lockhart met the boy's gaze, and in the very next instant sweat broke out across his forehead. There was so much predatory fury in those eyes, so much promise of immediate death, that even the seemingly unflappable writer felt it in his very bones.
Richard felt as though he were back at war, and instead of a cane he was aiming a blaster at an enemy. A simple, utterly reliable blaster built in the form of an automatic rifle, the standard weapon issued to every space marine of his country during the Third Space War.
And not just any enemy, either, but that same hated opponent who had already sent half his company to their deaths and had only now finally been cornered. By rights, the man ought to be taken prisoner and sent for interrogation, but the surviving soldiers were so consumed by rage that anyone could see at once he was not going to live long enough for that. And such fury swept over Richard that, for a moment, it seemed real again, just as it had in his previous life: the bursts of plasma grenades, the screams of the wounded, the shriek of blaster cooling systems...
Apparently Dumbledore understood something, because he appeared beside Richard and Lockhart at exactly the right moment. In a kindly tone, he addressed the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
"Come now, Gilderoy, that's quite enough lecturing the students. Let's return to the table. Dinner isn't over yet."
"Thank you, Headmaster... I was just about to do that."
Gilderoy cast a wary glance at Grosvenor, carefully pushed the cane away from his chest with one hand, and followed Dumbledore back towards the staff table.
The Headmaster paused for a moment and looked back. He regarded Richard with a sly smile on his lips and said in a joking tone,
"Mr. Grosvenor, we do still need a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor until the end of the year..."
The rather transparent hint was not lost on Grosvenor. Dumbledore had all but openly admitted that he knew who had been responsible for Fudge's illness and his removal from the post of Minister.
Irritated and furious, Richard was barely managing to keep his mask of indifference in place. He was trying to leave the Great Hall as quickly as possible. Hundreds of curious eyes followed him, and some students, especially the Slytherins, were openly gloating. Draco Malfoy was whispering something to Crabbe and Goyle while casting mocking glances at Grosvenor. There could be no doubt who they were talking about.