Chapter Text
Harry grumpily dragged himself to Lockhart’s office at eight o’ clock in the evening, grumbling about having to serve detention with Lockhart by helping answer his fan mail. Harry would rather polish the trophy room with Ron and Filch than be forced to spend hours with an overly flashy Professor and a pile of idolizing mail from obsessed fans.
Finally reaching Lockhart’s office, Harry gritted his teeth before knocking on the door. The door flew open instantly and Lockhart appeared, beaming a bright smile.
“Harry, you’re here! Come on in,” Lockhart said, holding the door open from the side.
Inside, a five foot tall pile of mail was messily stuffed in a box by Lockhart’s desk. A couple dozen framed photographs of Lockhart were randomly scattered around the walls. A beautiful golden lyre alongside a shimmering gold bow sat proudly on the top of a nearby shelf. The second shelf had a quill with a sun motif filled with bronze arrows. Stacks of paper full of writing, poetry, music notation, and snapped or bent quills overflowed from the bottom of the shelf. Harry could somehow hear faint music in the background from no apparent source and had to cover his eyes from the sheer brightness the room seemed to radiate.
“Here you go,” Lockhart said as he dropped an armful of envelopes in Harry’s arms. “You can address these for me.”
The minutes ticked by at a painstakingly slow pace as Harry absentmindedly sifted through the pile of letters while Lockhart’s voice chattered on over him. Every now and then he caught a phrase like “If you ever need love advice, you can talk to me! I’ve had plenty of experience” or “Don't forget your bow and arrows, Harry. Never know when you might need to shoot an enemy in their ugly mug”. Harry wasn’t sure love advice from the guy who seemed to constantly jump from lover to lover (If any of Lockhart’s extravagant love stories of trees and flowers had an ounce of truth) was a good idea. He also had no idea what to think about the bow and arrows comment, and just hoped he wasn’t talking to a serial killer.
After a while, Lockhart’s rambling suddenly cut off as he got distracted and began excitedly scribbling with his (twenty-second or twenty-third?) quill on another piece of parchment, sketching out a poem while humming a soft tune. Harry looked up to curiously peer at Lockhart from his sudden lack of chatter.
For the first time, Harry noticed the strange combination of Lockhart’s attire. He supposed he didn’t notice it at first due to the extreme brightness of the room and his lack of focus or looking up in the past hour. Lockhart was wearing royal dark blue wizarding robes over an orange Muggle T-shirt with the words “Camp-Half-Blood” written in black letters on the front.
“Professor? What’s Camp-Half-Blood?” Harry spoke up, curious of this camp seemingly made for Half-bloods like him.
“Huh?” Lockhart breaks out of focus from his poem and accidentally snaps the quill clean in half. Lockhart gives it a frown before tossing it in the bin with the rest of the broken quills. He turns back to Harry and notices the shirt he’s wearing that Harry was looking at. “Oh, this? I forgot I was wearing this. Camp-Half-Blood is a summer camp for wizards and witches in America. I kind of had a responsibility there as an organizer before coming here.”
Harry's curiosity peaked. A summer camp for Halfbloods? Was Lockhart an American Halfblood? Could Harry go to this place instead of the Dursleys for the summer?
“Are you an American Halfblood, Professor? Does the camp accept British students for the summer?”
Lockhart shook his head. “No, I’m an American Muggleborn, not a Halfblood. Unfortunately, the camp is a specialized one that only accepts very specific students into their program. You can only get in if they reach out to you first.”
Harry slouched in his chair, disappointed. With no more questions, the two of them returned to work. Harry boringly continued to go through the letters as Lockhart got back to his poem and once again began jabbering off about “The magic of music and how the lyre is the best instrument ever”.
After another hour, Harry was so tired and bored out of his mind, he began to drift off right then and there on his chair when he heard it.
It was a menacing voice, a voice that chilled bone-marrow, a voice of horror-inducing, ice-cold venom. “Hungry ... so hungry… let me kill you … let me rip you ... let me tear you … little Sun god … where are you?”
Harry gave a startled jump, knocking his chair over and leaving a dozen letters messily sprawled on the floor.
“What?” Harry yelled loudly.
“I know!” said Lockhart. “The nerve of that sneaky cattle thief! Of course, I caught him and got well compensated for all my troubles.”
“No,” Harry frantically said. “That voice!”
“Sorry?” said Lockhart, putting his poem down again and looking puzzled. “There was a voice? What voice?”
“That – that voice! It said it wanted to r-rip and tear – didn’t you hear it?" Lockhart was now giving Harry his full attention and had an alarmed look on his face.
“That's concerning. I’ll look into it. Hopefully, it's nothing to worry about and it's just some ridiculous prank,” Lockhart reassured Harry, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It’s been nearly two hours. Go ahead to your common room, Harry. You’re dismissed.”
Harry strained his ears to hear the voice again as he tensely walked through the halls, but it was completely silent.
By the time Harry arrived at the Gryffindor common room, it was so late it was nearly empty. Harry went straight up the stairs to the boy’s dormitory and waited for Ron to arrive. Half an hour later, Ron joined him, nursing his left hand and blissfully sinking into the sheets of his bed after going on a heated rant about Filch’s unfairness. Harry waited for Ron to finish before telling him about the voice.
Keeping his voice down to a whisper so as not to wake their roommates Neville, Dean and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he heard back with Lockhart.
“And Lockhart couldn’t hear it?” said Ron. Harry could see him frowning deep in thought in the dim moonlight. “Ugh, this sounds like something we should ask Hermione. I don’t really get it. What's a disembodied murderous voice after some “Sun god” doing in Hogwarts?” Ron said.
“I know,” agreed Harry, lying back in his bed and staring at the roof above him. “I don’t get it, either.”