"What was wrong with Lockhart this morning?" Harry asks Hermione as they make their way up to the Defence classroom, and Hermione shakes her head.

"So, you know how you were said about Sartorius going in the lake?"

"Yeah," Harry nods his head, and Hermione sighs, seeming almost embarassed on Lockhart's behalf.

"There were all these fifth year Ravenclaw girls out on the grounds, and they saw him coming out of the lake. He was soaked through, obviously, and once he was in the sun, the underpiece of his robes was a bit... Well. Transparent." Harry laughs. Hermione presses her lips together, obviously holding back her own laugh, "And apparently he was rather toned, and not at all bad-looking. So they went inside giggling, shared that with everyone in the school-"

"And now Lockhart's angry that people find Sartorius attractive when he's right there," Harry finishes, and Hermione slowly nods her head.

"I mean, they've both got their good points, of course," Hermione says, "And they look quite different, but both are rather nice." Harry gives her a sideways look, and she catches him, shoving him in the side. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything, Hermione," Harry replies, smirking to himself, "Both are rather nice. I think you should go for Sartorius, personally. He's got a brain in his head."

"Stop it," Hermione demands, and she rushes ahead of Harry in the corridor to avoid whatever he's going to say next: she stops in front of the DADA classroom's door, though, and Harry watches her for a moment. "Look," she says, and he follows her finger as she points.

The poster is obscenely bright, painted in a popping red, with a portrait of Lockhart front and centre in the image. He shoots them his winning smile as he gestures to the text printed in block white letters. DUELLING CLUB! TAUGHT BY THE TALENTED GILDEROY LOCKHART! In tiny letters, printed in the very corner of the page in black, are the words Assisted by Severus Snape.

"This should be good," Harry says, "And on the last day before the holidays, too - tonight should be more exciting than we expected."

"What's it like, staying over the holidays?"

"It's alright. A bit boring, but there's a lot of space to get study done," Harry says, and Hermione nods her head. Jon and Peggy hadn't minded at all when Hermione had said she'd wanted to stay for Christmas: Harry's fairly certain that she'd decided to keep him company over the holiday, and he can't help but be grateful. They make their way into the classroom, settling at a desk beside Parvati, and they wait for Lockhart to arrive.

As always, he does so dramatically, exactly four minutes late, throwing open the door and doing his best to make his robes flare out behind him as he enters the classroom. They give a woeful flip of fabric before returning to Lockhart's sides, and Harry shakes his head, putting his hand on his chin.

Every class with Lockhart is the same. He talks at length about one of his books, and they re-enact some ridiculous scene from one of them, and Lockhart talks about how fabulous he was without actually teaching them anything: they're only at the end of one term, and Harry's already tired of him.

"Professor Lockhart?" Harry asks, raising his hand. Lockhart is in the process of writing Wagga Wagga Wearwolf on the blackboard in his ridiculous, looping handwriting, and Harry isn't even going to point out that he's mispelled the word.

"Yes, Harry!" Lockhart says, beaming widely as he whirls around to face the class.

"Did you study werewolves at school, sir?" Lockhart pauses for a moment, apparently thrown by the question, but then he shows all his teeth again in that big, wide grin again.

"Why, of course I did, Harry, but everything valuable about these monsters I learned upon leaving," he answers, tossing back his hair like a woman in a shampoo advert, and Harry watches him for a moment. He doesn't think he imagines the momentary panic that passes through Lockhart's eyes as he meets Harry's gaze. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just, I've read different books on werewolves..." Harry begins, and he sees Hermione cover her mouth beside him. Everyone in the class, Slytherins and Gryffindors alike, are watching Harry curiously, craning their heads and leaning out of their chairs to get a good look at him as he talks, "One of them, Lycanthropy In Society, talks about how dangerous lycanthropy is, and what a danger werwolves are to our society." Harry sees Lockhart open his mouth, but he goes on talking before Lockhart can interrupt him, "But other books I've read, like The Plight Of The Wolf, talk about the tragedy of lycanthropy, especially because it can't be cured. Once you've been bitten, or even clawed, it doesn't matter how long you stay in St Mungo's - the disease will have been passed onto you."

Lockhart is staring at him with the same rapt silence of Harry's peers, though perhaps for a different reason. "But in Wandering With Werewolves, you detail your brave defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf..." Lockhart's stiff form sags with release, and he preens, offering Harry a charming smile. "But you don't detail your casting of the Homorphus Charm."

"Oh, no, no, my boy, it's very complex magic," Lockhart says airily, waving one of his perfectly manicured hands and leaning back on his desk. "You'd have to wait quite some before you could possibly attempt it."

"Oh, I don't want to attempt it, sir," Harry says simply. "I just wonder why you haven't shared it with the Ministry of Magic, in order that so many lives could be saved from rogue werewolves. I mean, it's not a all-out cure, but imagine the drop in potential casualties if you could force a werewolf back into their human form - I mean, not to criticize you, Professor Lockhart, but keeping that sort of magic to yourself seems very selfish." The Slytherins chuckle to themselves around the room as Lockhart opens and closes his mouth, looking at Harry desperately.

He hears Lavender Brown mutter sharply to Dean Thomas that Harry shouldn't be questioning Lockhart like this, and Harry can see that Lockhart is breathing a little faster than he was before, as if he's perhaps going to lose control. "Could I have a word outside, Harry?"

"Sure, Professor Lockhart," Harry says lightly, and he stands from his desk, following the man out into the corridor.

"Now, Harry, you really oughtn't question a professor's authority - the way one presents themselves is, of course, tremendously important, and we wouldn't want anyone thinking of Harry Potter as some sort of disrespectful young man, would we? You see, Harry..." Lockhart talks for a long time, but after that point, Harry stops listening. There's nothing Lockhart could possibly say to him, in these few minutes, that could be useful or interesting, so he just stands in silence, waiting for the man to stop. "Now, is that all clear?"

"Oh, yeah, Professor. Completely clear," Harry agrees, nodding his head, and he follows Lockhart back into the classroom. With that, he proceeds to close his book, roll up his parchment, and set both into his bag. Lockhart stands stock-still at the front of the classroom, mouth open in utter shock.

"What are you doing?" Hermione hisses.

"Going somewhere I can learn something," Harry replies, and with that, he shoulders his bag, closing the door behind him as he leaves the defence classroom. The corridors are silent and empty - they're not even twenty minutes into the lesson's period, and everyone who isn't in class will be in their respective common rooms or the library. Harry's footsteps echo a little as he walks to the staircases: the sound is satisfying.

He waits patiently as one of the staircases slowly swings towards the platform he's standing on, shifting the position of his satchel's strap on his shoulder. Using the stairs at Hogwarts has become second nature, despite the way they constantly move and intercept each other; like the weaving corridors of the dungeons, there is a sort of sense to them, and it's just a matter of focusing on the bits you need. Over the summer, whilst Harry was failing miserably at picking locks, George had said that it would never serve you to try and figure Hogwarts out - that'd only get you lost and give you a headache. Harry's done his best to internalize that advice.

He steps onto the top of the staircase, but as he starts to walk down the moving steps, Harry's caught short. He's pulled back suddenly, and he turns, staring at the strap of his bag, which seems to be stuck in midair behind him.

"Peeves?" Harry demands, gaze flickering quickly over the air behind him as he tries to pull back his bag strap. "Is that you?" There's no answer, but his strap jolts him, pulling him towards the empty air as the staircase slides slowly through the emptiness of the floor before it reaches the next platform, and Harry's eyes widen. He tries to scramble free, doing his best to duck out from the leather of his satchel, but it seems to be stuck to his shoulder and impossible to escape, and there's another ominous tug that pulls Harry a half-step closer to the edge of the staircase. There's a third, hard pull, and Harry can't resist it with nothing to grab onto: he's pulled off the stairs and he begins to fall, desperately trying to grab at a bannister or a step, or something-

He tries to grasp at a first floor staircase with a harsh, sickening crack of sound: Harry screams as he hits his forearm clumsily into the stone and keeps on falling, thrown onto his back. His fall isn't interrupted by anything else - he just whistles down to the dungeon floor, landing hard on his side with a wheezing yell.

Pressing his face to the cool of the stone underneath him and trying not to cry, he begins to call up to the ground floor for help.

---

Harry lies on his infirmary bed in silence, twisting a piece of his sheet between his fingers. Madam Pomfrey had shoved three different potions down his throat, and while he isn't exactly in pain, his skin is itching and hot as his bruises heal at obscene speed.

"What have you done, Potter?" Snape asks as he enters the hospital wing, and Harry gives a weak shrug of his shoulders.

"I didn't do anything," Harry answers as Lockhart follows Snape into the room, and Harry stifles his wince. "I was coming out of the third floor corridor and onto the stairs, and my bag caught on something. I turned, and there wasn't anything there - I asked if it was Peeves, but there wasn't any answer, so it pulled me into the stairwell and I fell."

"And why were you coming out of the third floor corridor, Mr Potter, when you were supposed to be in Defence Against The Dark Arts?" Harry meets Snape's black gaze and utterly avoids Lockhart's.

"I left the classroom in a fit of- one second, Blaise called it something really quotable... That's it. A pique of indignation and disbelief."

"Now, Harry," Lockhart says nervously, "That's hardly fai-"

"I asked Professor Lockhart why he wouldn't share his valuable charm to turn werewolves back into people with wizarding society, and he told me that I shouldn't ask him so many questions." Snape's lips twitch in amusement, and Lockhart's perfectly moisteurized cheeks turn an alarming shade of pink.

"I- well, that's not strictly-"

"No matter, Potter," Snape says, cleanly interrupting Lockhart, "Professor Dumbledore requests you detail the incident on paper. Your life, it seems, is under threat once more, Mr Potter."

"When isn't it?" Harry retorts, and Snape turns on his heel to go. Lockhart stares after him, his blue eyes wide.

"Well- Aren't you going to issue him a detention?" he demands, and Snape turns smoothly on his heel once more, staring at Lockhart with arched eyebrows.

"Why, Professor Lockhart," Snape says, putting a sarcastic emphasis on the title, "Bequeathing detentions is entirely within your own power, but I believe Mr Potter has been quite suitably punished already." Lockhart glances back at Harry, having the good grace to look at least a bit guilty, but the sympathy from Snape seems out of character. "With fairness to the boy, he did attend your lesson for twenty minutes before he left."

Harry and Lockhart both stare at Snape with their mouths open, and it's only when Lockhart rushes into the corridor after Snape that Harry begins to laugh.

Which he shouldn't do, really. Laughing with three broken ribs isn't at all enjoyable.