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Lockhart, naturally, would never admit to the sheer, humiliating incompetence that required his twelve-year-old teaching assistant to grade his own students' papers. "I am simply too busy with my extensive fan mail," he had explained, a statement that was, for once, probably true. "And besides, it is excellent training for you, my dear girl."
Hermione just sighed, the sound lost in the quiet, cavernous office. She was beginning to understand Dumbledore's true, cruel genius. He hadn't just hired her to be a teaching assistant. He had hired her to be a glorified, unpaid babysitter for a narcissistic man-child. In the Marvel world, she had S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark Industries bending to her will. Here, she was grading papers. The irony was not lost on her.
"Harry, my boy, Harry," Lockhart said, not looking up from the glossy photograph of himself he was signing with a flourish. "What a lesson for you in the perils of fame. Forced into detention, helping me with my correspondence. Still, there are worse things."
Harry, who was sitting miserably at a nearby desk, dutifully addressing envelopes, could not, in that moment, think of a single one.
"Fame is a fickle friend, Harry," Lockhart continued, his voice taking on a tone of deep, philosophical gravity. "A celebrity's work is never done. Remember that."
And a celebrity's first instinct, Hermione thought, viciously slashing a red cross through an essay, is to abandon his students and flee at the first sign of actual trouble.
Harry shot a desperate, pleading look at her across the room. Help me.
She just held up the stack of truly abysmal O.W.L. practice essays she was grading. "Want to trade?" she mouthed silently.
Harry swallowed hard and immediately went back to his envelopes.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the scratching of quills. Hermione, bored and feeling a familiar, mischievous itch, decided to liven things up.
"Professor Lockhart," she began, her voice a perfect blend of admiration and intellectual curiosity. "I've been thinking. Your talents… they seem wasted on mere teaching."
Harry looked up, his eyes wide with a dawning horror. He knew that tone. It was the same one she used right before she was about to utterly destroy someone.
Lockhart, however, was completely oblivious. He preened, turning from his fan mail to give her his full, dazzling attention. "Go on, my dear girl."
"Well," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "with your heroic resume, your fame, your… charisma… have you ever considered a career in politics? At the Ministry of Magic?"
Lockhart was stunned for a moment. Then his chest puffed out. "It's funny you should say that," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I have, in fact, considered it. Minister for Magic, Gilderoy Lockhart. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
"It's perfect," Hermione said, her voice full of a bewitching sincerity. "You are exactly what the wizarding world needs."
"But," Lockhart sighed dramatically, "my fans… they need me. If I were bogged down with dreary Ministry paperwork, I would have no time for my adventures. I couldn't possibly deprive my public of the thrilling new tales they so desperately crave."
He's afraid he'd be exposed as a fraud in five minutes, Hermione translated internally. Ministry officials are harder to fool than first-years.
"But you're thinking too small, Professor," she pressed, her voice a devil's whisper. "Think of the material. Forget ghouls and banshees. Imagine the stories you could write from inside the Ministry. Uncovering a deep-state conspiracy. Capturing a ring of notorious dark wizards. You wouldn't just be an adventurer; you'd be a spymaster, a hero of the people! The sales would be astronomical."
Lockhart's eyes began to glaze over, a hungry, mesmerized look on his face.
"And with that kind of public adoration," she continued, going in for the kill, "your approval rating would be unstoppable. You wouldn't just be a hero; you'd be a political powerhouse. Minister for Magic would be just the beginning." She even pitched a few sinister, PR-focused ideas about staged assassination attempts and planting false rumors about political rivals, just to see the look on Harry's face.
Harry, meanwhile, was trying to sink through the floor. He was witnessing his best friend, the smartest person he knew, calmly and expertly plotting a course for a corrupt, political coup, and he wanted no part of it. Living with the Dursleys was suddenly starting to look like a much safer option.
"Granger," Lockhart breathed, his voice full of a raw, naked ambition. "Do you… do you really think I could achieve all that?"
"Of course," Hermione said, her lips curling into a wide, predatory smile. "With the right person advising you, anything is possible."
For a glorious, shining moment, Gilderoy Lockhart saw it all: the power, the glory, the adulation. And then, the cold, hard reality of his own utter, fraudulent incompetence came crashing down. To do all that, he would have to actually… do all that. He would have to fight real dark wizards. The dream died, replaced by a more familiar, and much safer, vanity. But his admiration for the small, terrifyingly brilliant girl in front of him had reached a new peak. She was a natural-born political strategist. A kingmaker.
Just as the awkward silence was settling, Harry suddenly jumped, his head whipping around.
"Did you hear that?" he whispered, his eyes wide.
Lockhart, pulled from his reverie, looked around the dimly lit office. "Hear what, my boy?"
"A voice," Harry said, his own voice trembling slightly. "Someone's talking."
A sudden, irrational chill crawled up Lockhart's spine. He stared into the dark, shadowed corners of his own office. "No," he said, his voice a little too high. "There's no one here but us."
"Professor, you didn't hear it?" Harry insisted, his expression grim.
Lockhart looked at Hermione for help, only to find that she too was frowning, her head tilted as if listening intently to something he couldn't hear.
That was all it took for Lockhart's carefully constructed bravado to completely evaporate.
"It's nearby," Harry muttered, standing up now, his gaze fixed on the stone walls. "It's whispering…"
"Well, let's not be hasty, my boy," Lockhart stammered, his eyes darting around nervously.
"It sounds like it wants to… kill someone," Harry breathed, a look of pure horror on his face.
Hermione, who had been listening with a detached, clinical interest, finally decided the game was over. She knew exactly what he was hearing. The Basilisk. It was starting.
She let out a long, theatrical sigh. "Harry," she said, her voice full of a weary, adult exasperation. "Honestly. Stop trying to scare the professor."