Two days into the new term and the rhythm of Hogwarts had slipped back into place: the moving stairways, the teasing of older students, the steady, small panic that accompanied every new homework assignment. The only novelty remaining was the newest victim, which is to say, the newest Defense professor.
Gabriel had seen him at the Sorting, of course - wearing a constant smile full of pearly teeth with carefully mussed up hair, strolling up to the staff table as if it was a catwalk. Dumbledore's attempt at a brief introduction of the former alumni had been turned into a fanfare; Lockhart had taken the chance he was given to present himself and converted it into a speech, which then became a monologue. He had spoken mournfully of his tragic childhood, the challenges he faced in Hogwarts, the triumphs he obtained and the many times he avoided near-disaster.
The man turned his whole life into some sort of heroic mythologizing that left everyone in the Great Hall either breathless or deeply embarrassed. It seemed as if it would have kept going forever, if he hadn't been interrupted by the feast materializing without prompt, with Dumbledore laughing and saying the hunger of the students must have summoned it from the kitchens, and promptly tucking in himself, which moved those still hesitant to follow his example.
If that was not enough, Gabriel had been warned of what was expecting him in the class ahead. Neville had described the whole thing as an incredibly boring and then incredibly traumatic experience, while Hermione had smiled and declared the man a national treasure who had shown himself deeply interested in getting his students to obtain hands-on experience with the subject. Gabriel had processed both views, catalogued them under "opinions", with one ranking much higher than the other in his estimate, and then prepared himself to endure the spectacle.
He had not prepared enough.
The exam sheet that sat on the desk felt like the worst sort of bad joke. He already knew what he was going to find looking at it, but something - perhaps naivete - moved him to try and make some sense out of the whole thing. The first question read:
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?
He blinked. Took a deep breath. Read it again - the words didn't change. The next question:
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?
Gabriel let his eyes run further down the page.
Which was Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest relationship?
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest possession?
What was the greatest injustice levied against Gilderoy Lockhart?
When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be'
He felt a laugh rising, low and sour in his chest. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand until stars whirled in his peripheral vision and breathed, trying to thread that thread that kept him sane.
"Ah!" Lockhart's voice across the classroom, bombastic and infuriatingly suave. "Do not despair, my dear students. I know this appears daunting - facing such a great life and legacy can be intimidating! But I assure you, perhaps one day you too shall manage to accomplish something of note!"
It was the tone as much as the words: theatrical pity wrapped in false intimacy. The metallic tang - the taste of blood - crept into Gabriel's mouth as he bit his tongue to hold back the growl that threatened to rise up his throat. He felt it happening as it had every morning back at home - his fangs coming out, the pressure building up in his eyes. He knew that if someone looked at them now, they would see them taken by black.
It should have spiraled then. It didn't.
Because it was precisely the feeling of losing control that threw him back to the memories of his mother throwing his ass down the mountain every time he actually lost control, and then the intense sessions of Occlumency training that came after. So he came back to what she had taught him, and the most basic principle was-
Question everything.
'Why am I like this? Because he infuriates me.
Why does he infuriate me? Because I'm going to have another whole year under an inept professor in a subject I care about.
Is that all? No. Not really.'
He stopped, consideringly, before falling back into the meditative technique.
'What then makes me so mad? It's... everything about him - the way he dresses, the way he talks, the way he articulates. All fake, fake, fake. So disgustingly fake it makes me want to puke.
Is that all? No, of course not. I'm jealous.
What reason do I even have to be jealous? He is famous, beautiful, accomplished, desired - and I'm a freak.
That's not true. It isn't.
That was cruel. It was.
But... It is how we feel about it.
What then? What should I do?
We could let it go. Finish transforming, jump him, beat him, tear him to pieces- No.
No.
Why? Because that would make me the easy, visible example people would point to. Because it would give the narrow-minded the narrative they loved: the half-blood gone savage. Because it would drag Mum into trouble. Because I would end up all alone. Because I don't want to be like that.
So what, we let him be? I don't want that either.
But no violence, right? No, no violence.'
He tightened his hand around the table until the wood creaked faintly.
'Right, then what about…'
-~=~-
By the time Gabriel's pulse settled and the pressure behind his eyes had faded away, he looked almost normal again - or at least as normal as he ever managed to those days. His hand trembled slightly as he dipped the quill into ink, but the movement steadied as a slow grin crept over his face. Lockhart wanted answers, didn't he? So he would have them.
He began writing.
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?
Vomit Green, because every time I look at him I want to puke.
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?
To get buggered in the arse.
What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?
Having fooled parents that he could ever be a decent teacher.
Gabriel's quill scratched pleasantly against the parchment; each line came easier than the last, each insult smoother, more satisfying. He worked his way down through the idiocy.
Which was Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest relationship?
I honestly don't know and don't care, but if he wants, I can introduce his face to my feet.
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest possession?
It doesn't matter, because he's empty, so nothing he owns has any value.
What was the greatest injustice levied against Gilderoy Lockhart?
Not having received a beating to straighten him up during childhood.
And finally, with a flourish:
When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?
Lockhart's birthday is quite special, because every year it happens on a different date - but always on a Friday the 13th. I don't know his ideal gift, but mine would be for him to stop having birthdays.
He leaned back, staring at the paper. His heart still raced, but the tension had melted into something almost peaceful. Writing it had been… almost therapeutic. Possibly more effective than any of Snape's calming draughts. He blew gently on the ink to dry it, folded the page neatly, and marched it up to Lockhart's desk with a grin bright enough to be mistaken for enthusiasm.
Lockhart, of course, took the parchment with a gleam in his eye, flashing his trademark smile. "Ah, splendid, Mr…?" he trailed off, clearly not remembering his name.
"Santana," he lied sweetly. It's not like the grades in this class would mean anything, after all. "It's all yours, Professor."
"Of course! Of course," Lockhart said, waving the paper like a prize, oblivious. "Confidence - that's what I like to see! Marvelous attitude, my boy."
The big, bright grin on Gabriel's face seemed to infect Lockhart for a moment, who flashed one right back. Then Gabriel turned on his heel and went to sit beside Padma, who looked both amused and perturbed by the grin still plastered across his lips. He crossed his arms, reclined in his chair, and whispered, "What I wouldn't give for some popcorn"
Lockhart began his grand tour through the answers, humming and smiling at each page as if the whole class existed purely to adore him.
"Ah, Miss Jones, excellent - you remembered my favorite shade of lilac! Five points to Hufflepuff!"
"And Mr. Goldstein! A splendid attempt, though turquoise is a bit too bold for my complexion, don't you think?"
It went on like that - a slow, self-congratulatory carousel of laughter and vanity - until he reached the sheet with a small tear at the corner that Gabriel had made to identify it.
Lockhart's hand froze mid-turn. His eyes darted across the page once, twice. The color drained from his face.
He tried to laugh. It came out thin. "Ah, well, I see that- er - some of you have taken… creative liberties with your responses. Ha-ha, quite- quite spirited!"
He cleared his throat. "Yes, well- moving on!"
But the tremor in his voice betrayed him. He shifted in his robes, searching for his usual confidence and finding only the fraying edge of it. His smile, so effortlessly and practiced, now seemed carved in place.
Gabriel watched him struggle with the serene delight of a man who had gotten precisely what he wanted. When Lockhart's gaze flicked up and found him, Gabriel simply smiled wider - calm, radiant - and raised both hands, middle fingers extended proudly to the skies, though concealed enough that he could hide them before anyone else noticed.
Lockhart blinked, gave a twitching grin that was really more of a grimace, and hurried on to the next paper. His tone was lighter now, thinner, every word slightly off-key - as though the brilliance had dulled just enough to make the class finally, mercifully tolerable.
-~=~-
What Gabriel hadn't expected was that, even after the calamity of the previous day's lesson - and his own little prank just now - Lockhart would still insist on repeating the same mistake.
As he flicked a Cornish Pixie that had gotten too close to his face straight out of the open window, Gabriel realised that thought only made him relax further. Gilderoy Lockhart wasn't, in any sense of the word, something he could perceive as a threat. Even if there was something about the man that unsettled him, it was hardly enough to inspire fear.
If he wasn't a threat, then he was only a supremely irritating, preening creature - so he may as well be prey.
'Ah,' he thought to himself, as though struck by revelation. With a casual flick of his wand, he muttered, "Colloportus," and the classroom door sealed itself with a sharp click. 'I'm going to have fun with this.'
The chorus of screams from both students and their teacher urged him to move a little faster.
"Blauflammer!" he cast. A surge of sapphire fire erupted from the tip of his wand, expanding into a swirling dome that shimmered like liquid glass. Gabriel drew the flame around himself, then gestured for the others to come close, pulling each student through the veil one by one until they were gathered safely inside. The fiery barrier flexed and widened to fit them all - save for a certain flamboyant professor left outside.
Michael Corner, eyes bright with curiosity, ran his fingers through the wall of blue flame. "Woah…" he said in awe, pushing his hand further and feeling only a soft, resistant warmth. "How are you doing that?"
Gabriel smiled - genuinely, and freely - for the first time since stepping into Lockhart's class. "The Bluebell Flame is a fascinating little spell," he said, tone light but eager. "It looks like fire, but it doesn't consume fuel - well, aside from the magic used to sustain it, and also…" He pressed a finger against the base of the conjured flame, showing how it bent and swayed like water coming out of a hose. "It behaves like a substance. You can fill a container with it, or launch it with enough force to push something away. And if you keep the charm active long enough, you can actually shape it, so I just-"
Lisa Turpin's eyes glinted with understanding. "Condensed it until it was dense enough to hold a form."
"Exactly!" said Gabriel, clearly pleased. "Of course, it's weak enough that a puppy could probably stroll through it, so it's pretty much useless in a duel or a serious situation. But against pixies? Perfectly adequate."
A sharp crash echoed through the room, followed by Lockhart's shrill voice and the unmistakable sound of splintering wood.
"Shouldn't we bring Professor Lockhart inside?" Hannah asked, her brow furrowed with worry as another thud sounded nearby.
"Nah," said Gabriel cheerfully. "He's Gilderoy Lockhart, after all."
A moment later came a high-pitched, distinctly unmanly scream, accompanied by the triumphant cackling of pixies and the ripping of fabric.
Gabriel smiled with his eyes closed and a fist on his waist, utterly unbothered. "He'll be fine."