Trapped

Dumbledore had instructed him to be civil. Yes, that was why Professor Severus Snape was stalking down the corridor towards the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom and the office of its new instructor--one Gilderoy Lockhart, best described as a foppish, brainless git whose magical ineptitude could easily outstrip that of Neville Longbottom, and that was saying something. Snape made no effort to hide his opinion of the new arrival (nor of anyone else, although this rather influenced his popularity among the other members of the faculty) and it was clear to the entire school that he wanted Lockhart out of Hogwarts through any means necessary (although his natural preferences led him to favour a cocktail of potent poisons over most other unnecessarily violent suggestions). For a number of unfair reasons pertaining to law and morality, murdering Lockhart was not a feasible option and Snape had resigned himself to avoiding him where possible. It was unfortunate that the successfulness of this tactic was negated because, despite all of his efforts to the contrary, Lockhart appeared to want to spend time with him and Dumbledore had insisted...

Snape started up the stairs towards the door, glowering at the terrible and most unfair world that allowed such a person to exist. The matter on which he had been called was of the utmost importance, although--as Professor McGonagall had pointed out--where Lockhart was concerned, his running out of the correct brand of enchanted hair gel constituted an issue of national security. Reaching for the handle, the heavy oak door burst open of its own accord and Snape was all but flattened by the rampaging form of Neville Longbottom, the young Gryffindor’s arms flailing wildly as he struggled to remain on his feet.

‘Clumsy oaf!’ Snape snarled. ‘Break your own neck if you must, but leave mine well alone.’

‘S-sorry Professor, I didn’t see you there. Professor Lockhart was showing me a new spell--’ Neville stammered, clutching his wand and attempting to avoid eye contact.

‘Fantastic to hear you are trying to further your education, Longbottom--and I would care why...?’ Snape sneered, gesturing for him to get out of his way. The boy flushed, ducking to one side as the Potions master swept past him and through the door.

Gilderoy Lockhart, decked out in flowing gold and crimson robes, sat at his desk shuffling papers in an effort to give the appearance of importance. The portraits mugged for the new arrival and, having noticed a familiar large black blob out of the corner of his eye, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher burst into a glittering white smile. ‘Ah, Severus! The very man I wished to see.’

‘What is it that you want, Lockhart?’ Snape frowned, allowing his narrowed eyes to sweep over the interior of the office. It was true that years of students and insect excretions had jaded him to most of the horrors of the school, but having the eyes of no less than one hundred photographs of the same grinning imbecile staring at him made his skin crawl. Snape cringed inwardly--one of the larger posters hung up behind the desk was winking at him.

‘I am sure you recall how I explained at length the virtues of founding a Duelling Club during these dangerous times at our last staff meeting, and--’ Lockhart gestured magnanimously towards an empty chair, ‘please, do sit down.’

Snape’s expression indicated that he would rather be ritualistically disemboweled with something sharp, but Lockhart continued undaunted. ‘As I was saying, I was in the midst of a little chat with Professor Flitwick and he mentioned that--while he had no duelling experience of his own--you might be able to act as my assistant. Give the students a demonstration or two--I’ll go easy on you, of course. What do you think?’

‘While the offer is tempting and I do know a little about duelling myself, I am afraid I must decli-’ Snape was interrupted by an unusual flash of light and an abrupt bang, followed by what he recognized to be an agonized squeak reserved for Longbottom’s more spectacular blunders. He turned to survey the damage.

Snape’s eyes widened in horror and surprise--the door was gone. Even the life-size poster of Gilderoy Lockhart had disappeared, leaving in its place only cold and uncompromising stone. Snape strode quickly to the wall, running his long fingers against the stones in an increasingly frantic search for something at least vaguely resembling a door. ‘Longbottom!’ he snarled, ‘open the door!’

‘Is there something wrong, Severus?’ Lockhart beamed, having realized that the Potions master was no longer paying attention to him.

‘Gilderoy,’ Snape sneered, voice dripping with ice, ‘do you happen to notice anything - different - about this room? Such as perhaps that it lacks a door?’

‘Why, so it does! Now, I’m sure it wasn’t like that before,’ Lockhart agreed. He seemed genuinely puzzled.

‘You mean - when we entered the room via the door?’ Snape queried, the terrible reality of his situation beginning to sink in (‘Yes, that’s right!’ said Lockhart). ‘Longbottom! Open this door now!'

‘Professor Snape...?’ a timid voice began, laced with pure and unadulterated terror. ‘The door is gone.’

‘Astute observation, Longbottom. Five points for Gryffindor. Now-’

‘Really...?’ asked Neville, vaguely hopeful.

‘Of course not, stupid boy,’ Snape spat. ‘Stand back and let me-’

‘But you don’t have your wand!’ Neville swallowed hard.

‘What? Of course I have my-’ Snape fumbled for his wand but--nothing. Had it fallen out during the collision? Black eyes glinting, he turned on Lockhart. ‘Give me your wand. Now.’

Lockhart ran his fingers through his hair, still smiling. ‘Not possible, my dear Professor Snape. I am afraid that it is not here.’

Snape scowled at him. ‘And where is it...?’

‘Oh, I let Professor Flitwick borrow it for some complicated charms work,’ he explained flippantly in an effort to avoid revealing that he had left it on his nightstand that morning and had forgotten to bring it to class. ‘His wand just wasn’t up to the challenge, and I can’t blame him for asking about mine. How many wands have time and again emerged victorious against the forces of darkness?’

Snape chose to ignore this, snarling instead into the wall. ‘Longbottom! Are you still there?’

‘Yes, Professor,’ was the meek reply.

‘Find a teacher--any teacher--and bring them here immediately. Understood?’ Snape glared into the wall as the disembodied sound of the student’s retreating footsteps echoed down the corridor. Snape pursed his lips. ‘I imagine he will only be a few minutes. Even Longbottom could not blotch so simple a request.’ His eyes narrowed--of course he could.

An awkward silence followed. The minutes dragged on and Lockhart soon produced a bottle of honey-coloured liquid labelled ‘Ogden’s Old Firewhisky’ from one of the many hidden compartments in his desk. ‘A gift,’ Lockhart grinned roguishly, ‘from the wonderful ladies of the Witch Weekly editorial staff after winning my fourth Most-’

‘-Charming-Smile Award,’ Snape finished, despite himself, ‘but you don’t talk about that, do you?’

Lockhart smiled knowingly. ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy, Severus?’

Snape bit his lip and tried very hard to think of things other than beating Lockhart to death with his own autobiography. ‘That would be contempt.’

‘You need not be defensive, Severus! While this may come as a shock, I can understand what it must be like for you,’ Lockhart continued, sweeping across the room to straighten one of his many portraits, each bearing a very understanding look and nodding in agreement, ‘faced with a celebrated author and adventurer like myself as a fellow teacher. It is only natural that you might wish to emulate me. Care for a drink?’

'Emulate you?’ Snape spat.

‘You would have to brush your teeth more often, of course,’ Lockhart mused as he poured himself a glass. ‘You really ought to have some, Severus. Would do you a world of good.’

Under normal circumstances, the low menacing growl that Snape then emitted would have been more than enough to send those that valued their safety running for cover, but Lockhart only laughed, using the excuse to display every last one of his sparkling white teeth. ‘Fame, fame... Where to begin...? I never asked for this, you know...’ He slumped back in his chair and regarded Snape, who had since retreated to the comparable safety of the shadows, with the dreamy, wistful eyes of a man lost in his own magnificence. Snape grimaced and in desperation buried his nose into a copy of Travels with Trolls, as an apparent concession that the Lockhart of the written page was less offensive (although not by much) than the genuine article. Of course, Lockhart was too self-absorbed to notice. ‘It was almost as though I was chosen for this noble work. The money is nice (of course!) but really-’ Lockhart gulped down the remaining liquid and poured himself another glass, ‘that has to be secondary to the work. The excitement of my life... Skulking about in those dungeons of yours, you couldn’t even begin to imagine the adventure!’

‘Ever faced a manticore?’ Snape queried, leafing through the book in an effort to find at least one page that contained actual information.

‘My word, yes--quite a struggle, that one!’ Lockhart beamed, launching into a full reenactment of the battle. Snatching his peacock-feather quill from the desk to serve as a wand, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher thrust it into Snape’s face with a triumphant ‘Ha!’. Not getting any ascertainable response other than the already present steady glower, Lockhart gestured at him expectantly. ‘Go on, the least you could do is roar.’

‘I suppose you would have fought a tazelwurm as well,’ ventured Snape, ‘in a career as illustrious as yours.’

‘Of course! Fangs on that one were enormous-’

‘And the rampaging wiggletaru beast? That as well?’ Snape narrowed his eyes, spouting the silliest name that came to mind.

‘One of the most spectacular battles of my life! Mighty jaws dripping with the blood of freshly butchered villagers--it was a miracle that I survived.’

‘Or a tragedy.‘ Snape pursed his lips. ‘Choose your poison.’ He fumbled with a thin vial of clouded green liquid tucked within his robes. Intended as a rudimentary herbicide to keep insects, pixies and other nuisances out of the Hogwarts vegetable gardens, the Potions master was painfully aware that a mere teaspoonful would be enough to silence the jabbering imbecile permanently. The taste was bitter, and Lockhart would not drink it on his own accord. Perhaps if he were to force it down his throat-

‘Such hostility!’ Lockhart scoffed. ‘Did you think I was born with this fame? The remarkable good looks, of course, but I’ve been there--unwashed, unliked-’

‘Disliked,’ Snape automatically corrected. ‘Unliked isn’t a word.’

‘Of course it is! Don’t be silly, Severus.’

‘Perhaps after we escape you might check a dictionary--’

‘I most certainly will. Now, where was I? Right! Unwashed, UNliked and alone--the very story of my youth. Excluding the unwashed part, of course.’

‘Really?’ Snape asked incredulously.

‘No, not really.’ Lockhart tucked the quill behind his ear, absently swirling the contents of his glass before downing the whole lot. His attempts to pour more were thwarted as Snape seized the bottle and calmly poured its contents out onto the floor. A disappointed Lockhart regarded the shimmering golden puddle and the empty bottle glumly. ‘Now that wasn’t nice at all.’

‘Professor Dumbledore will no doubt be arriving momentarily. Until that time, I strongly recommend that you take that peacock feather out of your ear and sit down before--you hurt yourself.’ Snape’s grip on the neck of the bottle tightened, his whitening knuckles suggesting he might prefer to wrap his fingers around a neck of a different kind.

‘If you insist,’ said Lockhart as he flopped back into his chair and returned the quill to its place of honour on the desk. The various Lockhart portraits, rather better than the man himself at sensing danger, were no longer smiling and some had begun to go so far as to vacate their frames. ‘Severus, Severus... Why must we be enemies, you and I? When there is so much I could teach you?’

‘What exactly could you hope to teach me? When you are incapable of anything magical or indeed anything at all that might extend beyond inane grinning and wearing ridiculously foppish outfits.’

The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher fished another bottle of Firewhisky from the dark, uncharted depths of his desk. ‘This is just the problem! Nobody understands me, you know. People look at me and what do they see? My winning good looks, radiant personality and sparkling sense of style but--but they don’t see me!’ A particularly enthusiastic hand gesture sent his glass flying across the room until it eventually made contact with the wall and shattered. The effects of the alcohol beginning to sink in, Lockhart stared dully at the glittering remains a moment before producing a significantly larger butterbeer mug as a replacement. He continued unfazed. ‘To my countless adoring fans, why--Look, I had this nightmare last night, let me tell you about it--’

‘I am unsure,’ Snape considered the words carefully as his already iron-clad grip on the bottle threatened to shatter it, ‘how best to express how important it is for your continued survival that you not finish that sentence.’

‘I’m so alone... Are you sure you don’t want any?’ said Lockhart, nursing the bottle.

The truth be told, Snape was at this point unsure as to what he wanted other than to a) die or b) see Lockhart die (preferably very, very slowly). This new and previously unconsidered third option, getting drunk out of his mind and escaping his unfortunate companion’s awe-inspiring stupidity through some manner of alcohol-induced haze was beginning to seem a very good idea. On the other hand, the additional danger that such a disassociated state would produce for Professor Lockhart would be immeasurable. Judging on previous experience, Snape surmised quite rightly that whatever shreds of self-restraint and respect for all those noble laws and institutions that required he not bludgeon Lockhart to death with a blunt object held little sway over him when drunk. The prattling buffoon would be left at the mercy of his rage.

He paused. A plan with no drawbacks. He grabbed the bottle.

‘I think I know how to make you happy, Severus.’ Lockhart was beginning to slur his words, but a not as-of-yet triggered portion of his brain that handled his own personal self-preservation clicked into gear. It regarded the situation thoughtfully, noting that the Potions master was unusually ashen and inching away from him at an unusually swift pace. ‘That isn’t what I mean and you know it,’ it spoke. ‘Not that you are not, eh... attractive in some resp-’

‘Just--be quiet.’ Snape gave Lockhart a contemptuous look before seating himself on the floor against the far wall of the office, careful to avoid the Firewhisky puddle that was now being happily absorbed by two signed copies of Magical Me! and a tattered, potion-stained copy of Year with a Yeti that had been accidentally discarded when Neville had so quickly vacated the room. The tipsy Gilderoy Lockharts mugging on the covers looked quite pleased.

‘Glad to hear it, old man,’ said Lockhart, laughing boisterously for reasons that Snape was unable to determine. Snape now realized that he would never even begin to understand the giggling blond seated behind the desk, surrounded by his own nervously laughing portraits. Even the cleverest mind would be ill-equipped to comprehend someone that mind-bogglingly shallow. ‘Under that greasy exterior you’re a good man and, although your hair is in desperate need of a wash--well, I can recommend something for that, anyway.’

Snape snarled, although he expected it would do little him good. Drunk as he was, the little section of his brain that warned Lockhart’s beautiful face might be in danger of making contact with a well-aimed fist was whirring happily. He took one more long look at the irritable lump of black sitting against the wall and, strengthening his resolve, downed the remainder of his Firewhisky. ‘If there is one thing that it is absolutely vital to remember, Severus, it is that appearance is everything. Do you follow? Lovely! Let us start with the wardrobe, shall we?’ continued Lockhart, steamrolling over any objections Snape might have been able to muster. ‘First, and I can’t stress this enough, you must cast away any previous assumptions you might have had about black being slimming. Black, on you and, lets be honest now, just about anyone else is not at all flattering. You also might want to cut back on those extra helpings of pumpkin pie--it’s starting to show.’

Snape opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his life words escaped him. Lockhart noticed this, and as he had more than enough for two, decided to fill in the silence with some of his own. ‘I know this is hard, but I’m telling you as a friend. Why can’t two grown men have a heart-to-heart discussion of their feelings?’

Snape gaped a moment, but his usual sneer soon returned in force. ‘Because I hate you, and want you to die. You are many things--ignorant, vain as a bloody peacock, and utterly useless, perhaps, but you are not my friend and never will be my friend and you know why?’ he spat, ‘because I would never have a friend as-as stupid as you!’

‘You’ve hurt my feelings, Severus,’ Lockhart sniffed, having abandoned his mug and now drinking directly from a third, as-of-yet unopened bottle. ‘I know the others don’t, but I like you. I think you’re rather funny, in an odd sort of way. There is something strangely--alluring about you, despite that most unfortunate smell. Is that cologne? Or has something died?’ His distracted expression soured a moment, as he did his best to fend off whatever phantom scent had so distressed him. Snape huffed, as he fancied himself to have the sensitive, well-trained nose required of his profession and he didn’t smell a thing. Other than the alcohol, of course. Wait, what was that about... alluring?

My god.

Snape’s eyes widened, perhaps more than he had originally intended. Gilderoy Lockhart was a prat, this much was certain, but until this point he at least been harmless. Inebriation had prompted the increasingly swift dissipation of his disarming boyish charms, and Lockhart’s resulting gaze was almost... predatory in nature. Blind panic demanded that he flee the area like the justifiably concerned snake that has just realized, poisonous or not, the mongoose doesn’t care. Especially when the mongoose is drunk and more than likely a bit of a poof to start with.

His mouth was operating on its own at this point as his brain was too numb from shock to be of any use. ‘You said just moments ago that was not the case.’ He forced composure, his mind clinging to what shreds of evidence it could muster that Lockhart was not looking at him the way he thought he was. He surmised it involved whipped cream. Yeaaaargh...

‘I lied. For all your faults.’ His eyes were now fixed firmly on the Potions master and his voice had taken on a tone that was, Snape feared, supposed to be seductive. ‘I do like you. Quite a lot, in fact. Now that I think about it.’ Snape blanched further, if that was possible. The man was purring. ‘We can be alone together! Just... surrounded by my screaming fans, of course. I am but a mere mortal like yourself (although perhaps godlike in appearance). Look, we are perfect for each other. Don’t bother to deny it, because you know I’m right.’

‘Lockhart,’ he hissed, old fires returning as venomous hatred began to bubble up inside of him. He rose to his feet, fire coursing through his veins as decades of simmering irritation boiled over into what would no doubt be a climactic display of raw and unadulterated rage unrivalled in the history of Hogwarts. He had been trapped in a room with Lockhart for a grand total of one hour and it was time for someone to die. And he was the one with the empty bottle.

Lockhart feigned (perhaps? wishful thinking on Snape’s part, no doubt) a swoon. ‘There is something in that smouldering expression of yours, something hauntingly irresistable. I would run my fingers through your raven-black hair, but... eww,’ Lockhart giggled, pushing himself away from the desk and through some miracle managed to stand upright. ‘I’m teasing, old boy! But you must make those changes we talked about, you know. You do look dreadful.’

‘I HATE YOU!’ Snape roared. Kill! Kill! It was an unfamiliar yet altogether satisfying feeling to have his conscious abandon the tried and true ‘murder is bad’ shtick in favour of egging him on. It was unfortunate he was never able to use that momentum to do any actual murdering.

‘Severus, my love!’ Lockhart slurred, stumbling toward him with open arms. ‘Hold me.’ He slumped against Snape, looking more bewildered than enraged, having passed out mid-embrace.

‘Get off, you bloody great fru-’

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat, clasping his hands together as he stood, looking altogether pleased, in the re-established doorway. ‘I am sorry, are we interrupting?’ Behind him stood an unusually thin-lipped Professor McGonagall and the diminutive form of Professor Flitwick, watching the rather comical exchange from behind her legs. All parties (save Lockhart himself, conscious or otherwise) appeared surprised that the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was still alive, perhaps none more so than Snape. Dumbledore adjusted his wire-frame glasses, eyes sparkling. ‘Gilderoy is still alive, has all his limbs and at least the majority of his marbles, proving you to be the epitome of self-restraint. Well done, Severus. Well done. I suppose the Transmutation charm produced these unexpected side-effects?’ He gave a quick wave of his wand and the alcohol was promptly sapped from Lockhart's unconscious form. One bleary eye snapped open and he stumbled backwards landing in the puddle on the floor. He looked more than a little terrified. 'I must apologize for the delay,' Dumbledore continued. 'Young Draco Malfoy, in an effort to practice his transmogrification skills, managed to turn poor Mr. Longbottom into an attractive floral vase.'

More sinister, subtle intentions having once again regained control of Snape’s behaviour, he sneered. ‘I do not believe Professor Lockhart was acting under the influence of a spell, Headmaster,’ his eyes fell on the man in question and the sneer became a grimace. There was little doubt in his mind that this incident would give him nightmares for months. The aforementioned Lockhart was now more-or-less awake and making the low groaning noises of a man with a terrible hangover. ‘I imagine your over-amorous fans in the Witch Weekly editorial staff slipped a potent Love Potion into your Firewhisky.’

Lockhart, it appeared, had opted to pretend it never happened. ‘Yes! Unfortunate that Professor Snape had me distracted, otherwise I would have recognized it right away. Has a taste nearly indistinguishable from pumpkin juice to the untrained taste buds. In fact, I know of just the antidote that would have countered its effects--’

‘Funny you should mention that.’ Snape’s expression softened, and that in itself was more than enough to set now-sober. Lockhart on his guard. ‘I have some right here.’ He produced the vial of green liquid from his robes, adding lazily that ‘it will rid you of that headache as well, come to think of it...’ The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, proving himself to be not as stupid as he looks (or acts), eyed the vial suspiciously until a chastising look from Professor Dumbledore prompted Snape to tuck the poison away, wearing a sour and otherwise disappointed look.

‘Interesting that Severus remained unaffected,’ remarked Professor McGonagall, looking uncharacteristically amused.

‘Either way, just to show that there are no hard feelings,’ Snape continued as the beginnings of a sadistic smile skirted across his face, ‘I thought I might take up your offer and act as your assistant tomorrow. We could partake in a small duelling demonstration for the students. Start off your new club with a bang...’