Harry let Lockhart's voice wash over him, occasionally saying, "Mmmm" and "Right" and "Yeah". Now and then he caught a phrase like 'Fame's fickle friend, Harry" or "Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that".

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Lockhart's continuous, unrelenting drone had turned into a light babble as the evening wore on, and Harry felt he was finally able to completely ignore him. His aching hand screamed as he addressed yet another envelope; he looked at the clock again to see that it was only quarter to twelve. Not late- yet to Harry it felt as if he had been up since the crack of dawn.

"Ah! Maggie Windstone!" Harry's heart sank and Lockhart seized yet another envelope, and handed it to him. "Fabulous girl, very good at cooking I recall. Yes, she wrote to me before to invite me to a special home-made dinner. Well, I usually don't allow myself to visit fans- if I visited one, I'd have to visit them all, and that Harry, would take years. But Miss Windstone… she sent a photograph and I couldn't help but notice that she looked very soulful- as if my books had truly touched her heart. Who am I to disappoint? There is no rule against celebrity/fan intimacy, and she looked as if she was of the right breeding stock, so I took myself to her little cottage- very quaint, Harry, very quaint- and she and I sat down to enjoy the best shepherd's pie I've ever eaten. Windstone, Harry, not Winestand."

"Right." Slowly, painfully, he erased his error and wrote the name again. Lockhart continued with his story, hardly pausing even for a breath.

"I asked her if she made it herself, or had taken it from a cookery book. Of course, she had made it herself, and my admiration for her grew even more as it got later in the day. Soon, the moon began to rise, we were full of rich food, and she grabbed me and told me it was time. Well Harry, and you should know this, having a few fans yourself, one thing led to another and-"

At the time when it would have been most convenient to have fallen asleep, Harry's ears seemed to wake up. Stunned, he gave the professor a wide eyed glance, with a panic he couldn't quite explain. Lockhart was chatting away, more to himself to his student, oblivious to the fact that Harry suddenly had the overwhelming desire to faint.

"So I pinned her down, Harry, and she moaned like a woman has never moaned before…"

Harry dropped his quill, which clattered to the floor. Face burning, he picked it up, hands shaking with mortification and discomfort. Please make him shut up someone, he thought miserably. Please make me not have to listen to any more of this…

"And she thrashed around, and it was all I could do to keep myself on top of her! It wasn't long- me being so professional- until she reached her climax."

"Uh… yeah." Help me. Somebody help me now. Harry had given up trying to write, and instead had his eyes fixed to the door. How much trouble would he get into if he blasted it open? At least another detention, he supposed. Haha. Detention with Snape suddenly never looked so good.

"So," Lockhart's voice rose to match his excitement, his body even rising a little off his chair. "I drew it out, long and hard. I waited for the right time and then when she screamed again I penetrated her!"

"What?" Harry's eyes tore themselves from the door, and stared at Lockhart in horror, his hand jerking out and knocking over a bottle of ink. The violet liquid spilled across the desk and splashed to the floor, thankfully missing the addressed envelopes; a wave landed into Harry's lap and soaked into his robes.

"I know!" Lockhart cried, seeming not to have noticed Harry's 'accident'. "I thought I'd killed her, it was so big!"

"Stop!" Harry considered vaulting over his chair and making a break for freedom. Lockhart was obviously mad, or had seriously misjudged his character. Harry was only a boy! A twelve year old boy! Pre-teen! Innocent! Didn't this count as abuse? Or did all 'friends' of Lockhart usually huddle around steaming cups of tea in the staff room, talking about defilation?

Lockhart was on a roll, his face was pink with enthusiasm, his voice so energized that Harry was sure that someone like Snape or McGonagall would be able to hear him. "No Harry, I won't stop! It will happen to you! I know it will!"

"I'm too young!"

"You're never too young!" Lockhart leapt to his feet, voice at least twelve decibels higher than usual. "Fans turn into werewolves all the time!"

Harry was about to, in sheer desperation, curse Lockhart into oblivion (he doubted that Lockhart could truly defend himself) when his hand stopped midway to his pocket. "Sorry?" He could swear that he was missing something. Something perhaps slightly vital in the conversation that he may have overheard.

"Yes! Maggie Windstone, my self-confessed biggest fan, was a werewolf! And she began to change halfway through our treacle pudding! It was lucky that I managed to overpower her and stab her with my twelve inch silver knife before she transformed completely! So nice to send a letter from St Mungos to say she's making a full recovery."

"Huhhuhhuh…Yes." Harry's breathing began to return to normal, after the unpleasant sensation of pre-hyperventilation. "Very nice." He glanced at the door again, and again wondered desperately how he could get out without facing another punishment. It seemed like he had got the wrong end of the stick, and he was so embarrassed that he wanted to return to Gryffindor common room and never emerge again. Who cared about Defence Against the Dark Arts? As far as Harry was concerned, he'd rather face a fully re-empowered Voldemort than ever be locked in a room with Lockhart again. The clock struck one.

"Right Harry, I have five more letters to address left in this bag, and then let's call it a day, shall we? Great Scott, look at the time! Isn't it late? You know, you shouldn't expect a treat like this every time you have a detention."

"I know, sir." Harry, although his voice was toneless, suddenly felt like singing. Five more envelopes. He could cope with that. Teeth gritted with concentration, and hand shaking with the effort to hold it together, Harry grabbed another envelope and freshened the ink on his quill. Five more envelopes, five more envelopes…

"My, Harry, you look tense," Lockhart's disgusting, cheery voice again filled his office. "Tired? Or desperate to talk to Ron to say what a great detention you've had? If I were you Harry, I wouldn't rub it in his face too much. Some people are destined to be nobodies. I haven't got a problem with that. Some of my friends, I bet you've never even heard of! This school is run by nobodies! I mean, well Dumbledore may have some passing reference at some time or another, but whose heard of him really? But us, Harry, the chosen people, we've got to stick together."

He put his hand down on top of Harry's.

Harry's throat went dry, though he made no effort to pull away. This time, no thoughts of escape pushed themselves desperately forward. His mind had gone completely, and utterly blank. All he could feel was the warm palm of the most irritating wizard in the world resting on top of his aching fist. A friendly gesture, surely. Perhaps Lockhart was one of those adults that 'tried to get to know the real you'. Perhaps this was a secret symbol of the 'Secret and Obnoxious Fame Academy', and Lockhart was trying to persuade Harry to join. Perhaps Lockhart was just being nice. None of those reasons prevented the fact that Harry wanted to hit him.

"You're a good student, Harry". For the first time, Lockhart's voice had a lowered tone, and sounded slightly deeper than usual. "I could help you on the way to greatness, being so brilliant myself." The man of supreme modesty began to stroke Harry's skin, which prickled at the soft, circular movements. Harry temporarily lost his vision, and all he could see was white teeth and faint a golden shimmer.

He felt really, really sick.

"Professor…" His voice tailed off as Lockhart drew even closer, his aqua robes intermingling with Harry's black. The circular movements had stopped, though the hand remained. Harry didn't even have the strength left to remove it.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Lockhart smiled even wider, his teeth unusually white thanks to his self-made 'Whitey Bitey Glamorous Grin' toothpaste- 'toothpaste with results that look like magic!' His face came nearer to the poor boy, charm pouring like an on turned tap, and stupid blue eyes intense. "I want you, Harry…"

Harry couldn't even reach for his wand, as both hands were now trapped in Lockhart's. Lockhart was going to… he was going to…

"Yes, I want you Harry… to sign this!" Lockhart let go of Harry and pulled a piece of parchment from his desk. "Your autograph could come in really handy for the future! Might even make a few sickles!" He thrust the parchment towards Harry, eyes round and hopeful.

So shocked and disorientated he could hardly lift the quill, Harry numbly signed it.

"Thanks!" The glittering smile returned, more exotic than ever. "Have a signed photo- I have loads." Lockhart thrust a glossy black and white photograph into Harry's face, then yawned loudly, and perhaps not entirely truthfully. "Dear me, aren't I tired! Bed time I think, eh Harry?"

"Yeah." In a dream state, Harry scraped back his chair, which slipped on the spilt ink and fell over. Not even bothering to pick it up, Harry began to leave, only to hear Lockhart's dulcet tones once more.

"And Harry- don't worry about those five envelopes! I'll do them, it's fine. Good night… and sweet dreams!"

Dazed, Harry walked out of the door and into a dark corridor.

He really needed his sleep.