3.8 Mentoring and advice
3.8.1 Picnic games
Saturday afternoon was clear, full of sun and blue skies with a stiff breeze in off the sound ruffling the heather of the moors as it blew inland. The conditions were brisk enough to warrant a coat though certainly not so cold as to be unpleasant.
All told, it was a perfect day for a picnic in the Scottish Highlands.
It was therefore unsurprising to find Hermione and Suze seated together on a blanket laid out on a grassy patch on the moor north of the Black Woods. A pair of picnic baskets held the remains of their lunch, and a large insulated carafe full of hot chocolate sat next to another full of tea in the middle of the blanket.
"This is nice," Hermione commented to her fellow damsel as she took another sip of tea, her eyes focused on the bluish bulk of the Cuillins across the sound to the northwest. "It's a beautiful day — too bad Abigail's prefect duties kept her from coming."
Her centaur counterpart took a sip of her own hot chocolate as she nodded in agreement. The drink was one for which she had acquired a taste during one of the Great Wyrm's meetings with the goblins.
Harry found it a decent second choice as well, though he preferred a more traditional version — unsweetened with a healthy dash of cayenne pepper — being rather more partial to the subtle bitterness of the cocoa than the sugary sweetness of the more modern variants. That preference had led to the third, already emptied, carafe stowed away in the picnic basket.
Of course, the dragon still preferred goblin tea as his hot drink of choice; however, it had the unfortunate tendency to eat through the plastic bits of most insulated containers, making it less than ideal for picnic fare.
"The Great Wyrm has been entirely too busy of late," Suze noted. "Between his studies at the wand-waver's school, his own projects, and assembling that mechanical monstrosity he has been working on, it seems as if he hardly sleeps! It is good for him to take time to relax and play; he is still quite young."
A faint but familiar voice rang out overhead, rapidly increasing in volume as its source drew closer, "I'm gonna…"
Hermione sighed as she nodded in agreement, sipping her tea as she relaxed in the sun.
Perhaps forty feet overhead, a fiery avian shape streaked by, flames snapping in the wind of its passing.
Hermione and Suze calmly and simultaneously reached out to steady their respective carafes of tea and hot chocolate just in time to be hit by a violent wall of wind as a massive draconic form the size of a small commercial aircraft whipped by in hot pursuit — also barely forty feet overhead.
"…catch you this time, Fawkes!" Harry's determined voice suddenly reached a peak as he shot by, then the pitch dramatically lowered as he sped away.
As the wind died down, Hermione picked absently at the leaves in her hair. Suze was much too inured to her dragon's antics to bother at this point; she would hardly be able to keep them out for any length of time while the Great Wyrm and the phoenix were still playing, in any case.
"Why does he always have to fly so close?" her human counterpart complained.
"I believe the fire bird finds your reactions amusing," Suze opined. "The Great Wyrm simply follows along as their game dictates."
Suze fell silent for a moment, watching the relatively small but brilliantly glowing bird pull of a series of implausibly tight turns as he led her dragon on a thoroughly impressive chase. She shook her head in disbelief as Harry's much larger form pulled a hairpin turn in pursuit, reversing course entirely within his own length at full sprint.
She couldn't even do that on the ground!
"Harry's gotten a lot better at flying lately," Hermione offered conversationally as Fawkes took off on a new tack.
Suze nodded, her eyes glued to the spectacle as she polished off her current cup.
The phoenix had now managed to line himself up on the picnickers, approaching from the front this time at a slightly higher altitude.
"What is he up to now?" Hermione frowned at the bird, absently refilling her cup of tea. "He usually doesn't repeat tactics so quickly."
The answer came when Fawkes turned sharply just as he passed overhead, heading off at right angles to his original flight path, and more importantly, prompting Harry to bank sharply even as he turned directly over his damsels' heads, scales along his spine limned in luminous magical discharge as his flight organs took up the strain of accelerating his tremendous mass at rates that would make a modern fighter pilot drool with envy. The maneuver brought his extended wingtip within just a few meters of the ground, and, more importantly, enveloped the picnic site in the vortex of wind generated by the passage of such.
"Harry James Potter!" Hermione yelled angrily even as she levered herself off the ground and clawed the upturned blanket off her face. "You come down here right this minute!"
The bushy-haired girl scrambled to her feet to run across the moor after the flying pair, waving her arms at them angrily. Her now-empty teacup flashed in the sun, its former contents matting down her hair and contributing rather prominently to her current ire.
All the while, the honking laughter of the mischievous phoenix rang brilliantly across the moor.
3.8.2 Interview with a Hat
Monday afternoon found Harry, accompanied by his centaur damsel, walking down a seldom used hallway high in the east wing of the castle on his way to a recently reopened classroom. He had never had the opportunity to visit the area, which led to the young dragon using the occasion to gawk at all of the unfamiliar paintings and other scenery like the most blatantly obvious tourist imaginable. Had it not been for Suze's grounding presence and occasional insistent prodding, he might well never have made it to his destination.
Hermione and Abigail's schedules were still quite thoroughly occupied for the next hour and a half, but Harry's classes had ended for the day, prompting the young dragon to book the time for a long-overdue conversation. As he reached his destination, Harry opened the door for Suze and felt the newly installed wards take his measure, only to be greeted by a gruff voice from inside the room.
"It took you long enough, Mr. Potter," the Sorting Hat complained peevishly. "When I told you to take your time to get settled, I meant a few weeks, not over a year!"
"Sorry, Donald," the contrite dragon apologized as Suze settled in to one corner of the small classroom with a book. Harry had warned that this would likely be a boring conversation for her, contained as it would be within the minds of the participants. "I meant to, but then that thing with the troll happened, and then I was busy making friends with Hermione and Abigail, and then there was that whole thing with the philosopher's stone, and, well, I kinda forgot in all the hullabaloo until Mr. Dumbledore reminded me last week."
"Well, don't dawdle any further, put me on so I can catch up!" the animated headwear demanded. "If you've been so busy, then you should know better than to delay."
Harry quickly complied, shifting the conversation from an audible to a mental forum in the process.
"Hmm, you have been busy, haven't you, Mr. Potter?" Donald mused. "Very busy indeed. Though you seem to have adapted well to your life as a student. So many independent projects! All four of the founders would have been delighted to host such a diligent student."
"Thanks!" Harry replied with a pleased smile.
"How have you progressed on your political aspirations, then?" the Hat asked.
"Couldn't you just read that from my mind?" the dragon queried with a thoughtful frown. "I thought that's what you were doing."
"I could, indeed, Mr. Potter," Donald confirmed. "And were the purpose of this exercise simply to keep me informed, that would be sufficient; however I am to offer counsel, and that requires an active conversation for it to be of any use to you."
"Oh! Okay, that makes sense," Harry replied. "And on that stuff, well, Mr. Snape, Suze, and I have talked a lot, and I just recently bought out Hog's Haulage. I figure we can use that to out-compete some of the nastier folks what supported that Voldemort-guy, and Mr. Slackhammer talked about setting up something using that to help get some of the people who got enslaved out of the country." Harry frowned thoughtfully, "I think they've got something arranged with the Confederacy for housing and rehabilitation, but they haven't shared the details. Mr. Snape figures the first thing to do is economic warfare, then we'll go to political, and then we'll finish up with violence when we push as far as we can without."
"I see," the Hat mused. "Rough, but perhaps serviceable."
"We're still working on it," Harry protested.
"I understand, Mr. Potter. I certainly wouldn't expect you to have a perfect plan so quickly — not for such an ambitious goal," Donald assured him. "Though, on that note, perhaps we should touch on an aspect of the problem that your co-conspirator has missed."
"What do you mean?" the young dragon asked curiously before his tone shifted to one of dawning horror as a possibility occurred to him. "Is the wizarding world actually worse than Mr. Snape described?"
"Not exactly, his descriptions fit my understanding of the situation for the most part," the sentient headwear temporized, giving the oddest mental impression of a hand waving dismissively — quite the trick from something which lacked anything resembling a hand. "When Severus laid out the reasons for the moral decay of the wizarding world — the rampant slavery and exploitation and everything else — what did he claim was the root cause?"
"Um…" under the Hat's brim, Harry's currently human face screwed up in thought. "Mostly it was the mind spells and stuff, right? He said they let people do really bad stuff and get away with it, so over time everyone just got worse and worse."
"He did," the Hat affirmed, having seen the conversation itself in perusing Harry's memories. "And that is correct, as far as it goes. Allowing crime and immorality to go unpunished does have a corrupting effect on society, but it is not the spells that are to blame. They do not cast themselves, after all."
As his draconic conversation partner perked up with interest under his brim, Donald continued, "I have had the unique opportunity to encounter countless young minds over the course of my millennium-long existence. Some have gone on to do great good, and some have gone on to do great evil. Do you know the difference between the two groups when they passed under my brim?"
"No, what was it?" Harry asked eagerly.
"Nothing."
"Huh?" A puzzled frown crossed the young dragon's currently human face.
"There was no perceptible difference between those who went on to do great good and those who went on to do great evil when they were Sorted — no common thread that would allow you to choose between the two," Donald explained. "From that point, they were raised the same way, taught the same things — including many of those spells that young Severus is so quick to blame — and released into the same larger world. Then from those common beginnings, some went on to become saints, and others twisted themselves into demons."
"Then what changed?" Harry asked, still frowning. "Why did some go one way and not the other?"
"I cannot truly speak with authority on the subject as I am incapable of speaking from personal experience," the Hat demurred, "but I would hazard the guess that it is 'choice'. People, souls, Namers — whatever you call them — are capable of recognizing good and evil and freely choosing to pursue one or the other. It is your greatest power, and it is your greatest responsibility."
The conversation fell silent for a moment as that sank in.
"But what about those mind spells? Don't they force people to act a certain way?" the young dragon asked after a thoughtful interlude. "I mean, wouldn't that mean people can't choose good or evil?"
"Those spells… they can force the behavior of other people, but they do nothing to force the actions of the ones using them," Donald clarified. "The choice to do evil by using those spells is one freely made. It does no one any good to absolve those who do evil of responsibility in favor of blaming some collection of tools, no matter how ill-conceived. If you wish to fix the world, Mr. Potter, you will have to get people to choose of their own accord to do good rather than evil."
The young dragon pondered that for a few moments. "So how do you get people to pick good over bad?"
"Well, your plan addresses half of it," the Hat answered. "Not completely, of course, but as you said, it's a work in progress. Your plans currently focus on punishing people for doing bad things, and that is necessary. However, if you only do that, then eventually someone will learn to hide well enough to avoid you, and things will slowly creep back to where they are now. You need something more."
"Like what?" the young proto-revolutionary asked eagerly.
"The bit you are missing, Mr. Potter, is the encouragement to do good."
"You mean like bribing them?" Harry cocked his head and considered the idea with a thoughtful frown. "I guess if we got enough money…"
"No, no," the Hat laughed. "For some small things that might suffice, but not for the long term. To be sure, it is a good secondary incentive, but if you tie the motivation to do good solely to a desire for wealth, then eventually someone is going to find a way to accrue a greater benefit by doing bad than you're offering them to do good. It is unreliable. You need to find a way to convince people to behave properly for no other reason than that it is the right way to behave — a code of conduct for society as a whole."
"In short, you need to find a way to instill a moral compass into the wizarding population," Donald concluded. "Give them something to aspire to, rather than simply a set of things to avoid, else you will be fighting a losing battle."
"How am I supposed to do that?" Harry whined. "I mean, I'm still learning how I'm supposed to behave!"
"How am I supposed to know? I'm just a hat, thinking or otherwise," the Hat laughed. "There is a reason I told you your dream was the most ambitious I'd ever heard of back when I Sorted you!"
"Then why did you bring it up?" Harry frowned, somewhat distressed.
"To get you thinking about it," Donald replied matter-of-factly. "I may not know how to solve the problem, but I can at least tell you it exists!"
"Well, thanks, I guess," Harry said uncertainly before trailing off into silence.
The mental silence stretched on for a time as Harry processed what had been said. The young dragon shook his head, Donald flopping about gently with the motion but not protesting. That would require a lot more thinking than he had time for now.
Though, come to think of it, the Hat had said something which Harry thought needed a bit more explanation. He was about to bring it up, when another voice interrupted him, this one audible.
"Harry, it's time for us to meet Hermione and Abigail at the library," Suze broke the silence, looking at the angle of the sun coming through the classroom window. "You wanted me to remind you."
"Thanks, Suze," Harry acknowledged quietly. It seemed his other question would have to wait for another time. "And thanks, Donald. Do you think I can come back and talk some more after I think about things?"
"Any time, Mr. Potter, it's my raison d'être, after all," the Sorting Hat replied audibly once more as his two visitors prepared to leave the classroom. "My schedule is free until next September!"
3.8.3 Projects
Harry's conversation with Donald had given the young dragon a great deal to think on, and as was his usual habit, much of that thinking took place while he occupied himself with other things.
Over the course of the past weeks, Harry had come to treat Defense much the same way he had always treated History with Professor Binns — as a free study hour. Unlike Binns, Lockhart actually called on him sometimes, so he had to keep an ear out, but the man never actually asked anything substantive, so it was a fairly safe strategy.
Between Defense and History, Harry had plenty of time to finish his homework during the class day, which left him with little to occupy his off-hours. Still, between his general reading and other pursuits, Harry managed to find ways to fill the void. For instance, two months' hard work had developed Harry's control with the first alchemy exercise quite well, but he still fell short of the standards Dumbledore had set for the second, so that remained an ongoing pursuit.
Harry's work with electricity likewise continued apace. His most recent attempt was a runic array with one-hundred-seventeen-fold symmetry designed to, hopefully, convert raw magic into electric current efficiently. While even his first attempts had proven effective at the task, tolerable efficiency remained as distant as ever, and etching the runic arrays…
Ugh.
At first the task had been a pleasant one, a good choice to occupy the hands and leave the mind free, but as the arrays became more complicated, the task stretched out to absurdity. Absurdity exemplified by the latest monstrosity which, if etched by hand, he estimated would take nearly a year and a half to complete, assuming no screw-ups.
It was that circumstance which had led to his current favorite project, a project which, judging by the last test he had just run, was now ready for operation.
3.8.4 Showing off?
The year had passed well into autumn, and autumn had painted the Black Woods with great swathes of fiery color interspersed with the dark green of the pines. The vibrant panoply of the trees passed by far beneath Abigail's feet as she flew overhead on a borrowed school broom on her way to her friend's home.
Harry had apparently finished something he wanted to show her, and he had asked her to visit which had resulted in her current descent towards the excitedly bouncing dragon waiting at the entrance to his Lair. As he was currently in his native form, that made for a whole lot of 'bounce'.
"Hey, Abigail!" he greeted her enthusiastically as touched down on the lip of the Lair. "You gotta come check it out!"
"Let me at least set down the broom first, Harry!" Abigail protested good-naturedly. "There's plenty of time yet before I have to be back for my patrol."
Harry bounced along impatiently as she put her words into action. As she did so, Hermione and Suze waved at her from the sitting area, making no move to get up. Their innocent smiles clearly showed their delight at having Abigail there to absorb some of the dragon's burgeoning enthusiasm — and consequently avoiding it themselves.
Lousy gits, Abigail groused to herself good-humoredly, shooting Harry's damsels a gimlet glare which was received with aplomb. See if she helped them with anything any time soon.
"Now, what is this about?" she asked the dragon in the room.
"Ooh, ooh, come on, I'll show you!" her draconic friend gushed, heading off into the deeper parts of the Lair. "It took me a whole month to put it together right, but I finally got it."
"And what is it?" she asked again as they approached what looked to be a recently excavated room.
Harry looked back under his shoulder and met her eyes with his own even as he smoothly shifted into his human form — the transition made for an odd sight, particularly since he started out looking back under his wing and ended up looking back over his human shoulder.
"You remember when we talked over summer?" he asked.
"Yes," Abigail said leadingly, "but we talked about a lot of things. What is it in particular?"
She hoped desperately that it wasn't one of the awkward bits. She had no desire to revisit those.
"Well, you remember I told you how I'd ordered a CNC machine to help with engraving those runes?"
"Yes," the older girl nodded.
Thank goodness, she was clear!
"Well, it came in with us on the Express," Harry said, "and I've been working on getting it working ever since. Now I've got all the parts working, and I got 'em put together right, and now it's time to start the whole thing properly! Come on!"
And with that, the currently boy-shaped dragon disappeared around the rough-hewn corner of the opening into a larger room beyond. Abigail followed only to stop in shock when the contents of the room came into view.
"What on earth?" she exclaimed.
Roughly twice the size of the Great Hall back at the castle, the space was hewn out of solid stone, claw and bite marks still clearly visible on the walls and ceiling, though the floor was much smoother. It was lit by some sort of brightly glowing tubes — much brighter than the little glowing jars lighting up the rest of the Lair — contained in pairs in small metal boxes which were tacked up to the ceiling in a fairly regular grid pattern and connected by some sort of gray cable strung up along the ceiling. That same cable also ran along the ceiling to the end of the room where it came down and ran into… something.
Whatever it was, it seemed to consist of a number of large cabinets, each composed of a gleaming combination of aluminum, glass, steel, and some sort of dull whitish material with which Abigail was unfamiliar. The strange construction she could have dealt with, but the scale threw her for a loop. The collection was easily larger than the Slytherin common room.
"You need all of that to engrave some silver balls?"
It was the first question that came to mind when she finally recovered her voice.
"Um, well," her friend began awkwardly, "I might have gotten a tad more than I really needed." He looked down at the floor while scuffing at the rough stone with his foot. "I kinda just got the highest-end model they had in the catalogue. It's got enough precision though! Accurate down to a ten-thousandth of an inch over the full working range, if you run it with the right settings. That's about a tenth of the thickness of a human hair!" Harry boasted. "That means it'll be able to handle my runes easy."
Abigail wandered over to the device, running her hand over the smooth surface. "How much did you pay for this anyway?"
Her friend looked away again, mumbling something unintelligible.
She deliberately met his eye. "Harry," she said expectantly.
"About two hundred thousand galleons," he said sheepishly.
"Two hundred thousand... Harry, that's almost a fifth of what you spent on Hog's Haulage!" Abigail exclaimed. "Can you afford to spend that much on a hobby?"
"Well... I probably should have bought something smaller," her friend admitted, "but I've got the money, and the engraving stuff will pay off eventually if I can get it to work right." He brightened, "Plus, even though I hadn't thought of it when I ordered it, this'll be really useful for the trains too! I mean, it can handle stuff up to eight feet wide and up to ten feet long, well thirty feet really, as long as you turn between centers and it's shaped right to use intermediate supports... oh, and you've got enough ballast to keep the machine stable, this one's bolted to the bedrock though, so it should be good. Anyway, that means it's big enough to handle just about any part of the trains except the actual boiler!"
"Fine," she said, exasperated but dropping the question of fiscal responsibility for the moment. "So how does this work?"
With that, the currently boy-shaped dragon jumped into action beginning by walking her through loading a blank into the machine, a fist-sized silver casting which looked utterly ridiculous mounted within the room-sized apparatus. The he explained the functions of the various pieces, before turning on some weird device that displayed pictures on a glass screen that she couldn't really make sense of. Supposedly that was the thinking part of the contraption which controlled the rest of it.
"And then, you throw this switch to power up the control and power circuitry that runs the servo motors that actually do the work," Harry explained as he put his words into action.
After one final check, he flicked one heavy-duty toggle switch on a board sporting several dozen similar ones.
There was a brief groaning hum before first the glass screen from earlier went dark, followed shortly thereafter by the lights on the ceiling, plunging the pair — and for that matter, the entire Lair — into inky darkness.
"Hey!" an unseen Harry objected. "That's not supposed to happen!"
There was a click from the same direction as her young friend's voice, and the lights slowly flickered back on, revealing a vision of Harry frantically checking and rechecking the various connections he had earlier explained in far too much detail for Abigail's comfort.
"What went wrong?" Harry's voice echoed plaintively from where he had his head stuck in an electrical cabinet. "I checked out everything like five times, and then it goes and stops working right when I try to show it to my friend?"
"This is so embarrassing."
It was a side of her friend that Abigail didn't often see. Normally the young dragon was self-assured to a fault. Seeing him so flustered was… well, it was honestly kind of funny, and it had the older girl right on the verge of laughter, only barely managing to restrain herself to salve her friend's feelings.
"It's not my fault!" the young dragon's voice rang out.
Abigail choked back another laugh.
"Huh, wait a minute…" Harry said, still partially muffled by the cabinet he was searching through. "If there's six of those, then the computer for control, then the main drive, the spindle, plus the other servos, then it'd need… oh..." he trailed off, falling into silence for a moment.
"Huh, I guess it kinda was my fault after all."
Abigail lost her valiant struggle and burst into giggles.
3.8.5 Mentor of Heroes
A sixth-year girl blushed rosily as she handed in her homework assignment, and the young, handsome Defense professor absently flashed her a winsome smile. She hurriedly retreated to her desk, throwing furtive glances back at her professor all the while — passing a darkly scowling male classmate on the way — and almost reluctantly prepared to leave along with the rest of the class.
She would have been disappointed to learn that the man had barely registered her presence, his thoughts turned inward.
Gilderoy Lockhart was already more than a month into his tenure as the Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and things had not gone to plan. Oh, he was getting by well enough with his teaching by his reckoning; half his students seemed to hang on his every word, so obviously he must be passing on something worthwhile. Nevertheless, that was not enough.
Despite his words at the opening feast, the famous author had not taken the job because he wanted to teach.
Appearance trumped substance. That was a lesson that Gilderoy had learned early in life, and it had only been reinforced since. His job as a Ministry Obliviator when he first graduated from Hogwarts had been entirely predicated on that maxim. Obliviators were responsible for ensuring appearances were maintained, and it was a task at which Lockhart was supremely talented.
Later, when he had tired of the capped Ministry salary, he had parlayed that talent for spinning tales into his current career as a swashbuckling adventurer — on paper.
The stories he had written were true, just… a tad exaggerated. A few details here and there changed to make for a better story — things like dramatic timing, appropriate weather, a few names here and there. Nothing too important, in Lockhart's estimation. After all, someone vanquished the Bandon Banshee, why would the name matter? The events were the same regardless, but the books sold better when the characters were consistent across the entire series.
The fans never would have gotten so invested if he'd kept changing the hero's name between every volume!
Even so, Gilderoy had treated his contributors well, paying them handsomely for their stories — not that they knew those 'gifts' were royalty payments, of course, but you had to take the bad with the good if you were going to get anywhere in life. They might not clearly remember their roles in the adventures, but then they clearly hadn't been turning them into profit, either.
The Gentleman Adventurer, on the other hand, had.
It was Gilderoy's talent for spinning a yarn that had made him such a successful obliviator, and it was the same talent that let him turn stories that otherwise would have been worth at most a few free drinks at a local bar into a gold mine of book sales and royalty payments. The original deeds might not have been his, but the polish and showmanship certainly were. In his estimation, the value added was more than enough to justify a few measly obliviations here and there.
Gilderoy knew his business model was a risky one. Book-worthy adventures were by their nature few and far between, and he'd already picked most of the low-hanging fruit. Acquiring further stories would necessarily incur greater risks — either by attempting to lift stories from more talented combatants rather than the unusually lucky but otherwise normal people he'd hit up before, thereby running the very real risk of violent retaliation; or by hitting up more widely-known events, risking the exposure of the masquerade. No, at this point, any future adventures of the Gentleman Adventurer would need to be advanced by keeping his ear to the ground and waiting patiently for new business opportunities.
Unfortunately, that course ran straight into troubled waters.
The sort of reputation Gilderoy had built required a regular stream of fresh material — otherwise the Gentleman Adventurer would quickly become the Washed-Up Has-Been. He had succeeded so far by stringing together a long series of those 'fifteen minutes of fame' people were so fond of talking about; it was a myth built on glitz and action but lacking real substance, and that sort of thing had no real staying power.
Gilderoy hadn't taken on this job to get a new story, nor was it simply an opportunity to promote his already stellar book sales — no, he was here to tell a story. The Gentleman Adventurer was getting to the point in his heroic journey that he needed something more — a certain maturity to solidify his reputation in the long term — and when the opening at Hogwarts had come up, Gilderoy had seen a plum of an opportunity just sitting there, ripe for the taking.
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, would be one of his students.
By virtue of the events back in 1981, the last Potter already had a formidable reputation as wizarding Britain's boy hero, and from what Lockhart had managed to find out over the months leading up to his acceptance of the post, the young wizard had managed to overcome at least one fairly significant challenge in his first year at school. The boy had all the raw talent needed to succeed as a real adventurer, not just a paper tiger, and Gilderoy was certain he would go on to do great things.
Ability aside, though, the boy was young and naïve to the ways of the world. Gilderoy felt that, as the older and more experienced hero, he could step in as a mentor — teach young Harry how to handle the business, manage his reputation, that sort of thing. It would be a good and decent thing to do; there were hidden perils to the sort of fame the young Potter enjoyed, and Lockhart could show him how to navigate them.
And if by doing so, Gilderoy Lockhart could establish himself as the Boy-Who-Lived's mentor in the public eye, then the Gentleman Adventurer, would cement his reputation for the long haul.
Turning the Gentleman Adventurer into the Mentor of Heroes, now that would be lasting fame, and then Gilderoy could delay as much as needed between books without losing momentum. He might even be able to pull down speaking engagements! Having a figure like the Boy-Who-Lived linked to his own reputation would mean the boy's successes would prop up his own, and the boy's fame would only enhance his teacher's. In his business, that was practically a license to mint money! It was a grand plan…
…it was just a bloody shame it wasn't working!
Nothing he had tried had caught Potter's notice. The free books had been accepted with no further comment. The opening quiz hadn't sparked a single smidgen of interest. The pixies he had chosen as a practical lesson — creatures which had sparked so much chaos and confusion in the other classes — had refused to even leave their bloody cage when Potter was in the room. Heck, they took one look at him and slammed the door shut themselves!
Every attempt he had made to engage the boy in class had been met with indifference; that was not to say Potter had been reluctant to participate, but there had been no enthusiasm, no spark. It was almost as if the boy saw him as just another part of the scenery.
It was a knotty sort of problem, one Gilderoy had no idea how to address. Luckily, he had the rest of the year to go. He was sure to think of something eventually.
Until then, he supposed he'd have to play it by ear.
3.8.6 Jury-rigging
Currently in human-looking form, Harry knelt near the entrance to the Lair, tightening down the last of the screws on an electrical junction box he had installed next to the car-sized bulk of his diesel-powered welder. Heavy electrical wire stretched off from the junction box to the ceiling of the Lair, and from there off into the depths of the tunnel network he had been steadily expanding whenever the mood struck. At the far end, it ran into the electrical cabinet on the overlarge CNC the young dragon had so embarrassingly failed to demonstrate for his friend the previous week.
Harry had been quick to realize his folly once he had calmed down from embarrassing himself in front of Abigail. The entire Lair ran off one tiny improvised hydroelectric turbine. It worked fine for lighting — though even that would have overtaxed things eventually as the facility continued to expand — but the machining equipment was much more demanding than mere lighting.
When the young dragon had tested things beforehand, he had tested each subsystem independently, and the electrical grid had handled the strain. Attempting to run it all together, though, had overloaded the system, and everything had shut down.
It had taken Harry a while to figure out a workable solution, but he'd gotten a good piece of advice from one of his new engineers at Hog's Haulage — and wasn't it cool that he had engineers now? Meeting the new-hires over the course of the previous week had been loads of fun, and Harry had decided then and there that they were having a company Christmas party, barbecue and all, so he could meet the rest of his employees! It was going to be awesome! But anyway, his new engineer had suggested getting a generator, and then Harry had remembered his other major purchase from the beginning of the year.
Harry patted the chassis of the welder fondly as he plugged a specially designed cable into the welder's auxiliary power output, the other end of which he had just finished wiring into his recently installed junction box. The welder he had purchased ran on diesel, chosen because Harry already had a ready supply of that for his own consumption. Rated for continuous duty and with a fuel tank sufficient to run for eight hours before refueling, the diesel-powered welder/generator combination would be an excellent intermediate solution until he figured out something more permanent.
"Right," he took a deep breath and started up the generator.
As the diesel engine roared to life, Harry winced and rubbed at his ears before heading off into the depths of the Lair. He had a job to set up on the CNC, and then he had classes to attend.
And maybe, depending on how the job he was setting up turned out, he might soon have a quieter alternative to the current generator available.
3.8.7 Soiled
Gilderoy Lockhart gazed out over his classroom, a sea of eager young faces looking back at him, awaiting his every word. Well, all except one, anyway.
Unfortunately, it was that one whose attention Gilderoy was after.
Perhaps his new gambit would work better than the previous ones.
"Today, we try something new," the dandy professor began, causing most of the room to perk up. "We will reenact the events of one of my books, Wanderings with Werewolves, so that you all might get firsthand experience — or at least as close as you can get without risking life and limb!"
He chuckled at his own witticism, prompting a tinkling twitter of laughter from the class in response.
"We will begin with the scene in the tavern. Miss Abbot, Miss Bones, how would you like to play the waitresses?"
The beginnings of the class went swimmingly. The various students participating with unusual enthusiasm, rather intrigued by the change of pace. Gilderoy skillfully managed the ensuing chaos as he led up to the point he had been aiming for from the beginning.
"Now, for the werewolf!" The blond dandy looked around, pretending to deliberate over his choice for the one role which interacted most closely with his own. "Mr. Potter! You haven't played a role yet! How about this one?"
Harry Potter looked up in surprise before smiling and nodding agreeably as he rose from his chair.
Lockhart could hardly believe his luck! He finally had an in! Who knew the Boy-Who-Lived would appreciate acting?
Acting was even something Gilderoy was genuinely talented at. It would be a prime candidate for mentoring!
He had set the hook — now he just had to land it.
"Now, Mr. Potter, you are playing a ferocious werewolf," Lockhart explained. "How do you think you should sell the character, so your classmates can really get a feel for it?"
"Um," the small boy frowned in thought. "Maybe I should growl? Werewolves growl, don't they?"
"Of course, they do!" Gilderoy didn't really know whether they did or not, nor did he care so long as the Potter boy stayed enthusiastic and interested for once. "Now, the scene calls for you to approach me from around the corner — we're treating the desk there as the corner of the building — and growl menacingly. Go for it!"
The energetic boy bounced around the desk before he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, seeming to concentrate on something. His green eyes snapped open, and he boldly stalked around the desk with an unnaturally smooth gait — almost seeming to glide over the ground, his shoes making no sound at all on the stone floor.
The blond dandy already felt his guts clenching nervously. The undersized boy who looked like he was at least a few years too young to even be attending Hogwarts moved oddly, like he was the most dangerous thing for a thousand miles in any given direction, and he knew it.
And then he growled.
The growl started out low, pitched below human hearing but intense enough for Gilderoy to feel each successive pressure front at it impacted his gut, each one a jarring reminder that there was something dangerous afoot, something predatory, something that a deep, atavistic part of him recognized and regarded with unabashed and unadulterated terror.
The successive impacts came faster and faster until they finally transitioned into the audible range as a basso-profundo rumble. The volume then kept rising, louder and louder until the desks rattled against the floor, not that Gilderoy knew that. His world was filled entirely with the sound of the growl and a vision of cold green eyes.
It was, far and away, the most intimidating sound the blond author had ever heard! For that matter, it was the most intimidating sound he had ever heard of, and he had talked with a lot of people who had faced a lot of very intimidating things.
Then the sound abruptly cut off.
"How was that?" asked a bright, childish voice, even as those same terrifying green eyes looked innocently into his blue ones.
Gilderoy's mouth moved soundlessly for a few moments as he attempted to regain a sense of equilibrium. "That was… excellent work?" he managed to squeak out.
The blond man looked around at the class, noting all the stunned expressions on the faces of children frozen in place by stark terror. As he turned to get a view of those behind him, he felt more than heard a faint squelch. The dandy frowned at the feeling before he realized it was accompanied by an unpleasantly moist warmth and it became clear what had happened.
Well, shit.
"Yes, Mr. Potter, that was truly excellent work!" He said hurriedly, fear of mortifying humiliation temporarily giving him the impetus to overcome his recent bout with literally bowel-voiding terror. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid we will need to cut the rest of the class short for now; I've just remembered a pressing appointment. Class dismissed!"
And with that, Gilderoy beat a hasty retreat to his office and a set of clean clothes.
He hoped he managed to get there before the silk soaked through enough to be visible.
3.8.8 Growling lessons
As the office door closed behind the blond fop of a Defense professor, the classroom remained silent for a moment before a voice rang out.
"Bloody hell, Potter, how did you do that?" one of the Ravenclaw boys demanded. "That was awesome!"
"Awesome?" another of the boys asked. "That's an understatement if I ever heard one; that was bloody terrifying; I almost shat myself!"
For his part, Harry preened under the attention. "Um, well, a few years ago, I really wanted to learn how to growl real good, right?" At the other student's nods, he continued, "Well, I knew Mr. Snape already, and he's a really good growler, so I asked him if he could teach me how…."
"Wow, Snape can do that too?" one of the Ravenclaw girls interrupted incredulously. "I know you said he really wasn't out to get us last year, but I had no idea he was holding back that much!"
"Um, well, I don't actually know if Mr. Snape can do that," the dragon in the room qualified. "See, Mr. Snape didn't want to bother teaching me to growl, but he set me up with one of his friends who he said could growl even better than him, Mrs. Chelmsford! Eventually, I got to meet her, and she taught me how to growl proper." He finished with a firm nod.
"You mean a girl can do that?" Susan spoke up for the first time. When her housemate nodded, she breathed, "I could be even scarier than Aunt Amelia!"
With that, the class descended into excited chattering about growling lessons and the potential utility thereof, while one petite, dark-haired Ravenclaw sat quietly in the corner and watched the one at the root of the whole business speculatively.
The chaos lasted until someone finally thought to check the time, and then everyone rushed to get to their next class.
3.8.9 Dead end
Warm, artificial lighting glinted off the precisely machined edges of a silver hemisphere as Harry held it up for inspection. Both the internal and external surfaces of the piece were etched in a minutely detailed tracery of almost impossibly complicated runework.
The dragon sighed in relief that it had worked. It would have taken forever to do that by hand. Using the computer-controlled mill, it had still taken five days — the tool path was almost fifty miles long — but that was for two copies, plus a custom-machined Delrin ring to separate them which actually let the pieces snap together without screws or anything!
It was so neat!
However, Harry hadn't made the thing just to look pretty, and now it was time to test it. He snapped the two hemispheres and their insulating ring together before attaching the leads to his test apparatus. It still included an incandescent bulb for nostalgia's sake, but after his third attempt had made the original explode, he had added a supplementary bank of heavy-duty resistors to safely dissipate any excess energy. He had also invested in a multimeter which was currently hooked up across the test load to give a more precise picture of how things were working.
"Well, I guess this is the moment of truth," Harry murmured to himself. "Here goes nothing."
And with that, he inserted the tip of his wand into the newly machined device and pushed in a measured amount of magic. The bulb lit, much brighter than it had a year before, but the young dragon still frowned. Taking note of the measured voltage from the multimeter, he quickly switched out the newest sphere for one of his previous ones and repeated the procedure, working his way methodically through each of his previous attempts.
Harry had gotten far enough along in his alchemy studies to have a solid idea of just how much real energy he was putting into his casting now, at least he did if it was a big enough chunk of his total capacity for him to feel it properly. Armed with that knowledge and the multimeter readings, a bit of math led him to a plot of conversion efficiency versus runic complexity across his various attempts.
"Well, darn," the young dragon slumped in disappointment.
The plot was flattening out much too fast for Harry's peace of mind. Grabbing a ruler, he extrapolated out to an acceptable sort of conversion efficiency, given the current rate of improvement, only to realize the truth as his extrapolated curve reached the edge of the graph paper.
"Oh, man," the currently human-shaped dragon slouched back in his chair. "At this rate, even if we got it down to writing out the runes using individual silver atoms, it'd still barely hit twenty-five percent conversion efficiency."
"I wonder what's causing that? The lightning-rod runes are way more efficient... way simpler, too," he scratched at his head. "Maybe some kind of asymmetry, so it's easy to go one way, but not the other?"
"Huh."
The dragon shook his currently human-shaped head. "Something to look into, for sure, but no matter how you slice it, this kills my direct runic-conversion idea for good. With those losses, it won't work for much of anything, not unless energy gets so cheap it's free."
He buried his face in his hand as he sighed in frustration.
Harry sat, staring at the results from between his spread fingers for a few long moments before getting up and smoothly transitioning to his native form as he walked away.
"I'm gonna go for a fly," he announced to the Lair at large. "Suze, Hermione, either of you want to join me for a flight? I need some fresh air."
A few minutes later, the damning graph fluttered gently in the backwash from its author's wings.
3.8.10 Irritation
Another October day and Hermione Granger again found herself in the potions lab. Her partner, Neville Longbottom, was currently focused on finely mincing the spriggan leaves required for their current potion — a task which she had finally managed to train him to reliably accomplish after nearly a year's worth of effort — leaving Hermione with time for her mind to wander off to other, unrelated subjects.
The bushy-haired girl's interest was currently caught by two of the boys in the class, not because she was developing an interest in them as might be expected for a girl her age, but rather because she was quite infuriated at their very presence.
Which, come to think of it, was probably the second most probable reason for a girl her age to be focused on a boy.
The boys in question were a few years older than her cohort, and they were helping her professor administer the class, purportedly as a punishment.
Some punishment.
It just wasn't fair! Hermione bemoaned the situation, gripping the edge of the lab table until her knuckles turned white. The twins had caused all that trouble back at the beginning of the year, and then they got to be teaching assistants. Why couldn't she be a teaching assistant? She worked hard and studied ahead; they just pulled a stupid prank and then got rewarded for it!
Some of the older students even said Professor Snape might be taking them on as apprentices!
So unfair! What were the professors thinking?
Almost subconsciously, her hand released its white-knuckled grip on the lab bench and snapped over to keep Neville from adding the entire stack of minced leaves at once, a mistake which would have led to the potion bubbling over and being lost beyond recovery. It was a skill she had learned the hard way over the course the last year. She sighed in exasperation before catching Neville's attention and explained — again — what he had almost done.
At least he was a good distraction.
3.8.11 Requests
"Are you feeling alright, Harry?" Abigail asked her young friend.
They were once again at their usual library table, and Abigail sat at her usual spot across from the boy. Suze sat at the end, but Hermione was elsewhere, something to do with potions, if Abigail recalled correctly.
"Yeah, I'm okay," the currently boy-shaped dragon replied in an unusually subdued voice as he stared listlessly at a blank notebook before him, quill in hand.
"You don't sound okay," she countered.
"Just had that project I'd been working on take a bad turn," Harry explained, setting down the quill in favor of the conversation. "The rune systems I made just aren't gonna cut it for what I wanted to do, so I gotta think of something else to try. I'm sure I'll figure it out eventually, but it's a bit of a let-down, ya know?"
"Ah," the seventh-year said knowingly. "I know how that goes. I mean, Defense has just been one long let-down this year; Professor Lockhart doesn't teach us anything."
"I know," Harry commiserated. "I've just been treating his class as a study period — like History."
"Same here," Abigail agreed. "The problem is I've got the NEWTs coming up, and I have no idea if my independent study is going to be enough." She sighed, "Why couldn't we have gotten a competent teacher this year?"
"Would you like me to help?" Harry offered after a moment's thought. "Not so sure I can do much for you with the practical stuff, but I can at least look over the theory and quiz you on it and stuff."
Abigail's eyes lit up. "Would you? It'd be great to get a fresh perspective on things."
"Sure!" Harry smiled. "Always happy to help a friend! Plus, it'll give me something to work on while I try to figure out a different approach to that project, too. Everybody wins!"
"Thanks, Harry!"
The table fell silent for a time before Harry spoke up again.
"Hey, Abigail?" he asked.
"Yes?"
"I was just thinking; who runs the NEWT thingy?"
Abigail frowned thoughtfully, "I think it's the Examinations Authority, but I don't know who's in charge there. Why do you ask?"
"Just had an idea that might help," Harry replied evasively. "I'll try to remember to give it a shot next week, figure they might be away for Halloween."
"Oh!" Abigail exclaimed. "That's this weekend, isn't it?" At Harry's incredulous look, she said defensively, "I've been worried about the Defense thing, so I haven't been looking at the calendar."