Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

Harry wasn't even surprised anymore when Professor McGonagall cornered him at breakfast with that brisk tone of hers and said, "Mr. Potter, you will report to Professor Lockhart's office at seven clock this evening. Your detention begins tonight."

He opened his mouth to argue—it had been weeks since the car incident—but she silenced him with a look that could freeze a Hungarian Horntail mid-flight.

"Mr. Weasley," she added, glancing past him, "you'll be polishing the trophy room. No magic."

So that was that.

That evening, as the Darkness grew long and the hallways thinned, Harry trudged reluctantly up the stairs to Lockhart's office. He paused briefly outside the door, hearing a strangely rhythmic voice echoing from within.

"Oh, Marigold, I did blush when I read that—but really, your admiration is far too flattering…"

Harry rolled his eyes and knocked.

The door swung open with an eager, theatrical flick, and there stood Gilderoy Lockhart in what could only be described as "casual hero couture"—a velvet dressing gown embroidered with swirling silver dragons, his teeth gleaming unnaturally even in candlelight.

"Ah, Harry, there you are!" Lockhart beamed. "Right on time. Excellent! Fame and punctuality—it's rare to see the two together."

Harry stepped in cautiously.

 "I hope you haven't gone and petrified another student for attention," Lockhart said to him.

Lockhart continued as he walked through his office , then chuckled with forced amusement. "Oh, Harry," he said, turning with a glimmer in his too-blue eyes. "Let's not pretend, shall we? Between the two of us, we both know what it's like to crave a little spotlight."

Harry blinked, unsure whether to be insulted or baffled.

Lockhart continued, voice dropping to a faux-confidential tone. "You saw me steal your thunder at the start of term, didn't you? Couldn't have been easy for you—youngest Seeker in a century, then suddenly Gilderoy Lockhart waltzes in and the crowd shifts."

"I didn't—" Harry started, but Lockhart held up a hand.

"Now, now. No need to deny it. I understand, Harry. I truly do. But petrifying a fellow student to reclaim your glory? I must say, it's a bit… extreme, even for dramatic effect."

Harry stared at him, mouth slightly open in disbelief. "I didn't petrify Malfoy."

"Of course you didn't," Lockhart said quickly. "And I didn't wipe out the Wagga Wagga Werewolf using only a quill and my charm. These things just happen when you're special."

Harry wanted to scream.

"Now!" Lockhart clapped his hands. "Let's set all that aside and reply to these delightful fan letters. They've come from all over the country. Sit, sit!"

He gestured to a low stool beside a stack of unopened parchment envelopes.

Two painful hours followed. Harry scribbled responses under Lockhart's dictation—thank-yous, personalized compliments, flirtatious remarks he was deeply uncomfortable writing, especially when one girl named Clarisse described "dreaming of running her fingers through your luscious golden locks while riding a hippogriff together into the sunset."

Harry looked up, horrified. "Do I actually have to write this?"

Lockhart winked. "The fans expect authenticity."

Harry ground his teeth and wrote.

Then one letter made him stop. The handwriting was too familiar. His eyes flicked down to the name:

Lyra Potter.

His half-sister.

He read the contents in silence. It was… fangirl nonsense. Lavish praise for Lockhart, confessions of reading Holidays with Hags under her covers at night, and—to add insult to injury—a playful jab at her "annoying half-brother" Harry who "doesn't understand real talent."

Harry's lips twitched in disbelief. He grabbed a new piece of parchment and scribbled back:

Dear Miss Lyra Potter,

While I appreciate your creative writing, I must remind you that you are still a child and should not send overly enthusiastic letters to grown men—particularly those who own enchanted self-portraits.

Furthermore, if I see another letter where you mock your older brother, I will write to your father . Consider yourself warned.

With love and extreme affection ,

Lockhart 

He stuffed the reply into the outgoing box, chuckling darkly.

The last letter was from Molly Weasley.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You get fan mail from Ron's mum?"

Lockhart puffed his chest. "Molly's always had good taste."

Harry coughed, very pointedly.

Finally, the torture ended.

"I've finished, Professor," Harry announced.

Lockhart leaned back in his chair. "Marvelous. Thank you, Harry. And remember what I said—fame must be worn with grace. Don't get too carried away trying to steal it back. Be humble."

Harry didn't answer. He was already halfway out the door.

⸻

He met Ron at the bottom of the stairs. His friend's robes were covered in polish stains, and he smelled faintly of metal.

"Let me guess," Harry muttered. "Flich watched you the whole time and called you names."

"Worse," Ron said. "He breathed on me. I'm pretty sure he's part troll."

They started walking back toward the common room.

"At least you didn't have to read Lockhart's fan letters," Harry groaned. "One of them was from my half-sister. I think she's actually in love with him."

Ron looked aghast. "That's… horrible."

"I know."

As they rounded a corner near the library, Ron suddenly shrieked and ducked behind Harry.

"What?" Harry asked, startled.

"Spiders!"

And sure enough, a line of tiny brown spiders was crawling along the stone wall in eerie formation—hundreds of them, all moving toward a dark window and slipping out into the night.

"Okay, that's weird," Harry said.

Ron, already a few feet back, was pale. "That's more than weird, that's a nightmare. Why are they leaving the castle?"

Harry stared at the trail. "They're not supposed to do that."

Then he heard it.

A whisper—cold, slithering, distant.

Kill… eat… hunger… let me rip…

Harry's blood froze.

"Ron… did you hear that?"

Ron blinked. "Hear what?"

"That voice… whispering. Like it's coming from the walls."

Ron looked around, bewildered. "Harry, I didn't hear anything."

Another whisper. More like a hiss.

Come to me… I hunger…

Harry stood still for a long moment, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. But the corridor remained dark and empty. And Ron was starting to fidget.

"C'mon," he said nervously. "Let's just go. If Filch catches us again, we'll get another detention. And I'm not scrubbing anything else tonight."

Harry nodded slowly, glancing once more at the window. The spiders were gone.

⸻

When they reached the Gryffindor common room, the place was buzzing.

Students were whispering in corners, glancing toward Harry and pretending not to.

He didn't have to ask. They were talking about Draco.

Some pointed. A few whispered.

Harry kept his head down.

As he trudged up to the dormitory, to sleep as he was tired of a very confusing night.