Unofficial Portkey Archive

Title: Harry Potter's Day Off

Author: Arachne

Shortly thereafter, the trio left Gringotts and the Observation Platform and headed out into the various wizarding streets and roads that intersected the high street of Diagon Alley like a labyrinthe. (They took great care to avoid Psycho Path, Sor Row and En Trail, all of which bordered Knockturn Alley.)

"Where are we off to in such a hurry?" Hermione laughed, as Harry raced down the cobblestone mews of Goinga Way, dragging his two friends behind him.

Harry stood for a moment at an intersection, trying to get his bearings. He turned left, then after two blocks cut through a path and raced up towards a back alley. Finally, he stopped on a large boulevard in front of the ornate wrought-iron doors of Chez Camelot, a very posh restaurant frequented by the most well-to-do and well-known in the wizarding world.

He turned to them with a smile. "Dinner."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look which embodied the best parts of disbelief and apprehension before following Harry up the marble steps, through the double oversized oak doors (held open by a domesticated River Troll in a smart doorman's uniform, no less) and into Chez Camelot's main foyer, where a large fire burned cosily in a gilded fireplace. The restaurant was upholstered in jewel-tone shades of plush velvet, with massive tapestries hanging on the walls woven from golden and silver threads. Instead of chairs at the large, round polished mahogany tables, there were oversized thrones. Best of all, like the Great Hall at Hogwarts during a feast, hundreds of tiny flickering candles hung suspended from the ceiling in little white globes, bathing the room with a soft golden glow.

"Blimey," Hermione breathed, drinking in the opulence.

Ron stood beside her mutely, his slack jaw, wide eyes and red hair creating an impressive impersonation of a goldfish. Harry, on the other hand, drew himself up to his full five feet, eleven-and-a-half inches, and held himself almost regally--as though he was used to eating at Chez Camelot every day of his life.

A lilac-robed maitre'd stood with his back to them, bidding a sycophantic farewell to an elderly pair of wizards who were leaving the restaurant after a business luncheon. He turned around to greet the newcomers, and Harry, Hermione and Ron gasped in unison when they saw his face.

"Prof--Mr--er ... Lockhart?"

Sure enough, the trio's former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher stood before them, in all his splendour. He greeted them with the same dazzling smile they remembered all-too-well, although the familiar twinkle in his eye had been replaced with a faintly vacant, glazed-over look.

"Ha-llo!" he beamed with a toothy grin, taking in the triple expressions of shock plastered across their faces. "No, no--no need to look so starstruck ... I assure you, it really is me, and I really am as modest and humble as you've no doubt heard ... I suppose you'll be wanting an autograph?"

"Er, no ..." Ron stammered, "just a table for lunch, actually. Bloody hell," he muttered to Hermione under his breath, "how'd he manage to escape from St Mungo's?"

"Shut up, Ron!" she hissed back, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

Harry cleared his throat. "Er ... Prof--um--Lock--uh, it's me ... Harry Potter."

Not a flicker of recognition crossed Gilderoy Lockhart's face. In fact, he scowled at his former student rather suspiciously.

"Is something the matter?" Harry asked.

Lockhart crossed his arms in front of his chest contemptuously. "You're Harry Potter?"

"That's right," he said patiently.

"The Boy Who Lived?"

Harry sighed. When would people stop using that tired expression? "Yes, that's me. You taught me at Hogwarts in my second year."

"Perhaps that Memory Charm hasn't entirely worn off yet," Ron muttered to Hermione, and she elbowed him again, scowling.

Lockhart's eyes flickered up to Harry's forehead and frowned. Hermione and Ron followed his gaze, stifling twin gasps of shock at the sight of Harry's smooth, unscarred forehead peeking back at them from under an inky black tuft of hair.

"Your sca--" Hermione began in disbelief, but Ron quickly shushed her.

"Listen here, young man," Lockhart sniffed disdainfully. "Entre nous, I'm very busy at the moment. We have a Ministry of Magic banquet to set up in the Lancelot Room, and Celestina Warbeck's entourage should be arriving any moment now for her private luncheon with Aidan Lynch--you know, the Seeker from the Irish National Quidditch Team?" He spoke loudly and sounded like his usual pompous self for a moment, waving cheerily to a pair of dowager-esque witches who were looking on with interest from the dining room, then fixed his eyes back on Harry coldly. "So why don't you and your chums go back to the nursery, hmm?"

Harry frowned. "Are you suggesting I'm not who I say I am?"

"I'm suggesting you leave before I get stroppy!"

"Stroppy?"

"Shirty!"

"Shirty?"

Ron tugged at Harry's shirtsleeve. "Right, Harry, let's go."

"No! I'm not going anywhere," Harry declared, jerking away from his friend. "We'd like to be seated!"

Lockhart pursed his lips and pointed to the exit. "See here, either you take the field trip outside, or I'm going to have to ring the Ministry!"

"The Min--you're going to ring the Ministry of Magic about me?" Harry said incredulously.

"Indeed," Lockhart sniffed.

Harry was outraged. He didn't care if Lockhart couldn't remember his own name--after everything the man had put them through in second year, Harry would be damned if he gave in to him now.

"Fine. In fact, I'll ring them myself," Harry insisted, gesturing to the fireplace in the foyer with a deliberate flick of Malfoy's wand. He muttered an incantation under his breath and the flames started to turn a pale green colour. Lockhart, his gaze darting around in fury to see which patrons were bearing witness to such insolence, failed to notice.

"Oh yes, do ring the Ministry, indeed," he sneered. "That would be smashing!"

Ron and Hermione looked on, mortified, as Harry pulled a small crimson velvet pouch out of his back pocket and removed a small handful of glittering powder. As he prepared to fling it into the fire, Lockhart suddenly noticed the now acid green-coloured flames and moved between Harry and the fireplace.

"See here--step aside--we've someone else coming through," Lockhart demanded. He made a grab for Harry's hand, but Harry quickly moved his arm away.

"No!"

"I've had quite enough of your shenanigans!" Lockhart fumed, making another swipe at Harry. "Step aside!"

"You touch me, and I yell Niffler!" Harry hissed. "There's another fireplace around here somewhere--find it!"

Lockhart opened his mouth to reply, but caught several elegantly-robed wizards in the nearby dining room peering in dismay at the scene unfolding in the foyer. He closed his mouth and frowned, casting a disparaging once-over at Ron and Hermione, who were standing adjacent to Harry, utterly dumbfounded.

"I weep for the future."

With that, he stormed off down the corridor, his silky lilac robes trailing behind.

"Harry, can we just let it go now, please?" Ron urged. "Come on, let's just go to a pub and grab a bite to ea--"

"Harry, stop messing about!" Hermione pleaded. "You've gone completely over the top!"

Harry shook his head. "A, you can never go completely over the top. B, if I'm going to get done in, it is not going to be by that jumped-up ponce. After what he put us through in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Before Hermione had a chance to protest, Harry quickly cast a Severing Charm on her hair--it instantly shrank to a length just below her chin. Next, he conjured up a pair of dark sunglasses and slipped them upon her nose. Casting what was left of the powder clenched in his hand into the flames, Harry gently manoeuvred her towards the fireplace.

"Ask for Harry Potter," he instructed, ducking out of sight as Hermione gingerly placed her face into the green fire.

A moment later, Hermione was greeted by Lockhart's toothy grin. From what she could see of the room he was in, it looked like a small administrative office. He called out jovially to the face that appeared in his fireplace.

"Hal-lo! Chez Camelot!"

"May I speak to Harry Potter?" Hermione asked in a slightly strained voice. "The Boy Who Lived?"

"Let me see if that's possible," Lockhart answered pleasantly. "Could you describe him for me, please?"

"Er ..." Hermione glanced over at where Harry was standing beside Ron. "Green jumper ... white t-shirt ... black jeans ... He's rather fit," she added. Harry had the good graces to blush demurely, while Ron rolled his eyes.

Lockhart suddenly looked like he had been hit with a Confundus Charm. "Ah ... could you hold a moment, please, madam?"

"Yes, thank you," Hermione smiled wanly. She pulled out of the fire and turned to Harry, a worried expression on her face. "I think he's gone to look for you."

"Perfect," Harry nodded. "Quick--cast one of your portable fire thingamabobs," he urged, shoving Malfoy's wand into her hand.

"Har--"

"Quickly!" Seeing the apprehensive look on her face, Harry smiled at her apologetically. "Please?"

Flustered, Hermione took a deep breath and waved the wand about while mumbling the proper charm. A small ball of flame the size of a dinner plate immediately sprang up in the air before her. She looked at him expectantly.

He nodded in approval, then seized the wand back from her and pointed it at Ron's chin. "Auctio Barbus!"

A long beard reminiscent of Dumbledore's, except ginger in colour, sprouted from Ron's face. Harry then conjured a tall navy blue wizard's hat and reached up to cram it down on top of Ron's head, where it partially obscured his eyes from view.

Quickly, Harry grabbed another small handful of powder from the crimson pouch and threw it onto the ball of fire. It turned the flames the same acid green hue as the ones in the fireplace. He tapped Malfoy's wand to fire and the tip went up in flames.

"What on earth are you--"

Ignoring Ron, Harry turned to the fireplace and dipped the flame-tipped wand into the fire, so the flames from the two sources blended together. After a few moments, he pulled Malfoy's wand out of the fire and blew out the flame at its tip as if it were a large birthday candle.

"I hope you made a wish, mate, because--"

"It'll do in a pinch," Harry interrupted. "If this works, the portable flames should be temporarily connected to the Floo Network." He gripped Ron by the shoulders and pushed his face into the portable fire. "You know what to do, mate--just like this morning."

Ron opened his mouth to complain, but suddenly the restaurant office came into view. Gilderoy Lockhart sat on a magenta-coloured pouffe adjacent to the fire. He addressed the newcomer with a cordial "Hal-lo! Chez Camelot," but his voice notably lacked its previous enthusiasm, as if he were preoccupied with other thoughts. From the look on his face, Ron had the distinct impression Lockhart's addled brain was struggling to piece something together that was just outside his realm of comprehension.

Perhaps I can make it a bit clearer for him, Ron grinned inwardly. Clearing his throat, he affected the posh voice he had used on Snape back at the Burrow. "Mr Lockhart? This is Mr Granger, Department of Magical Law Enforcement ..."

A few minutes later, Harry, a long-haired Hermione and a beardless Ron had been seated at the restaurant's best table. Lockhart personally bestowed a complimentary bottle of vintage mead on them, apologising profusely for their earlier troubles.

"Again, my sincerest apologies for our little faux pas back there, Mr Potter," Lockhart gushed. "I've only just returned to the working world part-time after a rather extended er ... holiday, and I'm afraid my memory for faces and names isn't quite what it used to be. I do appreciate your understanding," he simpered, bowing deeply to Harry.

"Not at all," Harry smiled jovially, "It's understanding that makes it possible for people like us to tolerate a person like yourself."

Lockhart looked puzzled for a moment, then broke out into a great beaming grin. "Why, thank you!"

Harry waved him off with a hand. "Don't mention it."

After a final bow, Lockhart left, and Harry turned to Hermione.

"Darling, you were brilliant," he cooed, toasting her with a golden goblet full of elderflower wine.

She blushed modestly, and Harry turned to his other best friend.

"And Ron--you thought we wouldn't have any fun today, he chided softly. "Shame on you."

Ron rolled his eyes and disappeared behind the enormous leather-bound parchment menu.

Back at Hogwarts, Malfoy paced up and down a deserted fourth floor corridor like a caged Manticore.

Perhaps I'm over-reacting, he thought to himself. Perhaps Potter isn't as sad as I think he is. After all, I have enough money to bankrupt Gringotts plus stunning, male-model good looks, and he's a middle-class-at-best, Mudblood-shagging, scrawny, speccy little orphaned git. Still, why should he get to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants? Why should everything always work out for him? What makes him so bloody special?

His eyes narrowed to little grey slits, the colour of storm clouds.

"Bugger him."

Harry emerged from one of the two cubicles in the men's toilet at Chez Camelot and made his way over to the sinks, where he began to wash his hands from a large bronze sink with taps shaped like Lobalugs.

"I used to think I was the only person I knew who grew up without the support of his parents," he mused to himself, as a blue-and-gold robed attendant waited patiently to hand him a towel. "That used to depress me," he continued. "Then I thought about how Ron's parents carry on towards him. His home life is a bit sad. That's why he whinges all the time. I think it really bothers him. He's the only guy I know who feels better when he whinges. If I were him, I'd probably whinge too."

"Thank you." Harry took the towel from the attendant and began to dry his hands, continuing his monologue. "The Burrow is bit like a three-ring circus--it's very chaotic and very jovial, and there's applause and praise heaped all around ... as long as you perform well. Don't get me wrong, I love Molly and Arthur, and they treat me like one of their own--better than one of their own, actually, because Ron may as well be invisible to them. With siblings like that, how could he possibly compete?"

He folded the towel neatly and placed it in a large wicker basket on the floor, then turned his attention to the vast collection of complimentary potions, moisturisers, elixirs, pomades, lotions and balms neatly arranged on the countertop.

"There's Bill, former Head Boy, successful banker and first-born, who is dead cool, and now engaged to Fleur, Ron's former crush," Harry began, as he squirted a dab of hair care potion into the palm of his hand. He did a double-take at the label. Gilderoy Lockhart's Lock-Taming Pomade For Stressed Tresses. "Well, I'll be a Kappa's uncle," he murmured. "Would you look at that--he did it. Huh." Harry worked the potion through his hair, but his stubborn black locks refused to yield to its effects. "Typical," he sighed.

"Anyway, then there's Charlie, former Quidditch Captain, brilliant Seeker and internationally renown dragon-tamer. Percy, another Head Boy and possibly the only person I know who could give Hermione a run for her money as far as academics is concerned. Not to mention, he's worked his way up into a fairly respectable position at the Ministry of Magic, after having made peace with the Weasleys following all that rubbish with Fudge a couple of years ago."

Giving up on his hair, Harry wiped his hands on his trousers and picked up a flask of Fresh Breath Elixir. He poured a small amount into a cut-crystal glass and knocked it back as if it were a shot of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. "Then there's Fred and George, who have managed to turn Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes into one of the most profitable businesses in wizarding Britain--and they've only just turned 20. And Ginny, a straight-O student, popular, prefect and probable Head Girl next year, not to mention a possible recruit for Puddlemere United--I heard a rumour they sent a scout to Gryffindor's last Quidditch match just to watch her play Chaser."

Harry picked up several glass phials, carefully scrutinising the labels until he found the ginger and honey Skin Softening Solution he was looking for. "Hermione uses this, it's the best," he said approvingly, rubbing a healthy dollop into his hands.

"Arthur and Molly have produced all these brilliant children, and then there's ... Ron. Can you imagine what it must have been like for him to grow up with that lot? Three older over-achieving brothers, for starters, then being sandwiched in between Fred and George, who undoubtedly demanded a lot of attention and energy, and Ginny, who was fussed over because she was the baby and only girl. Ron got lost in the shuffle. Not to mention five generations of hand-me-downs. The poor bugger never stood a chance.

"He's never really excelled at anything, bless him--a mediocre student at best, a lousy prefect and a spotty record as Gryffindor's Keeper for the past few years. Not to mention, he only got the prefect and Quidditch gigs by default, which he's rather sensitive about. He's probably best known for being my best friend, which is completely unfair to him. He has no clue what he wants to do when he leaves Hogwarts, he's useless with girls--Luna's been dying to go out with him for ages but he's too bloody daft to do anything about it--and he generally can't be arsed with most things."

Harry brushed a few wrinkles out of his robe and stared at himself in the mirror, momentarily caught off-guard by the lack of an angry red jagged slash across his forehead.

"You're a very handsome young man," the mirror cooed to him, its fawning voice jarring him out of his reverie. Harry took a deep breath before continuing his rant.

"None of this translates very well with his parents, as you can well imagine. They're at their wits' end. They don't know what to do with him, so they just leave him to his own devices. I suppose it's a natural progression: he was--unintentionally, perhaps--neglected as a kid, now he's ignored as a teenager. At this rate, they'll probably disown him as an adult," he sighed. "But I reckon it's their fault Ron is the way he is to begin with. The Weasleys expected him to do as well as his siblings, but it wouldn't be a big deal even if he did, because the others did it first. His parents didn't really have time for him, so they never encouraged him in school or sport or anything else. And as a result, he grew complacent and apathetic, which caused them to pay even less attention to him. It's a vicious cycle."

He picked up a glass phial marked Pheromone Phantasy Potion and uncorked it. After sniffing the contents and grimacing, he quickly recorked and replaced it on the countertop.

"When Ron stumbled into the prefect gig, his parents were over the moon, because he'd finally achieved something at par with his siblings' accomplishments. So you can imagine how mental they went when it was taken away from him in sixth year due to what McGonagall termed 'incompetency and ineffectiveness.' Arthur went spare, and Molly--well, she sent him a Howler that made the one in second year look like a love letter. That was the straw that broke the Nundu's back--he's officially been in their bad books ever since. He doesn't talk much about it, but I can tell it really gets to him. One day he's going to completely do his nut, and it won't be pretty.

"So having said that, I'm actually amazed I got the Mini out of the garage. I caught Ron digging the ride once or twice. It's good for him. It teaches him to manage his anger and resentment. Plus--and I must be honest here--I love driving it. It is so brill. If you have the dosh, I highly recommend picking one up." Harry tossed a Galleon into a pewter dish beside the attendant. "Thank you."

The wizard nodded smartly. "Yes, sir."

Harry eyed another small dish on the countertop amid the various jars and bottles. "Ooh, peppermint humbugs!"

Scooping a few of the sweets into one of his pockets, he nodded genially to the attendant and walked out, a fraction of a second before Albus Dumbledore emerged from the other cubicle.

Malfoy leapt down the stairs to the Potions dungeon two at a time and yanked open the large oak door violently, only to find the classroom empty. Frowning, he strode through the maze of cauldrons, mortars, pestles and phials to Snape's office, almost knocking over several large jars of porcupine quills in his hurry. The door was ajar, so he pushed his way through. To his great surprise, Professor Snape was nowhere to be found and it was Professor Trelawney who sat behind his desk instead. She peered up at him myopically from behind her thick glasses as he entered the small chamber.

"Well, hello, Mr Malfoy--who's bothering you now?" she began with forced cordiality.

Already irritated, he ignored the slight. "Is Professor Snape in?"

"No, I'm sorry, he isn't. He asked me to mind his office in his absence--may I help you?"

"I highly doubt that," Malfoy said disdainfully. "When will he be returning?"

Professor Trelawney shrugged impassively. Draco Malfoy was not one of her favourite students, due to his incessant mocking of her Merlin-given talents and abilities. "I'm afraid I don't know," she replied in clipped tones.

"And you call yourself a Seer?" he muttered under his breath.

She frowned, her large eyes narrowing noticeably but still overpowering her thin face. "He's away from Hogwarts on personal business."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Malfoy sneered.

"Well," Professor Trelawney replied coolly, "I imagine it means it's personal, and it's none of your business, young man."

Malfoy shook his head and snorted contemptuously. "Charming."

He was halfway out the door when he heard her voice calling after him. "Isn't Professor Flitwick expecting you in Charms class?"

He glared at her from over his shoulder before slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind him. "Probably."

"What a little gobshite," Sibyl Trelawney muttered to herself, and anxiously resumed flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly while she waited to hear from Snape.

"Cuthbert, you simply must consider a summit."

"It won't work."

"If we want them on our side, we must be willing to forge a collaborative union--a true brotherhood--and give them the respect to voice their concerns. It's as simple as that."

The authorative voice of Albus Dumbledore drifted up from the cobblestone pavement beside the stone stairs leading up to Chez Camelot's entrance. At the top of the stairs, Harry, Hermione and Ron wore identical expressions of horror as they watched the scene unfolding below. Fortunately, their headmaster and the two magisterial-looking wizards who accompanied him were so deeply engrossed in their argument they were paying little heed to their surroundings.

"Four thousand restaurants in the vicinity of Diagon Alley, I pick the one Dumbledore goes to," Harry muttered.

"We're buggered for sure," Ron said gloomily.

"No way, Ron," Harry replied, already calculating an escape route. "Only the meek get buggered--the bold survive." He pulled Malfoy's wand out of his pocket and tapped it quickly against his glasses. Immediately, the lenses darkened until they were black in colour. Harry quickly conjured up two pairs of Muggle sunglasses and Banished them to Hermione and Ron respectively. "Let's go."

"Let's surrender," Ron whimpered as the glasses landed squarely on his long nose.

"Never."

Harry raced down the stairs towards a row of horse-drawn carriages that were waiting adjacent to the kerb, Hermione and Ron hot on his heels. He was hoping to slip into the nearest one, literally behind Dumbledore's back, counting on his headmaster's continued absorption in his conversation to shield them from detection.

"I am well aware it may sound like I am flogging a dead Hippogriff," Dumbledore declared, trying to placate his colleagues, "but I assure you this is not the case."

The carriages were much like the ones that took them to and from Hogsmeade station at the beginning and end of the school year, only instead of Thestrals, these ones were being pulled by very visible Clydesdale horses of every hue and shade. Harry's hand closed around the door handle of the nearest carriage as if it were a Snitch. But to his great alarm, Dumbledore chose that exact moment to hail a carriage of his own. As his headmaster half-turned around to face him, Harry silently froze and took a large but clumsy step backwards, nearly knocking over Hermione and Ron in the process.

"Albus, though I admire your principles, I assure you ... it won't work."

The words were enough to jar Dumbledore from his valet duties. Much to Harry's great relief, his headmaster turned back to face his colleagues.

"Cuthbert, you're one of the brightest wizards at the Ministry!" he said beseechingly. "Surely you must know it's going to take an alliance with the goblins to secure victory. We've made substantial progress with the giants, and even the centaurs ... the goblins are our last line of resistance--"

The chair of the Goblin Liaison Office shook his head stubbornly. "They're still mistrustful after that dreadful business with Bagman a few years back. It simply will not work!"

With lightning-fast reflexes borne of years on the Quidditch pitch, Harry wasted no time in ushering in Hermione and Ron into the carriage. Not a moment later, the purple-coated Clydesdale that pulled it began to trot briskly down the road, as an identical vehicle, pulled by a bright orange horse, moved up in the queue to replace it. Seemingly unaware of the switch, Dumbledore opened the door of the new carriage and gestured to his colleagues to get in.

"Gentlemen, why don't we continue this discussion back at the Ministry?"

"It won't--" Cuthbert began, but the rest of his words were lost in a muffle as Dumbledore gallantly guided him into the carriage.

"I very much assure you, Cuthbert, it will work. You just have to try." Dumbledore closed the door behind him and sighed as he walked around to the other side. "Merlin, give me patience."