The bewildered expression was flawlessly performed—his brows drew together slightly, the corners of his mouth dipped faintly, and even the frequency of his fluttering lashes was controlled within the range of I'm not pretending; I really didn't understand.
"Those words? Which words?" His tone carried the stalling air of "let me think." He put the quill back into the ink bottle and gently turned the shaft, letting the nib drain its excess ink against the rim.
"Professor Snape, do you mean what I said to Harry? Proof of bloodline? Slytherin blood? Or the reminders I gave the students before everyone left?"
Snape did not answer. His silence was an answer in itself.
Lockhart leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his knees as he looked at Snape. His expression shifted from confusion to seriousness, then from seriousness to solemnity, finally settling into the frank look of someone saying, "I understand your concerns, but aren't you overthinking this?"
"Senior Severus, I'm a professor. My duty is to protect students, guide them, and give them direction when they're lost." His voice lowered, carrying the steadiness of someone who had been through it all. "Harry is very confused right now. He doesn't understand what being the Boy Who Lived truly means, what his bloodline signifies, or whether he should accept this power. I told him that Parseltongue is a gift and bloodline is proof not because I wanted to harm him, but because I wanted to help him—help him accept himself."
Something flickered in Snape's black eyes. "Help him accept himself?" he repeated Lockhart's words, his tone icy. "You nailed his 'gift' to the wall in front of the entire school for everyone to see, then told him it was something to be proud of. You call that 'helping him'? Do