In his mind, Professor Lockhart ranked second only to Professor Dumbledore. He just had never said so.
He felt ashamed that he had once shared Ron's opinion that Professor Lockhart was a boastful clown who could turn Defense Against the Dark Arts into an opera performance.
He no longer saw him that way. He thought Hermione truly had a good eye. He even felt that Professor Dumbledore's assessment of Professor Lockhart had been too reserved.
Over the past half month, Harry had said a great deal in Lockhart's reception room. He mentioned what Hagrid looked like in the dungeons, McGonagall's distrust, and the way Snape looked at him whenever they met in the corridors, as if he were non-burnable rubbish. He talked about the things Draco Malfoy said in the corridors, and the things Pansy Parkinson deliberately said loudly during Potions: "Pure-bloods don't need to worry about the safety of half-bloods."
He spoke of those nights when he lay in bed, listening to Neville's snores and the wind outside the window, his mind full of the faces of the petrified students—Colin Creevey's round glasses, Justin Finch-Fletchley's freckles, and Fuli Dolun's pale face, washed by tears.
When he spoke of these things, his voice was quiet and his pace slow, like someone slowly cutting through a tough piece of meat with a very blunt knife. Lockhart sat across from him without speaking, merely listening. His fingers lightly tapped the tabletop, showing no impatience, and Harry could always feel himself gently enveloped by Lockhart's gaze.
The professor's eyes were blue—not Dumbledore's deep, sea-like blue, but a lighter shade, like the sky after rain on a clear day. When those eyes looked at Harry, they did not carry McGonagall's scrutiny of I'm judging whether you're telling the truth, nor Snape's sharpness of *I'm