Ron's face flushed bright red at once. The color spread from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears, as fast as if someone had poured a cup of boiling water down his collar. He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say something in rebuttal—but the words turned over at his lips and came out as an indistinct mumble instead. "I... I just thought, Professor, since you're leaving, Harry doesn't need to—"
He did not finish. His gaze darted evasively to the floor, and then, as though he had suddenly realized he had said something he should not have, he instinctively tucked his hands behind his back.
Lockhart did not let that moment pass. He stepped back half a pace and tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on Ron's flushed face for a beat. Then the dial on his "moved" expression rose another notch. He turned and walked a few steps toward his desk, his boots making an even sound against the floorboards.
He stopped beside the desk, bent down, and took something from the bottom drawer—a dark brown dragonhide pouch, its opening tied with a thin leather cord. A small copper clasp dangled from the end of the cord, catching the sunlight with a flash.
He returned to Ron and held out the dragonhide pouch. Ron froze for a moment and did not take it immediately. His face was still red, and he still looked as though he had no idea where to put his feet. When he saw Lockhart offering him the pouch, he first stared blankly, then parted his lips slightly—the expression of "Why me?" and "It's actually me?" battling for control of his facial muscles at the same time.
"Mr. Weasley," Lockhart said, his tone softening, gentle as a bundle of cloth