Rending Whispers

"Oh! I forgot. Come in!"

Lockhart stepped aside, and Robin walked into the office. The place was every bit as flashy and overdone as the Show-Off himself.

His photographs covered the walls. In the flickering candlelight, the figures in the frames seemed to smile even more brightly. Cards, postcards, and photographs were piled across the desk, some bearing a flamboyant "Gilderoy Lockhart" signature.

Harry, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, was hunched over the desk, laboriously writing replies with a Quill.

"Oh, Robin Sear, I had no idea my admirers were so devoted! The postman never gets a break. I receive a letter every ten minutes on average. How I wish I could put a notice in the paper telling them there's no need to keep writing. I've long understood how they feel..."

Does this man ever stop quacking? Robin raised a hand to cut him off. "Mr. Lockhart, what do you need me to do?"

"You can address envelopes like Harry. Here, sit down. Swap the sender and recipient, slip in a postcard stamped with Gilderoy Lockhart's best wishes, then seal it with red wax. And there you have it: the perfect reply!"

Gilderoy pulled out a chair with a smile.

"Mr. Lockhart, don't you think that's a little... perfunctory?"

"Perfunctory?! Robin, the fact that you'd ask shows you don't understand the difficulties of being famous. Isn't that right, our young hero Mr. Potter?"

"Huh?"

Gilderoy walked around to Harry and put an arm around his shoulders, then launched into a loud account of the hardships of fame: writing replies until his hand cramped, having to pose for over a hundred photos just to eat at a restaurant, shopkeepers and customers fighting to pay for his purchases, and more.

The more he talked, the more worked up he