MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS
Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every stu-
dent in the school.
“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his
fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.
“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room, too?”
said Harry desperately.
“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows.
“Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o’clock
sharp, both of you.”
Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest
gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-
school-rules sort of expression. Harry didn’t enjoy his shepherd’s pie
as much as he’d thought. Both he and Ron felt they’d got the worse
deal.
“Filch’ll have me there all night,” said Ron heavily. “No magic!
There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I’m no good at
Muggle cleaning.”
“I’d swap anytime,” said Harry hollowly. “I’ve had loads of prac-
tice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart’s fan mail . . . he’ll be a
nightmare. . . .”
Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed
like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging
his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart’s office. He
gritted his teeth and knocked.
The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him.
“Ah, here’s the scalawag!” he said. “Come in, Harry, come in —”
Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were
countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a
few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.
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