Gilderoy Lockhart
Thenextday,however,Harrybarelygrinnedonce. ThingsstartedtogodownhillfrombreakfastintheGreatHall. Thefourlonghousetableswereladenwithtureensofporridge,platesofkippers,mountainsoftoast,anddishesofeggsandbacon,beneaththeenchantedceiling (today,adull,cloudygray). HarryandRonsatdownattheGryffindortablenexttoHermione,whohadhercopyofVoyageswithVampiresproppedopenagainstamilkjug. Therewasaslightstiffnessinthewayshesaid"Morning,"whichtoldHarrythatshewasstilldisapprovingofthewaytheyhadarrived. NevilleLongbottom,ontheotherhand,greetedthemcheerfully. Nevillewasaround-facedandaccident-proneboywiththeworstmemoryofanyoneHarryhadevermet.
"Mail’sdueanyminute-IthinkGran’ssendingafewthingsIforgot."
Harryhadonlyjuststartedhisporridgewhen,sureenough,therewasarushingsoundoverheadandahundredorsoowlsstreamedin,circlingthehallanddroppinglettersandpackagesintothechatteringcrowd. Abig,lumpypackagebouncedoffNeville’sheadand,asecondlater,somethinglargeandgrayfellintoHermione’sjug,sprayingthemallwithmilkandfeathers.
"Errol! "saidRon,pullingthebedraggledowloutbythefeet. Errolslumped,Unconscious,ontothetable,hislegsintheairandadampredenvelopeinhisbeak.
"Oh,no-"Rongasped.
"It’sallright,he’sstillalive,"saidHermione,proddingErrolgentlywiththetipofherfinger.