The staff of the Permanent Spell Damage Unit had had enough.

Gilderoy Lockhart had been growing increasingly agitated over the past few hours. This had been happening a lot lately. Today it had culminated in the near suffocation of a female Healer after she had denied his request for a peacock-feather quill with which to sign autographs for what he was certain were his legions of fans.

"I didn't learn joined-up writing for nothing, you know!" he shrieked, and he kicked violently as two burly male nurses restrained him, forcing his arms into the sleeves of a Muggle straitjacket and buckling it around him. They tossed him unceremoniously into a small padded room, and one of them cast a locking charm on the door.

"Call Pye," said Healer O'Mara as she applied a salve to the bruises that Lockhart's fingers had left on her neck, "Pye's the only one Lockhart will respond to when he gets like this." She peered into a small hand mirror, prodding her throat where the bruises were quickly fading.

The two nurses nodded and left, and Augustus Pye appeared in the hallway only moments later.

"He's out of control," said Healer O'Mara by way of greeting, leading Pye towards the door of Lockhart's room. "We put him in the…what did you call it?"

"Straitjacket," answered Pye, peering through the small square window embedded in the door. There came a steady thumping from inside the room—it was Lockhart, throwing himself against the wall.

"The straitjacket, yes," came Healer O'Mara's voice from behind him. She kept talking, but Augustus was too busy watching the patient to really attend to what she was saying. Only when his name was spoken did Pye realise she was still addressing him.

"Terribly sorry," he said distractedly, running a hand through his hair, "Healer, do you think I might have some time alone with the patient? He seems to respond best when no one else is around, and—well, you see the state he's in. I rather think it would do him good." He tried not to look as though he was lying through his teeth, and he smiled what he knew was his most winning, boyish smile at O'Mara, who was just far enough past her prime to take that sort of smile as flattery.

"Certainly," she said, smiling and cocking her head to one side. I've a meeting with my staff shortly anyway; I'll take the nurses as well. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, thank you," said Pye, smiling again, "I've everything I need."

When O'Mara and her staff had gone, Pye waited long enough so that if anyone had forgot anything they'd have time to come back for it, then he rapped on the reinforced window with his knuckles, three times.

The thumping from within the padded room stopped immediately, and a shining face appeared, mouthing words Pye could not hear.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Gilderoy Lockhart stood wrapped in a blindingly white straitjacket, aquiver with anticipation.

"I can do joined-up writing, you know," he announced, and Pye smiled indulgently.

"Yes, I know," he said, "And do you remember what else you can do?"

Lockhart furrowed his brow. "No," he said, "And I don't like these white robes. They keep my arms from moving and I look much better in lilac."

"That you do," agreed Pye, moving closer and pressing on Lockhart's shoulders so the patient sank to his knees. Lockhart looked up at him with bewildered, innocent eyes, and Pye smiled again.

"Perhaps if you keep calm and quiet, I can arrange for some lilac robes," offered Pye, shedding his own regulation green robes and unfastening his belt, then his trouser front, "Would you like that?"

"Or lavender," said Lockhart after a moment's thought, and though Pye knew lilac from lavender about as well as he knew what was going on in Lockhart's mind much of the time, he simply nodded and took out his cock.

"Do you remember this?" he asked, and Lockhart nodded after a moment.

"Tell me what it is," he said, stroking himself to full hardness.

"It gives me my medicine," said Lockhart promptly, "And I like my medicine. I like salty things."

Pye grinned.

"I like lavender robes, too," said Lockhart petulantly, but after another moment he pushed his face forward and nuzzled against Pye's crotch.

"Good, Gilderoy, good," cooed Pye, thrusting forward so his cock brushed the side of Lockhart's face and slid into those gorgeous golden curls, "Now this medicine must be taken orally, you know that."

"I don't remember orally," said Lockhart, and by way of response, Pye took his cock in hand and ran it over Lockhart's lips. The patient smiled then, apparently remembering, and took Pye's cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue over the head, then down the vein on the underside.

Lockhart had never been an especially skilful cocksucker, but he was willing, and trustworthy besides—if he decided to tell anyone, it would surely be dismissed as the ravings of a lunatic. Augustus Pye had a spotless record at St Mungo's, and he planned to keep it that way.

"Good," said Pye again, reaching down and grabbing two handfuls of silken curls—how did Lockhart's hair stay that way in here? It had to be natural—and let them slip through his fingers, but his grip tightened again when Lockhart began sucking in earnest, mumbling something that sounded distantly like wan' my medithin.

"You'll get your medicine," said Pye through gritted teeth, "Soon, very—ohh, just there, yes—very soon, just keep working—good, good—"

And it was soon, too soon, really, for Pye, but Lockhart was dogged in his pursuit of his medicine, and Pye spilled into the patient's mouth, grunting and gripping golden hair, and Lockhart swallowed all that Pye supposed he could manage. Pye removed himself from Lockhart's still-eager mouth and watched a dribble of his own come run down the patient's chin, a pink tongue darting after it.

"I do enjoy this medicine," said Lockhart, beaming up at Pye, "It reminds me of something I had once, a long time ago, but I can't remember what that was." Lockhart slumped back against the wall, struggling a bit within the binding jacket, then looked up at Pye, who had finished tucking and fastening himself and was shrugging on his robes once again.

"Will you scratch my nose for me?" Lockhart pleaded, and Pye knelt in front of him and did, eliciting a relieved sigh from Lockhart.

"Now remember," Pye said, "You can't tell anyone about this treatment. It's a top-secret Muggle remedy, and you know we're only supposed to be using magic to heal you." Lockhart nodded, his eyes wide, his jaw set.

As Pye opened the door to leave, Lockhart spoke again behind him.

"Healer?"

Pye turned. "Yes, Gilderoy?"

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. I like sucking your cock too much."

A rare lucid moment, Pye assured himself frantically, but just to be certain—

He raised his wand and pointed it at the straitjacketed man before him.

"Obliviate!"