Fic: The Fickle Friend
Title:The Fickle Friend
Recipient: hollycomb
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Gilderoy Lockhart
Summary: Twenty-four hours is nothing in comparison to forever.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work
Warning(s): Angst, cross-gen, age disparity, semi-explicit sex, EWE
Word Count: 5,689
Author's Notes: Written for hp_rarities . I never in a million years imagined I would be writing this pairing. It was a lot of work, but I got it done. Thank you SO much Ellie for betaing and holding my hand the entire way. I never could have pulled it off without you!
Harry Potter wakes with a start, chest raising rapidly up and down and ribs twinging with every breath. His entire body feels bruised, battered, and that horrible pounding needs to stop. Blinking blearily, Harry realizes that he is alone. It’s his head that’s throbbing, but he can’t seem to remember why.
“Bloody hell,” Harry mouths breathily.
His voice refuses to work properly. He vaguely recalls something crushing his esophagus. Harry squirms restlessly just thinking about it and instantly regrets the movement. Pain shoots through his veins like crucio. It blackens his vision and Harry passes out with a hoarse, startled shout.
The next time Harry wakes he does so with a groan. Everything hurts, just not as bad as before. His body is full of sharp little pains prickling beneath his skin. Even his eyelids are sore and Harry struggles to open them, but then he wishes he hadn’t. He is at St. Mungo’s - and his room is full of reporters.
“Mr. Potter,” one young reporter exclaims as soon as Harry’s eyes open fully, “Preston Glover of the Daily Prophet-”
Every one in the room begins talking at once, and the whole room buzzes with activity. Cameras flash and whir. Harry feels helpless and blind and angry. He can remember what happened now… all of it.
Three years have passed since the war. Tom Riddle may be gone, but his sympathizers remain; even now their numbers seem endless. Harry became an Auror like he’d always dreamed of being - and it turned out to be something wholly unexpected. Harry hates being an Auror as much as he is good at it. But he refuses to quit because Harry Potter is not a quitter. Seeing all the reporters, he regrets not quitting now.
Two trainees are dead and too many injured. The whole raid was one big set up and no one ever suspected. Harry never suspected. He should have known, should have been able to put all the details together, he thinks, then this never would have happened. If only- but if onlys never get you anywhere. The raid was a gross tragedy and Harry won’t have the press making a spectacle of it.
“Get out,” Harry rasps, but no one hears him over the din of competing questions and clicking cameras.
Harry spares a moment to consider how all these reporters made it through security before struggling to sit up. He pushes the sheets off and away and spots his wand on the bedside table. Magic tickles up his arm as soon as his fingers make contact. It is a reassuring weight in his hand. Harry swishes it violently, summoning a glass of water. His mouth is dry and tastes like old blood. Maybe with some water he’ll be able to speak louder.
Harry gets more water than he bargained for.
The wave appears with a resounding whoosh, drenching all the reporters, their cameras, and the entire room except for Harry. He remains completely dry. It’s as if an invisible bubble is protecting him from the onslaught and the water splits to avoid him. The reporters splutter and screech unhappily. Preston Glover chokes on his mouthful; maybe that will teach him to keep his mouth shut, but Harry is too beside himself to be amused.
`
A week later and Harry is still at St. Mungo’s. The water incident was only the beginning. Every spell he casts goes awry. The mediwizards are calling it a mild case of magical synesthesia. Harry doesn’t think there is anything mild about it. But at least he is alive. Three other Aurors died from their injuries, and another lay crippled for life from prolonged exposure to the cruciatus.
It makes Harry sick with guilt. He’s faced death, met death, and left death. Sometimes he wishes that it could have been more permanent. Now he’s just stuck with a life he doesn’t know how to live and people he can’t deal with. Everything has gone to shite. Harry hasn’t been able to go anywhere since the Battle of Hogwarts without being mobbed by owls or crowded by strangers. It is even worse now that he’s stuck in St. Mungo’s. His every move is observed, studied, and dissected, from his pissing in the morning to his screaming in the night. Mourning is supposed to be done in private, but Harry has no more private left to mourn in.
That’s all the excuse Harry needs to vacate his hospital room and go in search of some privacy. The Janus Thickey ward is the farthest ward away and seems like as good a place to hide as any. When the nurses aren’t looking Harry sneaks inside. He pulls back the curtains of the last bed he sees - and finds it occupied. There is a man propped up by pillows, staring avidly down at a pile of unopened letters, face set in a deep concentration. It takes him a second to notice Harry.
“Hullo,” the man says kindly, “Would you like to read a letter?” He picks one up and shakes it back-and-forth enticingly.
“Pardon?” Harry asks, astonished.
“I’m lonely,” the man answers honestly, “No one’s been by to see me all day except the nurses and they don’t stay long.”
Harry stares openly. It takes him a moment to notice the man’s messy blond hair mixed with all the grey, his strong jaw, and forget-me-not blue eyes. Without the pompous attitude and gaudy clothing, Harry hadn’t recognized him. But he does now. Gilderoy Lockhart, reduced to a waif of his younger self. His hospital gown hangs limply off his too-thin body, emphasizing the older man’s exhausted face. None of his rosy complexion remains; his cheeks are slightly sunken and telling bruises have formed beneath his eyes. Lockhart looks oddly humble. Harry laughs outright at the thought until Lockhart begins laughing with him. Harry stops abruptly. An awkward silence descends between them.
“Please?” Lockhart says, “You don’t have to stay long.”
Harry doesn’t feel like he can refuse. He nods his head reluctantly and sits down at the end of the bed. The pile of letters separates them like a chasm. It’s almost like detention in second year all over again, only worse. Lockhart hands him a letter cheerfully. Harry takes it with a frown and notes that the wax seal has already been broken. He thinks nothing of it at first, but the parchment he removes from the envelope is discolored and creased. Old. There is no date on the envelope. Harry quickly skims the letter - observing the words Dearest Gilderoy, love, and babies repeated over and over in various different arrangements - and still no date is to be found. Irritation bubbles in Harry’s stomach. Leave it to Gilderoy Lockhart to reread old fan mail.
“Well, go on,” Lockhart urges enthusiastically, “What does it say?”
Harry glowers at Lockhart knowingly before saying banally, “Matilda Sharp would like to have your lovechild.”
“Oh. That’s embarrassing. Next!”
Harry grabs another letter at random. It’s thick and squishy. There is only a ring of residue where a wax seal once resided. When Harry opens the envelope he is not sure what exactly it is he is seeing. A piece of satin is wrapped lovingly around the letter. He pokes at it curiously before removing it from the envelope. Then he drops it as if he’s been burned. Shivers of disgust travel up his arm. It’s a g-string, a vile, disgusting lilac g-string with lace for arse-floss. Lockhart chuckles good naturedly and picks up the fallen letter.
“Gilderoy,” He reads dramatically, “I long for your touch, your body against mine. I will give myself to you happily. Just name a time and place. I swear I’ll be there no matter what! These panties are for you. Signed Geoffrey G. How thoughtful.”
Harry shakes his head in revulsion. He can’t believe that people do things like this. Where do they even get the nerve? And for Lockhart to actually enjoy this type of attention… but Lockhart clearly isn’t. The letter crumples beneath the strength of his graceful fingers. Lockhart’s lips are pulled down in a frown, eyes lacking the sparkle that had been present mere moments ago.
“I’ll read another one, shall I?” Harry mutters quietly.
The next one is not much better. Harry doesn’t want to read it as soon as he sees the chosen words emphasized in red ink. The expectant look that Lockhart directs at Harry pushes him to do it anyway.
“Mr. Lockhart,
Boggart Books has been as patient and understanding of your medical condition as feasibly possible. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that either you finish your book, Dancing with Dragons, or you are finished. In accordance with the contract you signed all due fees will be taken from your Gringotts Wizarding Bank vault with interest.
-Publisher in Chief
Jerry Netherfield”
Lockhart mumbles something indistinguishable about books underneath his breath and remains otherwise silent as he hands Harry the next letter. The wax seal crumbles at Harry’s touch and dirties the bed with sickly yellow flecks. Harry briefly wonders how much longer he’s going to subject himself to this - because surely being back in his hospital room is better than this - before he takes the letter out of the envelope with a sigh:
“You are the biggest arse I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. Your books are as empty as you are. Your head is so inflated I’m surprised you haven’t popped yet. But don’t worry. Your time will come.”
Harry puts the letter back into its envelope. Why would Lockhart want to reread something like that? At least it’s not possible to preserve howlers. How many hate letters has Lockhart received? Most people always seem to adore Lockhart and it never came out that he was a fake. But Harry knows better than anyone what it’s like for supposed fans to turn against you. Harry remembers Lockhart once telling him that fame is a fickle friend.
“That’s probably enough for now, don’t you think?” Harry says, looking across the bed at Lockhart.
The man nods his head and straightens the pile of letters without a word. Harry watches him awkwardly. This Lockhart is so different than the one Harry remembers. It’s been seven years. Harry feels slightly ashamed of himself for never wondering what happened to his old teacher after they left the Chamber of Secrets. And why was Lockhart still at St. Mungo’s anyway? Harry opens his mouth to ask when Lockhart’s stomach emits a rather loud growl. Lockhart presses a hand over it and grins weakly.
“Guess you’re hungry,” Harry murmurs instead.
“I guess I am,” Lockhart answers, sliding slowly off the bed and pulling on a pair of fraying slippers.
Harry doesn’t know why he follows Lockhart out of the Janus Thickey ward. It defeats the purpose of hiding from people. Lockhart seems just as surprised, but his eyes warm considerably. He pulls a map of St. Mungo’s from his pocket with a crooked grin and marches them dramatically down the hall. They make an odd pair and more than one nurse stops to look at them funny. Harry doesn’t even question Lockhart about his map or what it might mean. He just doesn’t care anymore.
“Here we are!” Lockhart says with a flourish, pushing open the doors to the cafeteria with more enthusiasm than is really necessary.
“Yeah,” Harry sighs, “Here we are. I’ll find us a table.”
Harry walks away before Lockhart can answer. His body is beginning to hurt again, throat muscles twitching unhappily from all the talking. Harry’s mediwizard said it would probably be a few weeks before Harry is back to par. There is a free table situated in the corner of the cafeteria and Harry hurries towards it before anyone else can snag it. He really needn’t worry since the cafeteria is so empty, but it makes him feel better anyway. Harry sits on one of the cushy chairs and taps his fingers on the copper table top. Rings stain the surface and distort Harry’s reflection. He makes faces at himself because he’s got nothing better to do.
“Harry Potter!” Hermione says from two tables away, “where have you been? Everyone’s been looking for you, you know.”
She’s frowning and dressed in her formal business robes. She must have come to visit on her lunch break. Hermione sits across from him and runs her hands through her tangled hair.
“You can’t just disappear without a word. Everyone’s been so worried.”
“If everyone would just start minding their own bloody business I wouldn’t have to. God, Hermione, it’s been awful here. I just want to go home.” Harry’s not the least bit sorry but he does feel guilty for making her worry.
“They haven’t figured out how to fix you yet. Magical synethesia is touchy. One wrong move and you could lose your magic forever.”
“Would that really be so horrible?” Harry asks, “I was a muggle half my life.”
“You most certainly were not a muggle!” Hermione exclaims, “You used magic, you just didn’t know it. How can you say that, Harry? What’s gotten into you?”
“I dunno. I feel like I’m on exhibition all the time and I hate it. I hate my job. I hate my life. I hate myself. I’m just so bloody tired, Hermione. I really am.”
A tray is placed between Harry and Hermione and they both startle. Lockhart smiles amicably at both of them.
“Hullo,” he says, “I’ve brought kidney pie and pumpkin juice, but only enough for two. Will you be joining us?”
Hermione stares at Lockhart with her mouth slightly open. Harry imagines that this is what his face must have looked like when he first saw Lockhart again, minus the blush blossoming on her cheeks. She recovers quickly and indicates for the older man to sit down.
“That’s quite alright,” Hermione says, “I’ve already eaten. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Lockhart.”
“Yes, um, yes,” Lockhart shoves a spoonful of kidney pie into his mouth so he doesn’t have to say anything more.
Harry ignores him and looks back at Hermione, “Can we talk about this later?”
She nods reluctantly.
`
Harry ends up spending the rest of the afternoon with Lockhart. They play Exploding Snap, which Lockhart is surprisingly good at, and Gobstones, which he is not. Harry finds himself truly relaxing for the first time in a long, long while. He still thinks it strange to be in the company of one of his least favorite professors. But this Lockhart is like a completely different person. It’s easy for Harry to forget that he’s not.
The sun is beginning to set in the sky when the nurses find Harry. He is facing the window and the busy streets below, but his eyes are on Lockhart. The man is sprawled on his bed, sleeping soundly. The nurses say they’d like to run more tests. Harry doesn’t even try to argue. He stands to go with them quietly, but pauses to write his room number on a scrap piece of parchment. Maybe Lockhart will find him later.
The tests are more exhausting mentally than physically. While Harry’s body aches, his heart hurts more. He feels magically retarded. Every spell he cast goes horribly wrong. Even something as simple as lumos caused every candle in St. Mungo’s to be extinguished. Talk about mayhem.
The mediwizards turn him loose after a couple hours. The hallways are emptying now that visiting hours are almost over, but people still stare at Harry as he walks past. He is conflicted when he finally reaches his room. The brief relief he felt dies a bitter death. His room is not empty. Ron and Hermione are seated on a couch they must have transfigured from the armchair. Little Teddy is curled in Hermione’s lap, listening to the two grown-ups talk. They don’t see him. Harry could still walk away and they would never know. But Harry would know, and the guilt would eat at him and he’s got enough guilt already to tide over a whole congregation of giants.
As soon as Harry walks inside Teddy wiggles away from Hermione and jumps into Harry’s waiting arms. He holds the four-year-old tight against his chest. Teddy’s soft hair tickles the underside of Harry’s chin like its bright blue color tickles Harry’s heart.
“Blue today, huh?” Harry murmurs in Teddy’s ear, eliciting a boyish giggle.
“Yup!” Teddy chirps, hair bleeding momentarily violet before receding back, “Isn’t it neat, Uncle Harry?”
“Very neat.”
Harry sits on his bed with Teddy still hanging from him like a monkey. It’s clear that Ron and Hermione have something to say. Or maybe just Hermione, Ron looks too awkward to say anything.
“You said we could talk later,” Hermione reminds him, “I thought we could do that now. Teddy wanted to visit.”
“We offered to take him so Andromeda could have some time off, but if you’d rather he weren’t in the room for this I could take him for some, er, I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M or something,” Ron says, shooting a quick glance at Teddy to see if he understood.
“No,” Harry shakes his head, “He can stay. I don’t mind. You won’t be any trouble at all, will you, Teddy?”
Teddy squeals loudly when Harry attacks him with tickling fingers. Between gasping breaths he promises that he’ll be good, but he wants ice cream anyway. Ron grins sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders. Most kids Teddy’s age don’t know how to spell. Hermione waits for Ron and Teddy to leave before she moves to sit next to Harry on the bed.
“Let’s talk about you, Harry. What’s going on?” She prompts with a gentle nudge of her elbow into Harry’s ribs, “I thought you liked your job. You and Ron are partners.”
“I don’t mind working with Ron. It’s the rest of the job that I can’t do anymore. I’m sick of it. I’m done. I just want to be left alone, but whatever I want never seems to matter.” Harry sighs and leans forward, resting his head in his hands.
“We just want to be here for you, Harry.” Hermione runs a soothing hand over Harry’s back, trying to work out some of his tension. “We’re trying.”
“I know you are. Really. It’s everybody else that I can’t stand.”
“Hello,” Lockhart interrupts from the doorway, “Are we having a party?” He indicates all the get-well-soon cards, chocolates, and flowers stacked on Harry’s bedside table, “Sorry I haven’t gotten you something. Am I late? I only just woke up.”
Lockhart’s hair is in clear disarray to show for it, too, not to mention that his clothes are all rumpled. The old Lockhart never would have gone out in public like this. Harry laughs at the sight, but it’s different than when he laughed at Lockhart earlier that day.
“There’s no party. You don’t need to get me anything.”
“I could, though, if you wanted,” Lockhart says.
Harry just shakes his head and beckons the man to take a seat on the now empty couch. Lockhart hurries inside like he’s afraid the offer will be rescinded. Then he sits. Gazing straight at Harry, Lockhart hardly blinks at all. Harry finds it slightly disturbing so he tears his own eyes away to Hermione. She raises her eyebrows in question. Harry simply shakes his head.
“You really needn’t worry about me, Hermione. I’m doing enough of that for the both of us,” Harry pauses to run a hand through his hair, messing it up further when his fingers tangle in the strands, “As soon as I’m out of Mungo’s I’m going to have a talk with Kingsley and resign from the Aurors. Then I’m probably going away for a while.”
Hermione opens her mouth to interrupt. Harry holds up a hand to stop her before she can.
“Let me finish. I don’t expect to be gone long. Maybe just a couple of weeks to get my life back on track. I really need this, Hermione. If I don’t go I think I’ll explode.”
Because he can’t bear to see Hermione’s expression Harry stands from the bed. The sun has fully set beyond the window. The city lights shine like a beacon outside. Harry jumps when a hand settles on his arm. He connects it back to Lockhart. The older man is still looking at Harry, but his expression has changed. His forget-me-not blue eyes are wide and watery. Harry fears they’re going to spill over, that Lockhart is going to have tears streaming down his face, but the man blinks quickly instead. He must have stared too long. There is no reason for Lockhart to cry, after all.
The moment is interrupted by Teddy and Ron’s return. Harry scoops Teddy back up and wipes the chocolate away from the boy’s mouth with his sleeve. Ron is gobsmacked to see Lockhart again. While Hermione talks with their old professor, Ron mentions offhand that maybe he gave the man permanent brain damage by hitting him over the head with that rock back in the Chamber. Harry shrugs good-naturedly.
Before long Ron and Hermione pack up, promising to come by again soon. Teddy is pleased that he’s managed to stay out past his bedtime. After they are gone, the room is uncomfortably silent. Lockhart is staring at the clock.
“Are you okay?” Harry asks.
Lockhart shakes his head no. Furrowing his brows, Harry sits beside him on the couch. Instantly whatever distance remained between them disappears as Lockhart slides over next to him. Their thighs touch gently and warmth blossoms between them.
“I don’t want you to forget me after I forget you.” Lockhart whispers, but the words are spoken so softly that Harry doesn’t hear them clearly.
Silence descends between them, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable now. Only the sound of the clock ticking fills the room. It’s somehow ominous. When the big hand strikes eleven, Lockhart’s hands begin to shake. Harry grabs them between his own.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, standing so that he might be able to look at Lockhart better.
“I hate being alone,” Lockhart confesses, standing as well, “Don’t make me leave.”
Harry promises that he won’t. Lockhart’s fingers tighten briefly around Harry’s and the pressure is almost unbearable. Then Lockhart is leaning forward, tilting his head, kissing him. Harry can’t help but kiss back. The lips against his own are soft and warm, the breath filling his mouth pleasantly moist. Lust inhibits Harry’s ability to think and he happily gives in to just feeling. He hasn’t been touched like this in a very long time, possibly not ever. Lockhart is holding Harry as if Harry could slip through his fingers and disappear at any moment. Lockhart is holding him like he is something to be cherished. And it feels unbelievably good. Too good to stop and think about what he’s doing and with whom.
This attraction may have come out of seemingly nowhere, but Harry is done caring. As Lockhart holds Harry tight, Harry cradles the man’s face, tangling his fingers in the man’s graying hair. Their lips are mashing together in almost desperation. Harry isn’t certain who is kissing who anymore. Lockhart groans into his mouth, stepping forward when there is really no room left between them at this point. The man’s thigh ends up slipping between Harry’s own, bringing their awakening erections into direct contact. A startled sigh escapes Harry’s lips and he thrusts forward involuntarily.
Lockhart was the one to start the kiss and he is also the one to break away first. He rests his face in the crevice under Harry’s jaw. His panting breaths ghost against Harry’s skin and he shifts his weight uncomfortably as if he’s being teased. Then Lockhart is peppering him with sweet feather kisses, pushing Harry back slowly until they fall upon the bed. Harry laughs when they are engulfed in a cradle of blankets and pillows. Lockhart, too, smiles fragilely, but it doesn’t last. Harry kisses the man’s solemn expression away. He doesn’t want to see it.
Harry’s legs lift and wrap securely around Lockhart’s waist, drawing the older man down even further. He gyrates his hips until they are gasping, wanting, needing. Harry wishes that they were naked, but stopping to take their clothes off isn’t a possibility he is willing to consider. A shiver of pleasure reverberates between them, gooseflesh rising.
“Gilderoy,” Harry whispers as they continue to rock together on the bed. The name comes out silted and awkward. Harry can already feel that liquid heat beginning to pool in his abdomen. But Harry doesn’t want release to come so soon, “S-stop - Uhn! - Wait.”
Lockhart does, face a mixture of concern for Harry and frustration for himself. Harry leans forward, placing a quick peck to his nose. He asks Lockhart to switch places with him. So Lockhart does. He rolls them on the bed until Harry is the one on top. Cold washes over Harry and he misses Lockhart’s engulfing embrace. Then Lockhart is pulling Harry urgently against him, hands pushing underneath Harry’s shirt as their lips reconnect. Their touching becomes frantic and clumsy. They are rushing towards something and Harry senses that it’s not just release.
An anxious hum rumbles low in Lockhart’s chest as Harry shimmies down his body. He tugs on the man’s pants, conscious of the erection straining behind them. It is revealed in increments, thick and purpling, precome glistening on the tip. Pulling Lockhart’s pants the rest of the way off, Harry looks up for permission to touch. When he is met with no rebuke Harry does so without hesitation. He strokes up and down the thick length in silent exploration, cups the man’s sack in his hands to gauge the weight. Lockhart emits appreciative noises, squirming beneath Harry’s ministrations.
Harry continues to stroke Lockhart with one hand while he frees his own erection with the other. Lockhart’s eyes are tightly shut. He does not see Harry’s mouth now poised above his sex, does not expect it to be engulfed. The man jerks beneath the onslaught, hips pushing his erection as far into Harry’s mouth as possible. Lockhart’s hands move from fisting the sheets to clutching at Harry’s head. The touch is slightly frantic and Lockhart is breathing erratically. His eyes shoot open to stare at something above Harry’s head. Then he falls limp as the clock strikes midnight. Harry is momentarily startled, but the erection inside his mouth is still hard. Harry sucks at it experimentally, eliciting a whimper. He sucks at it harder and Lockhart comes, hips arching off the bed and ejaculate shooting down his throat. Harry swallows it down greedily, suckling the length until it goes flaccid. It only takes a few more hard pulls for Harry to tip himself over the edge into climax.
Chest heaving, Harry tugs both their pants back on before situating himself on the bed beside Lockhart. He curls himself against Lockhart’s side, wrapping one arm lazily around the man’s chest. Lockhart remains silent. Just as Harry begins to drift into sleep, the words are voiced barely above a whisper.
“Do you care for me?”
Harry doesn’t, but he can’t say no. One strange, astonishing day does not generate affection, especially for someone he once disliked greatly. He remains silent.
“Do I love you?”
There is something in Lockhart’s tone that compels Harry to sit up slightly. He looks down at Lockhart’s face. There is no set expression, but tears are leaking silently from his eyes.
“I don’t remember.”
Harry feels like he’s been punched in the gut. What is that supposed to mean? He opens his mouth to ask, but the words stick in his throat.
“I can’t remember anything.”
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/
The person that wakes Harry is not Lockhart, but a nurse. Harry is not surprised, but somehow disappointed. She tells Harry that they’ve finally managed to brew an antidote. The vial she hands him is small and the liquid inside is lilac. Harry’s chest pangs guiltily at the sight. He takes his potion without any further prompting, feeling slightly anticlimactic. Before the nurse can leave, he asks after Lockhart.
“You should wait at least another hour before you go to see him, dear. He hasn’t been informed of who he is, yet.” She tells him.
“What do you mean?” Harry asks slowly.
“You don’t know?” She pauses in the doorway to look back at Harry over her shoulder, “He obliviated himself and the spell never stopped working.”
Harry’s head spins. The nurse leaves but her words echo in Harry’s ears. Obliviated… never stopped working. How could that be? She must be mistaken. Lockhart doesn’t act like a man with no memory. But- He hasn’t been informed who he is, yet. Fuck. Lockhart’s map of St. Mungo’s, the letters, his sudden change in personality… the words whispered before they fell asleep together; all of it makes sense now.
How could Harry be so oblivious? It’s just like the ministry raid he failed to realize was a trap. The pieces were there, but the puzzle wasn’t put together correctly. In this case, not put together at all. But what will this mistake cost?
Swearing, Harry jumps out of bed and dresses quickly. It’s already nearing afternoon. He’s got to find Lockhart, explain what happened. As Harry darts through the halls, a small, bitter part of him wonders why he’s even bothering. Lockhart will just forget about him tomorrow. Harry ignores that part, though. It’s today that counts. It’s today that Harry’s caused Lockhart pain. Harry couldn’t imagine losing his memory during sex; where one minute you’re completely lost in the pleasure, and the next the pleasure is still there, but you’re completely overwhelmed because you have no idea what is going on. No wonder Lockhart was so confused.
Harry rounds the final corner and stops. The Janus Thickey ward is just ahead, but
his feet don’t want to move. They’re planted firmly on the tile, spread shoulder-width apart, grounding him as he peers into the ward. Lockhart is sitting on his bed, propped up by a mass of pillows. There is a mediwizard hovering over his shoulder. Harry can’t hear what they’re saying, and he isn’t sure he would want to know, anyway. Lockhart’s face is twisted and miserable.
Time ticks along. Nurses and patients come in and out of the ward, walk up and down the halls. Harry only has eyes for Lockhart. He waits impatiently for the mediwizard to leave the older man’s side so that Harry can take his place. Each minute past is a minute lost. Twenty four hours is nothing in comparison to forever.
Finally, finally, the mediwizard leaves, but still Harry’s feet refuse to move. Harry wills them, begs them, threatens to chop them both off. His toes flex, curl, and his knees bend at the joint. Harry moves. Lockhart spots him as soon as Harry enters the ward. His blue eyes are red-rimmed and the bruising beneath them is even darker today than it was yesterday. Harry's steps falter at the sight. Only Lockhart’s encouraging smile keeps him going.
“Hullo,” the man says once Harry is close enough.
After last night, is that all Lockhart can say? No who are you, do I know you, get the fuck away? Harry is amazingly under whelmed.
“Hi,” Harry answers back, stopping just short of Lockhart.
He can’t bring himself to look at Lockhart directly this close in person. The guilt churns angrily in Harry’s stomach. He fidgets, notices the familiar pile of white envelopes stacked in the middle of Lockhart’s bed. Harry stares at them in disdain. The letters resting so innocently need not be read again. Lockhart notices him looking.
“Would you like to read them with me?” Lockhart asks, voice lacking the enthusiasm that was present the day before
“No,” Harry mutters, summoning two blank pieces of parchment, quills, and ink, “I’ve got a better idea.”
The display of such common magic brightens Lockhart’s disposition. The man grins from ear to ear.
“Amazing!” Lockhart laughs in awe, “Magic.”
Harry snatches the materials from the air ands sits on the bed. He hands one set to Lockhart and keeps the other for himself. When Lockhart looks at him inquisitorially, Harry shrugs. He doesn’t care what Lockhart does.
The quill is a familiar weight in Harry’s hand and he scratches it against the parchment experimentally. Then he dips the nub in ink and writes. At first Harry only wanted to explain about the previous day’s events and… and the sex. But his quill keeps moving, doesn’t want to stop. Suddenly Harry has so much he wants to say. He writes about the disastrous ministry raid, his failure as both an Auror and a man.
Remember, Harry concludes, no matter how bad off you think you are, some one else always has it worse. -Harry Potter.
Rolling the parchment, Harry peeks at Lockhart’s. The man is doodling quietly, sketching small geographic shapes. They seemed innocuous five minutes ago. But what once was a winding cylinder now has bulging eyes, vaguely resembling a snake. The triangle in the upper right hand corner has sprouted wings and a long, fanning tail. And if Harry’s not mistaken the stick figure drawn dead-center is himself, wielding a rough sword.
“Are you finished?” Lockhart asks, setting aside his picture.
Harry nods, “Don’t mix this one with the others. Tell the nurses to keep it somewhere special.”
He seals his parchment with a spell and hands it to Lockhart. Their fingers brush together. Harry watches Lockhart’s pale cheeks flush pink, spreading warmth like the gooseflesh spreading up his own arm. Before he can think any better of it, Harry leans forward and brushes his lips against Lockhart’s. The kiss is chaste, barely a kiss at all. It leaves Harry wanting for more, but he pulls away instead.
“You’re leaving,” Lockhart says once his forget-me-not blue eyes reopen.
“I’ll be back soon,” Harry promises, rising from the bed, “Wait for me.”
Lockhart may not remember tomorrow, but Harry will.