The Man Who Knew Almost Nothing

Chapter Two

A cottage in the country

It had required a substantial amount of talking with the hospital administrators for them even to consider it. But they were a compassionate group of wizarding medical professionals and understood the potential benefit of Lockhart leaving the hospital, where no amount of treatments had done him any good. On the other hand, famous or not, Harry Potter was young, only nineteen and hardly old enough to comprehend the responsibility required in such matters. The convincing they needed was substantial. And yet, somehow Harry managed to pull it off.

By sunset that evening, long after Neville Longbottom had kissed his mother good-bye, Harry found himself buckling Gilderoy Lockhart into his muggle car and starting the long drive home with a house guest. Gilderoy, who had changed into the clothes that he had entered St. Mungo’s in, stared mutely out the window in wonder as they drove, awed by things he had never seen before: street lamps, other cars, traffic signals, and the wide open country between the city and Harry’s home. Harry, watching Lockhart out of the corner of his eye, was beginning to feel worried. What if his choice had been an impulsive one, based only on the longing he felt for human companionship, masculine companionship to be more precise? What if he wasn’t capable of doing this, of taking care of another person? Not that Gilderoy was an invalid, but still ...

As the sky around them darkened and Gilderoy saw his own reflection in the glass of the window, he turned and asked Harry in a trembling voice, “Harry, do you think I’m handsome?”

Harry lost in his own thoughts and worries answered automatically, “Yes.” He had hardly heard the question.

“One of the ... an orderly ... at the hospital ... he thought so too,” Gilderoy whispered in return, feeling a sick sense of dread and foreboding for the first time since he had been set free.

Harry jerked out of his introspection and slammed on the brakes. Gilderoy cowered in his seat as Harry turned and looked at him.

“My God! Tell me that nothing happened to you in there! Please, Gilderoy,” said Harry, pulling off to the side of the road.

“N... Noth... Nothing happened,” he stuttered, squeezing his eyes closed.

Harry realized instantly that he shouldn’t have raised his voice.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said Harry in a much quieter voice. “Is there something that you want to tell me?”

“He said that I shouldn’t tell anyone at the hospital, that he would cast another, stronger memory charm on me and I’d be a vegetable,” said Gilderoy. “I thought I could tell you ...”

“You can. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise,” said Harry, placing a gentle hand on Gilderoy’s arm to reassure him.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe I can tell you one day, but not tonight. Tonight I just want to enjoy being free.”

The hour was late when they reached Harry’s home, which he affectionately called the Little Burrow in homage to the Weasley family home. The ride had been quiet. Harry was more worried than ever, but staunchly refusing to regret what he had done. Gilderoy, possibly spent from the excitement, both good and bad, of the day, was unsteady on his feet as he climbed from the car.

“May I help you?” Harry asked, offering to support him as they walked from the garage to the house.

“Thank you,” said Gilderoy, nodding his assent.

Harry slipped an arm around his companion’s waist and allowed Gilderoy to lean on him.

“Gilderoy, if I ever say or do anything to make you uncomfortable or afraid, I want you to let me know straight away, all right?” he said, feeling a slight rush as Gilderoy breathed into his ear, almost sighing with contentment.

“I will try, Harry.”

The cottage was dark for a moment as they walked in, but the magical lights came up slowly, recognizing the return of the master of the house. A warm fire started in the hearth, casting a cheerful glow upon the slightly untidy, but cozy little cottage. Harry smiled. It was good to be home.

“I have a guest room where you can sleep. In fact, it can be your room from now on if you want,” he told Gilderoy, leading him toward it. “It’s a bit of a mess,” Harry added, remembering that he still had not gotten around to decorating the room properly.

The guest room was small with a slanted ceiling, a wooden twin bed, a writing desk covered with papers, scrolls, and the odd book, a well-used and dusty bureau, and a window that looked out across the garden. The room smelled faintly of old books and cedar. A door near the bed lead to the guest bath. Gilderoy smiled as he looked at the quilts piled on the bed, the splashes of color and warmth.

“It’s perfect,” he breathed, taking it all in.

“I think some of my old things are in the bureau, but I’ll have to magic them a bit for them to fit you ...,” said Harry, greatly ruing that his guest would have to wear hand-me-downs at least temporarily. He pulled out a long night shirt, barely worn because it was an obnoxious lime green.

“I can sleep in my underclothes,” said Gilderoy quickly, almost as though Harry had proposed moving the moon for him.

“No bother,” Harry assured him, pulling out his wand. “Garmento Engorgio!” he cast. The shirt ballooned out until it had doubled in size. He held it up and admired the size change. “Sorry about the color. It was a gift,” said Harry, tossing him the shirt.

“I don’t mind the color. Honest.”

Gilderoy laid the night shirt almost reverently on the bed and began to undress. Harry shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, glancing toward the door to the bath. It was obvious that the man was accustomed to having no privacy. In fact, Harry was certain that Gilderoy had no idea how unusual his behavior was.

But somehow Harry couldn’t bring himself to tell him or to turn away as Gilderoy removed his robes and folded them neatly, placing them on the bed. Then he removed his shoes and socks, the former of which were tucked neatly under the bed. Gilderoy unbuttoned his shirt with slightly clumsy fingers, unaccustomed to the task because of the memory charm and the nature of hospital clothes even in the wizarding world, and draped the garment over the foot board of the bed. His chest was still firm, smooth, and slightly muscular, like his lower arms. Harry wondered absently if washing potion bottles had been his only activity. He doubted it. But then his ribs were a bit too easy to see, Harry decided. While hardly malnourished, it was easy to see that Gilderoy had not been eating so well.

As Gilderoy began unbuttoning his pants, struggling with the buttons, Harry refrained from offering assistance. The idea was both mildly erotic and uncomfortable at the same time. If only Gilderoy hadn’t had such a bad time of it, Harry thought. After a few minutes Lockhart had removed the pants. His legs were a bit pale, but not unshapely or unlovely. Like his hands, they were somewhat delicate, not so fragile as porcelain, but as elegant as any lightly colored clay or perhaps the newer branches of some white barked tree.

Harry breathed in sharply as a pair of briefs fell heedlessly to the floor. He willed his eyes to remain, where they were, looking at Gilderoy’s rather sizable feet, but they would not obey. They drifted upward, following the curve of his legs, his narrow hips, until a flash of light green cloth caused him to blink.

“Do you have somewhere I might put my laundry?” questioned Gilderoy innocently.

“Do I have a which?” asked Harry.

“Laundry?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll take everything,” said Harry, having the feeling that his pants were suddenly under a shrinking charm.

Gilderoy handed him his freshly discarded clothes, and Harry left the room quickly. He deposited the laundry in a basket before disappearing into his own bedroom and taking a few deep breaths.

“Harry?” called a voice from down the hall.

“I’ll be right there!” Harry yelled back, taking a few more calming breaths before returning to the guest room.

“What time is lights-out, Harry?” asked Gilderoy, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Well, I don’t have a set time. I suppose it’s whenever you’re tired,” answered Harry.

“Can I go to bed now?”

“Sure, and you don’t need to ask me.”

Gilderoy pulled back the covers and slipped between the sheets. He smiled. He looked a bit careworn, in Harry’s opinion, but happy. Not like Professor Lockhart had looked when he was the center of attention. Rather the opposite. He looked content, relaxed. And his natural smile was actually quite charming. The lights in the rooms dimmed.

“Good-night, Harry.”

“Pleasant dreams, Gilderoy,” said Harry, turning to go.

“Aren’t you going to lock the door?” Gilderoy called after him.

“Do I need to?” asked Harry.

“No, I suppose not.”

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