The Man Who Knew Almost Nothing

Chapter Four

Diagon Alley

They walked along Diagon Alley for sometime before Gilderoy paused in front of a shop window, Ollivander’s. Harry watched Gilderoy as he stared into the wand shop. Something in his eyes was wistful and remembering.

“I had one of those once. One of those things like you have,” said Gilderoy softly. “I wonder whatever became of it.”

The Ministry had in all likelihood confiscated it. Wands were not safe in the hands of mental patients, generally speaking.

“What kind was it?” asked Harry.

Gilderoy seemed to snap out of his reverie.

“Wooden, I think. I’m not sure really,” he said, smiling and stating the patently obvious.

“I’ll look into finding your wand for you, if you want,” Harry offered. Surely some of his friends at the Ministry could do him that little favor.

“I think I would like that,” nodded Gilderoy as they began walking again. “I don’t know what I would do with a wand, of course, but it seems like ...”

“Something you should have, right? Like something must be wrong if you aren’t holding it or it’s not in your pocket, close at hand.”

“I never noticed before, but I think maybe you’re right, Harry.”

“Of course I am,” he chuckled, giving Gilderoy’s hand a squeeze.

The incident at Ollivander’s stuck with Harry as they continued their stroll, window shopping at book stores and other little shops along the alley. Gilderoy had remembered something, or perhaps intuited something, from his past. The impression that he had once possessed a wand had somehow filtered through the memory charm. That was quite extraordinary. Harry imagined that if Gilderoy got his wand back, he would probably remember more, that the wand could somehow jar his memory or reawaken something that had slept a charmed sleep in his mind while he was in the hospital.

“Can we go into a book shop, Harry? I can’t really read, you know, but sometimes ... I like to give it a try,” said Gilderoy, pausing in front of Flourish and Blotts.

“You can’t read?” asked Harry incredulously.

“Well, I can make out the letters all right and some words too, but it’s just so hard, Harry. I don’t see how anybody does it.”

“But you were once a brilliant writer. I mean, you wrote a lot of books, Gilderoy,” said Harry.

“I did?”

“Yeah. The stuff in them was a lot of hogwash mostly, but they were very well written,” he admitted. Harry had read Magical Me more than once over the years, considering it a rather masterful work of fiction. “Say, they might just have copies of your books here,” he said, thoroughly enjoying the look on Gilderoy’s face, which was one of utter disbelief.

Dragging him into the book shop, which was always crowded, Harry immediately began skimming the shelves for any signs of Gilderoy’s books.

Gilderoy, on the other hand, could not take his eyes off the cluttered shelves full of colorful volumes on strange topics. He touched the soft leather spines of the books reverently, desperately trying to make sense of the things written upon them.

“Here,” said Harry, pulling an old copy of Magical Me from the shelves and dusting it off before pressing it into Gilderoy’s hands.

“The man on the cover. Doesn’t he look a lot like me?” questioned Gilderoy, looking at the moving picture of himself.

“It is you, Gilderoy,” said Harry.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Harry laughed.

Gilderoy flipped through the pages of the book, picking out words here and there and frowning.

“Am I to understand that I wrote this and that none of it is true?” he asked.

“Well ... yes and no. Other wizards did the things you wrote about, but you didn’t exactly give credit where credit was due,” said Harry delicately.

“Why ever would I do that?”

“Fame? Fortune? Celebrity? Esteem?”

“Oh, right ...” said Gilderoy, closing the book.

“Would you like a copy of it? Maybe it could help you remember ...” suggested Harry.

“But my memories aren’t in here.”

“You wrote the book, Gilderoy, so maybe it could help you remember doing that.”

“I don’t want to remember my life before if I was only some horrible fraud with a fake smile,” he said, returning the book to Harry.

“I can understand, I suppose,” he said, returning the book to its place on the shelf. “How about a Magical History primer or something instead?”

“Sure. I think I can handle that.”

From the book store the pair walked to a reputable clothiers that specialized in robes, of course, and all the latest in wizarding wear. Harry took their bags from Gilderoy, shrank them to a more manageable size, and pocketed them as he nudged Gilderoy toward a rack of fine men’s robes. Mostly of them were black, navy, or dark purple in color. Harry, oddly enough, remembered Gilderoy’s preference for lighter colors and immediately began searching through another nearby rack. It was not a good year for the more fanciful hues; yellows, oranges, and beiges were particularly scarce, but Harry managed to find an ensemble in pale gold, beige, and antique white that looked most dashing and elegant.

“Gilderoy!” he called, holding it up for him to see.

A grin spread over his features as he looked at it.

“Why Harry! What beautiful colors!” he said, dashing over.

“It is a bit formal for everyday wear, but I do plan to take you places, if you don’t object, that is,” said Harry.

“Of course not,” said Gilderoy.

Harry glanced at the formal dress robes and reminded himself, “I need another set too. Hermione was teasing me the last time I joined her and Ron for a Ministry function. Even Ron looked more stylish.” It was perfectly true. Ron Weasley, having a good job and a wife who was working too, had managed to afford decent robes for a change. Harry’s had looked old and out of fashion by comparison.

Plucking a set of scarlet and gold robes from the tall-and-slim rack, Harry could not help but to admire his favorite colors. Gryffindor House forever, right? He seemed to remember Gilderoy favoring the color scheme himself. There would be a Ministry of Magic banquet in three weeks to celebrate the demise of Voldemort the year before. It would be the perfect occasion for them to go out on the town, Harry mused, picturing Gilderoy and himself in their stunning ensembles.

“What do you think?” he asked Gilderoy.

“For you? Oh, splendid,” he said.

“Let’s go try them on then,” said Harry, nodding toward the men’s dressing room in the corner of the shop.

Harry had never met anyone who was as hopelessly clumsy as Gilderoy Lockhart, including Neville Longbottom. When it came to buttons, clasps, zippers, and collars, the man was all thumbs. It was a good twenty minutes before he had the clothes and robes on properly. Harry, a master of quick changes, which were in the past followed by narrow escapes from the Ravenclaw dormitories, had his clothes on in practically an instant, without the help of magic or an extra set of hands.

They stood together in front of the large mirror in the dressing area, admiring their jaunty new outfits. Harry watched in the mirror as Gilderoy put an arm around his shoulders almost as though they were posing together. Harry grinned and pulled him closer. Then he saw Gilderoy’s face fall as he stood there looking at them. Gilderoy removed his arm and moved away.

“What’s the matter?” asked Harry, concerned, as Gilderoy began unfastening his lacy collar.

“I don’t know why I never noticed it before. I’m ... old.”

“You’re what?”

“Old! Old! The opposite of young.”

“Oh,” said Harry, frowning. “But why are you upset? It’s not like you’re ugly or something.”

“How old am I, Harry?”

“I don’t know. Almost forty, I imagine, maybe younger, maybe older.”

“And you’re?”

“Almost twenty.”

“Half my age.”

“You are being silly, Gilderoy! It doesn’t matter. We’re wizards. What is age to us? I mean, when you looked at us in the mirror, didn’t you see a handsome couple standing there or am I mistaken?”

“I did. But, Harry, I think I look old enough to be your father,” he said, his lower lip quivering.

“Trust me, Gilderoy, you look nothing like my dad,” Harry chuckled. “You look like a handsome, dapper, and, yes, older gentleman wizard whom anyone would be proud to call their companion ... or even lover.”

“Do you mean it, Harry, honestly?”

“Absolutely. Now let’s get changed. We still have a lot to do this afternoon,” said Harry, smiling at him.

They left the shop with several outfits, including some casual, everyday clothing and some Quidditch fan wear for Gilderoy, who solidly agreed to support Harry’s team, despite the fact that he had no clue about the sport.

As they stepped out of the clothiers, a little man with a camera scampered up to them.

“Picture for The Daily Prophet?” he asked them, holding up the camera.

Harry grabbed Gilderoy with his free arm, the one not weighted down with some of their purchases, and joked, “I wonder if we still rate the front page.”

“Too right you do!” cackled the man, snapping a couple of photographs.

Harry felt Gilderoy’s soft blond hair brush his cheek as they leaned together, posing good-naturedly for the photographer.

“Can we get a copy of that?” asked Harry.

“Of course! Of course! Only too happy,” the photographer laughed before scuttling away with a delighted smile on his face.

“You know, Harry, I am having the strangest sensation ...” said Gilderoy as they untangled their bags and arms.

“Déjà vu?”

“Deja who?”

“It’s the feeling that you’ve done something before.”

“Then that’s it exactly.”

“Well, we have, sort of, only it was at the book shop. You were autographing your latest book, and I was buying school supplies.”

“And we had our picture taken together?”

“Right,” nodded Harry, pulling him across the street toward a small cafe.

“I don’t mean to sound nosy or impertinent, Harry. I can imagine that they wanted my picture back then because I wrote books. But what about you? Is it because you’re a Quidditch star or something?” he asked as they found a table.

“When you were in the hospital, did anyone mention Voldemort or You-Know-Who?” questioned Harry, picking up a menu to hide the blush that was creeping into his cheeks. He hated to talk about himself and the things he had done.

“I remember last year ... Everyone was so happy. Somebody, whose name no one wanted to say, got defeated in a duel or something. There were parties, I think,” said Gilderoy.

“I was the guy who won the duel.”

“Oh, congratulations then! Nice work!” said Gilderoy with a smile.

“Thank you,” chuckled Harry, realizing that his companion had no notion of how famous he was. It was comforting.

“You wouldn’t by any chance have a copy of the original photograph of us, would you?”

“Sorry, but I was never big on saving news clippings. Kind of embarrassing,” said Harry.

“Pity,” sighed Gilderoy, finally looking a menu.

Harry couldn’t help but to agree. He had never given the picture much thought before, not to mention that he had hated having it taken, but given his current circumstances, it would have been nice to have around. Something for the mantelpiece.

When they returned to Harry’s cottage that night with more bags than Harry could fit in his pockets, regardless of how small he shrank them, they were both pleasantly tired. It had been a good day, the best day he had ever had, in Gilderoy’s opinion. Harry returned the bags and their contents to their original size and set them on the couch, looking rather pleased with himself.

Wiping the soot and ashes from his face with an amused smile, Gilderoy commented, “I could use a shower or something.” He glanced at Harry in the dim orange glow of the sitting room and said, “And so could you. I could write my name on your face in the grime.”

“You want to try?” asked Harry, taking off his glasses and closing his eyes.

Harry felt Gilderoy slowly lift his chin with his fingertips. Warm, soft lips pressed against his own. The kiss was tender, but not hesitant. Searching. Harry opened his mouth and kissed Gilderoy hungrily, lifting his eyelids to watch the surprise in his eyes. Gilderoy moaned and gently sucked Harry’s lower lip, slipping an arm behind Harry and pulling him closer. Passion. For a moment Harry grabbed a handful of Gilderoy’s shirt, silently begging him not to let go, not to stop. As they parted Gilderoy touched Harry’s face, rubbing away a smudge of soot with his thumb as he caught his breath.

It had been sometime for either of them. Gilderoy could not remember sharing anything so wonderful as that kiss. And Harry had never felt more certain, more comfortable about kissing anyone, about touching anyone, about being with anyone in his life. The doubt had vanished when their lips touched.

“Shower?” gasped Harry breathlessly.

“How can you think of showering now?” asked Gilderoy, confused and winded, almost giddy from the kiss.

“Together ...” Harry hinted.

“Let’s go then,” he said with a half shy, half mischievous smile.

The thing Harry had loved most about the cottage when he purchased it was the luxurious master bathroom. After seven years washing in the dingy, poorly lit, drafty, and old school baths, it was exactly what he wanted for his very own. An enchanted scrub brush scooted out of their way as Harry and Gilderoy dashed inside, slipping slightly on the magically warmed tiles. Moonlight was shining through the skylight above them even as candles in silvery holders on the walls began to glow in recognition of their master’s arrival. The shower, which Harry imagined could hold at least four people, was almost completely non-magical, but the water heated so quickly that Harry sometimes wondered.

Harry whipped his robes off quickly and began stripping down, watching Gilderoy with a playful smile as he fumbled frantically with his buttons, panic and desire burning in his dark blue eyes. The desire was like a highly contagious malady of the soul and mind, infecting him even as he watched his soon-to-be lover struggling with his clothes. Harry licked his lips, still able to taste that first impassioned kiss as he fully disrobed and moved to help Gilderoy with the remainder of his clothes.

“Let me,” said Harry, his voice deepening with the bottled up longing.

“Please,” breathed Gilderoy, tossing his shirt aside and tugging at his pants as he drank in the sight of the pale yet seductive form standing before him, a thin sheen of perspiration on his skin.

In an instant Harry had his trousers down to his ankles, allowing, encouraging Gilderoy to use his shoulders to balance as he swept the garment aside and reached for the last stitch of fabric that stood between them. As they both struggled frantically to remove the plain briefs, they became entangled, landing in a heap on the floor with a soft smack.

Harry chuckled as Gilderoy laughed softly, running his hand down Harry’s back, looking up into his blazing and mischievous green eyes. They remained there on the warm floor for several minutes, laughing and kissing one another. Harry nipped at Gilderoy’s neck and as he gasped in return, squeezing Harry’s thigh, he knew it was time for a nice warm shower.

He pulled Gilderoy to his feet and into the glass shower cubicle, turning on the water as he stepped inside. It was cold only for an instant and they did not feel it as they melted into one another’s arms. Harry could taste sweat and a little soot from the fireplace on Gilderoy’s skin as he kissed his throat. It was intoxicating. Gilderoy’s hands drifted down, running his hands over Harry’s smooth skin, relishing every touch, every sensation.

They washed each other’s hair silently, not letting mundane words spoil what they had just had together, and then they stumbled into Harry’s bedroom where he pulled Gilderoy into bed with him.

“Do you want to sleep here with me?” he asked, arranging the covers.

“Sure. Just for tonight?” asked Gilderoy shyly.

“For as long as you want,” answered Harry as the lights went out around them.

“I think I might love you,” Gilderoy whispered, nestling close to Harry.

“Me too,” Harry managed.

He could feel Gilderoy beginning to fall asleep beside him. It was different, having another warm body to share his bed. And yet, he couldn’t seem to fall asleep. He was warm, relaxed, and there was a gorgeous blond with his head resting on the other pillow, but something was bothering him.

“It’s so sudden. That’s why I’m worried.” thought Harry, reasoning out his discomfort. “He has lived here about twenty-four hours, and here he is, right next to me, like he’s always been there, like he belongs with me. It’s like a dream come true. But dreams never do. Only the nightmares. But maybe this one time, it can be a pleasant dream and not a nightmare ...”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------