The Man Who Knew Almost Nothing

Chapter Six

Guess who’s coming to lunch

Harry forgot all about Hermione’s letter until after breakfast was finished and Gilderoy began washing the dishes, a task to which he was well suited given his work at the hospital, which had not, Gilderoy insisted, been a chore, but the thing that had kept him from going stark raving mad during his internment.

Harry sank onto the couch and opened the letter from one of his best friends.

“Dear Harry, you know how I hate keeping things from Ron, but I certainly see your point. As you didn’t say anything about our planned visit, however, I assume that it is still on. To remind you, since I’m sure there are other things on your mind, we were going to hash over how the three of us met since you said you wanted to put that in your memoirs ... which I hope you are working on. Sincerely, Hermione.”

Harry could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest as he folded the letter up and dropped it on the nearest end table. The Weasleys, Ron and Hermione, were coming. They would arrive by floo powder at noon. He remembered. Gilderoy had driven the visit right out of his head. It had all been planned weeks ago. They three of them were going to sit around Ron’s enchanted typewriter, illegal though it was, and pour out everything they could remember about meeting on the train and the sorting ceremony to help Harry ‘get on with it’ as Ron had put it.

Ron had never really disapproved of anyone that Harry had liked or dated, even his own brother. Harry smiled a little as he remembered Ron’s exact words:

“Funny that you like Fred. I always thought you’d go for George myself.”

It had been a great way to break the tension during the last summer he had stayed with the Weasley family at the Burrow, and Fred and he had been caught snogging late one night. Harry thought that he might spend the rest of his life with young, energetic Fred, but after he had graduated and Harry began his last year at Hogwarts, they had grown apart surprisingly fast. Then there had been three Ravenclaw boys after the defeat of Voldemort, followed by a long period of loneliness and uncertainty.

“Can Ron forgive Gilderoy for what happened down the Chamber of Secrets?” Harry wondered.

The man’s cowardice had nearly cost Ginny Weasley her life. And he had nearly cast memory charms on them. If their quest had failed, a second, younger and wiser Lord Voldemort would have been running around and Hogwarts would have been closed. Harry shuddered when he considered the consequences.

“I can forgive him because I know what’s happen to him since then and how he has changed ... and because I’ve fallen for him. Ron might not see it quite the same way,” Harry thought.

“Harry, is anything the matter?” asked Gilderoy, drying his hands at the sink.

“We’re going to have some visitors today. You might remember one of them. Ron Weasley. He was the red-headed boy you met six years ago, if you recall,” said Harry.

“Excellent! Although, now that I think about it, I seem to recall him kicking me in the shins for some unknown reason. Ah, well, that was a long time ago,” said Gilderoy, unbothered by the news. “Who else?” he asked.

“His wife, Hermione.”

“How lucky you are! I can’t wait to meet your friends,” said Gilderoy.

“Ron might not seem to like you at first since he knew you ... before. He sometimes holds grudges,” Harry told him.

Gilderoy seemed to consider that for a moment before asking, “Does he hate me, Harry?”

“I don’t know. I never asked. But Ron isn’t a hateful person. Whatever his first reaction might be to finding you here, he will get over it. For the sake of our friendship if for no other reason.”

Hermione was always very punctual, and that trait had rubbed off on Ron to some degree. So at noon Harry and Gilderoy found themselves standing in front of the floo, waiting to welcome their guests after spending much of the late morning preparing a lunch of cold meats and sandwiches. Gilderoy had wanted to help again, and Harry wanted to keep him away from the stove, or anything with an open flame for that matter. As they waited Gilderoy wiped his sweating palms on his robes nervously.

“Don’t worry. It won’t be that bad,” Harry told him, putting his arm around Gilderoy’s shoulders.

Gilderoy leaned in to kiss him, but a sudden whooshing sound caused them to turn towards the hearth again. Hermione emerged from the fireplace, dusting the soot from her clothes and sneezing softly. Something in either the floo powder or the ashes always seemed to do that to her. She fanned the airborne soot away from her face before grinning at Harry and Gilderoy.

“My goodness, but Lavender was right! The two of you look really good together,” she told them, the surprise all too evident in her voice.

“Stop! You’re making him blush,” laughed Harry, looking at Gilderoy with some satisfaction. The man was indeed turning a rosy color. “Now introduce yourself,” said Harry, giving Gilderoy a slight prod in the ribs.

“Gilderoy Lockhart, at your service,” he said, flashing a winning, non-fake smile as he bowed slightly.

“Hermione Weasley,” she said, holding out her hand. Gilderoy hesitated a side-long glance at Harry before grasping her hand and then, almost as an after thought, kissing it.

“How can a man forget almost everything else, but still remember his manners?” Harry wondered silently.

A second loud sound from the fireplace caused Hermione to step out of the way as Ron emerged. His wife immediately began brushing the cinders from his robes to distract him at least momentarily from the blond man, who was smiling a bit uneasily.

“I thought it was only going to be the three of us,” complained Ron, trying to look around his wife’s bushy curls. “Hang on! Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, moving Hermione out of the way to get a good look at Gilderoy Lockhart.

“Ron, meet Gilderoy,” said Harry. “Gilderoy, meet Ron.”

He smiled nervously for a moment.

“I’m pleased to meet you ... again,” said Gilderoy, smiling so hard that his face hurt. He didn’t want to look antagonistic or afraid.

“Harry ...?” Ron questioned blankly.

“He lives here now,” said Harry.

“Is he ...,” asked Ron, gesturing to his head, “you know, all there?”

“Ronald Weasley! You mind your manners!” said Hermione, who had obviously spent too much time with her mother-in-law.

“I don’t mind,” said Gilderoy quickly, afraid of an argument starting because of him. “I’m still suffering from a bad memory charm, so I think the answer would be a rather decisive ‘no’.”

Ron looked at him for a moment with a stern expression. Then something unexpected happen. He laughed. Not maliciously, not nervously. Ron simply laughed.

“Harry, I know how you always liked your men, but this is taking it to the extreme,” he said, slapping Harry on the back. He was referring to the fact that Harry always went for the best, but never for the brightest, despite his short romances with Ravenclaws, one of whom actually made substandard marks in Herbology. “Put ‘er there, pal,” said Ron, sticking out his hand and still laughing. They shook hands, and Harry exhaled in relief.

“I can’t believe it! We were both worried for nothing,” laughed Gilderoy, grinning at Harry.

“Are we still on for our afternoon of reminiscing?” asked Ron, removing the typewriter, shrunk for the journey, and his wand from the inside of his robes.

“Of course, and now we have an outsider’s perspective to help us along,” said Harry.

“Wonderful!” said Hermione. “That’s sure to help.”

Ron set the typewriter on the coffee table and turned it back into its normal size with a flick of his wand.

“Exactly!” laughed Harry. “We are going have a spot of lunch first, right?”

After a most suitable luncheon, during which the conversation mostly centered around goings on at the Ministry of Magic and the next Quidditch World Cup, which was likely to feature England’s team, thanks to the recent addition of Harry to the team, the three old school chums moved into the sitting room. Gilderoy had insisted upon taking care of the dishes, giving the three the chance to talk quietly without being overheard.

“Harry, I’ve got to hand it to you. I think you’ve done a good thing, taking him into your house and all,” said Ron, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Can’t imagine six years in the hospital myself. Gives me chills,” he added for clarification.

“Oh, go on, Ron, say what you really want to say,” said Hermione, recognizing the words as a polite cover up for something else.

Ron blushed scarlet. There were things that he could joke about, but could never talk about seriously. Harry’s sexuality was one of them. He didn’t disapprove. After knowing Harry for so long, he did want to see him happy, more than anything, really, because Harry deserved some happiness. But still, being uncommonly straight, it was difficult for him to talk about certain things.

“Are you and him, you know, an item?” asked Ron.

Hermione was looking at him quite expectantly too.

“I suppose that means we didn’t make the front page this morning. I really should see about getting the paper delivered,” said Harry, a bit flustered by the inquiry, which was rather abrupt. “Yes, I believe that we are, and I can’t remember being so happy,” he answered after a moment, his face breaking out into a smile.

“Er ... a bit sudden, isn’t it?” asked Ron. “Or have you ... were you visiting him or something?”

“It is happening rather fast,” Harry admitted, his eyes drifting toward the kitchen. “But when it’s right, should it really take forever to figure that out?” he asked quietly, almost talking to himself.

“No, I suppose not, but a week at least ...,” Hermione began to say. “No, you’re right, Harry. Things like this ... they happen at their own speed,” she said.

Harry smiled at her. She had been the most supportive, and least confused, when he had told his closest friends about his preference in romantic partners. Hermione had warned him to be careful. She always told him to be careful. And he appreciated that. In many ways she was the sister that he had never had, older and wiser despite the fact that they were the same age. Her first instinct was always to protect him. Her second, to allow him to follow his heart.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he told her, adding silently, “I am glad that you understand.”

Ron cleared his throat before anything else could be said. It was his indication that Gilderoy was leaving the kitchen to join them.

“Have I missed anything?” he questioned, plopping down on the couch next to Harry.

“They were just asking about us,” said Harry.

“Did you tell them about the shower?” he questioned nonchalantly.

“Um, no.”

“Right then. Harry, do you remember what time you arrived at the train station in London? I think I got there about ten minutes before the express was due to leave,” said Ron, changing the subject and hurriedly turning on the typewriter.

They talked long into the evening, producing page after page on the typewriter as they racked their brains to remember absolutely everything about meeting on the train and being sorted in the same house, into Gryffindor. Gilderoy listened to them, three of the best friends to go through Hogwarts since the days of the Marauders, not that he knew of them, and occasionally asked questions. Mostly he was silent, listening to Harry recount the story, which would someday become legend, especially if he ever finished those memoirs.

Harry glanced at him from time to time, making sure that he wasn’t bored or feeling left out, and felt for the first time that writing about his own life might be something that he really wanted to do. When he looked at Gilderoy, his own memories would suddenly become very precious to him, things that he didn’t want to lose or forget. All of the best and all of the worst he had known of life became sacred relics, personal, but something to be shared too. He wanted to share all of his memories, his experiences with Gilderoy, just as Ron and Hermione wanted him to share them with the rest of the wizarding world.

When Ron and Hermione were ready to return home, Ron asked Harry, “Do you want to keep the typewriter? I find inspiration comes easier with it than with one where you have to press the keys.”

“I’d like that, Ron. Thanks.”

“Anything to get you started, Harry,” his friend said, stepping in the hearth.

When their guests had gone, Harry returned to the couch and reclined, resting his head on Gilderoy’s lap. The day had been both productive and a little exhausting, mentally at least. It felt as though his brain had been stretched.

“Why not just buy a Pensieve?” he asked himself as he got comfortable. “Too rare, too hard to find, too ... uncomfortable,” he answered silently.

“Are you really going to write, Harry?” Gilderoy asked.

“I don’t know. I intend to do it, but it isn’t easy. I don’t know how you managed it,” Harry sighed.

Gilderoy ran his fingers through Harry’s dark hair, almost idly touching his scarred forehead. He looked very thoughtful.

“It must be not be so difficult if I managed it,” he pondered aloud.

“Don’t sell yourself short. You did a good bit more than manage it.”

“If you still want, I could try to help you ... although, I don’t know exactly how.”

“Of course you will help me, Gilderoy. You will inspire me. You will be my very own muse,” Harry told him, taking his hand and kissing his wrist.

“Then I will have a purpose in life.”

“Rubbish. You have a purpose. Didn’t we discuss that this morning?” questioned Harry with a gleam in his eyes.

“What was it? To love you?”

“And be loved ... by me ... if you feel up to it.”

With surprising strength and speed, Gilderoy lifted Harry from the couch, grinning as he leaned down to kiss him quickly on the lips. That was his answer as he carried Harry into the bedroom and lovingly deposited him on the bed. Gilderoy was the perfect blend of experience and inexperience, Harry realized, pulling him into a passionate kiss. His body remembered so many of the things his mind could not, the touches and the caresses and the warmth of holding another close, and yet in his eyes there was a wonderful, refreshing naiveté and curiosity, like it was his first time falling in love, his first time at everything. It was all new to him, and wonderful.

Harry opened his mouth, allowing Gilderoy to slip his tongue in, stifling a moan as he did so. Harry could still taste a little bit of mint tea on his breath. He closed his eyes as Gilderoy began fumbling with his robes, pushing them up and out of the way. Harry took the hint and began unbuttoning every button or clasp his searching hands came across in an attempt to speed up his efforts. They were lying in a pile of clothing only moments later, hardly breaking the kiss for even an instant as they undressed, moaning instructions to each other when necessary.

Gilderoy pulled away at long last and stroked Harry’s face, breathing heavily. His breath was warm, hot, and ragged. There was desire there and in his eyes.

For Harry it had been mind-blowing. He had no doubt that Gilderoy’s experience was far more vast and comprehensive than even that of Fred Weasley. He felt a twinge of regret on Gilderoy’s behalf. The man could not, after all, remember the good times he had had. Harry was still imagining all the men his lover had romanced, not jealous, but curious, long after Gilderoy had fallen asleep with his head on Harry’s chest and the blankets pulled up around them. It was unfortunate to have lost so much, Harry believed. He was no longer in love with anyone but Gilderoy, yet he would be heartbroken if he could not remember the fun he had had with Fred or any of the Ravenclaws he had romanced.

“To have lost so much ...,” Harry thought, a twinge of sadness intruding upon his sleepy euphoria. “He says he doesn’t want it back, but that seems impossible.”

By the time sleep had finally overtaken him, carrying him away into blissful dreams, Harry had decided that he was going to do everything in his power to heal the injured mind of his beloved.

“I’ll get his wand back ... and Hermione will help me come up with a novel approach to undoing the charm ... I know she will be able to crack this one. And then ... everything will be ... wonderful ... forever ... for both of us,” he thought dreamily, a smile coming to his face as he nodded off.

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