The Man Who Knew Almost Nothing

Chapter Nine

What ever became of Godfrey and Celeste?

They spent a long time at the archives that day. Gilderoy looked through several illustrated histories of wizarding Britain while Harry did a bit of research on the subject of Celeste and Godfrey Lockhart. The ancestral roll had not included information like how long they were married or how they had died. Gilderoy wasn’t asking for the information, but Harry assumed that one day it would occur to him to ask such things and he wanted to be able to answer the questions without pulling another muscle. His back was still killing him, and the climb down had not helped.

So while Gilderoy stared at moving pictures, more drawings than photographs, of the Goblin Rebellions, Harry sat immersed in an expansive tome of modern wizarding family histories, volume twenty-one Lock- through Lode- in search of the story of the Lockharts who had been Gilderoy’s parents. And he found them ...

“Celeste and Godfrey Lockhart were found murdered this morning in their Yorkshire residence, Lockhart Manor. The cause of death appears to have been torture, by means of the banned Cruciatus Curse, followed by what investigators believe to be Avada Kedavra, the unforgivable killing curse. This has led the Ministry to conclude that the Lockharts were targeted by Dark Wizards, almost certainly followers of a ruthless Dark Wizard calling himself Lord Voldemort, making this the seventh attack in as many month.

“Mister Godfrey Lockhart, an outspoken advocate for muggle-born scholars of magic, though from a pureblooded family himself, was a valued bureau director for the Ministry of Magic, serving in the Office of Magical Safety for sixteen years. His wife Celeste Diggory Lockhart worked as an Auror for the Ministry until the birth of the couple’s first and only child and was well respected by the wizarding community at large for her many daring arrests, including that of three infamous Dark Wizards just five years ago. Their loss is one that will be felt by the community for many years to come.

“The Lockharts are survived by their four-year-old son, Gilderoy Lockhart, who has been taken into the custody of the Ministry of Magic until a suitable home may be found for him. Young Gilderoy was present at the time of his parents’ tragic deaths, but managed to evade detection by the Dark Wizards who perpetrated this crime, although it is at this time uncertain how he accomplished this.”

Harry wasn’t certain at first who Gilderoy, from the picture painted of his parents, reminded him of more: Neville Longbottom or himself. His parents had been heroes, two of the earliest fighters against Voldemort, and apparently Gilderoy had been practically scared squib, traumatized, by their murders, as Harry had long believed Neville had been by the attack on his family.
He watched Gilderoy flipping the pages of yet another illustrated history, a childish smile on his face, and was momentarily overwhelmed. They were both orphans, robbed by the forces of darkness, and fate, often unkindly and pitiless, had thrown them together, given them each other perhaps in some attempt to heal their pasts.

“And to think I thought ill of his father for being a Slytherin. I must remember not to be too quick to judge. Not everyone uses their ambition for evil ends.” Harry thought, closing the tome.

At that moment Gilderoy looked up from his book, still smiling and asked, “Ready to go, Harry?”

“Absolutely,” said Harry, managing a trembling half-smile.

He felt pale. He hoped he didn’t look it, because Gilderoy would ask questions and Harry just knew that he couldn’t easily handle discussing what he had learned with him. Gilderoy deserved to know, but hopefully not until he had a chance to digest everything he had discovered.

They left the archives and found their way to a small restaurant to have a late luncheon or early supper. Harry wasn’t certain exactly which. His mind was still buzzing with thoughts of Gilderoy’s family and his own. His wished in vain to know of Gilderoy’s upbringing following the murder of his parents, but such things were not recorded in historical or genealogical texts. Had he been raised by the Diggorys? Was he sent to an orphanage? How was it that he came to grow up to be such the miserable fraud and failure as a wizard that had taught him Defense Against the Dark Arts? Cunning, and yet silly. Ambitious, and yet quite stupid. It was almost like seeing two different people, three counting the man he had fallen for. The entire matter was quite confusing.

“Harry, aren’t you going to eat something?” asked Gilderoy, rousing him from his thoughts. He had been pushing the food on his plate around absently with his fork.

“Hmm? Oh, of course,” Harry replied.

“I’ve been thinking too,” said Gilderoy. Harry’s head snapped up as he gave his companion his full attention, not to mention a surprised look. “Really, Harry!” Gilderoy pouted.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“My parents both died on the same day, didn’t they?”

Harry winced and said, “Yeah.”

“What do you suppose happened? One would think that it was some kind of tragic accident. If it had been an illness, surely it couldn’t have gotten them both at the same time, right?”

“Gilderoy, are you sure you want to know? You might be happier not knowing,” said Harry.

A sudden realization hit Gilderoy, “That’s what you were looking up in all those books!” Harry nodded mutely. “You weren’t going to tell me?” he asked, stiffening.

“Not today, but eventually.”

Gilderoy relaxed and nodded, understanding Harry’s desire to protect him.

“Were they ... killed or something then?”

“Yes.”

“Like your parents were?”

“The ... incidents ... are strikingly similar.”

“Murdered then.”

“Yes, by the same sort of dark wizards too.”

Silence washed over them as they stared down at their plates of half eaten food. Harry wished that he hadn’t told him, but he had been lied to as a child, believing that his own parents had died a car crash. If he had lied to Gilderoy, he would have been no better than his aunt and uncle. The truth had to be told. It was as simple as that. But it felt rotten.

“Harry?” asked Gilderoy after a few moments.

“Yes?”

“Why? Why were they killed?” His voice was quavering slightly.

“Because your parents were brave, because they stood up for and fought for what they believed in during dark times.”

“Were they heroes? Like your parents were?”

“I think so,” said Harry, finally looking up. The sorrow in his eyes was unmistakable.

Gilderoy’s eyes were shining with tears as he said, “It’s nice to know, Harry. Really, it is.”

Harry reached across the table and squeezed his hand. At last he felt as though he had done the right thing.

It was late in the evening when the pair returned to the cottage. The stars were just beginning to twinkle on the darkening horizon as they bundled up and stepped outside to watch the last rays of a beautiful sunset. The air was brisk, and the sky was clear, save for a few wisps of purple clouds. It was a lovely sight. The solitude of the countryside around them, vacant for miles, made Harry and Gilderoy feel as though they were the only living beings in all of existence and draw closer to one another because of it.

“You make me feel safe,” commented Gilderoy, whispering into Harry’s ear.

“And you make me feel lucky,” said Harry, turning to kiss his cheek.

“I can’t thank you enough ...”

“Then don’t try. Everything I do, I do because I want to, because I ... I love you,” Harry said, managing to say the words. They didn’t come easily. And even as he said them, Harry wondered whether they would prove true, whether what they had together was love or desperation, the longing for companionship in any form it might take.

“And I love you,” said Gilderoy, the words coming to his lips with far greater ease, and possibly greater sincerity.

They stood there together until the growing darkness began to envelope them and the breeze became too chilly.

“Let’s go inside and sit by the fire side for a bit,” said Harry, tugging Gilderoy along by the sleeve.

Harry saw to it that a fire was lit in the hearth as soon as they were inside, collapsing together on the couch. Harry smiled to himself as he realized how peaceful and domestic they looked together. He was beginning to doze in fact when he heard a quiet hoot from the far corner of the room. Hedwig had returned from delivering mail and had let herself in during their absence. Harry glanced at Gilderoy to find that he was already asleep. He chuckled as he untangled himself, lightly kissing Gilderoy’s brow as he went to see what the owl wanted.

A small box was setting near Hedwig’s perch. Harry’s heart skipped a beat as he realized that it had a Ministry of Magic seal upon it. Percy had come through in record time.

Harry opened the box to check its contents and was quite surprised to find that the box not only contained a wand, sturdy and polished rosewood and about twelve inches long, but a tiny key that he recognized as belonging to a Gringott’s vault and a ring of slightly larger keys. Harry shivered as he realized what they belonged to: Lockhart Manor. These must have been in Gilderoy’s pockets when he was admitted to the hospital.

“Lockhart Manor,” Harry whispered, returning the items to the box. Even after reading the article on Gilderoy’s parents, he had not given the manor a second thought. Was that where Gilderoy had been living prior to teaching at Hogwarts or had it been deserted for years, he wondered.

“Harry? Did you say something?” asked Gilderoy sleepily, stirring on the couch. Harry glanced over at him to see Gilderoy crane his neck to see what he was doing.

“You got a package,” said Harry, trying to smile as he joined him before the fireplace again.

“Really? What is it?” he questioned.

Harry placed it on his lap and said, “Open it and see.”

Gilderoy opened the box and stared blankly at the things inside for a moment before slowly, reverently removing the wand.

“I told you that it was wooden,” he said absently, touching the smooth wand, which was in perfect condition despite the years of disuse. “Thank you, Harry,” he whispered.

“I do expect you to learn how to use it properly this time,” said Harry with a chuckle.

“I intend to do just that, with your help, of course.”

“Of course. Lessons start tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“I have the time.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Stop you’re making me blush,” laughed Harry. “What about the other things in there?” he questioned, pointing at the box.

Gilderoy reflexively slipped his wand into his left robe pocket before lifting the keys from the box.

“What are they?”

“Keys.” said Harry.

“I know that, but to what?”

“The little one goes to a vault at the wizards’ bank of Gringott’s. The rest are probably your house keys.”

Gilderoy looked at him with an expression of utter confusion as he asked, “I have a vault and a house?”

“Yes, I believe so. Do you have any memory of a place called Lockhart Manor?”

“No, of course not,” said Gilderoy, frowning.

“I think it’s a place we might want to visit when you feel up to it.”

“But, Harry, I don’t know ...”

“There might be pictures of your parents there. Things from your childhood. Think on it a while, Gilderoy. I won’t pressure you to go,” said Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I know. And I will think about it,” Gilderoy said, returning the keys to the box. “Can you keep up with these for me until then?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Harry with a nod.

Rising to his feet, he winced, rubbing his lower back and suddenly feeling as old, no, older than Gilderoy.

“What’s the matter?”

“I think I pulled something climbing that deuced tree,” Harry told him, placing the box on the mantel.

“Can I do anything?”

“You wouldn’t mind terribly giving me a back rub?” he asked.

“I think I could manage that,” said Gilderoy, smiling.

Harry had to admit that Gilderoy was full of surprises and that the man certainly knew what it to do with his hands. He had to wonder, as sleepiness and contented relief began to wash over him like a rising tide, how often Gilderoy had given massages in his previous life before he lost his memory. Part of him had believed that the man had been too selfish and self-centered to do anything for anyone else. As Gilderoy’s hands rubbed away the ache and soreness with exceptional ease, Harry had to admit that he was wrong. The skill could simply have been a natural gift, but the smooth, gliding strokes felt a bit too practiced, too perfect.

“Is that any better, Harry?” Gilderoy asked quietly.

Harry made a sleepy, indistinct sound and a pleased grin spread over Gilderoy’s features. When he was certain that Harry was asleep, he undressed, doused the lights, and crawled into bed, feeling strangely satisfied by the simple act of giving his young lover a back rub. He flexed his hands as he pulled the covers around Harry and himself and wondered briefly if that were something that he had done before. That was a lifetime ago, or was it? He could quite decide and shrugged away the questions that had popped into his head.

And yet as he lay awake in the dark for sometime after that, he was troubled and did not know why. There was a sudden and peculiar sense of loss, of grief long forgotten and newly remembered, that did not allow sleep to come easily to him. The feelings brought dark images to his mind that were difficult to brush away. Memories from his days of bleak and unhappy internment in the hospital, recalled for the first time since Harry had rescued him.

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