The Man Who Knew Almost Nothing

Chapter Twenty-one

To soothe the nerves

Gilderoy awoke screaming for the next two nights in a row. For the first time it wasn’t about the hospital, it was about the ball and about the things that he remembered. Harry was strongly considering giving him a dreamless sleep potion so that he could rest more easily. Gilderoy refused. He wanted them to subside naturally, earnestly believing that they would in time. Harry couldn’t argue with him. He had advised Gilderoy against relying on potions himself.

The first night Sirius had come in, looking haunted and afraid and armed with his wand. His first thought had been Death Eaters, or more accurately, former supporters of Voldemort that had taken up the robes and masks after their master’s defeat, intent upon revenge. He watched Gilderoy thrash in the last throes of the nightmares with wide eyes as Harry stood by.

“Shouldn’t you ...” Sirius began to ask.

“No, it only makes it worse for him. I learned that early on. He’s got to come out of it himself,” Harry told him. The strain and anguish were chiseled with deep strokes upon the features of his young face.

“Can I do anything?” asked Sirius.

“Could you fetch him a glass of water, please? I want to stay with him and ...”

“Of course,” Sirius nodded, disappearing into the kitchen.

Sirius had returned with a glass of wine instead, remembering the nights he had spent in Remus’s care several years earlier.

“For your nerves,” Remus had said, pressing it into his hands and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“For his nerves,” Sirius echoed when Harry looked at the glass in his hand.

“Will it help?” asked Harry.

The nightmare had subsided, and it appeared the Gilderoy wouldn’t be throwing up. He was shivering beneath the bedclothes with a vacant expression on his face.

“Possibly,” said Sirius as Harry took the glass from his hands.

“I don’t want any potions,” said Gilderoy, turning his head away as Harry pressed the glass to his lips.

“It isn’t,” Harry assured him.

Gilderoy drank it and settled back against the pillow.

“Love?” he questioned.

“Yes, Gilderoy.”

“You can go back to sleep.”

The next night, after it was all over, he had said the same thing. He had not been sick, though he was ghostly pale and would not speak of his dreams, not even to Harry in the morning.

On the third night Gilderoy awaken without screaming, without crying out in terror, without awakening Harry.

Harry awoke during the night and felt cool sheets against his skin. He was fully alert in an instant. Gilderoy was nowhere in sight. Harry crept from bed and walked into the sitting room where he found Gilderoy sitting on the couch in front of the fire, sipping a glass of wine. Harry could see that his hands were shaking very badly.

The soft rustle of fabric caused Harry to turn. Sirius was leaning in the doorway of his bedroom, watching them both.

“He’s getting better, Harry,” Sirius whispered.

“Is he?” Harry whispered back.

“He didn’t scream tonight.”

“The light in his eyes has been snuffed out.”

“The wide-eyed innocence was bound to disappear. He will get over it in due time.”

“I wish ...”

“I know. Remus ... once said something to the same effect. He wished that my eyes hadn’t lost their spark too.”

“I can hear you, you know,” said Gilderoy from the couch, taking a sip of wine from his glass.

“Sorry,” said Harry.

“So am I. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I don’t mind,” said Harry.

Sirius snorted softly and returned to his room.

“Come back to bed,” Harry said to him.

“Will I ever really get better?” Gilderoy asked, staring at the fire.

“I believe that you will in time.”

“Every time I close my eyes, I see myself doing those terrible things ... all for the sake of fame and money. I try to rationalize what I did. I try to tell myself that it was so long ago. I try, Harry, and I fail. And I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. Something. Everything,” said Gilderoy, finishing his glass of wine. Harry had the feeling that it wasn’t his first. He seemed unsteady on his feet as he left the couch.

“Tell me what I can do to help you.”

“Cast another memory charm on me. Make me oblivious again. Let me remember you and only you,” he said, a pleading look in his eyes.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because ... Oh, Gilderoy, because I’m afraid that your mind can’t stand another charm, because I don’t have the skill in that area, because what would we do when it eventually unravels too? Because magic isn’t always the answer,” said Harry.

Gilderoy nodded slowly and his shoulders slumped. Harry could see that he understood the answers he had been given.

“Please come back to bed.”

“All right,” said Gilderoy, setting his wine glass on the coffee table.

The next day they resumed their schedule of writing and teaching, but Gilderoy refused to have any more dance lessons and Harry could understand why. Oftentimes in the evening Remus would talk to them using the fireplace, always checking on Sirius and Harry especially, though he had developed a special fondness for his young friend’s lover, who seemed to be on the mend. Gilderoy helped Harry with his writing as much as possible, and those memoirs were finally taking shape. Harry was rather proud of them, due in part to Sirius and Gilderoy’s lavish, but not undeserved praise.

The weeks began to pass swiftly after that, and Harry and Gilderoy began to tick off the days until Quidditch season began and Harry would join up with his teammates for practice well before their first official game, almost a month away. Sirius had agreed to come to all the games, but Harry would only be taking Gilderoy with him to the practices and so forth. And Gilderoy was rather excited about that, finally shrugging off the pallor that had hung over him for several weeks following the disastrous ball.

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