Distorted Image

Distorted Image

Sitting in his office under the Christmas Eve light of his flickering candles, Gilderoy Lockhart glanced out the windows and saw snow spilling to the ground. It was quite lovely, really, the way the glittering white crystals refracted off the lights burning out of the castle. The little white points of radiance reminded him of his equally white teeth, which brought his attention around to his many portraits adorning the walls.

Most of the hanging Lockharts were asleep at this late hour, but two or three remained awake. One Lockhart, sitting with rigid magnificence at a concert grand piano, noticed the real Lockhart's eyes upon him, and gave him a cheery wave. The real-world Lockhart returned a carefully practiced smile to his portrait and waved back.

Christmas Eve. A fine time. A time for bright, joyful decorations, singing carols (it was such a treat to share his excellent singing voice with the world), and the chance to change up his wardrobe a bit. He enjoyed stunning people with how very good he looked in robes of cranberry or emerald, but especially gold (in fact, he already had his favorite gold outfit all picked out and ready to go for tomorrow, Christmas Day). There was just something so wonderful in the way gold set off his blond waves and complimented his leonine majesty...

A metallic clanging rang throughout the first floor corridor, interrupting his ruminations and causing him to jump several inches off his chair. For a moment, he clutched blindly at the side of his desk with one hand while pulling out his wand with the other, but reassured himself that he wasn't actually scared. It was just that his cat-like reflexes and preternaturally sharp hearing made him more susceptible to such extreme reactions.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring the rapid thread of his heartbeat, Lockhart rose from his desk and padded as quietly as he could toward the door. Though not a competent wizard by anyone's definition, he was not as defenseless as his performance at the previous week's Dueling Club might have implied. The trick of it was, the kind of damage he was capable of wreaking upon others was not at all an appropriate thing to do in front of children.

Despite the popular belief that he was oblivious to his mistakes, Lockhart knew that his showing at the Dueling Club hadn't been as strong as he'd hoped. In retrospect, he supposed he should've known that Severus Snape would be a capable combatant. At the time though, Snape had seemed a logical choice for assistant - after all, whose unpleasant appearance would accentuate his own good looks better than Snape's?

This was a different situation than he'd been in at the Club meeting, though. Merlin alone knew what was going on out in the hallway, but there was always the possibility that the monster was out there...which meant there was no need to worry about casting a spell unsuitable for the students to see. However, this also meant it was best to proceed with caution.

Lockhart was not averse to cornering a student with a case of nighttime wanderlust, or even an intruder of some sort (wouldn't that glory be grand!), but the monster lurking in the Chamber of Secrets was a different matter entirely. He was not foolish enough to go running headlong into the jaws of the beast. Best to leave that to someone else, someone with a penchant for bravery and thoughtlessness (a Gryffindor alumnus, perhaps?)...someone to find and 'interview' later on, at any rate.

He edged closer to the door, trying to think back to what he'd seen and heard during the duels last week. Some of those spells might come in handy in a case like this.

"What was it?" he murmured to himself. "Rictalsempra? Rictusumpra?" He shrugged and shook his head. Best to stick with what he knew.

He readied his wand and the one word on his lips that always worked for him, then threw open the door to the hallway.

The slam of the wood against the stone walls seemed to bang very loudly in the silent corridor; causing him to jump again and hooting laughter drifted faintly back down at him.

"Look! It's lying Lockhart!"

This greeting was followed by another crash, a clatter, and then a bang, all of which sounded suspiciously like a bedpan from the infirmary being thrown about. Though he could only see the little blighter as spot of white floating about, Gilderoy could hear the racket as though it was right in front of him.

Lockhart felt blood rushing to his face as relief and anger flooded over him, thankful for both the cover of darkness and for Peeves's distance. He hadn't heard his much-loathed school nickname in years and wasn't keen on being reminded of it.

"Bloody poltergeist," he muttered to himself, spinning on his heel with a flourish and slamming his office door closed as he went back inside. He had no wish to admit to himself how badly the noise Peeves was making had scared him, or how much being called 'lying Lockhart' still upset him. Instead, he sat back down at his desk and began to thumb through the pages of 'Magical Me' in order to relax.

Off and on, he paused to admire particularly fine passages and read them aloud for the enjoyment of his portraits and for practice in the future. It was a good feeling, sharing his exploits with himself, his stentorian stage voice echoing off the high rafters and stone walls. He only wished he had a larger audience to appreciate the quality of his recital.

After about an hour of reading choice passages aloud, he took a final moment to appreciate the collection of moving photographs in the book's middle, and then yawned. It was past one o'clock in the morning. If he intended to be up in time for breakfast, he had to get into bed.

It took him nearly half of another hour to get into his robes and do his nightly beauty charms, but by that time he was thoroughly exhausted and almost fell into bed with relief.

Pausing only to sigh at the warm comfort of his bed, he closed his eyes and fell asleep almost immediately. The last thought on his mind before falling into the arms of sleep was not the sound of his dreaded school nickname, or of the creature that slunk about in the hidden depths of the school (certainly not that...there were no monsters in Gilderoy Lockhart's head), but of the fresh snowfall and how beautiful it would look when he arose in the morning, glittering like a thousand diamonds under the sun.

*****************

The monster's tread is heavy on the stairwell and though it tries to be stealthy, the boy is not fooled. Soon it will enter his room, its breath hot and reeking, and he will squeeze his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. He has learned from hard experience that it is not as apt to linger if he pretends he's asleep.

He can hear the rattle of its claws slipping over the doorknob, jiggling the handle as it enters his room and he holds his breath to listen. Though he is only 12, he is wise enough to know that his safety depends on pretending he's asleep and that to do so successfully means that he must regulate his breathing - not stop it entirely.

The door squeaks open and the blond boy clutches desperately at his blankets, his heart hammering in his chest. Will the monster believe he's asleep and go away? Will the ploy even work this time? Sometimes, the monster is so insistent that even his believably feigned sleep will not keep it at bay.

The footfalls cross over to his bed, and the boy can sense the monster standing directly over him, staring down on him with hunger in its heart. The boy offers up a prayer to whatever entity is listening that the monster will go away, but this prayer (like so many others the boy has offered up before and will offer again) goes unanswered tonight.

The covers are lifted and the stench of the beast becomes overpowering as it slips into the bed beside him. With his fate sealed, the boy knows it's pointless to continue the charade and so begins to tremble, but trembling doesn't save him any more than anything else he's tried...and he has tried many things.

The monster leans its huge head forward until it tickles his ear with the stench of liquor. One large hand falls on the boy's hip, pulling him closer with the other fumbles with his pants. There is nothing for a moment, save for the cool air on his flesh, then suddenly there is white-hot pain in his backside as the monster pushes forward and groans.

"Were you a good boy today, Gilderoy?" it croons, panting slightly.

Biting his pillow, the boy remains silent, squeezing tears from his eyes. He thinks that this must all be his mother's fault. Before mother abandoned them both some three years before, this sort of thing never happened. The monster was a good father. It did not drink. It was a bit withdrawn, perhaps, often overlooking its attention-starved son, but there was no stinging pain in his bottom and no panting in his ear back then.

But that was then and this is now, and now is hell.

The monster fumbles and grunts for what feels like eternity, and then stiffens suddenly. A moment later, the white-heat is withdrawn from the boy and the monster rolls away from him, giving him an absent pat on the head while the boy is left to weep and wonder what he's done to deserve this.

Many years from now, this will all culminate in one awful moment: the rejected monster pushing the boy into a corner with anger on its face and the word "Crucio!" on its lips; punishment for the boy daring to defy its will.

But this is a 16 year-old boy now, no longer so small and unsure of himself, and even with a wand pointed at his throat he understands that he is in danger and reacts accordingly, the way he's been taught at school. Though he is not the best Defense Against the Dark Arts student the world has ever seen, he is at risk - and like any good Slytherin at risk, he reacts to save his skin.

The monster gets no further than "Cru -" before the boy (deft with the reflexes of youth) raises his own wand and howls one angry, feral word into the monster's face:

"OBLIVIATE!"

If there is anything that Gilderoy Lockhart knows how to do, it is how to fight monsters. For full details, see his published works.

*****************

Lockhart awakened from his nightmare with a gasp and a start, sitting straight up in his bed. For a moment, he felt desperate...panicked, as if he could sit for eternity trying to get a full breath of air but still die trying. Slowly, though, as it always did, the terror began to recede and Lockhart started to take measure of his surroundings.

Daylight streamed in through his windows, and though the air was chilled, it felt good against his hot, sweating skin. There was the sound of children, laughing and happy, which seemed to be coming from outside. He knew that, because of the incident with the Chamber of Secrets, the list of students staying on for the holiday was very small, so the children he was hearing were either Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, or Potter, Weasley and Miss Granger.

From out in the hallway, he suddenly heard Dumbledore's voice as the old Headmaster wished Severus Snape a Happy Christmas, apparently as the two walked by one another. Lockhart sniffed in derision and shook his head. If there was ever a man on whom a 'Happy Christmas' was wasted, it was Snape.

Straining, he could hear the Potions Master say something in response, but his voice was too quiet for Lockhart to make out the words. The sound of the two men then died away, leaving Lockhart in silence again.

Uncomfortable, he struggled against it, trying to listen for the children, but they had also gone quiet which left him with only his thoughts for company.

With a sigh, Lockhart attempted to push away the rapidly fading fragments of his bad dream and his bad mood by crossing over to his best and most faithful friend, his full-length mirror.

He smiled at his reflection, which obediently smiled back, but it felt taut and frazzled, as though he was made of wax.

For a moment, a sharp, clear memory emerged of the one day he'd tried to forget more than any other; the day his father had been prepared to cast an Unforgivable Curse on him.

He stood there, remembering the ugly way his father's lips had skinned back from his teeth as he prepared to torture his own son. His son, who had done nothing more than finally find the courage to refuse his father's advances.

With a small, strangled cry of frustration, Lockhart forced the thought away (as he always did) and turned back to his mirror, taking his wand out of his pocket. He stared at his reflection a moment, appalled by the dark circles under his eyes and the rigid way he held his mouth, then tapped his image in the glass and murmured a word.

His image seemed to go hazy for a moment, but then it reformed and he smiled at himself, in awe of his incredible good looks. His eyes shone so deeply blue they seemed almost purple, and his blond hair fell in perfectly coiffed waves...but there was one problem. He could no longer remember why he'd come to the mirror.

He searched his own eyes a moment, struggling to think back. At last he shrugged and grinned at himself. If he couldn't remember, it mustn't have been very significant. He already looked fabulous, so obviously it hadn't been something regarding his appearance.

Ah, well. Best just to get on with his day and go have breakfast. If it was something important he needed to remember, it would come back to him. After all, it always did.