Rating:
PG
House:
The Dark Arts
Characters:
Gilderoy Lockhart
Genres:
Angst
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Chamber of Secrets
Stats:
Published: 07/17/2002
Updated: 07/17/2002
Words: 2,907
Chapters: 1
Hits: 329

Malleable Truth

Miss Cora

Story Summary:
Gilderoy Lockhart, the oft (and aptly) maligned DADA teacher from Chamber of Secrets has lost everything which people consider truly important. In the loss of his memory he has lost his family, his history, his home. How can a person be a person without knowing all of the incidents and accidents, which have made them into the person they became? And in Lockhart's case, can he really want to be that person he was before? A look into the private diary of Gilderoy Lockhart, post CoS.

Chapter Summary:
Gilderoy Lockhart, the oft (and aptly) maligned DADA teacher from Chamber of Secrets has lost everything which people consider truly important. In the loss of his memory he has lost his family, his history, his home. How can a person be a person without knowing all of the incidents and accidents, which have made them into the person they became? And in Lockhart's case, does he really want to be that person he was before? A look into the private diary of Gilderoy Lockhart, post CoS.
Posted:
07/17/2002
Hits:
331
Author's Note:
Many thanks to Lady Morsmordre for a fantastic beta job. She did this for me ages ago, and I'm just very, very slow about getting to these things.


Malleable Truth

From the diary of Gilderoy Lockhart

Date: July 7, 1993

My name is Gilderoy Lockhart.

My name is Gilderoy Lockhart, and up until now I have been living a lie.

No, that's not right. From what I can tell I have been living several lies.

I have been telling lies to the world for almost 14 years, and I have been telling lies to myself for even longer.

Now I want to know the truth but I can't remember it. I can't remember anything, even from one day to the next. That's why I've started this diary, so it can remember for me.

Date: July 9, 1993

This is what I know to be true.

My name is Gilderoy Lockhart. I found a copy of my birth certificate, so I know I am 38 years old and was born February 12th, no mater what the book jackets say.

I was born in a little town nearly 30 km from Oxford to a witch and a wizard. Both of my parents are dead - according to the papers from the time, he died when I was 22 of a heart attack and she died 3 years later in an attack by dark wizards. They both lived long enough to see what I was doing with my life, but I don't know how much they regretted it, regretted me. They are dead and I can never ask them. I can never learn about childhood antics or successes. All I have of my past is what I find in official documents and newspapers.

I had an older sister who died before I was 8. She is not in any of the biographies. She died less than 2 months after her graduation from Hogwarts, and from the copies of her grade reports I found she was quite good at school. Apparently Charms was her best subject. I think she may be the thing I wish I could remember the most.

She would have been near the end of her first year of school when I was born. I suspect I never knew her very well at all. But now I never will.

The newspaper clippings, which I found in a scrapbook in a box, in the attic of the house which they tell me is mine, say she was killed while touring the wilder parts of Yugoslavia. Well, what would have been Yugoslavia, which, prior to that, would have been Transylvania.

The newspapers don't say what killed her, be it man or beast, magical or mundane. If I knew that it had been some dark creature I might be able to deduce something about the motives for my strange way of life. If I knew that I had cared.


Date: July 15, 1993

For one as vain as I seem to have been, it seems odd to me that I wouldn't have left a single shred of evidence about myself. Yes, there are those stupid "memoirs," but they can all be assumed to be false. I'd have thought that the old me would have wanted some accurate proof of his existence, but maybe he was too vain to write something that could have shown what a lie his life was.

Having gotten rid of all those damned photos of me, and almost every copy of the stupid books I claimed to have written, the house now seems empty and unlived in. There were no other decorations, almost no other personal effects at all, and as far as I can tell there is nothing that will help me in my search.

The one thing that would have helped does not seem to ever have existed.

This seems to have been the first journal I have ever kept, which brings me great disappointment. The only things I know now about my past are things that show up in the boxes in the attic. My previous self seems never to have gone up there. I wonder that he can have been so cold and uncaring about the things his parents held dear, which is all that is stored up there. It seems that, once they died, he had all of their things packaged up and shoved into the attic. It is all so haphazardly stored that I can't even believe he did the packing himself.

As for what I have actually learned, my official biography claims I was born in May in a London suburb and that I am 6 years younger than I actually am. As such, I highly doubt its validity in any way, shape, or form. The unofficial one gave me some hope when it mentioned the town I was actually born in, but this is the only accurate difference from the official biography, and the rest of the changes are simply more lies. They are both useless for my purposes.

Date: July 19, 1993

It occurs to me that I have yet to explain what I know of the end of my memories. My search for the beginning of my history has led me far astray from the end of it (for it almost seems that I am starting with a clean slate now, writing a new history for myself). But, if I am to know the whole of my story, I will need to remember the end of it as well as the beginning.

What I know: I was a teacher at Hogwarts from September of 1992 through May in 93. I taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I was very bad at it.

I had been given the position because of the exploits that were claimed and recorded by me in the books I have mentioned before. According to my sources, these books relate true stories that were reported to and then stolen by me. I was apparently very good at Memory Charms, which I can verify personally as the one I managed to cast on myself is so damned strong.

While I was at the school a young girl was somehow tricked by the Dark Lord into opening something called the Chamber of Secrets, an ancient room dating back to the founders of the school. There she released a monster that preyed on the school. As the year ended I was sent by the other teachers to find this monster and deal with it. I can only assume that either this mission was not meant seriously, or else my much more qualified colleagues didn't know the truth of my books, because otherwise I can not understand why they would have done so. But I have only the information that is given to me and there is no real way to check it.

I ended up in the Chamber with two of my students, Harry Potter and his friend; whose name escapes me . . . I'm sure I was told earlier. Damn.

What I am told I did next seems to have been the worst thing I ever did, although, since I still can't remember anything of my prior life, it's possible I've done worse things. I hope not. I fervently hope not.

I took the wand from Potter's friend and attacked them both, saying that I would perform a Memory Charm on them, return to the surface, and claim the monster to be dead along with the girl who had been tricked into opening the Chamber. Luckily for the children, and for the world at large, the wand misfired. Instead of causing the boys to forget their trip under the school I erased my entire memory with a spell of such strength I could not remember so much as my own name from one hour to the next. This at least is wearing off and I can now retain my name, address, and small or relatively important things from one day to the next. Although not phone numbers. That gets really annoying.

But I digress. Potter continued through to the chamber, defeated the monster, and saved the girl. When he came back we returned to the surface and I was left with the Headmaster. I remember small portions of this, especially something having to do with flying up a tunnel, but nothing before then and very little after.

I then left the school, seeking the answers to all the questions I now had.

All of this I know because two months ago I wrote to Potter asking him for help. He has been very useful - explaining to me both what I told him about my previous way of life and about the events I have just described. I shall attach here the first letter he sent me because it seems significant, and because he gave me some very important information in it that I do not wish to lose.

Dear Lockhart,

I'm not exactly sure what I should tell you. I wasn't even going to respond but there's not much else to do here during my summer vacation and you seemed sincere.

I guess I ought to approve of your wanting to find out about your past, but I don't think you're going to like what I have to say. Sorry about that.

You once explained to me what it was you really did, where your stories really came from, and I guess that's probably going to be the first thing you ought to know.

You've probably seen all the books that say you wrote them. Well, you didn't. Or rather, you wrote them, but you didn't do the things they say you did. I know in your letter you said that was the only thing you knew about your past, so I'm sorry to have to take it away from you, but I think you might get in trouble if you don't know this.

What you really did was take other people's stories. You found people who did wonderful things against monsters, but who were not pretty enough, or something. You recorded their stories, erased their memories, and then wrote your books.

I told you you wouldn't like it.

If you have other questions go ahead and send them to me. Having something to do besides slaving for my aunt and uncle is always good.

Good luck in your search.

Yours sincerely,

H. Potter

I did, of course, continue corresponding with Harry, which is how I got the description of what happened under the school. But maybe I already said that. It's hard to keep track.

Date: July 22, 1993

Going through another five boxes this week, I discovered the collection of grade reports and letters home that my mother saved. That is, the box they are stored in was labeled in the handwriting I have discovered to be hers, so I assume she made the collection.

The grades were less than stellar, and the letters . . . Well, the letters were quite useless for learning anything about the events that made up my life but were very good at letting me know what sort of person I had been.

Apparently my mother was frightened that the horrible fate which befell her first child would be visited on the second. In every letter I sent to her I beg her to stop fussing over me. That is, I whine about the fact that she annoys me with her worries.

They are very much the letters of a teenaged boy, full of himself and sure the world is designed to accommodate him. The boy represented in these letters thinks always of himself first, telling every story from his side and his side only. Frequently, as I read about these childhood scrapes I suspect that my penchant for improving the truth was there even at so young an age for they are all fantastical.

I find it interesting that there are very few letters from my sister stored up here, while an entire box of my letters is carefully preserved, despite the lack of worthwhile content in the letters. I wonder if my mother, fearing the loss of a second child, did not dote more heavily on me or cling tighter than she might otherwise have. It would be endearing, and wonderful, if only I could remember.

Date: July 24, 1993

I have been to visit the graveyard where my parents and sister are buried. I meant to go earlier but many things have conspired against me, and I think now it was just as well that they did.

The stones, when I finally found them, were ruined. They had been overgrown with weeds, growing up into cracks in the stones. Clearly no one has been by to take care of them in several years. From what I can make out of the other stones in the area they lay in a family plot, surrounded by other Lockharts. I wonder if that makes them happy.

I suspect they have not been happy that the only Lockhart left to care for all of the stones was always too busy (or too lazy) to visit and too cheap to even hire someone to keep the stones free of the encroaching greenery.

That, at least, I can change, and have done.

Date: August 3, 1993

I have been in touch with several people who knew me before the accident and I must say, I am less than impressed. Either these 'friends' liked me only for my fame and money (most of which it seems I rather wasted although I've no idea how), or they didn't like me at all but knew me out of necessity.

My publicist seems to be of the former type and my editor, the latter. Both of them, however, are rather vile people and claim not to have known the truth behind my books. Was I so vain as to never even tell my closest colleagues, or are they so worried about their jobs that they can't admit to the truth?

The only thing of worth I have learned came from an acquaintance, someone I knew through the literary world and who seems to have thought me to be the lowest of scum. Apparently he stayed around me because I would buy him drinks, and I around him because he would pretend to listen to my stories. I thought he could aid me, thought that, if I had spent so much time telling him stories while we drank, I might have told him some true stories, some of the stories I am now so desperately seeking. But when I asked him if he knew anything of my childhood - if I had ever told him anything of my family - he responded that I was only ever interested in talking about my books or my latest trips.

I thought then that he wouldn't be able to help me after all, but asked once more, just to be sure.

"Can't you tell me anything that was important to me before I lost my memory?" I asked in desperation.

He just laughed at that, and gave me a piece of information which I think I already knew but had been dreading having confirmed. "The only thing important in your life was you," he told me.

I very much dislike the Gilderoy Lockhart I have become familiar with in the course of my search.

Date: August 24, 1993

Two months. Two months have gone by since I started my search in earnest. Two months, and I have found nothing.

Every avenue of inquiry has dried up, every attempt to seek out the truth has been thwarted.

It's as though the person I was has disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving only those damned books behind as a marker of his existence. And I can't say that I mourn his passing.

The Gilderoy Lockhart I have unearthed seems to have been a reprehensible, vile, and altogether worthless specimen of a man. He didn't care about his parents, who adored him, he stole other people's lives and histories for his own gain, and lived a fully selfish life, doing only what pleased him.

I think it highly appropriate that he should fall victim to his own cursed methods and have his own history similarly stolen from him, although as its inheritor I have no intention of writing and selling it for the consumption of strangers. This journal shall be kept private. I doubt I will ever even tell another of its existence, let alone share it with someone.

My memory is, if not returning, then at least strengthening. I no longer need this written record of my history and, I must admit, I do not wish to lay claim to the history written herein.

I shall place this book, the last I ever intend to write, on the small remembrance for my family that I have set up. There I have stored the scrapbook about my sister, a few collections of things which seem well-loved by my parents, and one copy of the false biography. That book and this one really do explain everything that is worth knowing and can be found out about the old Gilderoy Lockhart.

I am going to let the old Gilderoy die now. I don't think I could ever be that man again, and if I could, well, I don't desire to be him. My old history is gone, it is time to make a new one.

Gilderoy Lockhart is dead. A long and happy life to Gilderoy Lockhart.