Disclaimer – I own nothing. Thankyou Tim Kring, JK Rowling and Albert Einstein.
Gil gazed at the man in the corner. It was strange, no matter which room he was in, or who happened to be in there, the quiet man always slunk to the shadows. He seemed to want to hide, to not like being looked at, and that was something Gil couldn't understand at all. Of course, there were many things he couldn't understand, most things actually, but this one bothered him. The quiet man stood there, 'hiding in plain sight' as they said, and who were they? Was that another universal truth he should know, or one of the things no one knows but they all know you don't need to know so he shouldn't ask? Really, he didn't know how he had coped before, but sometimes he found this whole world unnecessarily confusing. And he'd been distracted again, that happened a lot too, was why the quiet man there in fact. But how could he help if he didn't talk? Gil didn't think anyone could do anything useful without talking, sometimes he couldn't even stay quiet when he thought, so how did the quiet man keep it all inside his head, whereas Gil found it slipping through his brain and into the air like his ideas were whirled away by a sandstorm.
The man didn't even have a name. Gil called him the quiet man, because nothing else would fit. The doctors called him Haitian, whispered it like a secret, a threat. The man had to have a name, everyone did. Even You-Know-Who had one, somewhere, hidden along with his lies and crimes and wishes. But the man had no name, and no voice, and he stood and watched Gil from the shadows every day like a dark angel until he was ready to burst from something.
Gil had tried talking to the man, but there was nothing. He had tried watching him, until the intense stare burned his eyes and his whole body from inside out, heating up like he was rushing through the floo. It seemed there was one option left, and he had been preparing himself for days. The nurses had been relieved by his quiet, and amused by his focus, and worried when he signed nothing in 72 hours, but today was the day. Today he would touch the quiet man.
He approached slowly, remembering passages of the books they had made him read, a dashing hero creeping up on deadly monsters. But he was no warrior, and this was no beast, and the walk was far too short. Hesitantly, he stretched out a shaky arm beneath the solemn gaze, and brushed smooth fabric. He rested a hand above the man's heart, felt the beat and the breath, and wished with all the magic he was supposed to hold for just one thing.
'Who are you?' The whisper echoed, drowned him in its sibilant sounds, his own voice ringing though his ears. It was amazing how powerful sound could be, he mused, when you didn't have any. And then the touch of skin was a life raft in his tempestuous imaginings. The quiet man took his hand, led him to bed like a child, and settled him there. Gil had grown used to the silence, treasured it, and where his words had seemed a brief mistake the ensuing giggle was sheer blasphemy, but irresistible as he pondered which bedtime story he was about to receive. There was no story, but instead a smile that he basked in, sunshine and spring rain and everything a cliché could describe. The man smiled with no reserve, and the white teeth and first glimpse of his mouth seemed unbelievably natural, startlingly unsurprising despite three weeks of dead eyes in a stone face.
'They want me to fix you,' Gil closed his eyes to luxuriate in the velvet accent 'but I do not believe that you are broken.' A long finger brushed his cheek, and his lids flicked open to be caught in heated obsidian. 'Who you were, is not important. What you are now is all you need to be.'
He caught the scent of smoke and steel when the man leaned over, and felt the kiss to his forehead as a benediction. 'You are Gilderoy Lockhart. Live well.'