Written for QLFC Season 5, Final Round 1
Team: Wigtown Wanderers
Position: Chaser 1
Position Prompt: Write about a Shopkeeper in Knockturn Alley
Additional Prompts:
7. (word) history
9. (restriction) no dialogue tags
12. (song) The Boxer - Jerry Douglas
Word Count: 1440
Beta(s): Aya, Dina. Thank you so much! :3
Summary: Young Gilderoy Lockhart is a walking oxymoron. Or rather, he was at the beginning.
Such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
o.o
The creature screams. Screams and begs — thousands and thousands of eyes crying as they look at the now unreachable ceiling. It screams because its half-eaten little wings have become a part of the same chains that are tying its body as Death walks toward it in the form of eight black legs and six red eyes. There's no escaping from the sweet deceiver, the lethal trap that is the spider web in the upper left-hand corner of Mr. Aranjen's showcase.
Whenever he, sitting behind his counter, sees a fly caught in that web, a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, the same devious smirk that greets each one of his customers — his breath bad, his teeth rotted out. And yet people enter, lured by the treasures accumulated in his shop over the years, unaware of the dangers, and Mr. Aranjen's grin only grows as they play right into his gnarly, chapped hands; he doesn't need to take care of his own body as long as the items on sale catch everyone's eye. All he has to do is wait, camouflage himself into his surroundings — an old person among antiquity, a man apparently without a past among ancient treasures, each coming with a secret history.
And so, sitting behind his counter without making any noise, he waits since before sunrise every day, unsealing the door to his customers at the appropriate time and smirking when the rosy fingers of dawn turn blood red. He doesn't need Merlin's foresight to know that such a dawn is a bad omen. Maybe even a death omen. It is exactly this thought that cheers him up as colored rays light up the Alley. They are orange and crimson. Red. As red as sin.
It only lasts a few minutes every day. After that, a comfortable penumbra wraps up the area, sheltering it from prying eyes, a necessary precaution since his shop lies very near Diagon Alley — that being both its greatest inadequacy and value: those elegant, well-mannered, bright people that'd never step in Knockturn Alley sometimes hide as many shadows as he does. Sometimes they allow themselves to believe the shop is close enough to Diagon Alley to be considered a part of it. Hypocrisy runs very deep in them.
Mr. Aranjen knows how to recognize them and, most importantly, how to lure them, basing on how they carry themselves. Hidden in his shop, he just needs to peer out. Rapid, little steps of people suspiciously in a hurry; springy, careless steps of confident Purebloods; heads bent by sadness or failure as the hands are being wrung; chins slightly elevated — he sees it all and knows what it means. Knows how to distinguish true wizards and witches who stroll about with a purpose from timid, hesitating Mudbloods, who keep their noses in a book or look around in awe.
In his long life, he's seen several people. Their bodies never lie.
o.o
The young man that catches his eyes today is an interesting one. Hard to miss, actually, with that blond hair that no shadow can dim and lips that tend to part all too often to reveal perfect white teeth. He looks so bright externally, and yet… The light is what causes darkness, and Mr. Aranjen is sure there must be much around the young man.
A walking oxymoron.
The stranger carries himself with pride and some grace, but the latter is hindered by the subtle yet constant shaking of his neck, a sign that he keeps his muscles too taut to be truly comfortable in the celebrity's role that he's chosen for himself.
Sometimes, the young man's left hand reaches his right shoulder and lingers there, protectively. Mr. Aranjen knows what it means; a repressed or hurt ambition can cause rheumatic pains in one's right shoulder, according to Healer Josefina Calderon.
From this distance, Mr. Aranjen can't tell whether the young man has ever stood up for himself, has ever fought like he wants people to believe, judging from the forced alertness he displays.
Maybe those fights only ever happened in the young man's fantasy. And yet Mr. Aranjen can see the cuts, non-physical wounds that prosper in the shadows. It's in those slightly dragged steps; in the way the blond man looks around, his gaze unfocused, as if he knows where he wants to go but doesn't dare; in the way he keeps walking back and forth, each time behaving like a different self. The only common thing is charming smiles and shining hair.
Mr. Aranjen looks at the blond man who passes by his shop, gravitates to it — never close enough to trespass into Diagon Alley — and he finally finds something he can work with in the stranger's demeanor.
All it takes is a flick of Mr. Aranjen's wand. A moment later, the door of the shop trembles and opens as echoes of old applause bounce on the wall. It's pretty unusual; his other customers prefer to be greeted by screams or hisses, but he trusts his door.
The blond stranger stops, looks around, and finally, relief written all over his face, walks toward the shop and enters, basking in the cheers. His shoulders are still tight, his steps well-balanced as he discreetly wrinkles his forehead, certainly to appear more mature and experienced.
The blond's left fingers twitch as he clearly refrains himself from grabbing his right shoulder again. "I'll just take a look. I've always been fascinated by… antiquity, I guess."
"Are you a collector? Some new arrivals might interest you."
"I'm not a collector. But that doesn't sound like a bad idea."
Mr. Aranjen's grin is overly wide as he gestures to his customer to follow him to where he keeps his truly valuable merchandise — all items that lead to rottenness and fall. He pulls aside a black and red curtain and enjoys the sight of apparently endless shelves full of objects, each with a handwritten label attached. Everything looks neat.
"Why is the back room so tidy? Unlike the shop, I mean."
"Easy, young man. In the mess, the customer feels at home. Too tidy rooms create mental disorder while chaos brings out only what you really want. That's my philosophy, and my business proves it. But don't linger on the doorstep. Follow me."
"And the shop? Aren't you afraid of being robbed?"
"No one can steal from my shop, my dear, however much they want to." The mere thought of a thief surviving his traps is ludicrous.
They go deep into the maze of shelves, passing by old frameworks, portraits, yellowed pictures, clocks, heirlooms, inlaid wood boxes. Everything seems to glow invitingly, radiate a welcome heat in the cold hall, so it comes as no surprise when the incautious young man reaches for one of them.
"Stop! Hands in your pockets! We're almost there."
His customer shrugs and his shoulders seem to unwillingly relax.
Dark books, some wands, clothes…
The magic creeps around, pulsates, flows.
Quivers, cauldrons, bottles. Vials, finally. "Here it is. Drink it."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you. You'll just have to trust me. I don't need it, but it'll help you greatly, you'll see, my young friend."
"Help me? With what? Why?"
"Drink it. Hurry, so we can go back. Now." Mr. Aranjen grabs his customer's shoulder, making him startle, and pushes him backward.
Youth and ambition; cowardice and hunger for fame; a purple potion — a perfect recipe for a constant haunting.
Mr. Aranjen looks as the content of the vial disappears in the blond man's throat and a rotten smell fills the air.
For a few seconds, the only sound they can hear is a distant buzz. It's urgent, desperate.
"What did I just d-drink?"
The light slowly leaves that young body and gets trapped in the closest silver mirror as its reflection bounces back and clings to the blond man's shoulder as a mantle. Mr. Aranjen looks as his customer adjusts his posture and straightens his back, letting the vial crash to the ground, its cold smoke wrapping them both up.
Magic crackles.
The buzz fades into feeble pleads.
"Too much curiosity may be harmful. Remember, my young friend. Some things must be kept hidden to fuel legends and myths. And remember; men hear what they want to hear. Just give them that."
"Gilderoy Lockhart."
"What?"
"For your future customers. The name they'll want to hear is Gilderoy Lockhart. Gilderoy Lockhart has been here."
Everything is silent.