Author's Note: This is written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Round 11. I am playing as reserve Keeper for the Falmouth Falcons. My prompts/challenges included: same first and last word, Dark!Gilderoy, and AU. Word Count: 2997.
Names are a curious thing. They are the first impression before the meeting and the one word that ties together your entire identity. They are the title to your reputation, and one mistake can damage a name beyond repair.
He was lost before he found his name. As a Slytherin with golden hair and a blinding smile, he broke every rule he didn't even know existed. He learned quickly. The divide in the Wizarding World was easy to see as a Slytherin, where discussions of the Dark Lord and his reign popped up more often than Quidditch or exams or school gossip. Mudblood became the insult of the decade, and he did well to boast about his own magical lineage enough so no one ever suspected his father to be a Muggle. He learned to hate the non-magical race as much as the lot of them, even the elite group of fifth years that were rumored to already be in the Dark Lord's ranks.
These older students whispered about Voldemort and Death Eaters, shushing as soon as someone got too close. They roamed the corridors in an impenetrable group, but the golden-haired first year stuck to them like a Kneazle to a gnome. He listened—or rather, eavesdropped—and collected enough inside information to force Evan Rosier, Severus Snape, and their comrades to trust him.
After their graduation, it was he who continued the Dark Lord's work, he who recruited support from pliable young minds, and he who proclaimed that Lord Voldemort would never be defeated and those who opposed him should face that inevitable truth.
He never foresaw the Dark Lord's downfall, never guessed he would leave Hogwarts out of fear of the Mudbloods and blood traitors, never prepared for his birth name being received with disgust and disdain. His reputation was ruined.
As the world exploded into colorful celebration, he disappeared into the streets of Knockturn Alley. His handsome face and youth garnered enough hand-outs to beat back the hunger, cover his ever growing body, and piece together a complete education—one more helpful than anything those professors at Hogwarts could have taught him. He learned curses and recipes to torture, control, and kill. It was the first stone in his new path to glory, one that would lead to greatness better than searching for a Dark Lord. Where Voldemort had failed, he would not. He would become the greatest Dark Lord that ever lived, but Dark Lords do not appear out of Knockturn Alley streets. He needed a reputation and followers, the keys to his rise to power.
His name, his already used up and soiled name, held him back. If only he could go back in time and teach his childish self how to keep a secret, how to appeal to the popular opinion whilst keeping his true plans hidden behind a charming smile. He had no Time-Turner, but what he did have was a silver tongue, a trust-worthy grin, and a war memorial inscribed with his future: Gilderoy Lockhart.
The first stolen story is the worst planned but the greatest learning experience. Walter Twiddle returns from Transylvania a fortnight before his interview with Gilderoy Lockhart, who he thinks is a reporter. Twiddle's name has been in every Daily Prophet since his return, and by the time Gilderoy asks his first question, Twiddle is already bored.
"Yes, yes, I spent the last three years with a family of vampires… They lived beside the Olt river… No, I don't remember the name of the town… I'm sure it's in some other interview somewhere."
Gilderoy realizes several problems early on. Firstly, Twiddle's answer will never be enough to fill an entire book. Secondly, Twiddle is too well-known, too published. Any well-read witch or wizard will recognize Gilderoy's plagiarism and, thirdly, connect him to Twiddle's murder in a heartbeat.
The entire disastrous interview turns into a waste of time, and Gilderoy hates to waste anything. He is a Slytherin, resourceful and clever. He has to take this awful moment and change it into an opportunity. After all, one does not dwell among vampires for three years without getting bitten, right?
"Silencio!" Gilderoy shouts, pointing his wand at the old man's large frowning mouth. Twiddle opens his mouth wider in a mute shout before Gilderoy adds, "Petrificus Totalus," with a casual flick of his wand. Twiddle's wagging finger jerks back into a fist, and his limbs snap to his sides. His frozen body falls to the floor, upturning the coffee table on the way down.
"What surprisingly slow reflexes," Gilderoy says, stepping over Twiddle to probe at his neck. "No matter. It will make this so much more believable." His wand tip steadies below the curve of Twiddle's jaw. "I don't have much experience with cutting spells, so I apologize for any unnecessary pain."
Gilderoy's lack of experience does not hinder his task. The mess is expected, but he wishes he had more knowledge on stain-removing spells.
With a new plan in motion, Gilderoy disappears to the cliffs of Wales with nothing more than a dozen Self-Inking Quills and two dozen packages of parchment, but he returns with a gruesome tale inked in his perfect handwriting. The book appears on the shelves of Flourish and Blotts in under a week, and reporters queue outside his house. They beg for another retelling of how Gilderoy found poor Walter Twiddle in the grip of a vampire, followed the scoundrel all the way to Romania, and set out on a voyage along the Olt river with Twiddle's beloved vampire family to track down the murderer. He wins awards both for his grand defeat of the monster and for humanizing vampires and never writing them off as soulless killers.
Gilderoy Lockhart has found his glory and glory is addictive.
Walter Twiddle taught him how to pick his next exploit. He grows fond of tracking down young explorers, the ease of hiding a body in the mountains or jungles too convenient to ignore. Those not yet making the front page news are the best. They can disappear for months, even years, before someone notices, and then they're written off as accidents anyways. Tragedy happens out in those dangerous regions, after all.
He stops paying for the Daily Prophet. Anyone who makes it there is far too noticeable. He prefers the smaller, local presses and subscribes to them all. Every day, hundreds of owls flock to his desolate cottage, arriving at all hours of the morning. He learns to skim for promising headlines: young researchers, magizoologists, and scholars departing to far away places, best if searching for dangerous creatures. Exactly like the article he finds on 9 April 1991 in the Falmouth Features: Local Hogwarts Graduate Callidora Steele Sets Off To Tibet To Tame Elusive Yeti.
Yetis? Yes, that would be a fine follow-up to trolls, wouldn't it?
Lucius Malfoy is a greater fool than Albus Dumbledore. Not for clearing out his home of dark objects for both a profit and a clean reputation—that is wise in these times—but entrusting the Dark Lord's journal to the likes of Goyle? Is Malfoy thinking at all?
It takes three compliment-loaded conversations to convince the dimwitted troll to confess he was given one of Lord Voldemort's most valuable objects, two sly suggestions that the Dark Lord will never return to reveal the object is a diary, and one presumptuous wink to hand over the book to Gilderoy. Goyle even joins in on Gilderoy's ridicule of Lucius for ever thinking Voldemort would keep such a Muggle thing, where his deepest secrets could be read as easily as a textbook.
No, Gilderoy can't blame Goyle, who was not given the gift of looks or brains. Quite the tragedy. He does, however, lose the boyhood respect for the legendary Lucius Malfoy; it is no wonder the Dark Lord failed with followers such as him.
The diary turns out to be a blank disappointment, though. He casts every revealing charm he knows, drowns it in various potions, and even writes a parchment full of Ancient Runes into every page. Nothing. The spells rebound, the potions are absorbed, and the runes disappear. Perhaps it's not a diary at all. Could it be—can Gilderoy bear to hope—a weapon?
Gilderoy takes out his favorite peacock feather quill that he only uses for autographs. The bright colors flash around, mocking all the unintelligent common folk who believe all his lies, who have given him all his awards, and who pine for a second of his attention. Like all of his adoring fans' hearts, he will claim this book—whatever it does—as his own.
The nib of his quill slides along the first page in a familiar gesture: a large circular motion, a few tall loops, a long flick down and up for the 'y', a few curves of the wrist, the least pleasing jerking motions of impatience, and finally, a quick jab near the 'i' and sharp cut across the 't'.
It soaks into the paper, teasing permanence, then disappears.
Gilderoy waits for a response, his mind open to any unexpected event. Is that all? Is this dark weapon his now? Or have Malfoy and Goyle taken him for a fool?
He grips the edge of the leather binding, his wrist propped to slap the diary close, when the ink bubbles up from the parchment.
Hello Gilderoy Lockhart. My name is Tom Riddle.
Gilderoy whips his neck around to look behind his back, then to the window, and then to the ceiling. Where is he? How is he doing this? Is he not dead?
Accept the job. Return to Hogwarts.
How does he know? Gilderoy only received the letter from Albus Dumbledore yesterday, requesting a meeting. He had only guessed it was to offer him the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. This Dark Lord really is as powerful as they say.
Gilderoy scrambles for his quill. What is at Hogwarts?
Your final step to glory.
The Dark Lord is indeed powerful, and manipulative, and Gilderoy has been used. He loses his nights to what he hopes is dreamless sleep but knows by his fatigue that it is something more. He does not remember writing the words, but deja vu knocks his heart to the back of his ribs when he sees the blood-smeared wall. Enemies of the heir beware. He knows that phrase, has heard it reverberate through his brain at all hours of the night. The cat, the ghost, the camera boy, the intelligent girl—he remembers them all.
He knows it is the diary, knows this is what the Dark Lord intended. All these months, Gilderoy has followed the diary's instructions, set it on his nightstand before he blew out the candle, and floated into the possession without resistance. Fear prevents him from breaking these habits, but he feels the diary consuming him. His handsome face bears bruise-like shadows from peeking bones, his muscles melt into sagging skin, and his confident stride degrades to stumbles as his Dragon-hide boots drag across the floor. By the end of the year, only a skeleton will be left of the once great Gilderoy Lockhart.
Unless he feeds Potter to the diary first.
Ah, Harry Potter. The boy who was handed fame as a baby, who never strived to have his name in the Daily Prophet, who skirts around the power lying at his feet. Gilderoy despises the boy, dreads every detention, even as he forces the boy to watch him send off autographs to the authors of his fan mail. Where is the jealousy? The envy? The ambition?
The Potter boy will never understand how grave a mistake he made when he said, "Honestly, Professor Lockhart, I never wanted to be the Boy Who Lived."
Gilderoy Lockhart's next book is already written inside his head: how the monster dragged the Boy Who Lived's best friend into the Chamber of Secrets, how Gilderoy selflessly accompanied the young hero into the depths, how the monster was more than any of them could handle. Gilderoy tried to save them all, but Harry Potter charged into a battle he could not win. Gilderoy had to save Ron Weasley and watched in despair as Potter's overconfidence sent him straight into the belly of the snake. Of course, Gilderoy avenged young Potter's death and escaped with Weasley on his back, but the poor lad's mind was never the same again.
Gilderoy waits for the perfect moment to steal Mr. Weasley away, an impossible task it seems, but fate gives him a better idea.
"Professor Lockhart?" Ginny Weasley asks after class. "Is there any time I can come to your office and practice the Disarming Spell? I can't quite get the wand movement right."
"Of course, Miss Weasley," Gilderoy says with a winning smile. "You are welcome to come tonight after my detention with Mr. Potter at seven."
Those stupid, stupid boys. They'll ruin everything. Has he not been approachable enough? Charming enough? Why would two children not think to ask for assistance from the great Gilderoy Lockhart?
He stalks through the puddles of water and piles of bones, his feet leading him as if he has been here before. Those types of feelings are so commonplace that Gilderoy is no longer bothered by them and stays focused on his task. He must find them before they find the Weasley girl if he wants to trap Harry Potter down here with that soul-sucking diary. Gilderoy needs at least one miraculous survivor to save from the clutches of the snake's fangs. Just one, and he's a hero. If they all die, Gilderoy Lockhart will be yet another reputation ruined.
Two spots of light emerge from the blanket of darkness. "Ah, boys!" Gilderoy says, plastering on his best smile. The wand lights turn toward him, casting a glow over a lumpy mound of something green that trails all the way to where Gilderoy stands. The long, twisting form almost looks like a… He jumps backward and covers his eyes with his hands. "What have you done? Have you killed it?"
He expects an explanation, not Harry shouting, "Expelliarmus!"
His wand tumbles to the ground, rolling over skulls and ribcages until Ron Weasley rushes forward and snatches it. "It's only the skin," he says after securing the wand.
Gilderoy stares at the two boys with an open mouth. He steps towards them and does all he can to keep a cheerful tone to his voice. "Come now, boys. I need my wand."
"Sorry, professor," Potter says with a shrug. "We're just not sure we can trust you."
"Not with my sister down here," Weasley adds.
"You can't think I have anything do with that," Gilderoy says, getting close enough now that both boys step back. "I came here to help you, not harm you."
"She went to your office right before she ended up here," Ron says, his fists shaking at his sides.
"And all of this started after you arrived," Harry adds, holding his ground. "It's all a bit suspicious if you ask me."
This is not how it's supposed to go. These boys think they're so clever, do they? How clever will they be when Gilderoy's left them down here with that cursed diary and scrambled the Weasley girl's mind until she can't even remember her own name. Unless the diary, which he left beside her sleeping form, has already done the job.
"Quick, close your eyes!" Gilderoy shouts, pointing behind the boys and ducking his own face into the crook of his elbow. He leaves just enough space to see both boys squeeze their eyes shut and whirl around to raise their wands at the darkness. Gilderoy leaps forward and grabs the wand at Weasley's side, the girth too wide to be Gilderoy's own wand. What a foolish boy, pointing a stranger's wand at a monster.
"I'm sorry, boys," Gilderoy says as the boys turn, Weasley's wand pointed at Weasley's own horribly long nose. "I will be sure to dedicate this next book to the both of you. Petrificus Totalus!"
The end of the wand glows with the spell, hesitating a moment long enough for Gilderoy to realize something is wrong, then the light sucks back into the wand and shoots out through a crack barely covered by Spello-tape. The jet of light smacks into Gilderoy's chest, forces his limbs to his sides, and sends his head down towards a jagged stone.
Another name ruined. Gilderoy Lockhart's books disappear from Flourish and Blotts, his publisher destroys all of their communication, and, worst of all, his name flashes across the front page of the Daily Prophet: Gilderoy Lockhart: Fraud, Murderer, and Servant of You-Know-Who.
After all his disastrous lessons, the first comes as no surprise. The second is a bit of a stretch: he hadn't yet attempted to kill those boys. Have those locals finally realized where all of their young explorers have gone? Well, he can accept being caught in his scam and his homicides, but the last one? Oh, that is all to blame on stupidity and arrogance and that diary. How could he have ever thought following the orders of a dead Dark Lord would lead to glory?
But death is a curious thing. For those powerful enough, it is not always the final act. There are whispers, and this time, he will not follow the likes of Malfoy and Snape. He will rise above them. He will take orders from no one but the Dark Lord himself. The real and live Dark Lord.
The once handsome celebrity is no one again. He has no name, at least not one worthy to enter the circle of Death Eaters and outshine them all. The obituaries become his favorite section of the Daily Prophet, so full of names no longer in use. On 8 June 1993, Galinda Rowle passes from Dragon Pox. On 23 January 1994, Thorfinn Lochrin is executed by a Dementor's Kiss.
Thorfinn Rowle. Never before have there been a greater combination of names.
End Notes: Wow, this story contains a lot of firsts. This is my first (but hopefully not my last) QLFC entry, my first attempt at AU, and the first time writing Gilderoy Lockhart (besides from a sleepy mention in On The Verge Of Happy Endings). This is also only the second one-shot I've ever written! However, I'm pretty happy with how this story turned out. A big thank you to all of the Falcons, especially Tiggs (whitetiger91) and Terry (CheekyAmerican) for beta reading and Ari (Arianna Waters), for beta reading and also for being the one to recruit me as a reserve and exposing me to this fantastic competition. I hope to return next year for a full season and the full experience. As always, reviews are much appreciated! :)