A/N: Before we start, some essential information. Yes, this fic is Voldemort/Lockhart. That means heavy-duty slash, folks. The fic goes AU starting from the end of Book 6, but there are still Deathly Hallows spoilers. DH canon will be recognized, even if the events in it don't all happen. And just FYI, the genre filter on FFnet is severely inadequate. This fic is more like Romance/Drama/Adventure/Humor. If any of you found this fic through the genre filters, you might want to Alert it, because I might change the secondary genre in the future. This fic sticks as close to canon as possible and attempts to keep everyone in character. If anything drifts off into OOC-land, I expect you to let me know. Thank you!
The first half of this chapter is like a prologue of sorts. It might be a while before I get chapter 2 up. I hope to finish up some of my other almost-done fics first. But even if it's been a while since I've updated this fic, I will come back to it, don't worry.
Please review/comment/critique/complain/rant/whatever! Thank you!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, the world, the characters, et cetera, due to the fact that JKR does. I own this fic, the plot, and a few original characters.
Most Prized Possession
In Search of Easy Street
"What are you doing in here?"
Gilderoy Lockhart yelped, dropped the book he'd been looking at next to his trunk, and whirled around. For a moment, what he saw terrified him, a skull-like face in a black cloak; then he recognized it as a fellow Death Eater, dressed the same as he was. "Oh... Bellatrix, it's you." He forced a smile on his face. "You gave me quite a fright, my lady..."
"Don't give me that, Lockhart," Bellatrix snarled, stalking towards Gilderoy. She hesitated just at the threshold of the room, as if she were crossing from profane land to sacred ground, but then entered and marched up to Gilderoy, wand raised. "What do you think you're doing back here, tonight of all nights? You know what they're saying! Our Lord, fallen! To a baby!"
"Yes, I've heard, Bellatrix," Gilderoy said, eyeing her wand carefully. "Terrible news..."
"I said don't give me any of that!" Bellatrix lifted her wand higher, holding it just beneath Gilderoy's chin. "I want to know why you're here! In our Lord's personal chambers—his own bedroom—mere hours after these rumors started. Well, Lockhart?"
"I..." He gulped, wondering whether it would be wiser to concoct a story or tell the truth.
Bellatrix didn't give him a chance to decide. She stalked past him, dark eyes peering around, until they settled on Gilderoy's open trunk. Her lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "What have you got here?" Still pointing her wand at Gilderoy, she crouched down and started riffling through the contents of his trunk with one hand. "Thought you'd flee while our Lord was set back, Lockhart? Thought you'd take advantage of his weakness and go through his belongings? Steal whatever strikes your fancy?"
"N-no, of course not!" Gilderoy said quickly. He tried another smile, hoping he could win her over, but it didn't seem to want to form. "My Lady Lestrange, you misunderstand me. I'm not—"
"Liar!" she screeched, standing up. Her wand shot off a spray of agitated, sickly green sparks as she pointed with her other hand into the trunk. "How do you explain this?"
"Those are my things," Gilderoy said. "I merely came to retrieve them. I wouldn't dream of stealing from To—from Lord Voldemort." After all, he needed to make a quick escape, if the rumors were true.
"Prove it," Bellatrix said, in a tone that quite implied that she knew he wouldn't be able to.
Without a word, Gilderoy walked up to the trunk, pushed several other items aside, and pulled out a lacy, lilac robe. He could almost see Bellatrix's thoughts as he watched her face: first intense concentration as she tried to imagine Voldemort in the robe, and then she curled her lip in revulsion. "Fine," she snapped, lowering her wand.
"Thank you," he said, offered an apologetic grin, and went back to packing his things. He picked up the book he'd been looking at, a photograph album, and added it to the trunk. Now, where had he left that box of spare hairnets?
Bellatrix watched sharply as Gilderoy hurried across the room, looking for his box on the other side of the bed. Voldemort had probably shoved it in a drawer or cabinet somewhere... damn, he'd never find it again...
As Gilderoy located his combs and brushes (all seven of them) and returned to his trunk to pack them, Bellatrix said, "Why do you have so much of your litter in the Dark Lord's room?"
"That," Gilderoy said, "would be between himself and me." He winked at Bellatrix, and hurried to find more of his possessions that Voldemort might have shoved out of sight. She bristled.
"Scum," she said. "I've never understood what our Lord saw in you. Far be it for me to question him, of course, but certainly no one told me what you have to offer him. You don't fight for him, your position as a Junior Minister hardly makes you a worthy spy, you don't have any particular skills that he could make use of... As far as I can tell, you're just a pretty face."
"Oh, that's not all he likes about me," Gilderoy said airily. "I'm a pureblood, too."
Bellatrix snorted, disgusted, and Gilderoy latched shut his trunk. He drew his wand, muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa," and floated the trunk in front of him and out the door.
He couldn't risk visiting the alleged scene of Voldemort's fall, in case it was true; Ministry officials would be swarming the Potter house, no doubt, and if they saw Gilderoy they would ask him what he was doing there, how he had heard the news so quickly. Then it would be safest to protect himself, to get out of the way of danger; if the rumors turned out to be false, Voldemort would surely find Gilderoy and tell him so. Perhaps he wouldn't be as merciful to other followers that abandoned him, but Gilderoy didn't care about the others. He was a special case.
"Running away so soon?" Bellatrix hissed, following him. He could almost feel rage radiating off her. "Where's your loyalty, Lockhart?"
"A man's got to look out for himself," Gilderoy said. "I'm sure Lord Voldemort will understand."
"Understand! Ha!" Bellatrix said. "His will comes before our own, always! You would know that by now, if you were truly one of us!"
"Well, no one said I'm one of you, did they?" Gilderoy said calmly. He pushed up his left sleeve to show Bellatrix his unblemished forearm.
Behind her skull mask, Bellatrix's eyes widened. "You refused the Dark Mark?"
"I was never offered it," Gilderoy said. Though, to be perfectly honest, if he had been, he probably would have refused it.
"So now you plan on running off and denying you ever associated yourself with the Dark Lord," Bellatrix said. "Coward! Traitor! You don't think you'll get away that easily, do you?"
"No, not at all," Gilderoy said. "Though I plan to give it a try."
"Do that," Bellatrix said with a sneer. "We'll stay here and defend our Lord's name. If even one of us should be captured, it will be your name we'll give to the Wizengamot, when they ask us who else marched in our army! And we'll tell them, all your little friends at the Ministry who think you're such a bold, heroic man, exactly what you are!"
Gilderoy resisted the urge to try to pacify Bellatrix. He walked on, keeping his trunk afloat, until he could get out of this manor and past the Anti-Disapparition defenses.
"I would kill you right here," Bellatrix said, lifting her wand, "except then I wouldn't get the pleasure of turning you in to the Ministry."
And because she didn't know why Voldemort valued him, Gilderoy thought. She wouldn't want to unintentionally displease her Lord. "Bellatrix, my dear, there's no need to—"
"Bellatrix, my dear! Oh, shut up," she said, then dropped her voice to barely above a whisper. "I've known you were a traitor all along. Every time the Daily Prophet comes with another article about the capture of a Death Eater, you'd always make sure you got included somehow. You'd claim to have an instrumental part in every arrest. I can't imagine how that could be, unless you've been leaking information, Lockhart?"
"Actually," Gilderoy confessed, "I've been lying through my teeth to the Prophet." He did what he must to keep his limelight.
"Oh, have you?" Bellatrix said. "That's all you're good for, isn't it? Making sure all eyes turn to you whenever you want them and look away when you don't. You can distract them with your smile and a handshake and then they won't notice what you do the rest of the time. That's it, isn't it? Your greatest skill is looking out for yourself."
They were now outside the manor and quite a distance from it. Gilderoy stopped, let the trunk sink with a soft thud to the lawn, and turned to face Bellatrix. "My Lady Lestrange," he said, beaming at her, "you are exactly correct. As far as I am aware, every talent I possess directly relates to my own self-preservation. And that," he lifted his wand so it was pointing upwards at Bellatrix's head, "is precisely why Lord Voldemort values me so much. Obliviate!"
Bellatrix stumbled back, momentarily stunned by the force of the charm, and Gilderoy took that opportunity to grab the handle of his trunk and Disapparate.
She would still retain most of her memory; Gilderoy was worried about the consequences if someone found her, discovered her mind had been wiped clean, and started searching for whomever had done it. However, she'd completely forgotten that she had ever met Gilderoy, much less that he was a Death Eater. He was merely covering his tracks.
He appeared in an alleyway in Hogsmeade. Quickly, Gilderoy opened the trunk, took off his mask and cloak, and buried them as far down as he could, before shutting the trunk again and casting a Disillusionment Charm on it. He walked out of the alley and quickly joined the witches and wizards on the streets, dressed in a lovely aquamarine robe, with nothing about him to suggest that he would ever consider associating himself with a group like the Death Eaters. Before he escaped, he had to have more information.
After figuring out where he was in Hogsmeade, Gilderoy hurried to the Three Broomsticks. It was early morning, still in the dark of night, really. He was surprised at how many people were up and about, but, then again, if the rumors were true, the wizarding world would be too excited to sleep. He listened closely to snatches of conversations he passed on the streets:
"Yes, that's what they're saying, You-Know-Who..."
"The Potters, I hear the mother and father..."
"It was the boy, wasn't it? Harry..."
"He's the Boy Who Lived! A killing curse..."
"Don't know how Harry Potter did it, but good riddance..."
None of this was very positive news.
When he entered the Three Broomsticks, the room was already packed, even though the sun was an hour or so from rising. Every table was filled. For a moment, Gilderoy stood helplessly in the doorway, wondering how on earth he was supposed to find anyone to get news from. He finally took a deep breath and decided he'd do what he always did: bluff his way in.
He looked around until he found someone he recognized, someone whom he knew was a Death Eater but didn't know that Gilderoy was. He was sitting at a table, looking quite timid, surrounded by strangers. Gilderoy hurried his way over, his usual smile in place.
"Fancy meeting you here!" he said to the Death Eater. "Peter Pettigrew, wasn't it?"
Peter let out a startled squeak, and said, "I-I'm sorry, I don't think—"
"Oh, that's quite all right, I'll introduce myself." He turned to the four other men at the table. "I'm Gilderoy Lockhart, Junior Minister." He didn't mention that he worked in the Accidental Magic Reversal Department. "I'm sure you've heard of me?"
Peter evidently had, for he let out another fearful sound. For a moment the other men gave him a blank look, and then one said, "Oh, yeah! You're that one in the Prophet all the time. Haven't you helped get something like twenty Death Eaters the Dementor's Kiss?"
"Well, I don't like to brag," Gilderoy said with a modest chuckle. "Actually, it's thirty-three." He looked at Peter. "Though they don't always get the Kiss. Sometimes we ask them for their cooperation and go easier on them if they offer it."
One of the other men said, "So, you know all about what happened with the Potters, do you?"
"Well, yes, I did swing by the scene of the crime before coming here. I dare say I've probably figured out more than most of the Ministry officials about exactly what happened tonight," Gilderoy said. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to release any new information. And yet..." he tried to put on a face like he was having some sort of internal struggle. "I think the public has a right to know the truth."
The entire table was leaning forward eagerly, hopefully. "Here," one said, standing, "have a seat. Can you tell us anything at all?"
"Well," Gilderoy looked thoughtful, taking the seat. "I suppose... perhaps I could do my bit to clarify any rumors running about. Tell me what you've heard, I'll sort out the truth from the trash."
The men at the table broke out in smiles, all except Peter Pettigrew. "That's more like it, Lockhart! That's what we want to hear!"
"So, start from the beginning," Gilderoy said. "Everything you've heard."
"First thing we know, the Potters' house was under a Fidelius Charm," one man said. "But the Secret-Keeper must've been one of You-Know-Who's spies, isn't that right?"
"Yes, yes, that would be correct," Gilderoy said. Peter looked utterly terrified at this point and sank low into his seat, keeping his eyes on the surface of the table (which was about level with his nose by now).
"Who was it?" another asked. "I heard it was Dumbledore himself protecting the Potters."
Gilderoy would have heard from Voldemort if Dumbledore had ever come to their side. "That rumor has absolutely no founding in truth," he said grandly. "You may as well Obliviate it from your mind."
The men nodded, wide-eyed, and continued speaking.
From what Gilderoy gathered (as he confirmed that all the rumors he thought likely were solid "truth" and dismissed those that didn't sound convincing to him), Voldemort had set out to kill the Potters the night before, on Halloween. He'd somehow gotten inside, killed both James and Lily Potter, and tried to use the Killing Curse on baby Harry Potter. And then...
"Utterly preposterous!" he exclaimed angrily, making the other men at the table jump. There was no way the Dark Lord, Gilderoy's Lord Voldemort, had been finished off so easily. "The—the idea! A baby, capable of killing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Impossible!"
The table was staring at him, and, Gilderoy noticed, so were several nearby tables. Apparently they'd started listening in as he shared his so-called Ministry information on the case.
"So... what happened?" the man who'd last spoken asked. "I mean, 's what we all heard..."
Gilderoy quickly collected himself. "What I mean to say," he hurriedly said, "is that there are other variables we are overlooking. You can't honestly believe that a mere infant hopped out of his cot, picked up his dead mother's wand, and defeated the Dark Lord in a wizard's duel, do you? I would have thought you sensible adults would be smart enough to come to the same conclusion I reached the moment I heard the story: this can't be literal fact."
Those listening slowly started to chuckle in embarrassment. "Guess you've got a point there," another man said. "Then how did it really happen?"
"There were other, hidden factors, of course," Gilderoy said. "Consider the possibilities: lingering magical traps and protections the parents left to save their dear child. Would you do any differently? Would you hesitate to do anything to defend your child from the Dark Lord?"
There was a moment's silence, and then a ginger-haired woman stood up. "I would not!" she said. "I've got seven children, none of them old enough to go to Hogwarts and one of them not even three months old, and if I thought, even for a moment, that he was targeting them, I would do everything humanly possible to protect them. I'd lay my life down for any one of my children, and I don't know a mother who wouldn't!" She was cradling a baby in her arms as she spoke: a girl, if the faded pink blanket wrapped around her were anything to judge by.
"Madam, I feel no need to elaborate on what you have already said," Gilderoy said. "You spoke nearly as eloquently as I would have." He stood up and turned to the room at large (which was now all listening) "Mothers, fathers... sons and daughters, brothers and sisters—is there anything any of you wouldn't do to protect your family from the most powerful, most terrible, most blood-thirsty Dark Lord who has ever lived?"
No one spoke. Gilderoy congratulated himself on distracting everyone from the fact that he hadn't actually explained how the Potter baby had survived. "I knew it," he said softly. "I knew, from the moment I walked in, that these people in here were the bold, brave sort. And for this, I feel I should reward you—perhaps to reveal the name of a Death Eater, recently discovered by the Ministry, that none of you have yet heard of? Someone who may be... very, very close to us all?" Every man and woman in the Three Broomsticks leaned towards Gilderoy, their breaths slowed, waiting to hear what he said next.
Gilderoy stole a glance at Peter Pettigrew, who was shivering in his seat, sweat streaming down the sides of his face. "But first," he said, "Everything, absolutely everything known about the tragedy of the Potters must be revealed. Does anyone else have any information?"
"I do!"
Peter Pettigrew had leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair, hand raised as if he were still in school and waiting for a professor to call on him. "Calm, Peter," Gilderoy said, smiling gently at him. "Where do you get this information?"
"I... I..." His voice had been reduced to a trembling wheeze. He swallowed. "I was a friend of the Potters," he said. "I knew them... very well."
"My, my, another inside source," Gilderoy said. "Splendid! What do you know?"
"Th-the Potters were betrayed," Peter said. "Their Secret-Keeper went to the Dark Lord, and t-told him where they were."
"Yes, we've been over that. Go on," Gilderoy prompted. Maybe now, he could find out what had truly happened to Voldemort.
"He went to their house, yesterday night," Peter said. "And killed James... and Lily..."
"Tell us something new," Gilderoy snapped.
Peter gulped. "And when he cast the Killing Curse on the baby, it rebounded! It hit him instead!"
Gilderoy didn't speak for a moment. "Is that it?"
Peter nodded. "I-it backfired. He killed himself."
Killed himself? That couldn't be it. It couldn't be. Not after all the ways Voldemort had worked to protect himself. "So, you're saying he just died? Like that? And his body is simply lying there in baby Potter's bedroom?"
"N-no, not like that!" Peter said. "I heard... he vanished. His body and everything. The spell, it... it blew up half the Potters' house. The Fidelius Charm... it's broken."
"And that's all?"
"Yes," Peter nearly whispered. He looked to be on the verge of fainting.
"Very well," Gilderoy said quietly. With a heavy heart, he turned to the rest of the room, smiled cheerfully, and announced, "Everything he's said is true!"
As the Three Broomsticks erupted in cheers, Gilderoy had to grab the back of his empty chair to keep from falling, his knees were so weak. That couldn't be the end of it, he told himself. Voldemort wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. How could Avada Kedavra vanquish him like that, when his soul was still spread all across Great Britain?
"And now," he said, struggling to still sound chipper—Gilderoy Lockhart was well-known for his sunny personality, after all—"I believe I made you all a promise?"
The room quieted again, to listen.
For a moment, Gilderoy considered giving them Peter Pettigrew's name, his news had been so infuriating. But, no, best to pick someone else. After all, Peter would owe him, if Gilderoy let him go. However, if he could have it both ways...
"Peter Pettigrew!" Gilderoy said, and all in the room gasped. Peter squeaked in terror, but Gilderoy snatched his arm before he could escape. "Yes, none other," he said. "In fact, the very reason I came into this establishment was to arrest him. Now, if you would kindly step aside..." He drew his wand, waved it, and instantly all the tables and their occupants between himself at the door zoomed to the side. "Thank you, thank you," he said, walking through. The tables moved back to their original places in his wake. Peter tried to wrench his arm away, and his wrist was so slick with sweat that he almost succeeded; Gilderoy tightened his grip, digging his nails into Peter's arm. "I appreciate all of your hard work, and your loyalty to the Ministry!" he said, and applause spread behind him. "Your pain and your sacrifices were not in vain! If I know anything at all about what the future brings—and I am quite a natural at Divination—I think it's safe to say a new era is dawning for wizarding kind! With the Dark Lord fallen, you and I can all look forward to better days! Thank you!"
He was at the door now, and the applause had reached thunderous levels. He shoved Peter Pettigrew out before him and turned to look at the entire inside of the Three Broomsticks. He took a moment to focus on what he wanted to happen, on whom he wanted to affect and how, and then...
"Obliviate!"
Everyone stumbled back, as though a shockwave had passed beneath them. They looked around at each other, not sure why they were clapping and why some of them standing, and slowly sat down and began talking again, cheerfully.
If Gilderoy's Memory Charm had worked properly, then they would remember everything he'd said, except for his promise to reveal a Death Eater and his "arrest" of Peter Pettigrew. He was still the hero of the hour, and Peter owed him his life.
"There. They won't remember anything about you," Gilderoy told Peter, shutting the door to the Three Broomsticks. "You're completely free. I could take you to the Ministry right now if I want to, but you've been helpful. I'll let it slide, for now."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Lockhart!" Peter said, falling to his knees and grabbing the bottom of Gilderoy's robe. He jerked his robe out of Peter's hands before he could start kissing them, disgusted.
"Save your adoration for the Dark Lord, Pettigrew," he muttered. "Whatever you may have heard to the contrary, Lord Voldemort still lives. Remember that."
Peter flinched at the name. "Wh-what?"
Gilderoy had already turned away and started hurrying back the way he'd come, wanting to return to his trunk as soon as possible. He hoped Peter was too cowardly to tell anyone what Gilderoy had said; it could damage his name immensely.
One thing was certain, he thought grimly. He couldn't stay in the country for long. Soon, the Ministry would be searching for any stray Death Eaters, rounding up potential Voldemort sympathizers, giving them trials and shipping them off to Azkaban. He did not want to face Bartemius Crouch. He doubted Crouch would be very impressed by his stunning good looks.
Not that there was much to stay in the country for, without Voldemort. Most of his life had been built around the Dark Lord. Eleven years ago, it had seemed like such an easy way to gain fame: attach himself to Lord Voldemort as he rose to power, get a bit of distinction and celebrity reflected onto himself. Now, it looked like he'd have to find another way to go about finding his fame.
Gilderoy took the Disillusionment off of his chest, and sat on it as he thought about where he could go next. Perhaps he could get his fame while traveling. Do what he'd always done; borrow others' limelight, jump in after the battle was over and pretend he'd been in the thick of it.
But it wouldn't be the same, without...
He sighed and stood up. He could look for whatever was left of Voldemort as he traveled; Gilderoy had heard him say once that if he ever needed to hide, he knew of a place in Eastern Europe that would be suitable. He'd never told Gilderoy what that place was (even after over a decade together, he always guarded his secrets), but Eastern Europe was a starting place.
The sun was only now beginning to rise, tints of pink disturbing the blackness and the stars. It was too empty, the sky. With a glance to the entrance to the alleyway, knowing he was taking a great risk, Gilderoy cupped his left hand in front of the tip of his wand and whispered, "Morsmordre."
The image of a tiny skull with a pencil-thin snake slithering from its mouth appeared in Gilderoy's hand, glimmering brightly and casting an eerie green glow on the skin of his palm. He studied the miniature Dark Mark, and sighed. It would be a long time before he'd see it glimmer in the sky again.
"I'll look for you, Tommy," he murmured to the symbol of the Dark Lord. He leaned forward as if to kiss it, but it dissolved on contact, leaving a weak buzz in his lips like the aftermath of static shock. "I'll wait for you," he said, "and if I ever hear that you've come back, I'll be right beside you again."
He considered adding I promise, but Gilderoy's promises had always been worth nil and Voldemort knew it too. The only time Gilderoy could be guaranteed to tell the truth was when he acted upon his words: that was the strongest promise he could make.
So Gilderoy grabbed the handle of his trunk, pictured a Muggle port that had cruise ships he could take down to the Mediterranean, and Disapparated.
He would set out to search for two things, his lover and his fame—whichever was easier to find.
Sixteen Years Later
In the Janus Thickey closed ward, almost none of the residents got out of bed before the sun had been up several hours. They would waste the hours of glorious light streaming through the windows from seven in the morning... eight o' clock... nine o' clock... until the nurses made them get up at ten. The lights would all be out. Only dim sunshine through the white shades illuminated the many curtain-divided beds of the ward. All was still, long after the day began.
Gilderoy Lockhart hated mornings in the closed ward.
During the first few months of his incarceration within St. Mungo's, he had suffered in silence, watching the seconds tick by on the clock on his bedside table. All the other patients could sleep until ten, so surely, he was supposed to as well? He couldn't remember anything about his life before suddenly being aware of himself in a dark stone tunnel with a rather friendly redheaded boy for company, so perhaps all people were meant to sleep late into the morning; perhaps his inability to sleep another three hours was one of the flaws he was to conquer before he could leave the hospital.
It had taken a therapy session with a kind nurse he couldn't recall the name of to set him straight. He wasn't crazy; he was an "early riser." It was perfectly natural for some people to wake up early. However, he couldn't get up, couldn't make noise, and couldn't turn on the lights until everyone else was awake. Those were the rules.
And so, Gilderoy wasted three hours a day, an eighth of a day, half of half of half of every day, sitting on his bed waiting to be allowed to get up. He was bored.
Which was why he'd started breaking the rules.
On this particular morning in mid-July, he was sitting up in bed, brushing his hair in the dark (he could do it without a mirror now), when the door to the closed ward clicked open at eight o' clock. The nurses checked in every two hours on the patients. This morning, Nurse Hermes, the tip of her wand glowing softly, moved among the beds, checking the occupant of each one before moving on. Seeing Gilderoy was awake, she nodded in greeting as she passed, and then quickly finished her rounds and left.
As soon as Nurse Hermes locked the door behind herself, Gilderoy slid out of his bed, put the brush back in its drawer in the bedside table, and walked quietly to the door. The next nurse wouldn't be by until ten. As long as he got back before then, he was fine.
Gilderoy took the doorknob in both hands and focused. He knew, from what other people had told him, that he was a wizard and he could do magic, but he didn't remember how and he didn't have a wand. But he did know that if a wizard hadn't been taught to use magic, sometimes it went out of control. (He'd already accidentally broken a couple of flowerpots from across the room that way.)
So if a wizard without training could do magic without a wand, he could use this to his advantage and focus on what he wanted to do...
After a moment of concentration, Gilderoy heard the lock in the door click back, and he stepped into the hall. It had taken him over nine months of practice every morning to figure out how to unlock that door, but it was well worth it. He shut the door behind himself without locking it and headed down the hallway, away from the Janus Thickey closed ward.
He wandered until he found a newspaper stand that had free Daily Prophets for the patients, took one, and wandered onward, flipping through the pages. If he ever wanted to rejoin the outside world, he had to keep up with the news.
There was a long eulogy for some man named Albus Dumbledore. The name was familiar, perhaps Gilderoy had met him before. He seemed to recall someone with a similar name in the short time he'd been at that big castle Hog-something, before he'd been sent to St. Mungo's.
The next article, an editorial, caught Gilderoy's attention. It was an article about what might be the next move of someone referred to as You-Know-Who. To Gilderoy's great surprise, he did know You-Know-Who. His name started with a V, and he was a Dark Lord... Oh, how nice. It had been quite a while since he'd remembered something this important; his last break-through had been remembering his birthday, December 10. Unfortunately, he'd remembered it a couple of weeks late, and the nurses still thought he'd made up the date just to get extra Christmas goodies.
He couldn't tell the nurses about this discovery, though. If they knew he'd been sneaking out of the ward each morning and reading the Daily Prophet... well... honestly, he hadn't a clue what they'd do, but it certainly wouldn't be good.
He put the Prophet back where he'd found it and looked for the way back to the closed ward. Which direction was it, again?
He heard footsteps behind him and whirled around, already prepared with a dozen excuses he could give the nurse to explain his absence from the Janus Thickey ward. Except it wasn't a nurse who was following him.
"Oh, hello there," Gilderoy said, offering a smile. The young woman didn't respond. She walked right up to him, stopped about two feet away, and looked him up and down. "Are you Gilderoy Lock'art?" she asked, with a faint accent that he couldn't remember the country of.
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "That would be my name." Whatever could she want with him? Perhaps she was one of the people who kept sending him letters? He always wondered what he'd done to warrant so much mail.
"Good," she said curtly, tucking her hair behind her ears and drawing a short, burnt-orange wand from an inner pocket of her cloak. (She had nice hair, Gilderoy thought, wavy and light brown, but not nearly as nice as his. He always found himself comparing the looks of people he met to his own looks; he regularly came out ahead.) "You shall be coming with me, Mister Lock'art."
"Um," he said. "May I ask why?"
The young lady shot him a glare, and he instantly amended all his previous judgments about her attractiveness. The whites of her eyes were crawling with thick, bloodshot red veins, and black rings hung heavy beneath. "Because ze Dark Lord Voldemor' will be very interested to hear you 'ave been taken 'ostage."
Voldemort, that was the name he'd been trying to remember. "Pardon me, but I don't think I quite understand," Gilderoy said nervously, taking a couple of steps backwards but still trying to be polite. This whole "hostage" deal couldn't be good news. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
"You shall see," the young lady said. She lifted her wand, held it barely an inch from Gilderoy's forehead, and murmured, "Stupefy."
Despite the softness of the word, the spell blasted Gilderoy back with the force of a small explosion. He fell hard ten feet away. He thought he could hear, very faintly, shouting from down the hall. Perhaps the nurses...
Gilderoy kept his eyes open just long enough to see the fuzzy outline of the young lady step up to him and bend down; he felt her grab the thin fabric at the collar of his shirt and felt the cold pressure of nothingness as they Disapparated; and then he slid away into unconsciousness.