Author: Amalin
Contact: Amalin32@aol.com
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The lyrics from "Funny How It Fades Away" belong to Fastball. Also, the title "Untouchable Face" was inspired by the Ani DiFranco song entitled "Untouchable Face," and "I Dreamed A Dream" comes from Les Miserables.
Summary: When your memory
is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded
playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection?
When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget?
How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you?
And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the
dreams you once cherished? What happens then?
p r o l o g u e -- i d r e a m e d a d r e a m
"...you won't see those pale grays
returning to blues
the colors will wash out as i
shrink in my shoes
and i won't always live and breathe
watch me as i fade away..."
Amber threads lace across the milky blue sky, streaking like tawny comets across a curtain of faded ink, bleeding over pale parchment to herald the coming rosy-tinged day. Dawn's tentative fingers pluck gently at the horizon.
The lacy wisps of cotton are alight with sherbet pink, clustering just above the tree line like a whipped cream topping to some delectable dessert. Only faint birdsong streams across the summer morning, leaving most dreamers to their respective dreams and intruding only faintly on the edge of one's consciousness. True to its nature, the summer morning is left lazy and slumbering, slowly creeping onward into a more natural waking time.
Fluttering gently at the heavy panes of glass, the flimsy curtains flap in the tenuous breeze. Through their thin weave seeps the early light, shining faint and pale into the shadowy interior.
A bed. The covers are tousled, the quilt rumpled with complicated hills and valleys that seem a topographer's worst nightmare. It has slipped halfway from the sleeper, trailing on the carpet. The sheets are crumpled and populated with shadows that dance their languid way over the creamy fabric. It seems the evidence of either a very active night prior or the work of insomnia, tormenting the sleepless guest into tossing and turning for hours.
Let us forget about aforementioned guest for a moment, travelling instead to the other furnishings. A full-length mirror stands arrogantly in the corner, its ornate silver plating seeming to sneer disdainfully at the other merely wooden furniture. The walls themselves are unadorned, save for one picture that remains nearly the same as the mirror's usual image, as it reflects the sleeper down to the last detail. A name is scribbled in the corner, though in such dim light it remains illegible.
A suitcase is placed neatly by the door, bulging with clothes far beyond its capacity to carry. Beside it is a travelling bag; atop it a book is balanced precariously, the winsome smiling face on the cover appearing oddly in the shadows, the impossibly dazzling smile more like a snarl in the blue-tinged light.
And now. The corresponding lips of the actual sleeper are neither twisted in a snarl nor spread in a dazzling smile. The shadows that cluster about them outline the briefest of frowns, as if the man is unwillingly entertaining a none-so-pleasant dream. On occasion his eyelids will twitch - a futile gesture towards waking. Even in the dim light, the feverish glow in his cheeks is obvious. He has not slept well; besides the disrupted state of his blankets, his arm is flung across the bed as though it once was raised in fending off an unseen attacker.
The hand which caps this arm - left, it happens to be - is curled like a child's, manicured nails hovering over the palm with its lack of calluses. A bit of rusty crimson is dried beneath one nail, as if having been forgotten in hurried events. A network of veins can be seen lacing across the icy pale sheen of skin, thinly veiled like the dark water lurking beneath sheets of ice on the lake. One could trace the pattern like a pre-drawn dot-to-dot game, wondering how life could hover so close to the surface, blue-purple and faint in the dawn's eerily blue light.
His eyelids flutter. He does not wake.
A faint sheen of sweat hovers over his forehead, slicking the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. Tousled milky gold locks slip carelessly over the damp surface above his eyes, the curls limp and the usually gleaming color faded in the morning light. There is something vulnerable about the set of his mouth, the way his forehead is gently wrinkled, even in sleep. Something endearing - like a little boy who has never quite grown up.
But he is not dreaming pleasant little boy dreams - of Quidditch, small triumphs, idle daydreams, Chocolate Frogs. He is not recalling happy childhood memories of catching phosphorescent fish in the shallows of the lake, drinking his first butterbeer, having his first kiss. There will be no nostalgic smile at a triumphant chess game, a cherished book, a best friend.
His eyelids flutter more urgently, a frown creasing his face in lines that special creams are supposed to permanently prevent. They open; baby blue orbs wide and panicked in the shadows.
A scream pierces the darkness.
-=-=-=-
As our awakened sleeper conscientiously applies anti-wrinkle cream to his face, his portrait sidles back and forth impatiently. Still feeling woozy from Madam Pomfrey's attentions the night before, recalling drinking glass after glass of potion to restore his memory, he sighs at his reflection as he tries valiantly to escape the flood of memory. It had been restored, all right; his thoughts had swung immediately from I say, you don't look half bad, old boy - whoever you are! to Oh - you again.
And then Madam Pomfrey had clasped her hand over his mouth to stifle the screaming. It did nothing to halt the flow of returning memories.
Outside the window a bird offers a warbling song, vying with the birds flitting about the edges of the Forbidden Forest for a listener. The former Hogwarts professor is oblivious to the lilting tune. He does not, however, miss the audible click of a door swinging open.
"Oh, hullo," he manages amiably to the scowling face peering in at him. Inside, his innards feel picked over by scavenger birds, but what else is new? "Is someone looking for me?"
Severus Snape smiles, not exactly without malice. "Not at all, no. I was simply concerned. I heard you scream earlier and wondered if something was amiss?" One eyebrow raises delicately. "Found a Boggart beneath your bed, perhaps, or some equally frightening monster?"
Not about to admit to another nightmare or even the tumultuous emotions aroused at the sudden appearance of his former colleague and fellow student, Lockhart waves a hand carelessly. "Ah…yes, of course! A Boggart - how did you know? Startled me, that's all. Taken care of in a jiffy."
"Glad to hear it." Snape's lips curve in a mirthless smile as he withdraws. "It's a shame we're losing such an adept Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Shame to see you go, but Dumbledore told us all of your 'resignation' last night."
"Er, ha ha," Lockhart says, equally lacking in amusement, though he - unlike Snape - tries valiantly to arouse some semblance. "Adventuring calls, you know."
"Well, do send around your latest book when it comes out," Snape drawls. "Goodbye, Gilderoy."
The door shuts. The mirror seems to mock its gazer with a distorted reflection and he turns away, shaking his head. There is no smugness in his smile, though he must admit he has never seen anyone with a more dazzling smile. After all, Witches Weekly wouldn't have picked him otherwise. Not for five consecutive years.
"Where to now, old boy?" he wonders to the portrait. His own image winks rakishly back at him and he shakes his head, feeling weary despite the early hour. Let us speculate that he did not sleep well - the dark circles shadowing his eyes certainly provide enough evidence. "London? Dublin? My, we certainly have admirers everywhere, don't we?" He seems ruefully amused. "From more than one life."
As he bends to retrieve his luggage, a newspaper clipping slides forlornly to the polished wooden floor. He picks it up, watching the eleven-year-old boy glance nervously from side to side as if traitors and enemies surround him on all sides. Harry Potter, the Daily Prophet proclaims, may very well be the rising hope of this magical world. If we traveled back several years, we might discover a similar article - hidden at the back of the newspaper, a tiny column next to a small boy's picture. Gilderoy Lockhart, that article might lament, the last surviving member of the Lockhart family.
And the shadowed green of the trees fluttering outside the window exactly matches the faint and ghostly Dark Mark that would hover behind the small boy in the picture.
"I was wrong about you, Harry," he sighs, looking sadly at the article before crumpling it in his hands and tossing it - he misses - to the wastebasket in the corner. "Poor boy. For a hero, you're decidedly naïve." But then, being wrong was nothing new. He had been terribly wrong, after all, about himself.
As if on cue, two gleaming eyes peer in the door and a house elf scampers in to help him with his luggage. A carriage is waiting outside of Hogwarts, ready to discreetly carry him away to the station.
The sky is a faded baby blue as the carriage jolts away; Lockhart's nose is pressed against the window as he watches the towering building recede. There are few fond memories from Hogwarts - never mind if he was professor or student, neither seemed to result in happy circumstances. A white line trails across the blue jean canvas, perhaps a plane weaving its way unobstructed through the sky. The sun has just risen, spreading vague warmth across the sky and gilding each leaf and waving blade of grass with lines of antique gold.
"Do you know," Lockhart says to the driver, finding ironic comfort in the memories that before eluded him, "I found the formula for success?"
"Do enlighten me," the driver replies, sarcasm lacing his voice.
"It's quite simple," he lectures, finally turning away from the lightening sky. It is a winter gray, despite the summer breezes frisking through the trees. Perhaps it will tint with blue later, darken to a picturesque azure. "Image. It's everything."
Without turning, the driver raises an eyebrow. Had there been a rearview mirror, Lockhart might have glimpsed the expression, but there was none. "What, been poring over Muggle magazines lately? Not a new concept. Next you'll be telling me that plastic surgery is the last hope for civilization."
"No," Lockhart disagrees. He would be accused of sounding bitter and perhaps even sardonic, did we not know him and his character so supposedly well. "Harry Potter is."
The silence breeds unashamedly in the tiny interior, oblivious to the endless space of the sky outside. When the carriage slows, Lockhart heaves his luggage out after him without a word and does not tip the driver. He finds himself sitting alone on a bench at the station, staring expectantly if blankly towards the bend the train should round.
When it comes and he climbs on, he
does not look back.
_________________________________________________________________
Belated A/N: Much angst upcoming!
I have about eight full chapters planned, with a finishing epilogue.
Lockhart intrigues me and I hope to do him justice; he's more than a pompous
coward, I assure you! You'll come to love - or at least tolerate
- him the way I do, I hope. Anyway, this mere beginning was but a
glimpse; plenty of angst-ridden chapters coming soon. Mm. Angst
is good.