Untouchable Face

by Amalin

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? Lockhart and angst, what a combination.

2. In Days Gone By

Title: Untouchable Face (In Days Gone By)

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 song "I Dreamed A Dream" belongs to Les Miserables, producers, writers, etc.

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 then?

c h a p t e r o n e -- i n d a y s g o n e b y

"...I dreamed a dream in days gone by
when hopes were high and life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving..."

They say that first impressions are lasting. For most, that is probably true, though the first glimpse Gil caught of Hogwarts was most misleading. Never one to worry unduly, he felt excitement rather than fear. Perhaps he should have been more wary. In any case, the lofty towers and rolling grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry induced a happiness that had been tickling the edges of his consciousness ever since he stepped onto the bustling Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He felt optimistic, nearly euphoric - he had been waiting for this moment all of his life. His parents had been waiting for this moment all of their lives, too. The next seven years, Gil was sure, would be the greatest of his life.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else. The girl standing beside him looked at him curiously, though she nodded. How could the eleven year old boy, callow and naive, possibly know the pain and torment awaiting him within those resolute walls? How could he surmise at the childish tears waiting to be shed, how could he push his mind to accept how he would come to hate this magical haven?

For now, he could only stare at the towering castle with its ancient, welcoming stone architecture, and grin. He loved it already, feeling some strange affinity with the close to living, breathing building. As they tramped across the grounds to enter Hogwarts, he glanced about with awe dancing in the blue flame of his eyes. That was the hottest part of the fire: the jet of startling sapphire that danced through the auburn blaze. And indeed, the fervor in his eyes was matched fully by few others.

"Thank you, Hagrid," Professor McGonogall said warmly, though the gaze trained on the incoming first-years was a bit harsher. "Welcome to Hogwarts. In a few minutes you'll be in the Great Hall, where you'll go through the Sorting process."

Her words blurred, as did the faces of his classmates to be, and Gil saw the halls of Hogwarts for the first time in a haze of dreamy expectation. He did not concentrate on the features of his companions or the words that flowed over him, did not stop gazing about even when silence pervaded in the small chamber they waited in. The Great Hall was a new wonder; he had heard about Hogwarts, of course, but never truly experienced it. And an experience it was - sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. Emotion. Weaving a tapestry too rich to dissect, an exhilaration that swept him up in its overwhelming tide. Hogwarts wasn't just a place. It was an experience.

And all too suddenly, his own name was in his ears, and snickers followed him all the way up to the stool. "Is he a boy?" someone whispered incredulously from the Ravenclaw table. "But I thought-"

The darkness of the Sorting Hat slipping over his eyes was a welcome comfort from the laughter. The voice sounded, almost amused, in his mind. "My, my, we have high hopes for the future, don't we?" He just wanted to make them proud, make them love him the way they loved each other. He just wanted to be someone. He wanted Hogwarts to be his as much as he was already under its spell, wanted to be - "Ambition," the Sorting Hat mused. "Who will you be, Gilderoy?"

And, with the word Slytherin ringing in his ears, little Gilderoy Lockhart slunk to the company of his new House.

The glory of Hogwarts to the eye was one thing, but its taste was another matter entirely. His parents, both prominent in the wizarding world, had an abundance of wondrous food. But eating at Hogwarts added something else.

"What's your name, again?" The boy next to him, shrimpy and dark haired, had paused in the middle of his pasty to stare at Gil. Two third year boys further down in the table ceased their conversation as well, clearly on the verge of laughter.

"My name," he said slowly, "is Gil."

"I'm Toby-" the boy began, when another voice intervened.

"Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure I heard that your name was Gilderoy Lockhart." The derisive twist in the voice on his name did not escape Gil's notice. "A name like that, I don't forget." A hand swooped over Gil's shoulder and snatched a bit of his dinner as its owner munched appreciatively. "You like toffee, don't you, Gilderoy?"

Gil and Toby both stared up at their sudden companion. He was slim, as most eleven year olds are, though a hardness in his eyes added something menacing in his smile that most eleven year olds don't possess. "Patrick," he introduced himself calmly, ignoring Toby's proffered hand and sneering at Gil. "Nothing odd about that, is there?"

"What're you doing, Patrick, stirrin' up trouble already?" The speaker was tall and well built, though similar to Patrick in appearance. Arms crossed, he looked amused. "I'm a prefect this year, little brother, and I won't tolerate any of your nonsense."

Patrick did not seem to view this as a threat; apparently, the prefect was not as serious as he would have liked to be taken as. "Whatever, Rat," he tossed back flippantly. Seeing the frown lines wrinkle over his brother's forehead, Patrick smirked. "I mean, Robert."

"I thought it was the last name that counted, Patrick?" A pale-haired girl interrupted them in a mocking voice, raising one delicately shaped eyebrow at the cluster of boys.

He clapped Gil roughly on the shoulder, causing the boy to wince at the heavy-handed, though seemingly friendly, gesture. "Our boy Gilderoy here knows better. Lockhart isn't a name that goes very far back, is it, now?"

"Lockhart?" The girl frowned, tossing her white-blonde hair over her shoulder. "My mum went to school with your father, I think." Her frown turned even more sour. "He was a Gryffindor."

"Well, well." Patrick smirked down at Gil, his dark sneer suddenly more intimidating. "Moved up, have you? You'll have to prove yourself, I think. Show us you're not really one of them goody goody Gryffindors after all." Before Gil could even think of an answer, he'd swept away. The girl followed, somehow managing to chatter away with her nose held haughtily in the air. Toby gave one quick glance at Gil, then back to his plate.

"Wh-"

"I'm Robert," a sudden voice said behind Gil, and he jerked around. Patrick's brother stood there, hand extended. He shook it tentatively. "Robert Kearny, and if you call me Rat - it's a childhood nickname - I'll kill you." Gil could not be sure if he was serious or not. He was beginning to think that Slytherin was perhaps not such a pleasant place. "If Patrick gives you any trouble, just let me know. I'm supposed to look after him, anyways."

"I - all right."

"And come to the Quidditch tryouts, will you? You won't get on the team; only Patrick's arrogant enough to think he will. No first years do. But you've got the right build, by third year I bet we'll have you stealing the Snitch from under the Gryffindor's noses!" Grinning suddenly, he sauntered off. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

Welcome to Hogwarts, indeed. Though Gil lifted his fork and took another bite, the food could have been sawdust and he would not have noticed. When the students left for their respective towers, he could do little but stagger after Toby and clamber into his four-poster, limbs heavy with the fatigue of a long, long day.

"Goodnight, Gilderoy."

Patrick's mocking voice was the last thing he heard before the dreams took him.

-=-=-=-

It was nearly a month later when the owl came, dropping a scrap of parchment onto the disenchanted Gil's untouched plate. Too short to be a letter from his parents, he scowled at it, almost sure of the source. Indeed, the scrawling cursive in smudged ink was all too familiar - sitting next to Patrick in Potions, an unwanted circumstance, was beginning to influence him. Come to the lake at midnight if you want to prove yourself.

And that was all. No names, no further directions - but then, he didn't need them, did he? He knew who it was from, all right, and the rest was painfully simple. Too simple.

The sausages and toast were beginning to look decidedly unappetizing. He pushed away his plate, feeling ill. A month at Hogwarts had been plenty of time for him to both become acquainted with his school and its inhabitants. His coursework, too, gave him enough to be disappointed about. No rose-tinted glass obscured those blue flame eyes.

Curling the parchment almost carefully, he slid it into his pocket beside his wand. What was he to do? Would going truly remedy anything, after all, or just endanger him? He was already known to be a coward, from the three times Patrick had beaten him up.

Remembering, Gil touched a tentative finger to his eye. Madam Turrey's poultice had done wonders; then again, it always did. After a month, she knew him by name, and it was no surprise to her intern - Poppy Pomfrey - when Gil came strolling in.

"Hey, Gil."

Robert was one of the few that remembered to call him Gil, though he remained mostly indifferent to the first year boy's plight. For an instant Gil considered telling Robert about the note, but he pushed the notion away. Patrick would just beat him up later on, several times over.

But then, Patrick would do that, anyway.

It would always be a mystery, then, why Gil found himself tip-toeing out of the school that night, shivering in October's chill. He was disillusioned enough to call it something other than courage; everyone knew Gil had none, and courage wouldn't have driven him to the lake, only foolish pride. While he half expected to find the shore abandoned, several black-robed students were clustered, shivering just as he was.

"Oi, look!" One pointed. "He came!"

They pulled him forward, sat him down eagerly on a log. Patrick's leering face loomed from the shadows of his hood and he patted Gil - hard enough to nearly shove him off the log - on the shoulder. "Nice going, Gil," he grinned, even consenting to call the boy Gil. He handed Gil a butterbeer, winking. "You drink - oh, say, six of these? Then you jump in the lake off that big boulder. That's all. Simple, huh?"

Gil eyed it. He swam often when he was younger, but he hadn't for several years at least. And the October air was freezing, not to mention the water. But what choice did he have, now that he was here?

"Drink up." Someone presented him with an already opened bottle and he took a wary sip. The buttery warmth slid down his throat, providing him with some measure of warmth, if not courage. Within minutes the group of five boys had settled around him, watching him.

"Can you believe Abbi wanted to come?" One of the boys rolled his eyes.

"Well, why'd you tell her?" Patrick snapped back. The insant Gil finished a bottle, another was thrust into his hand. By the fourth, he was feeling decidedly woozy.

"I thought...these...didn't have much...alcohol?" His teeth were chattering, as were the teeth of several of the others. One boy's fingers were turning blue. The taste was beginning to taint his mouth, its buttery flavor making him want to gag.

"They don't." For the first time, the shortest boy spoke up solemnly, and Gil was startled to find that it was Toby. The surprise penetrated the alcoholic fog, and he frowned.

"T-Toby? What're you d-doing here?"

Patrick answered for him. "Toby here is a true Slytherin," he grinned, slapping the short boy on the back with one of his notoriously hard blows. "He knows the way life goes. If it wasn't you, it'd be him. So he's got to hang on to what little edge he's got, eh?"

Fifth one... Gil swayed a bit on his log.

"Survival of the fittest," one of the boys commented, casually drinking a leftover butterbeer to keep warm. "My father used to read that to me all the time. I mean, proving how Truebloods are clearly better than Muggle born."

"You're telling me you count as one of the 'fittest?'" Patrick snorted with laughter. "Hurry it up, Gil, I'm cold."

Hands shaking, finding the taste more than repulsive by this time, Gil avoided looking at the inky surface of the lake. It swirled restlessly, waiting for him, waiting to swallow him up. One of the boys grabbed his hand, tipping the contents of the bottle down his throat, and threw it down. They grasped him by the arms, heaving him forward.

"I - I don't think-" The world swam before his eyes, tipsy. Soured sunshine coated Gil's mouth.

Grasping at the folds of his robes, pushing him upwards, the other boys crowded around him and the large boulder. He knew he was only a few feet above the water, but he was already feeling woozy and was sure he would fall if they let go. The murky depths below were dizzying, waiting to capture him.

And then it was all around him, and the world faded to black.

-=-=-=-

Gil coughed weakly. His mouth still tasted repulsively of butterbeer and dirty water. He shivered, feeling the wind shudder over his wet robes and knowing he was outside before he even opened his eyes.

"Prob'ly the bravest thing you'll ever do, and you were drunk," a voice commented dryly. The darkness eventually resolved itself into blurry shapes and Gil blinked the water from his eyes. The picture that swam before his eyes was so unbelievable that he rubbed his eyes again.

"Ugh...P-Patrick?"

The bully was sitting on the log, arms crossed, tapping his wand impatiently against his leg. "Lucky I'm not a Squib like you or you'd still be floating out there," he smirked. "Yeah, you're welcome, forget about it." He stood up, yawning exaggeratedly, and swaggered up the path away from the lake.

"W-wait..."

Patrick turned back impatiently. "There was vodka in the butterbeer, idiot. Funny, wasn't it?"

"N-not really." The world was still blurred into a watercolor haze, droplets hovering on his lashes. The October air was biting on his skin, drawing goosebumps and making his teeth chatter in a stuttering beat. "P-Patrick? Why did you s-s-save me?" Stars spun dizzily overhead, a patterned wheel of diamond-studded sky. "You h-h-h-"

"Hate, Gildy, the word is hate." Shrugging, the taller boy snorted. "Which, yes, hasn't changed. You were hoping to be given a break because you got pushed off a little rock?"

"I c-could've d-dr-drowned..."

"Really." His tone was sarcastic. "I didn't notice. And as much fun as it is talking to your pathetic, sniveling little form, I think I prefer the warmth of my bed, so - 'night now, Gilderoy. Or is it morning?"

No pale light tinged the sky cover pink, though it was certainly far closer to dawn than it was to dusk. Gil could only stare from where his head rested wearily in the sand as the bully trudged up the gently sloping hill, his figure swiftly vanishing into the shadows that cloaked Hogwarts. It was only then that he finally pulled himself forward, tripping over his knees and half-crawling, half-staggering up the shore. His robes clung icily to his legs, and he could hear his teeth chattering in his mind like some sort of forboding death chant. He was barely conscious of the long journey from that cold sand bed to his own dormitory four-poster, though when he finally collapsed beneath its blankets he found Patrick sleeping peacefully.

Blankets clutched to his chin, eyes wide in the darkness, Gil curled up around his shivering body. Unable to relax enough to slip into the heavy comfort of slumber, he surveyed the room. Had they any idea? No, probably not. Had they watched him flounder in the water, panicked, screaming silently and emitting only bubbles, while they laughed and joked with one other? Had Patrick leapt in after him, or had he too laughed, waiting until the rest staggered back to the dormitory before dragging Gil's unconscious form to the shore?

Gil shuddered. He could still be there, floating face down, eyes staring blankly into the dark depths below. Maybe a giant squid would surface to grab him, wrapping him in great strangling tentacles and dragging him -

No. He couldn't think that way, couldn't indulge such horrific imagination. He was alive.

His hair was forming a halo of water on his pillow, a seeping stain across the linen. His fingers were still shaking, his lips still blue. He replayed the night in his head, cringing at the idiocy he had submitted to. How could he have deluded himself? Patrick had said as much, nearly, teasing Toby - Toby knew, knew what it was to be the underdog. He knew what it was to be teased, to be laughed at; he knew how to beat it. By finding another to take his place.

Gil's pillow stayed damp long after his hair dried, his cheeks warmed by the rivulets of stinging tears that trickled from his face. He was glad, at least, that the rest were asleep; no one had heard him cry in the night, or they would have said something already. It had been a big enough deal when he tried to light his wand, showing off to the other boys - Lumos, he had commanded, and the wand had stayed dark. Tears had stung his eyelids then, but he had refused to let them fall. Did it matter? Still they teased him. I knew you looked like a girl, Gildy, but I never knew you cried like one.

Hogwarts was supposed to be glorious, seven years of fun and laughter. Hadn't his mother always said so? Hadn't she always told him how he would love it, how he would enjoy it the way she had? Didn't his father clap him proudly on the shoulder, wishing him well and giving his praise? Hadn't they both hugged him goodbye, faces beaming with the knowledge their son would be happy at such a prestigious school?

So, again, failure stung him. Only October, and he could not bear to write home. Four owls had come, each week, cheerily inquiring at his well being. Probably too busy to write to your old mum, she had teased. When you get a chance, write back, won't you, Gil? I want to hear all about it.

But no, she didn't. She wanted to hear about the triumphant scores of a Prefect-to-be, the escapades of a mischievous, well-liked boy with many friends, the ludicrous stories about pranks that were played and narrowly avoided detentions. She wanted to live vicariously through her child, or at least relive her own memorable days.

Neither his mother or his father could relate to such...failure. Your father's the greatest Auror in our age, one friend of the family had joked over dinner to a younger Gil, chuckling. Bet you'll be just like him. Won't that be something? Old Roger's ambition, Penelope's skill - he's got his work cut out for him, doesn't he? He'll do just fine at Hogwarts.

He wasn't doing just fine, and he certainly wasn't feeling it. Teary-eyed, shivering, miserable in the cold comfort of unwanted failure, Gil stared into the lightening sky. Though weary and overcome, sleepless and shaking, wanting nothing more than a good night's sleep where he could temporarily forget - for Gil, morning could not come soon enough.

-=-=-=-

His tree was stately and vast, its verdant foliage spread over his head like a canopy, its weathered bark a stability against his back, its leaves glossy and stretching far larger than the span of his hands. The branches rustled far overhead in the breeze, a gentle swaying. It was a comfort to Gil to watch the sun streak between the leaves like a fugitive flash, dappled light shifting on the packed dirt and network of knobbly roots. It was far enough from the lake that no splashing water disturbed its solitude, and - reclining in the embrace of its trunk, dreaming of the glory of towering towards the sky, reaching limbs shivering with the movement of the wind and warming to the aureate of the sunny afternoon light - Gil found it hard to feel anything but peace.

Even so, the water lapped at the shoreline only feet away, mocking him with its clarity and complacency. No danger, no swallowing, engulfing blackness...

"Whattsa matter, Gil? Too good to swim with us? Afraid of the big bad lake monsters?" Patrick's knowing smirk greeted him when the words called his attention and Gil looked away, cheeks burning.

"Maybe he's afraid for us to find out that he's really a girl," a second-year friend of Patrick's yelled.

"Don't listen to them, Gil." He glanced up, startled, to the tall red-headed girl leaning against his tree. She gave him a friendly grin - Lily Evans, the only one who never failed to have a smile or a hello, even for little first-year Gilderoy Lockhart. He was even more embarrassed to find that his cheeks were still flaming. "Guys can be asses, huh?"

"Um." He looked into his lap, trying not to stare at the way the sun shimmered on her hair or the way her eyes sparkled good naturedly at him.

Settling down beside him, elbows propped on a jutting root, she looked puzzled. "Why so sad? Exams are over! It's summer! You're practically a second year!" Grinning, she added, "Surely there's something to be excited about?"

"I guess." He shrugged, catching a leaf that fluttered down slowly into his lap. The veins were lit with yellow-green light in the sun, its surface waxy and smooth.

"Patrick?" She frowned, looking at him with - if he was reading her expression correctly - concern. Lily was the only one he had told about the butterbeer incident, and - to his surprise - she'd listened worriedly. She'd even lent him a Charmed dustrag for his detention. "Why don't you stand up to them, Gil? Why do you let them pick on you so?"

Shrugging again, Gil looked away. "What else am I supposed to do?"

As notable for her temper as her looks, Lily crossed her arms. "That's a stupid question."

"I'm practically a Squib anyway," he mumbled. "All your friends are smart and good at Quidditch..." Trailing off, Gil looked down with an embarrassed flush on his face. Though practically the most popular girl in school, she always had a kind word for him. "It doesn't matter. Shouldn't you be with them now?"

"Oh, come on, Gil. Someday you'll be a famous wizard and Patrick'll be someone's stupid henchman. Don't doubt it."

The worst thing was, he could picture it all too well and knew it was a dream that would never come true. Who would want his measly little autograph?

And on the other hand, there was Lily Evans, the charming Muggle girl who everyone seemed to like. Almost all the younger boys had secret crushes on her, and a fair number of the older boys did as well. She was at the top of her class and amazingly nice to everyone, even little Gilderoy Lockhart who was well known only because he couldn't light his bloody wand the first time he'd tried. She was someone who was special. She was someone who would be famous. Not him, with his androgynous looks and scared habit of hiding in the broom closet when Patrick walked by; not him, with his clumsiness and utter lack of ability at - everything.

"Did you do okay on your exams?" he asked, instead of admitting his dreams. Who was he to pretend to be someone, sitting here under his tree - since when was it his tree? - beside Lily Evans?

"I did all right."

"You did more than all right," Gil insisted. Lily never did just 'all right,' as everyone knew. She only laughed.

"And you? How was Transfiguration - I know you were nervous about the practical part?"

He tried not to pay attention to that. Lily actually remembered what he had said? Splashing distracted him from his thoughts, and he glanced up to see Patrick and his friends showing off. He felt oddly embarrassed for Lily's sake. "Terrible," he sighed, mind shifting back to the day's earlier stressors. "Not as bad as Potions, though. You'd think he'd like me, being Slytherin."

"You know," Lily joked, "you're nearly not a Slytherin. And that's a compliment."

Gil reddened.

"Lily! There you are!" A shout rang out from up the hill and they both turned, a guilty look flashing on Gil's face, an excited one on Lily's. The dark haired boy jogged over to them, slipping an arm about her. "We've been looking all over for you, Sirius found this-" He dropped off, glancing over at Gil as if struggling to place him, then grinned mischievously. "Hey, Jill."

Despite his efforts, Gil blushed furiously. Barely catching Lily's farewell, he watched the two walk off, hearing a few snatches of their voices before that too faded.

"…James…never nice…"

"…so? …cares…he's just…"

Gil pushed a resentful sneaker toe into the dust. He knew most people would be envious for a cherished Hogwarts education, but he wasn't sure that he was to be envied. Maybe they'd made some sort of mistake - his life seemed littered with them. A letter to Hogwarts, Sorted into Slytherin…he was a mistake.

Surely there's something to be excited about? Lily had joked. It was all right for her. Her parents were Muggles and didn't expect anything; anyway, she was smart enough to be Head Girl twice. And the way everyone loved her - even Gil had a crush on her, poor little Gilderoy whose only company was the looming tree by the lake and the occasional smile from an out-of-reach infatuation.

She had said that he was nearly not a Slytherin. What would have happened, had he been in Gryffindor? Even Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff? Ambition, the Sorting Hat had said. Who will you be, Gilderoy?

Would his ambition, then, damn him like the rest of his heritage? Would he be fated to lurk in the shadows of other towering trees, a mere scorned flower grasping for any line of sunlight, trying to draw some secondhand comfort from the strength and prowess of something he could not be? Maybe no one would ever take him seriously. Maybe no one would remember him when he was gone. Maybe no one would take the time to care what shifted beneath his usually teary, pale blue eyes. Maybe he never would be anything more than a silly little fool, a naive, blustering man like he'd been an inept boy. Maybe...

Gil seemed to have an amazing ability to fail at most of his subjects; this included Divination. But this time, he was startingly close to being right.

______________________________________________________
Belated A/N: If you stuck with me through this chapter, I'm surprised. ~makes a face~ Sorry, necessary exposition. Also, I know that first years aren't generally exposed to Divination - a little glitch that seemed necessary. Next time in UF! Find out why Gildy hates Death Eaters, how many times Amalin can describe the sky (a lot), and who's got the hots for Gilderoy - plus angst galore! Really, it's coming. I promise. And for those who reviewed, thanks - feedback, you know, is nice.