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Title: Untouchable Face (Serendipity)

Author: Amalin

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com

Rating: R (Warning: Upcoming fic contains sexual content. No lemon worthy scenes, but suggestiveness, so. Beware. Most probably the reason for the series rating.)

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The lyrics belong to Sister Hazel.

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 t w o -- s e r e n d i p i t y

"...it's over and i'm overwhelmed
i'm emptied out like a dusty shelf
you buried me - and I'm covered in shame
i'm here but you look right through me..."


If asked about his second and third year at Hogwarts, Gil would have been hard pressed to find an answer. When everyone else seemed to undergo a growth spurt, he stayed where he was, a slim and flimsy boy the others delighted in picking on. Even some of the first-years took up the habit. Studded with bruises and nights of sniveling tears, hiding from Patrick in the broom closet, disappointment at each and every shameful score. Yet nothing was truly outstanding in his mind until a chilly November morning during his fourth year, the dark owl fluttering like an omen over his breakfast.

Isn't it strange that when you're having a bad day, nearly everything goes wrong?

Fishing the bobbing letter from his cereal bowl, Gil frowned at the pearly silver script. For Gilderoy Lockhart. It was unrecognizable; certainly not his parents, most probably not from another Hogwarts student. Curiosity prodded at his mind, though before he could open it, a hand swooped over his shoulder and snatched it. Though he was a terrible brute, Patrick's reflexes were not for nothing - the towering fourth year was already Quidditch Captain.

"Gildy's got a letter," he exclaimed, waving it about over his head. Gil sighed. "Oi, Landers!" The envelope flew across the breakfast table, caught by a fifth-year friend.

He watched them tear it open dispassionately. It couldn't be something too important, could it? After all, why would he be getting a letter? And it wasn't a letter from his mum that they could all laugh over, though that had happened once. He blushed suddenly, hoping it truly wasn't from another student. Several Ravenclaw girls had decided that he was indeed cute and had taken to sending him letters from a "secret admirer."

Seeing the stunned looks on their faces, he thought for a moment that it was one of those letters. But no, they would already be laughing, wouldn't they?

"You're supposed to go to Dumbledore's office," Patrick said quietly, handing the letter and its ripped envelope back to its true owner. "I - that's all it says."

The same silvery ink spiraled over the parchment: a brief message only. Come to my office after breakfast. The writing looked cramped, somehow urgent, uncertain. He tucked it carefully into the pocket of his robe, replaced his spoon carefully into his cereal, stood carefully from the table. There was a slow fear growing in his stomach. Would Dumbledore finally expel him, tired of the endless bad marks and his impossible inability? The other boys' stares followed him as he walked out of the Great Hall, eyes downcast.

To his surprise, Professor McGonagall met him in the hall near Dumbledore's office, holding the door open while he entered the tower. And she was smiling - albeit a rather melancholy sort of one - at him. "Go on, Gil. The staircase will take you up. He's waiting to talk to you."

"Th-thanks, Professor." Was she inwardly laughing? Was that sympathetic smile because he was finally leaving? As the stairs carried him to the Headmaster's office, his stomach clenched nervously. Wouldn't Patrick be happy? No more Gil. But then, there would be no one to pick on; maybe Toby, or one of the new first-years. The thought gave him little comfort.

"Ah, Gilderoy!" He smiled at the boy's expression. "You prefer Gil, don't you? Sit down, please."

Gil sat. His hands twisted nervously around his robe. "P-Professor, you wanted to see me? I can-" It suddenly, painfully occurred to him how disappointed his parents would be. They already spoke in hushed whispers when he came home for the holidays, discussing his marks in bitter murmuring tones and low shouts. Sometimes his father forgot to whisper, so upset he seemed.

"Do you know," Dumbledore asked gently, "who Voldemort is?"

He jumped at the blatant use of the name. "Y - of course I do." Gil frowned. "What does this have to do with-"

Dumbledore held up a hand, halting the boy's protests. "Listen for a moment, Gil. Have you been knowledgeable about your father's business? A noted Auror, only last week he orchestrated the capture of an equally noted Death Eater. This was not the first time he has helped to thin Voldemort's ranks."

"I - he mentioned it, maybe?"

"Last night-" Dumbledore hesitated. "Last night Voldemort's followers struck back. Three families; the Gardners, an elderly couple who were formerly Aurors; the Reddingers, a just married couple whose baby was sent to their in-laws, and your parents."

The words seemed to take an eternity to sink into his brain, layer by layer. His mouth couldn't seem to form the words.

"They couldn't have died a braver death," he said gently. "Standing up for what they believed in, sacrificing themselves for your safety and the safety of others. We are all grateful."

"C-can I-" His eyes were strangely dry. "Where've they been taken?"

"The house has been burned, Gil. I'm sorry. There will be a memorial service tomorrow night, and if you would like to go, I'm sure someone would accompany you. You will be excused from your classes for as long as-"

"I'll stay here." He could picture it already, the condescending family friends. And how are you doing at Hogwarts? Your parents would be proud, I'm sure. He could already feel the waves of shame. Was it possible? His father's booming laugh, his rare hugs, the stalwart set of his jaw as he ventured out to work every morning. It seemed so real. His mother's gentle smile, the way she comforted him, hiding her own disappointment to reassure his own. She would smooth his hair, promising - as always - that one day he would be proud of who he was, that she was always proud of him no matter what his marks were. She would bake his favorite meals during the holidays, she-

Dumbledore carefully shuffled the papers on his desk as the tears dripped onto Gil's robes. He sniffled, looking up at the Headmaster. "So wh-what happens now? I don't have anywhere to s-"

"Your aunt and uncle have offered to be your guardians until you graduate," Dumbledore said solemnly. "I'm sure a letter will be coming by owl. For now-"

Gil did not meet his eyes. "Thanks for telling me," he said carefully. "I should be going to class now."

"Gil." His hand was a comforting weight on the boy's shoulder, though after a moment Gil turned towards the door. "Your parents were undeniably brave, you know. They would be proud of you."

The boy offered no answering agreement as he disappeared out the door.

-=-=-=-


Dinner was a sullen affair, Gil's day of struggling through his classes eventually culminating in the lengthy meal. It was fish, anyway, and he hated fish.

"Er," said Toby, hovering awkwardly over his own meal. "I read about your parents in the Prophet. 'm sorry."

"Thanks," Gil replied, the senseless show of gratitude that came naturally to such a comment. The ritual reply.

"I know what it feels like," Toby tried again, pushing his fish listlessly over his plate. It seemed he, as well as Gil, was not overly fond of the dish. "My parents died when I was three. Grew up in an orphanage."

"No," Gil said, "no, you don't know what it feels like." And he turned back to his unwanted fish. Could Toby empathize with the loneliness, the feeling of defeat? Could he feel the way Gil felt, yelled at for the umpteenth time in Potions - finally apathetic? Could he filter out the taunts of Patrick, could he ignore the laughter of others, and find himself faced with a sudden, disconcerting silence? Maybe he could. But he couldn't feel the hatred of the men who had taken away his parents and his only support, the Death Eaters that so many of his fellow Slytherin students aspired to be.

When he had eaten what he could of the meal and still failed to satiate the empty hole gaping in his stomach. It twisted while he walked back to the Slytherin common room, squeezing his throat until it ached. He wouldn't cry; not here, not now. His eyes burned, dusky blue flame, but they remained dry.

It was even raining. Not a slight sprinkle, or a steady rhythm that comforted in the night, but a rushing deluge of droplets that raced each other across the sky. The gray sky darkened slowly outside the window as he thumbed through his History of Magic textbook, reading the words but remembering none of them. Wasn't it strange how grief dulled your mind, how it slapped you in the face without warning? Stole your senses so that when you felt, it seemed secondhand and delayed?

Someone sat down beside him. He ignored them, until a hand rested on his shoulder. "What's your name?"

He recognized the older boy, vaguely. Lucius, he thought it was. He was a sixth year, him and the friends that lurked behind him in the shadows. "Um. Gil?"

"Yeah? What're you reading, Gil?"

"Nothing." He shrugged, setting the book down on the dusty windowsill. He wasn't as much reading as he was staring at the words chase each other in blurry lines across the pages. The rain streaked angrily outside, its persistent beat striking on the tower walls. Well. No sense in being hesitant. "Are you friends of Patrick's? If you're going to beat me up, just do it."

To his surprise, Lucius laughed. "Patrick? Is he that fourth year bully? No, I'm not here to beat you up. I've just never seen you here before."

So he was already a nobody at the age of fourteen. He looked out the window at the tearful sky.

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners," he chuckled quietly, a slight derisive twist in his voice that called Gil's eyes back to his face. "I'm Lucius; Lucius Malfoy. This is Snape and that's Crabbe." The gestures indicating the former two were careless, tossed into the shadows where they waited. "They'll be leaving, though, won't they?"

Gil frowned, twisting about to look up at the other boy who was loosening the collar of his robes in the stiflingly hot common room. The fire, however, was slowly dying down. "What do you want?" Gil asked frankly. No one wanted simply 'nothing,' anymore.

"Oh, just some company."

"You have them." Gil gestured to the two lurking behind them.

Amusement played around the corners of Lucius' lips and he laughed quietly. "That I do," he agreed, exchanging a glance with Snape. "They aren't good for much, though." Snape stifled a snort.

"What do you mean?" The rain was running in slow rivulets down the windowpane, steady teardrops throbbing with the pulse of the clouds.

"All I want," Lucius said slowly, "is your cooperation. That's all."

"I-in what?"

He had a smell like mahogany cinnamon and summer pine; forests full of shadows and lucent, if fleeting, moon rays. His voice, when it came, was all velvet and razor blades - dangerous irresistible sin. "Lie down on the floor."

"Wh-" He stopped as he heard the sudden snickering from the shadows; glanced out the window into the deepening marble sky. It rumbled, oblivious.

He noticed, too late probably, that the common room was abandoned. He'd never paid much attention to the floor, but it was a dark polished wood, the grain running in twisting lines past his nose. There was a stain on the wood panels, a dark area oozing across the glossy floor. Spilt pumpkin juice, perhaps, even blood. If he concentrated on that singular stain hard enough - it rather looked like a butterfly, what an oddly cheerful thought - maybe he wouldn't feel the stares, the heavy gazes, the hands tracing a maze of lines up the back of his legs, the-

Laughter rang discordantly in his ears, stinging, and a bit of fabric brushed impatiently over his back as the other stood up. "Crabbe, Snape, enough! Get out of here!"

Still snickering, they fled. Weight settled back over him, the almost pleasant voice laughing, "Where were we?" If he shut his eyes, blanked out, maybe he could pretend those teasing fingers belonged to a girl; Lily, yes, but Lily would never-

Relax? Relax, when that trailing finger was snaking across shuddering flesh to-

"I told you to relax." The voice was surprisingly lacking in cruelty, though traces of lazy admonition lingered in his tone. "Gil, wasn't it? Do you know who Ganymede was, Gil?"

He's speaking to me as though I'm a child, Gil said silently but indignantly, coherent thought surprisingly still manageable despite the uncomfortable position. But then, was he any more than a child to this haughty sixth year who strode about the Slytherin dormitories as if he owned the world? This rich and handsome boy who towered over him when he was standing, not to mention when he was sprawled on the common room floor with a finger up his-

"N-no," he whispered between shuddering breaths.

"Greek mythology." Two? No, not - Lucius sounded almost idly pedantic. "Zeus; you've got to know Zeus, don't you, boy?" Gil heard him hesitate. "Sorry. Gil." He had always thought of Lucius' fingers as slim, but now it was quite different. Relative, he supposed. "Zeus saw Ganymede in the fields one day and, overcome by lust for the boy, he carried him back to Olympus. You my Ganymede, Gil?"

The stain, he had to focus, concentrate on that, not on the sudden pain that shot up his back-

"And what," Lucius continued casually, "did lovely Ganymede feel? Terror? Flattered, was he? Repulsed? Frightened? Perhaps he grew used to him - Zeus was, after all, supposed to be a fabulous lover."

What was that, the languid, hot feeling of - was he licking his neck? Gil whimpered.

"Don't be ungrateful," the older boy frowned, twisting impatiently over his unwilling partner. "I could be crude about it, you know. I'm trying to be accommodating - making conversation, the like."

"I-" No words were forthcoming, leaving the common room silence filled with awkward heavy breathing and choked back sobs. He couldn't help it; the sudden thought of his parents, dead and silent observers, made him flush and brought the inevitable tears. Gil hid his face.

The floor was uncomfortably unyielding, that stain mocking him as it spread its raven wings across the grain of the wood. The common room was dark in the absence of firelight, its walls painted with midnight. Gil couldn't help but wonder what someone would think were they to walk in - or would they not even notice? Would they pass on by? Was he just another of the victims; if he told someone, would they just laugh?

They wouldn't believe him; not Gil, no, they wouldn't believe him. Or maybe they would, and they would laugh anyway.

Minutes seemed to stretch for hours. It's ridiculous to measure time in constant increments. To the mother whose son has grown, looking back the years disappear in the blink of an eye. To a husband just married who must leave the next morning, the moments pass too quickly. To the giddy lovestruck girl, she could spend hours simply gazing at the object of her affection; to a schoolboy in a loathed class, the minute hand seems immobile. Too soon do days flee, too quickly do they pass; others seem insufferably perpetual. Perhaps it was but the passing of a few moments, the shadows still stretching long on the walls, the outer sky still heavy with darkness, but to Gil the seconds were interminably long.

"Gil? Are you all right?"

He wouldn't let him see the tears. Nose pressed against the floor, he shut his eyes.

"Gil?" Lucius took his arm, shaking him. There was a note of worry in his voice. "Get up."

The only move he made was to curl tighter around himself, tousled hair a floppy curtain before his tearstained cheeks. Suddenly it was impossible to face Lucius. Gil felt the cool wood against his burning cheek, his eyes stinging. How many hours to dawn? How-

"At least move to the couch?" the older boy coaxed. When he took hold of Gil's shoulder, his touch was angrily shaken off. He sighed. "Look, you're not hurt, are you? I-"

Gil made a slight noise of dissent, though he did not budge. "Lea' me alone."

Not entirely sure what he had expected to begin with, Lucius stood up in frustration. Gil had originally planned to flee back to his dormitory after the other's footsteps faded into the night, but in the end all he had energy enough to do was lie there and cry himself into an unsettled sleep.


-=-=-=-


It was early morning when Gil arose from the floor, body stiff, neck aching, traces of salty teardrops still dusty on his cheeks. He walked to the window, brushing aside one heavy curtain to press his face against the comfort of cold glass. Blotchy storm clouds were spread over the pale sky. Their heavy grayness made a sort of tie-dyed pattern over the horizon; still shining with the faint light that comes before dawn. Between them hung a sliver of porcelain white.

"Is it morning?" The lazy voice from the couch startled Gil and he turned, astonished and blushing, to face Lucius. The older boy was reclining on the pillows there, hands beneath his head, hooded eyes watching Gil.

"Um…yeah. Sort of. It's light out."

Awkward silence settled over the room and its dim shadows. Lucius shrugged. "Did you sleep?"

"Sort of," Gil repeated, eyes now seeking out the floor. There was that stain, blossoming over the wood - it looked different in the morning light, smaller. "Er…did you?"

"Yes, but I was on the couch, and you were on the floor." Frowning, pale face flickering with shadows in the pre dawn, Lucius sat up. "Are you…all right? You wouldn't move; I couldn't just leave you on the floor there. It looked uncomfortable."

So he had slept on the couch to watch over him, instead of returning to the dormitory? Gil wasn't sure what he felt about that.

"I'm not insensitive, you know." Lucius stood up and stepped towards him, wincing as his back cracked. "I'm not the hit-and-run type."

"You seem like it." Gil's face turned again towards the window.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not." His annoyed tone faded, and the room descended once more into the silence broken only by their breathing.

The edges of the clouds were already aflame, tinged with the ruddy light that the approaching sun brought. Soon they would lighten to white, fluttering amorphous shapes in the baby blue sky.

"My parents died yesterday." Gil was still pointedly looking out the window, his eyes searching the void of sky. An owl swooped by in the distance, or perhaps it was a hawk. In any case, it soon faded to a far off black speck, vanishing over the tree line and into the milky dawn. He wasn't sure why he said it, or why now the words slipped so velvety smooth off his tongue. One might almost guess he didn't care - if they didn't look into his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Lucius laid a hand on the boy's shoulder but pulled it away when he flinched. Sounding guilty, he added, "I - I didn't know-"

Gil's shrug was flimsy, forcedly light. "How could you've? It doesn't matter."

"C'mere." Enfolding the shivering boy in his arms, he smiled faintly when the action brought no resistance. Whatever else Lucius Malfoy was, he was not unfeeling. And the fourth year boy seemed so fragile in his embrace, trembling, thin bones and delicate skin all shadow next to the pained jolt of blue in his eyes. "Was it Vol - was it You-Know-Who?"

"My father was an Auror," Gil said. "They didn't like him."

"Understatement of the century, there," Lucius chuckled gently. "What Death Eater does like an Auror?" Gil was silent. Lucius sighed, breath but a whisper past his ear. "Look, Gil - you're a good kid. Your parents'd be proud of you." The silence weaving between his words was beginning to unnerve him. Sure, his father's friends came and went, but he had never been on the other end of the spectrum. He had never witnessed the pain. "I - I'm sure of it."

"You don't make a habit out of comforting people, do you?" Gil raised a tear-stained face, though he managed the faintest trace of a smile.

Lucius smiled back, relieved at even a minor show of cheer from the boy. He felt guilty for reasons he could barely begin to fathom. "Oh? Thanks to me, you're already smiling."

The boy tried to repress the faint curl of his lips. He couldn't.

"See?" Lucius laughed, stepping away from him - now sure, at least for now, of his temporary stability - to tie the curtains back and let the morning in. The sky was a crystalline blue, the once gray clouds that had hovered above the horizon turned to milky wisps. "World class comforter. Not to mention future Head Boy."

"Way to be egotistical." Though he surreptitiously wiped the droplets from his eyes, Gil turned away. "It's morning."

"Yes, it is." Lying a hesitant hand on his thin shoulder, Lucius added quietly, "I'm sorry...for, you know. Yesterday wasn't your day, was it?"

"Understatement of the century, there," Gil echoed, faint grin still lingering on his lips. "Don't worry about it. I think - I'm going to bed, you know, before breakfast."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Gil looked up. If he was startled or at all surprised at his unexpected company that morning, he didn't show it. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, the lingering remnants of hasty tears, he gave a hollow smile. "Yeah. I'll be all right."

"Er...good morning, then."

Halfway to the door, Gil turned back. Shouldn't he be resentful, or hateful, or...something? Even the mortification he'd felt at the first glimpse of Lucius, after, had mostly faded. He just felt...well, tired, but...

"Good morning."

Lucius watched him disappear into the dawn's early shadows.


-=-=-=-


It was three nights later, curled in his bed, clutching a tattered scrap of parchment, that Gil first wondered why.

Common room, 10:00, was all the parchment said. It was from two nights ago, having fluttered discreetly over his shoulder at breakfast. Turning, all he had seen was Snape's smirk as he turned away. And Gil had gone, of course; had he a choice? That night, and the next; and now?

For possibly being considered a rapist, Lucius was a surprisingly considerate one. He was always so polite about it. Maybe that was why Gil had slipped out to the common room the past two nights without too much deliberation, maybe that was why he hadn't minded too much when he ended up leaving the tangle of Lucius' arms in the middle of the night and getting but a few hours of sleep.

Why? That was the question. Why that day, why him? Because he was "pretty," was that it? Because Fate delighted in his torment? Why; why the next night and last - why was it less painful, more - Why? Why not now? Why did he even care?

It was strange, how things faded away. His parents' deaths were already bleached and flimsy, whispers of clouds in the pale dusk. Dull ache in the shadows, nothing more.

No, there was a new storm on the horizon.

It would have been easy enough to be resentful, considering. Really, Gil wasn't supposed to...to not mind. But when Lucius asked him concernedly if he was all right about his parents and that really, he didn't have to, he didn't want to upset Gil; when he looked so sincerely worried, even with that casual smirk; when he teasingly called him Ganymede and ruffled his hair like an older brother - it was as if they had slipped into a comfortable pattern, something Gil adapted to all too easily. And when it was broken?

And could he deny how he'd waited for Snape the morning after, anticipating the parchment and its instructions? Could he forget how it had been on his mind all of Potions; not the most pleasant of recollections, sure, but he wasn't - wasn't tormented by it.

And it was simple, really. Pathetic, of course, but... Would Patrick, his swagger and his sneering insults, be so easily swept under the ridiculous spell of the other's simple presence? Would anyone else, accepted and befriended, really care? Would they wonder, too; would they toss and turn when no parchment came, wondering why?

Why?

The room was awash in a dim blue, the morning's earliest glow drenching the floor with its eerie light. The curtains were drawn and fastened securely around each of the other boys' beds; he couldn't tell if any were gone or not. Maybe it was a first or second year, even third. Maybe fifth, maybe...maybe it was Snape, maybe it was anyone, how could he know? Maybe Lucius was just looking to sleep.

Or maybe Gil was just a mistake, as usual, tossed from one moment to the next like a toy boat on the raging waters of the Atlantic. What a thing, to look down at your son and realize all the horrible truths of his existence. Would you be proud?

Gil rolled over, staring into the heavy shadows interwoven with tender daylight. He couldn't have explained it, then - perhaps he never could - but he could not stop the tears that burned into the lonely, lightening dawn.

His tears were not shed for the dead, but rather the living.

______________________________________________________________
Belated A/N: If their first meeting scene seemed awkward, that's probably because it was awkward to write. The interim between this chapter and the next skips a considerable amount of time, about a year. You know, for the record. A grateful thanks to Rosie Sinistra - your review made my day (and several days after)! Thanks to all; next is coming.