Title: Untouchable Face (Obliviate)

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 "You Had Time" happens to be my all time favorite Ani DiFranco song and, while I'm not exactly coherent on the connection to this chapter, it fits well enough for me.

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 s i x -- o b l i v i a t e

"...how can I go home, with nothing to say
i know you're going to look at me that way
and say what did you do out there
what did you decide
you said you needed time and you had time..."



Their eyes met in that crowded room, not a beginning but another kind of end. Lucius smiled faintly: not exactly a heartfelt smile but then, it was a different kind of mask. The masquerade ball swirled on without them.

"Come on," Lucius said, voice low under the strain of violins. "There's no use talking here." Around them, the orchestra was striking up a lively jazz tune and his voice was drowned in the music. Gil followed him wordlessly through the restless dancers, mind whirling like a hurricane.

The room they entered was a private one - a library, from the looks of it. Lucius settled into a chair with little hesitation, motioning for Gil to do the same. He did, nervously. "You're, er, familiar with this place?" Gil glanced about him to the shelves filled with dusty tomes. No one seemed to have read them for many years.

"It used to be a manor in the old days," Lucius said off-handedly, shrugging. "Became a populated area - for wizards - during Voldemort's early years. Father used to bring me here. Meetings, you know."

"I see."

Silence descended, blanketing the library in heavy shadows. "So," said Lucius.

"So."

Lucius gestured. "Your costume. What is it?"

Gil glanced down into the folds of his hurried toga, procured from the musty depths of Sam's closet. It was several sizes too big, though Gil figured it couldn't make too much of a difference. Sam had held it to him proudly, seizing some vague image of Ganymede and Greek mythology and pasting the two together with a recollection of fraternity parties. "I'm-" He grasped at a few strands of the tales Meda had told him. "I'm, er, Perseus."

"Perseus," repeated Lucius.

"Mm-hmm."

"Not Ganymede."

"No."

They lapsed, once again, into an uncomfortable silence.

"So, a Death Eater party?" Lucius finally inquired. "Do I detect some hypocrisy there, Ganymede, or are you as naive as you appear?" He was waiting, half smirking, and Gil could not help marveling at all the things that were different and yet so much the same. The same shadowed gaze, so familiar, yet so startlingly new -

"I came with Asher," Gil said, a bit coldly. "And I still hate Death Eaters."

"But you're...dating one, no?" He was smirking, now.

"I don't see why it would matter to you."

"Well, let me remind you, you're the one that left." He scowled, absently clenching his paper cup of punch until it crumpled in his fist. "Not me. I didn't end it, Gil. You did."

"I-" He was cut off as Lucius raised a hand.

"Wait." They sat in awkward silence for a long moment until Gil finally heard the footsteps. Lucius mouthed the words, but Gil caught on. He slid beneath the desk, breath catching. What was this, a conspiracy? He'd thought it to be a simple party, not an actual...meeting, of sorts...

The door clicked open. There was silence, then a low chuckle. "Didn't expect to see me here, did you, Lucius?" The voice was familiar and Gil struggled to place it. "There are only a few that know, really. And we had a deal. You promised not to tell, yes?"

"Yes." Lucius' voice was indifferent.

"In return, I promised to tell you a few things that would, let us say, put you at an advantage?"

"Yes."

He shifted, carefully, feeling the wooden floor cold against his legs. The feeling brought back dusty memories he had tried so terribly to shove away and Gil bit his lip, leaning slightly over the desk. The tall figure had his back to Gil but nevertheless struck a chord in his memory that brought it all back. Yes; yes, it made sense. And yet how long had he been unaware? How long had the Crane kept him blissfully oblivious?"

"Sentimental I may be, but I came to warn you," Snape said, cheerily. He was leaning against the desk and Gil ventured further, though had to stop himself from cringing at the anger in Lucius' eyes. He crouched back beneath the desk, arms wrapped about his knees. "For old times' sake, you know."

"Because we played together as children, learned our first spells together and suffered through Hogwarts as equals? Because we got this, this, together?" Lucius gestured towards his sleeve, lips grimacing. "Clearly one of us got more out of it than the other."

"Don't talk to me about loyalty," Snape growled. "Don't preach to me about your glorified murders. I knew you, Lucius. You didn't want it. I did. All you wanted was that li-"

"The Ministry, is it?" Lucius interrupted smoothly. "How many, exactly? Because there are a hell of a lot of us."

"Hundred and sixty Aurors," Snape said smugly and Gil - from below the desk - could picture him perfectly, that twisted sneer on his lips, arms crossed with the dark folds of his robe hanging loosely around him. Lucius could pull off the condemned angel with ease, but Snape - Snape was always the Grim Reaper. "Gathered them from all corners of the globe. Some of 'em aren't even British. All for this chance."

"Putting a bit too much trust in you, aren't they?" Lucius shrugged. "I'm sure your precious Dumbledore had a hand in it."

"Don't bring Dumbledore into this."

"Why not? You hated him as much as I did at school, Severus. You hated everything about that bloody school, especially the favoritism. What made you go running back?"

"It's-"

"No." Lucius, just as quickly, halted him. "I don't want to know. Remember? We never questioned each other." He looked away into the steady throb of the lamp, blinding himself with the light. "I don't want to know how much better you are. The choices you made when I could not. I won't ask you."

"I'm sorry," Snape said in return, and Gil frowned from his hiding place. He had never known the rigidly uptight Snape to admit any sort of emotion, much less apologize. And to Lucius? He realized that he knew little about the two save for their history together, growing up with similar Death Eater families in Voldemort-ruled shadows. "You know, Lucius, you could-"

"Don't." Sharp as glass, his voice was. "Don't you dare offer me your twisted salvation, Severus. Haven't I told you, time and time again, that I don't want it?"

"That's right." Snape's voice was smug once again, angrily forced. "All you want to do is lie around washing away past memories in blood, is that right, Lucius? All you want is to waste away your life in that manor with that gorgeous wife of yours, languishing in the past?"

"You understand nothing."

"Neither do you."

There was a momentary truce of silence, one in which Gil scarcely breathed. How had it come to be like this, crouched beneath a desk at a Death Eater party? And Lucius had a wife. He wondered who she was, how they had met, if he knew her. If Lucius loved her.

"It was nice, Severus. I'll be off, then?"

"As you wish. And if you even think of confessing, I'll insure that you go down with me. Voldemort will find out all about your spying and l-"

"What spying?"

Snape grinned; Gil could hear it in his voice. "Just because there was none doesn't mean I can't confess it. 'Bye, Lucius."

Moments later, the door clicked shut, and silence blanketed the room once again. Gil scooted out from beneath the desk. "What, exactly, was that?"

"It's none of your business."

"I'm here," Gil insisted. "I think it is."

"You disappeared," Lucius replied instead. "After Hogwarts, I mean. No one had heard of you. Everyone just assumed you'd finally splinched in some mishap or some equally unhappy ending, some accident. I thought you were gone for good."

Gil shrugged, lightly, helplessly. "I was."

"Where did you go?"

"It doesn't matter." He looked to the floor, looked away. He didn't want Lucius to know. Even Lucius thinking that he was here with Asher was better than Lucius knowing he was just another whore - wasn't it? "And you? You have a wife, I hear?"

"Narcissa." Lucius smiled half-heartedly at Gil. "Maybe you remember her. She was in your year, I think."

Yes, he remembered. Of course. I thought it was the last name that counted, Patrick? He recalled the girl's flippant laughter, her ceaseless chatter, white-gold hair. He made a noncommittal sound.

"Ganymede!" The shout roared through the halls, Asher's figure striding imperiously past. Gil's head jerked up in the library and Lucius' eyes widened.

"Who is that?" he asked, voice cool.

"Er…that's Asher…he's…"

"You told him your name was Ganymede?" One eyebrow raised ever so slightly, Lucius' composure still in place.

"No, it's - he -"

"Uh huh." A sudden chill washed over him, goosebumps rising at the heartless tone. "I think he wants you. Goodbye, Gil."

"That's not it! I-"

"Ganymede! Where the hell are you?"

Gil looked up at Lucius to meet his gaze of broken glass. "Look," he said softly. "Asher's not my-" blushing - "boyfriend. Or anything. He's - well, I work -"

"I don't care about your little gay soap opera," Lucius snapped, getting to his feet and gliding to the door. "It was nice to see you again."

"Wait-"

The door clicked shut, leaving the library in blissful silence. The books stared dolefully back at him.

"Ganymede!" The door thundered back open. "It was you, damn it! You called the bloody Ministry!" He grasped the boy's collar and dragged him forward. "I'm the Assistant to the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, not to mention Voldemort's right hand man, and there are some people I want you to meet."

-=-=-=-


Asher Canning's office was a labyrinth of papers and paperweights, a maze that only he had the knowledge to sort through. And sometimes even he became lost in the clutter. Sitting in his cracked leather chair, the papers that had previously occupied the seat positioned precariously on his lap, he crossed his arms and glared at Gil. It was late and his office was just about the last place he wanted to be right now.

"He's just a boy, Asher," the tall man said doubtfully, moustache rustling as he spoke. "We can't just kill him. What if he didn't call the Ministry?"

"He's a fucking whore," Asher growled, shoving the papers onto the floor before his desk and agitatedly picking up a paperweight and then returning it to the exact same place. "No one will fucking miss him. Don't tell me what to do, Roger."

"I'm not," the other shrugged. "I was only saying."

"You were only saying! Saying you want to spare the little bastard who probably called those bloody Aurors I have to work with every bloody day down on all of us! Take my advice and stop 'saying' things, all right?"

Roger grasped Gil's elbow firmly. "I'm taking him to the Obliviators," he said. "Marvin still works there, doesn't he? He'll get us past the loyal Ministry boys?"

"Roger," Asher said dangerously, "Memory Charms can be broken." He saw the fear on Gil's face and dismissed it; he turned back to his partner in crime.

"He'll be in Bedlam," the other argued. "You worry too much. Aurors only got five of us, anyway."

"Five? One can tell the whole world about-"

"Come now," Roger replied, far too jovial for the tense mood in the crowded office, "don't be so worried. "Go to sleep, Asher. It's under control. I'll take your little companion here - unless you wanna get your money's worth?" He grinned, eyes sliding suggestively towards the boy in his custody.

Asher grimaced. "It's home and bed for me. Send Marvin up to meet me tomorrow morning, all right? I'll be at the office after nine."

"Sounds good." Roger flashed him a smile and steered Gil out of sight, waiting until he heard the door click solidly before speaking. He was nearly running down the hall. "Lucky bugger, you," he sent in Gil's direction. "Asher got his hands on you, you'd be dead in a flash. 'Course, that's probably the happier way out."

"What do you mean?" Gil glanced behind him, satisfied Asher wasn't following him like some threatening shadow, and then back to his guard. "What's Bedlam? What're you doing to me?"

Roger chuckled a not entirely pleasant chuckle. "You'll see, m'boy. You'll see."

"I didn't call the Ministry," Gil insisted. "I swear!"

"Oh, really? Well and good, but it doesn't make a whit of a difference. 'Less you can tell us who did."

"Who did?" Gil echoed, stomach sinking. "Who…" The word nipped at the back of his mind, tempting him. And if you tell… It wasn't worth the chance, was it? Because if Snape thought that Lucius had told, he would…

Why does it matter? Gil's mind insisted. Why must you care so much about that Death Eater? The past is the past, and if you don't act now you won't have a future…

But he didn't say it. The words did not seem to be able to find their way to his tongue, losing their way amongst the twisting nerves and veins and pounding blood. He sighed, contemplating the corridors they were passing and his companion. "Is Asher," he said hesitantly, "really You-Know-Who's right hand man?"

Roger burst into a fit of laughter, vaguely reminiscent of honking geese. "Right hand man?" he wheezed. "Not at all, m'boy. My brother has delusions of grandeur, you see. Don't much like mercy or anything of the sort, afraid to be soft. But no, he's a bit down the chain from where he imagines himself. Hate to burst his bubble."

"You're brothers?" Gil said.

"And that, my friend, is a story for another day. Oi! Marvin!"

Marvin, it turned out, was a slouching, skulking mouse of a man whose pinched eyes surveyed Gil with disapproval. "This the one, Rog?" he asked slowly. Gil shrank back from his glare.

"Sure is. I'll send Vince over to take him to Bedlam, so get it done quick, will you? Oh, and Asher wants to see you tomorrow morning. Early."

"Yeah, and you can tell your brother to shove it up his arse," Marvin growled. Roger grinned mischievously and he quickly raised a hand. "No, don't. Damn him, runnin' around playin' God or something like it. Yeah, I'll be there."

"Good. Go on, boy."

Gil stumbled forward and the last thing he saw was the door closing before he sank into darkness.


-=-=-=-


Bedlam was more than a word. It was more, even, than a simple idea. It was a place, and possibly one of the circles of Hell.

Water dripped leisurely down the bars of Lockhart's cell. Rust had already formed, years of the damp and the despair corrupting even the most solid iron. He watched it carefully, focusing on the crystalline drops. Like a teardrop, almost, its bottom a perfectly rounded half-circle. Blurred shapes shifted across its surface, sharp black specks. If he focused hard enough, he fancied he could even see his own eyes staring back at him. Interrogation. Who are you?

There was a certain singular beauty to the droplet. It finally gave up the fight and succumbed to gravity. A new droplet took its place, certain that it could resist the seductive pull. Newton was but an observer; as was Lockhart, he supposed. That was his name, wasn't it? He had worked for days to see the fluttering sign posted over his cell, frowning at the looping letters. It could, of course, mean anything. But what else could it be?

Just as Bedlam is more than a simple word, Justice is nothing but. No matter what games the Ministry plays, their rule is absolute.

Is Voldemort more than a revolutionary? Does it matter what your cause is, if you triumph?

And what, exactly, is the difference between heroes and murderers? Who gains the stage and who slides to the background, locked away for knowing too much and being too little, trapped in the bars of a prison long forgotten?

The droplet fell. A new one replaced it.

Gravity is an imperious mistress.

He wasn't exactly sure of how long he had been there. He wasn't sure of much, really. He didn't even know if this hell he existed in was reality or only some endless dream fabricated by his tormented mind. Would he wake up to better? Would he wake up to worse?

The touch of the iron was real. The bitter taste of the rusted water was real. The food pushed through the bars once or twice a week was real - perhaps not meant to be food, but real enough. And the voices he heard echoing through the corridors sometimes, he prayed they were real. Prayed that he wasn't alone in this mad dream of his, prayed that there was someone else to prove its reality to him.

He was afraid he was going mad. But he didn't know what he had to lose, so it was easier to succumb. Just like the droplets. He could feel the pull.

Sometimes he doubted himself, doubted the way his mind ran in endless circles but found nothing but the tiniest fragments of glass. If my memory was a mirror, he thought pointlessly, I could not see myself. His ragged hair brushed the back of his neck now and he figured it was some time since Before. That was what he called it, Before: when he had a memory, when he had a life, when he knew who he was. Someone besides a criminal scrabbling to find out his name and lick the rusty water from the sour iron of the cell bars. Someone that was real not only to himself, but other people in the world.

He wondered sometimes what he had done to be so punished. Perhaps it was a capital offense. Had he killed someone? He wasn't sure if he was capable of killing someone. He wasn't sure of anything, though. Perhaps he had.

Or perhaps this world was a harsh one and he had only stolen some bread or had said the wrong thing at the wrong time. It happened a lot, probably. Maybe there were others just like him all around his cell, grasping for hope and light in this miserable garden of despair. He didn't know. He didn't want to know. If there were others, that meant that this hell was real. But if there weren't, that meant he was living in the madness of his own mind. He wasn't exactly sure which was worse.

But he had a long time to ponder it.

"...Bedlam Institution for th' Mentally Unstable. Actually, we've got a rather extensive 'istory. Pre-Azkaban era, y'see? We don't 'ouse criminals, only th', shall we say, displaced from society?"

This time the voice was not echoing distantly but rather nearby. He stared at the iron door, tried to make something out in the shadows that clung to his cell. Was it real, then? Or had he finally gone mad, finally let go?

"Interesting." A new voice! It was dry, non-committal.

"We are," and the man chuckled, "one of th' Ministry's best kept secrets. They don't use us anymore, but still they got a few unfortunate observers they've sent 'ere. And we still get a few, from the other part of the Ministry."

"No Dementors?"

"Eh heh, no. We don't got the dangerous kind, 'ere. But we do keep a few Obliviators on 'and...Ministry still grants us that much."

"Well." The visitor still sounded disinterested. Lockhart strained his ears, pressed his cheek against the cool iron. "This visit was, of course, between you and I. And - wait." Silence. Drip. Breathing. Drip. Gravity is not amused by defiance. "Does that say Lockhart? Gilderoy Lockhart?"

Lockhart couldn't help the half-choked whimper that slipped from his lips. They must be right before his cell. Was that his name? Gilderoy? What sort-

"Why, it is." The guide chuckled nervously. "The other part of the Ministry sent 'im in just a month ago. 'E don't trouble us much, some of 'em set on wailing all hours of th' night. Why? Know 'im?"

"I did." The voice, contrary to its previous state of boredom, now sounded intensely fierce. "Just by way of curiosity, why's he here?"

Lockhart held his breath.

"Somethin' goin' on with them Death Eaters. Just between you an' me, of course. Called th' Ministry at some party or gathering, 'appened to be found by the Death Eater side o' the Ministry first, an' that was the tragedy. Sent 'im here with no memory and a hell of an 'eadache, as usual."

"That capture last month?" He frowned. "He called the Ministry?"

"Oh, I dunno. Don't matter if you're innocent or guilty, once you're 'ere." The guide shrugged noisily. "You aren't from th' Ministry, are you? I didn't mean what I said about-"

"No." A pause. "I was at that party. And he most certainly did not call the Ministry. I was, uh, with him the entire time."

"Well, nothin' we can do about that, is there?"

"No. We can't." The next thing Lockhart heard was a dull thump, a jingling, and then he slumped forward as the iron door gave way. A hand tried to catch him and managed to save him from the hard impact of the moldy floor, instead letting him slide to its chilly surface beside the unconscious guide. He looked up to an unfamiliar face.

"Lockhart?" The shadows parted and his dark eyes scrutinized the boy like a hawk. "Fancy meeting you here. Come on, Dumbledore will want to know about this."

Lockhart tried valiantly to rise for the benefit of his scowling rescuer, but his knees were too shaky. In the end he was clinging to the other's arm, staggering unsteadily down the slippery corridor. "I - don't know you - do I?" he asked.

"I guess not. We should stop at St. Mungo's first, get that Memory Charm removed. I'm Severus Snape, by the way." Before Lockhart could open his mouth, he shook his head. "And you're Gilderoy Lockhart. I know."

"What does that mean?" Lockhart asked feebly. "Who am I?"

Snape grinned into the darkness of the prison. "You'll see for yourself, Lockhart. You'll see."

________________________________________________________________
Belated A/N: Whoo, that was a real struggle to get out. I sincerely apologize for taking so long! I hope, I pray, that the next chapters are out in a more reasonable time frame. For any that this may have confused, please email me or something of the sort to let me know. Rereading, it seemed clear to me, but you never know. For anonymous reviewer, whoever you might be, Rulinian, and once again bluechocobo and Rosie Sinistra, thank you! The next chapter will be soon. I promise.