Sidelight

He looked up just in time to see Lockhart’s smile fading, a disapproving eyebrow raising.

“The letter from my editor, of course. I took the liberty of sending her some of our pages.”

And wasn’t that just like Lockhart? Since they were boys, even: don’t ask, don’t mention, just do as he pleased. Only his charming exuberance saved him.

With a faint smile in return, Quirrell twirled a finger to motion Lockhart on. 

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, then. What does she say?”

“Quirinus, you need to work on your timing,” Lockhart told him, lowering the envelope. “You have no appreciation for the dramatic pause.”

Quirrell resisted the urge to sigh and handed over a letter opener instead.

“Honestly, Gilderoy. You’ve already used up your dramatic pause allotment. Open the bloody thing, would you?”

“Have you ever had a letter from an editor before?” Lockhart asked, glancing at him as the blade cleaved through the envelope.

“Rarely,” Quirrell replied slowly. “Two for academic journals, rejections otherwise. And never for fiction.”

The smile appeared, big and bright. Quirrell returned it without realising at first, then the pull of scar tissue reminded him.

“Ah, but this isn’t fiction,” Lockhart told him, waving the letter opener at him. “This is non-fiction. Unless you’re lying to me, that is.”

This time, Quirrell laughed aloud and flapped a hand at him. “Yes, I ran out and ruined my face to improve my social life. Open the foolish thing, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Your face isn’t ruined, you know, you’re still adorable. I have a cream to reduce the appearance of the damaged tissue, and—oh, here we are.”

He pulled the letter from the envelope, and Quirrell rested his chin in his hand to watch. Gilderoy was often self-involved, yet oddly earnest at times. One of his more endearing qualities.

The smile slowly dissolved as he read, then a frown set in.

Quirrell waited. An outburst? A laugh?

Lockhart slowly used his index finger to smooth away the line between his brows, then tapped his chin with the envelope.

“What does she say?” Quirrell prompted, holding out an impatient ink-stained hand.

“Hmm? Oh. Well, I’ve never partnered with anyone before, you know.”

“Yes, you almost never mention it,” Quirrell returned, tone heavy with irony. “And?”

“She says it lacks my usual energy. Needs more punch, more glory, more heroics.”

Quirrell expected annoyance, perhaps outrage, but curiously, Lockhart showed neither. He was already swinging off his baby blue cloak and tossing it aside.

“Can you ever put it on the peg?” Quirrell asked, levitating it over to hang near the door.

“Why should I?” Lockhart countered. “You always do it for me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Lockhart slid out the chair to Quirrell’s right and sat.

Every night, they worked this way, squeezed in at the desk, elbow-to-elbow. Gilderoy often talked as he edited what Quirrell wrote, reading aloud or even standing up to reenact.

Tonight, he was silent.

“Here.” Quirrell pushed him the pages he’d drafted during his session. “You can start on these.”

“Thank you. Then I’ll go back to the beginning and edit my edits,” Lockhart said absently. “Now, let me see. Bigger. Grander.”

Lockhart’s quill began to scratch.

Now Quirrell was silent.

“Gilderoy,” he ventured, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cause extra work.”

“Not to worry,” Lockhart replied. “It’s not the first editing suggestion I’ve received. Besides, it’s not your fault. You’re an academic, not an author.”

“My fatal flaw,” Quirrell agreed, then motioned to all the papers on his half of the desk. “How should I go about it now?”

This time, Lockhart looked up. He took in the tidy stacks of papers, then shrugged one shoulder.

“Just carry on, we’ll get it sorted. This is still faster than I could ever work on my own.” He levelled a finger at Quirrell. “But don’t be hurt when I edit you harder.”

“I won’t.” Quirrell picked up his pen to resume writing. “This is your area of expertise, not mine. I already defer to your opinions on the matter.”

Which was true. Were this writing for scholarly journals, it would be another matter, but in the realm of mass market, Lockhart reigned king.

Several minutes of silence passed, Gilderoy’s ridiculous peacock feather quill scratching over the parchment.

“Oh, Quirinus, this is rather good,” he said, quill stopping. “Listen to this: ‘There are some books which ought never be opened. The Hungarian volume I acquired in Budapest was almost certainly one of them.’”

“Thank you,” Quirrell said, still writing.

“I’m just going to add…” he trailed off, tapping his chin with the feather. “Oh, I know, decisive! ‘Naturally, I purchased it at once.’”

Lockhart resumed scratching, and Quirrell paused to watch him. Gilderoy’s lips moved as he read, voice hushed as he attempted to act out the text. When he read for pleasure, it was different, but writing was theatre on the page, Lockhart liked to remind him.

“I moved through the crowded streets with an effortless radiance that made witches and Muggles alike turn to watch. Even beneath the brutal grey storm, I retained an almost…”

Lockhart trailed off the reading, then fell silent for several seconds. His quill remained poised over a word, unmoving.

“…Apollonian splendour,” he finished.

He’d reached the passage, at last, and liked it enough to read it aloud. Quirrell nodded and leaned back in his chair.

“I was pleased with that, too,” he said. “It seemed right for you. I’m glad you liked it.”

Slowly, Lockhart turned to look at Quirrell, an expression of almost childlike wonder opening his features. He searched Quirrell’s eyes for a moment, then parted his lips to speak. No sound emerged (a first), and Lockhart closed his mouth a few seconds later.

The peacock quill was still suspended above something on the page, Quirrell noted. A drop of ink beaded up, ready to fall from it. He squinted and, in the lamp light, made out ‘Apollonian splendour’.

Gilderoy looked at him one more time, examining his face as though the answer to a question were there.

Quirrell waited.

The quill moved past ‘Apollonian splendour’, leaving it unstruck. A few seconds after, Gilderoy struck a different line and nodded.

Satisfied, Quirrell resumed drafting. Gradually, he became aware of warmth at his arm, a comforting pressure.

Gilderoy’s elbow pressed against his.

***

The editor’s criticism did not discourage Gilderoy so much as redirect him.

Their evenings settled into an increasingly familiar rhythm: Quirrell writing, Lockhart editing. There’d been no recent petrifications; the Chamber, wherever it lay, remained closed for now.

In the meantime, Quirrell endured increasingly dramatic revisions, three abandoned opening paragraphs, and one impromptu reading aloud atop the bed.

He ought to have known February would turn dangerous eventually, as it contained Gilderoy’s favourite holiday, Valentine’s Day.

One night, Gilderoy stopped editing at the desk and began practising charm work beside it.

“I’ve promised everyone a morale-booster,” he said when Quirrell glanced over. “To wash away the memories of last term.”

“Do you really think that’s wise?” Quirrell asked, only half-listening. He resumed writing the manuscript, in slow, careful strokes over the parchment.

“Of course it is, now is the perfect time! I told you before, I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time.” Lockhart paused long enough to wave his wand, and the ceiling phased from grey to pale blue. “The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him.”

Quirrell nodded, but didn’t reply. It was at least the third time in as many days that Lockhart had made the same claim.

“No, that won’t do,” Lockhart said, then waved his wand a second time. The blue grew paler, and he nodded, but then stopped to look down at a small valet tray on the desk. “Quirinus, you still aren’t wearing your rings.”

“They don’t fit anymore,” Quirrell said. “They’re too small to go around the scars”

Lockhart gave a noncommittal grunt, then jabbed his wand at the ceiling again. Moments later, a single pink heart floated into Quirrell’s tea. Small. Paper, it looked like. After a few seconds, the heart dissolved.

Another fell, this one onto his parchment and stuck to the ink not yet dried. Another. This one in his stone-cold tea again. Another.

Suddenly, a gentle snow of pink hearts floated down to cover everything. The desk, the floor, the bed. They covered Quirrell’s parchment, and now the surface of his tea.

He swivelled his chair to face Lockhart and burst into laughter.

“What are you doing, Gilderoy?”

Pink hearts settled even in Quirrell’s eyelashes. Lockhart shot him a sheepish grin, which made Quirrell laugh harder.

“Oh, my. That is a bit overenthusiastic, isn’t it? Here, let me slow the fall. Arresto Momentum, perhaps…?” He trailed off into a mutter, thinking aloud.

“Gilderoy, no, no, no. No. I’m not wading up to my hips in pink hearts.” Quirrell immobilised the currently falling hearts, then banished the lot. “Please, for Merlin’s sake, start over.”

Undeterred, Lockhart flicked his wand again at the pale blue ceiling.

“Cordanivem.”

A new batch of hearts began to float down. These were smaller, brighter, and slower than the first blizzard. Quirrell watched, manuscript forgotten for the first time in months.

“That’s quite clever.” There was a note of admiration in Quirrell’s voice. “It’s the wand work that makes the adjustment? Size, velocity, and colour all at once is quite sophisticated.”

Gilderoy halted his surveying of the confetti long enough to look at Quirrell in surprise, wand lowering. He was still so long that pink hearts collected in the gold waves of his hair.

“Yes, I’m rather good at this sort of thing. The flicks, jabs, and swishes all influence the result.” He paused, still looking at Quirrell. “You noticed.”

“I did notice, yes. It must’ve helped a great deal with the yeti, this spell.”

This earned him a less favourable look from Lockhart, who arched an eyebrow and said, “I’ll have you know this spell worked very well on the ghouls. How do you think I got one into a tea strainer? I mesmerised it first, of course.”

Unable to help himself, Quirrell erupted into more laughter. It felt good to have a laugh, like stepping out into the sunshine after a very long storm.

“You ought to have saved it for the werewolves,” he said.

Lockhart flapped a hand. “Nonsense, they’d have seen that coming. You’ve got to think around these things, Quirinus.”

Quirrell’s face relaxed as he gazed up at Lockhart, who was still watching him in return. Lockhart’s expression softened, and he leaned in towards where Quirrell was sat.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Your lashes are ridiculous. You’ve got hearts in them.”

Without thinking, Quirrell obeyed, and Lockhart’s thumb brushed his lashes, gentle as a whisper. When Quirrell opened his eyes again, Lockhart was still leaning in. He smiled and kissed the tip of Quirrell’s nose, then straightened upright.

Around them, bright pink confetti accrued.

The hearts went through several more iterations, paler, pinker, smaller, slower, until a blanket of them lay over everything again.

“Have you not decided yet?” Quirrell asked. He reached for his tea, willing to drink it cold, but the cup was filled with little hearts.

“Hmm? Well, I think the bright pink is ideal for this event, and the smaller ones were quite fetching. I’ll have flowers to match. Then I’ll just need to pick a corresponding outfit, et voila.”

With a snap of his fingers, Quirrell opened the wardrobe.

“Which outfit?”

Lockhart rolled his eyes, but crossed the room anyway.

“You are such a showoff, honestly.” He pulled out screaming pink robes and held them up for Quirrell to examine. “This is what I have in mind. See how the hearts offset it? Compatible shades. All I need to do is ensure the flowers are tinted properly.”

“How is this possibly good for your colouring?” Quirrell asked, rising for a closer look. “This should be atrocious.”

“Because it’s all about saturation. And the hair. I can go either way, warm or cool.”

Quirrell held up a pink sleeve near his face and grimaced at the mirror. “How does this make me look more like a vampire?”

“Because you’re cool-toned.” Lockhart drew out blue robes and held the sleeve near Quirrell’s face. “That’s why you look fetching in blue and purple. See?”

Around them, confetti hearts continued to drift down, and Quirrell laughed again, looking up at the ceiling. He held out his palms, and little pink hearts fell into those, too.

“This is ludicrous.”

The floor was hidden, hearts overflowed from Quirrell’s teacup, their manuscript was buried, and there was nearly an inch of hearts atop the bedding.

“They’re meant to dissipate shortly after falling.” Lockhart studied the ceiling, and a heart drifted into his eye. He laughed and blinked it out. “More adjustment is in order, I see.”

Lockhart started to draw his wand, but Quirrell gently caught his hand.

“Gilderoy? Not right now.”

“But—”

Before he could spare another thought and lose his nerve, Quirrell grabbed Lockhart by the lapels and kissed him.

Gilderoy drew in a breath of surprise, then his hands came up to hold Quirrell’s face and pull him closer.

Part of Quirrell wondered why he’d done it, and part of him didn’t care. But he knew. Joy was fleeting and rare, and his hunger for companionship was never-ending. Longing ran like a hot wire from his throat to his belly.

He dragged Lockhart towards the bed, and he seemed happy enough to follow, somehow managing not to break their kiss.

Quirrell drew back first with a deep gasp for air. Still clutching Lockhart’s lapels, he swung him around, then gave him a careful push backwards onto the bed.

“Oof,” Gilderoy said, but managed to catch Quirrell’s leather belt on the way down.

This threw Quirrell off balance, and he collapsed on top of Lockhart, laughing again. Gilderoy started to sit up, but Quirrell pressed him back down again and clambered astride, squeezing his thighs against Lockhart’s hips.

If Lockhart wanted to unseat him, he could do so easily, but seemed content to stay beneath.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do now that you have me?” Lockhart asked, putting his hands behind his head.

“Well, there’s a sign of trust,” Quirrell observed, motioning to Lockhart’s unguarded midsection.

“Is it?” Lockhart grinned up at him. “What could you possibly do that I wouldn’t welcome?”

“Is that a challenge?” Quirrell returned. “Because this is coming off for starters.”

He leaned forward to undo Gilderoy’s cravat. As he did, the tightness of his trousers pressed harder against Lockhart’s and a soft groan rose to his ears.

The colourful silk came away, and Quirrell pressed his lips to Gilderoy’s throat.

From above, a ridiculous pink heart fluttered down onto Gilderoy’s forehead, and Quirrell kissed it away.

“You know we’re going to end up covered in these, don’t you?” Lockhart said, brushing another from Quirrell’s head.

“I know, but I don’t care.” Quirrell kissed Lockhart again, deeper, and settled atop him.

It turned out Lockhart didn’t care about being covered in confetti either.

***

Spring settled over the castle.

The manuscript thickened, then was sent to Lockhart’s editor, where it would go on to the printing press.

By May, the castle seemed to regard them as a matched set. Gilderoy scarcely appeared to notice the change, while Quirrell tried very hard not to. Students sometimes sought him in Gilderoy’s office rather than his own, which Quirrell resolved to correct.

Aside from that, the days remained mostly unchanged.

At breakfast, Gilderoy sat with his standard complement of six newspapers. All lay folded in half before him, so only the headlines blared. The absurd peacock feather quill rested against his chin, occasionally used to circle something Quirrell couldn’t see from his spot.

“Something on your mind?” Severus asked from Quirrell’s right elbow.

“No. Why?”

“You haven’t eaten.”

Eyebrows raised, Quirrell glanced down and discovered his food untouched. He opted for the bacon before it turned any colder.

“I was thinking.”

Snape’s eyes shifted down to Gilderoy, then back.

“I see.”

Quirrell’s face grew warm, but he kept his expression neutral.

“He’s circling things.”

“He always does.”

An ugly flare of irritation bloomed. “But circling what?”

“Himself, of course,” Snape replied. “What else?”

He’d always assumed so, too. But Quirrell wondered. Because if Lockhart were circling things about himself, then why would he—

“Sybill, listen to this,” Gilderoy said, straightening up.

At Quirrell’s left elbow, Sybill tensed and leaned away. With her grey eyes enormous behind spectacles, she managed to look both alarmed and appalled at once. Indeed, she had recoiled so far that she could’ve eaten from Quirrell’s plate.

He offered her a bracing pat on the back, which only urged her closer.

“Rumours continue to circulate regarding Gilderoy Lockhart’s forthcoming volume, though the author himself remains tantalisingly silent,” Gilderoy read aloud in his best theatre voice. Which was quite loud, unfortunately. “When pressed for details by Owl, Lockhart merely replied, ‘Some stories are worth waiting for.’”

Why would he circle things if he were going to promptly read them aloud?

“And how many books will that make, Gilderoy? Thirteen, is it?” Dumbledore asked.

He almost looked amused, Quirrell thought. Head tilted, eyes sparkling as though there were a joke only he could hear. But Dumbledore’s gaze was always dangerous.

Gilderoy became incandescent under the attention and puffed his chest out.

“This will be thirteen, yes, Headmaster.”

“That’s an impressive body of work, wouldn’t you say, Quirinus?”

Quirrell shot Dumbledore a look that he hoped would have curdled fresh cream. There was no reason to drag him in. It was to send a message. But what message? That he had an idea Quirrell was no longer sleeping in his own rooms? That he knew another book was in process? What did any of that matter?

“Has anyone else amongst us written thirteen books?” he replied. “Gilderoy, may I have the newspapers you’ve finished, please?”

Lockhart absently handed over two newspapers, too lost in Dumbledore’s unexpected attention to pay any mind.

Quirrell slid one down to Snape, who glanced at his hand.

“Rings are back on, I see,” Snape observed.

“Yes. I’ve resized them all.” Quirrell glanced down, then held up his other hand, each finger on both adorned with a single gold ring.

Severus grunted and flipped open the paper.

With one last glance at Dumbledore listening to Lockhart, Quirrell shook open his newspaper. A German one. He thumbed through it: Quidditch matches, a dance event at a local biergarten, an opinion piece on Durmstrang curriculum.

Then one article circled in Gilderoy’s distinctive lavender ink: Local Wizard Repels Vampire Swarm.

He looked up at Lockhart, still talking to the Headmaster, about Magical Me, it sounded like.

Why circle this, of all things? Why not the page about his upcoming book signing in the summer?

Owls swooped overhead with post and parcels, dropping them every which way, and Quirrell watched. He and Snape never received any post, but it was interesting to see who did.

A large grey owl dropped a rectangular parcel that Gilderoy caught with ease. Assorted other letters and items landed before the staff, and Severus continued to read.

Gilderoy ran his hand over the box. Twine sat decoratively tied over the paper, and the parcel’s dimensions suggested some sort of tome. Lockhart’s eyes found Quirrell’s, and he grinned.

Ah, here it comes. The big announcement.

It would be noisy, colourful, and overbearing, a marching band made into verbal declaration. And it would sell.

There was no way Gilderoy could restrain himself, especially not after direct attention from Dumbledore about his written works. Even fortune decided to conspire with Lockhart, it seemed, and provide the perfect opening for their new title to arrive.

The strange thing was, Quirrell found himself more excited than nervous. This book was a labour of love for him, too, crafted from his own hands and words.

Those Gilderoy hadn’t struck, at any rate.

Without a word, Lockhart tucked the box under his arm and excused himself from Sybill, who seemed glad to see him go. He detoured long enough to lean towards Quirrell, somehow carrying the faint scent of vanilla and flowers with him like spring.

“It’s here!” he murmured.

Quirrell watched all the people watching them and shifted slightly beneath their scrutiny. “The book?”

“Yes, the official release. But I don’t want to mention it yet. I want to do something grand for it. A proper announcement.”

Somehow, Quirrell dragged his eyes from the sea of eyes on them and turned to examine Lockhart’s face. The upward tilt of his eyebrows indicated excitement, but the index finger tapping the parcel indicated nerves.

“Anyway, I must dash for class,” Gilderoy said. “Catch up later?”

Then he was off, not waiting for a reply. All Quirrell could do was watch him retreat.

Severus looked up.

“Class, this early? Lockhart?” His eyes seemed to absorb all light as they met Quirrell’s. “Is he ill?”

This earned a harsh bark from Quirrell that he discovered was a laugh.

“I didn’t think so. Perhaps he forgot something.”

Snape raised one shoulder in an ‘it figures’ shrug. “Hair cream, I suppose,” he said, returning to his newspaper.

Quirrell followed suit. His eyes strayed back to the circled article about a vampire swarm in Bavaria. They blotted out the moon, allegedly.

Rather than finish reading, Quirrell folded the newspaper in half and stood, pocketing it to ask about later.

No opportunity arose during the day. Gilderoy, who had to be pried away most days, remained “dreadfully busy” after the parcel arrived, no matter how many times Quirrell tried.

It was after eight o’clock that night when Lockhart finally returned to his bed chamber. Quirrell glanced up from his notes, then returned to his scrawling.

“You must be exhausted. That was a long day for you,” Quirrell said. “Welcome back.”

“I had to administer detention.” Gilderoy swirled off his cloak and hung it on his peg. Under his arm was the tied parcel from twelve hours prior. “You missed me, I take it.”

“I’ve been on tenterhooks about the book,” Quirrell said. “I’m not sure that’s the same.”

“Nonsense. When in doubt, the answer is always that you need more of me. Everyone does.”

That seemed an answer likely to get Gilderoy into trouble, but Quirrell held his tongue.

“The book,” he prompted. “You’re being so squirrelly about it. I’m excited enough already.”

“Ah!”

Without hesitation, Lockhart put the parcel on Quirrell’s notes. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and slid the string off, then sat on the edge of the desk.

He lifted the lid, and beneath a sheaf of lilac tissue paper lay the volume.

It was leather-bound in green, the edges gilt. On the cover was a very handsome and determined Lockhart counter-cursing zombies.

Smiling faintly, Quirrell ran his damaged fingers over the gold trim, over the cover image of Lockhart, then stopped short of the title and author.

Facing The Faceless Hordes Gilderoy Lockhart

Quirrell nodded once, smile fading. He ran the ruined tips of his fingers over Lockhart’s name in enormous gilt letters.

“It’s so beautiful,” he said quietly, then looked up. “Does ‘Gilderoy’ mean gilded king, do you know?”

Lockhart side-eyed him, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Of course it means gilded king. What else could it mean?” Gilderoy said. “My mother chose it for me. History only remembers kings, my dear Quirinus.”

The book really was stunning. Well-made and lovely to look at. Lockhart seemed every inch the hero on its cover, flawless posture, wand raised, gaze boring down on the hordes.

“Gilderoy?”

“Yes?”

Finding Lockhart’s gaze, Quirrell leaned in, then said quietly, “I’m called after a god.”

Lockhart’s smile disappeared, then re-emerged at twice the wattage. He reached over and patted Quirrell’s shoulder. “You are, aren’t you? That’s the spirit!”

He noticed Quirrell’s gaze on the cover and gestured at it.

“I do hope you understand about this whole thing, by the way, with only my name on there. Contractual obligation, you know. Naming another author on the books would void the publishing contract and—”

“I’m the ghostwriter, not your co-author,” Quirrell finished. “Please, I understand. I promise, I’m not hurt.”

Lockhart, on the other hand, drew back as if stung.

“But that’s not true.” Somehow, he managed to look wounded, and Quirrell suspected he truly was. “You are the co-author. We made this together.”

“You’re sentimentalising,” Quirrell said. “Emotionally, yes, I suppose I’m the co-author, considering all the re-writing you had to do. But functionally, professionally, I’m the ghostwriter. Yes?”

“No!”

Gilderoy disagreed with such force that Quirrell blinked, attempting to recover. He tried again.

“I swear to you I’m not upset. I understand it would hurt sales, and you’re legally bound.”

“But we made this.” Lockhart took the book from its box and held it up. “That’s both of us in there. Co-authored.”

Quirrell frowned. “I know we did. I’m very proud. And we were quite clever about it too, I thought.”

Gilderoy’s smile returned. “Yes. That’s precisely what I mean. Co-authors. It’s a red-letter event, Quirinus. I’ve never written with anyone before.”

“I know,” Quirrell said. “You almost never—”

“—mention it, I know,” Lockhart finished with a grin. “But there’s something serious I have to ask you.”

Faint alarm bells rang in the back of Quirrell’s mind at the word ‘serious’.

Lockhart leaned forward a little to pluck up Quirrell’s hands in his own.

“Oh, your rings are back. They look beautiful.” But Lockhart was a man with a message, and he quickly overcame the distraction. “At any rate, I know it’s soon after the last, but are you ready to start the next book?”

Quirrell’s mouth moved soundlessly, rather like when he had to fake a stammer the year prior. Sounds wanted to come, but refused to arrive in any order.

“Next book? I thought it was one and done,” he finally managed. “But what if this one doesn’t sell well? What if the critics don’t like it?”

Lockhart reached out from his perch on the desk to cup Quirrell’s face in his hands.

“You worry too much, Quirinus. You can’t bother about critics, or else you’d never write again.” He released Quirrell’s face and sat back. “We shan’t start tonight, obviously. Because I wanted to ask something else, along with it.”

“I don’t understand. With it?”

Lockhart sighed and leaned back. “This has been a wretched year. My back and neck will never be the same, and there’s still a creature running about targeting hapless Muggleborns. I don’t want anything more to do with it.”

Quirrell listened, the unmarred corner of his mouth tugging upwards.

“If you can’t have the kill shot, of course,” he said.

“Exactly! See, you understand me. You know Severus or Dumbledore will march into the Chamber, whatever it is, and get things sorted before I’ve so much as had a chance to introduce myself.”

“Of course.”

“So, since I have no interest in subjecting myself to this again next year, I was wondering if you might come away with me after the school year ends?”

“Come away?” Quirrell repeated.

Lockhart frowned. “Yes, of course. Usually, you’re quick to keep up, Quirinus. Are you all right?”

“You mean leave Hogwarts?” The words in his ears both did and didn’t make sense, and Quirrell shook his head. “As in go with you this time?”

The frown deepened. “Obviously, yes. I’ll do a few signings here for the Hordes release. Then a stop in Bavaria, then it’s a holiday in Greece for a month or two.” Lockhart paused. “I want you with me.”

“Even like this?” Quirrell pointed at his face.

“Hasn’t stopped me so far, has it?” Gilderoy looked around the room, mouth a distasteful slash. “I know you look like one of the House ghosts half the time, but I don’t think it's good for you here. You need sunlight, and air, and…not to be alone.”

Bavaria.

Quirrell reached into his pocket and pulled out the German newspaper article, and held it out to Lockhart.

“Is this why Bavaria? I meant to ask you about it earlier, but we got rather sidetracked. The vampire swarm?”

Gilderoy beamed and took back the article. “Yes, a bit of insight into the methodology. This gentleman is a prime interview candidate. Then we can investigate if the story turns out.”

We.

Quirrell’s mind reeled like a zoetrope.

“And you’re certain about all this?” Quirrell ventured. “Me going with you… permanently?”

“Of course I am.” Gilderoy crossed to his wardrobe and shrugged into a deep red smoking jacket. “You already sleep there every night as it is,” he said, pointing to the bed. “Who cares if it’s in England, or Greece, or anywhere else?”

Quirrell laughed. It was a hollow sound, like a rotted-out log.

“What, and leave behind all this delightful suspicion? Being avoided? Ostracised?” He swallowed around what felt like a hot rock in his throat. “Of course I’ll come away with you.”

“Then it’s sorted. In a month or so, we’ll be gone for good.”

“I used to love this job, you know,” Quirrell said, leaning back over his stack of essays.

He caught Lockhart mid-yawn. “I’m sorry,” Gilderoy said after. “These wretched night patrols get to me. I’ll never understand why they don’t trust you, though. Taking a curse off some musty old book? You ought to be a hero.”

There was no good reply, so Quirrell averted his eyes. What Lockhart thought happened during the last school year, and what actually happened, were nothing alike. Hosting Voldemort in one's body turned out to be unpopular amongst one’s colleagues.

Not that Lockhart knew.

“Why don’t you have a quick kip, then?” Quirrell suggested. “I’ll wake you up, and we can plan your big book announcement.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Lockhart agreed, clambering onto the bed. “Just an hour.”

Quirrell went to reply, but Minerva’s voice cut him off, magically amplified throughout the halls and floors.

“All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staffroom. Immediately, please.”

With a sigh, Lockhart slowly sat back up and flapped an impatient hand at the door for Quirrell to exit.

Together, they exited Lockhart’s bed chamber, and their month’s countdown began.

The End.

***

(their story continues after Hogwarts in attached | code | Greece Cycle)