SnitchSeeker.com - No Rest For The Wicked

Ain't No Rest For The Wicked-- Cage The Elephant

This fanfic is rated SA16 for depression, very brief language, and mild use of alcohol--nothing excessive, I promise.

Disclaimer: The HP universe belongs to J. K Rowling.

The light of the moon cast a blue light over the windows and the grounds. But on the inside, the light of torches set everything in an orange glow. The classroom was crowded with assorted boxes and trunks, and, of course, portraits and statues of Professor Lockhart, which had been set up first. The only noise was that of the Professor lifting books out of the boxes--most of which has his name and face on the cover--and putting them neatly away on shelves. The room was cold, quiet, and cramped. And the night outside was dark.

Turning from one set of books, Gilderoy looked slowly about the room. Reaching for the top of another box, he picked up a small glass of scotch, taking a quick drink, then replacing it again. Winding through the mess, he flipped open a random trunk, and lifted out a skull in a glass case--the skull belonging to some foul creature that he didn't actually slay. Using his sleeve to polish the glass, he set it, too, on a low shelf. Staring into the empty eye sockets, he sighed again and turned to another trunk. This one contained his record player and, of course, records. He smiled to himself, setting it on top of a stack of empty boxes. Without looking at the label, be set one of the records onto the turntable, setting the needle, and turned it on. The music was quiet, but at least the room was not silent now. He took another quick drink.

And so the night continued, with Gilderoy distractedly flitting from box to box, and with each one he unpacked, he grew more uneasy. More books, more baubles, more artifacts. None of them a reflection of his true past. Occasionally he would look to a mirror he had hung on the wall and smile towards himself reassuringly. But with every few sips of scotch, the man in the mirror looked less and less like Gilderoy Lockhart, and more and more like who he really was. Finally, he stopped looking into the mirror. It would be dawn in a few hours, and the first day of school at Hogwarts. He had to get the boxes unpacked.

So he mindlessly put things away, moving through the narrow clear paths between all the things he had brought.

He was no great wizard. He was as much of a nobody as he ever was. He had stolen the lives of other wizards, taking credit for their accomplishments, and he loathed himself for it. He looked down at his hands, and although they were spotless, he felt dirty. He looked about, actually hoping for someone to be there. Someone to confess to. But he was alone with himself. It was him and the mirror. So he stared at it awhile. He didn't even notice when the record started skipping. He was focused on how much he resented the blonde-haired man that stared back. His life was built on nothing but lies, and he was the only one to bear this information. If he could tell someone, anyone, maybe he wouldn't be consumed with guilt. But Gilderoy knew he could never give up this life. People respected him, people looked up to him. Even if he had the chance, he knew in his heart he would do anything to keep this life. And he hated himself for that most of all.

His repulsion grew, and Gilderoy grabbed the glass and hurled it towards the mirror. It shattered, falling to the floor in a hundred shards, drenched in scotch. Then, in the same motion, he turned and knocked the record player to the stone floor as well, and with a loud clattering, the room was silent once more. He stood there, in the middle of the room, surrounded by the lies he had accumulated over the years. He sighed, calming back into disappointment. The bottle of scotch he had been filling the glass with sat on his desk. He picked it up, taking a drink, and set it heavily back down.

"Damn...".

Daylight broke over the far horizon of the grounds. And still he stood there, alone with his thoughts. Nothing came to him. No great realizations, no changes of heart. He simply stood in the wasteland of his life he had created for himself. With no one to listen, no one to love, and no way out. No ethical way, that is. He fidgeted slightly, looking about helplessly. Because he was helpless. Even to himself.