November 7, 1992, Saturday.
The crisp chill of early November swept across the Quidditch pitch, carrying with it the scent of damp grass and the roar of hundreds of excited voices. Today marked the official start of the Hogwarts Quidditch season, and the stands were packed to bursting. Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw, a classic opener, not as much as Gryffindor versus Slytherin, but a classic nonetheless.
I, of course, had taken the liberty of dressing appropriately for the occasion. My blue and bronze robes shimmered with enchantments that caught the sunlight like silk dipped in starlight. A large, majestic eagle spread its wings across my back, glittering in gold thread. Aurora Sinistra, sitting beside me, had opted for something far more subdued, a navy cloak with a discreet pin bearing her house colors.
"I was under the impression professors were meant to be impartial observers, Gilderoy."
"Subtlety, Aurora," I told her with a confident grin, "has never been one of my more celebrated virtues."
She gave me a side-eye that could have frozen fire.
"And impartiality is such a dull quality, don't you think? Besides," I said, leaning back as the whistle blew, "I'm merely providing moral support for our dear Ravenclaws. Educational solidarity, you might say."
Aurora sighed, though the corner of her lips twitched upward. "Educational solidarity. Of course."
The game took off with a thunder of brooms. Hufflepuff's chasers moved like a well-oiled machine, steady, reliable, and infuriatingly wholesome as they scored goal after goal.
Ravenclaw's, on the other hand, played with the reckless creativity of a poet mid-inspiration. Quaffles flew, Bludgers screamed through the air, and students cheered loud enough to shake the stands.
But my attention soon fixed on the Seekers: Cho Chang, a promising third-year, and Cedric Diggory, a fourth-year Hufflepuff with the kind of looks that make half the stands sigh and the other half glare.
"Ah," I said, smirking. "Young Miss Chang has discovered the ancient and powerful art of strategic flirtation."
Aurora arched a brow. "You mean distraction."
"I prefer to call it psychological warfare," I replied smoothly. "Look at her, a flick of the hair, a coy glance over the shoulder, and poor Diggory's flying straight into a gust of his own hormones."
Sure enough, Diggory narrowly avoided a Bludger to the ribs, his focus clearly somewhere other than the Snitch.
"I must say," I continued, watching the play with interest, "if I were in his position, I'd turn the tables. Charm is a dangerous weapon, Aurora, especially when wielded by an expert. I daresay I'd have her so flustered she'd forget what end of the broom to hold."
"Spare me the details," Aurora muttered, though her amused tone betrayed her.
Moments later, a flash of gold streaked past the hoops and Cho dove after it. Cedric reacted a second too late, his broom wobbling just enough to cost him the Snitch. The stadium erupted as Cho's fingers closed triumphantly around the little golden ball.
"Ravenclaw wins!" shouted Lee Jordan's voice, amplified by magic. "One hundred and eighty to ninety!"
Blue and bronze banners waved in the air like a storm of color, the stands shaking with cheers. Aurora allowed herself a small smile. I, of course, stood and applauded grandly, beaming as though I had personally coached Cho to victory.
"Another fine demonstration of Ravenclaw ingenuity," I declared. "Brains and beauty, an unbeatable combination."
Aurora chuckled softly. "You'd say that about yourself if you could."
I pressed a hand dramatically to my chest. "My dear Aurora, I do say that about myself. Frequently."
…
As the last echoes of celebration faded and the two of us walked back toward the castle, the air had turned cool and misty, the kind that carried the smell of autumn leaves and wet stone. Aurora was unusually quiet beside me, thoughtful, her eyes distant in the soft torchlight.
We'd barely stepped through one of the side corridors when she suddenly caught my sleeve and, with surprising strength, pulled me into a nearby broom cupboard.
I blinked, nearly bumping into a few wayward broom handles. "Aurora, my dear," I said in a hushed, amused tone, "if you were this eager for my company, we could have gone somewhere with chairs."
"Quiet, Gilderoy," she whispered, her eyes gleaming in the dim light filtering through the slats of the door.
What followed was… unexpected. I can't quite recall the last time I was snogged with such intensity.
When the moment broke and we finally drew apart, the air between us was still charged, warm and a little breathless. A faint smile played at her lips.
I straightened my disheveled robes and raised an eyebrow. "Professor Sinistra," I murmured in mock outrage, "this is highly improper faculty conduct. I might have to report you, to myself, of course."
She laughed softly, a sound that made the narrow cupboard feel almost cozy. "I never got to do things like this when I was a student," she admitted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Always too busy studying. I suppose I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."
I grinned, leaning closer with a glint in my eyes. "And? Was it everything you'd hoped, or shall I file it under extra credit?"
Aurora rolled her eyes, opening the door before I could get another word in. "You're incorrigible, Gilderoy."
"Perhaps," I said, following her into the corridor, "but you don't seem particularly inclined to correct me."
Her laugh echoed down the hall as we walked back toward the Great Hall, two professors, perfectly composed on the outside, and just a little more disheveled on the inside.
…
Later that night, after another one of our passionate encounters, the fire in Rosmerta's room had burned low, casting long, lazy shadows that danced across the wooden walls. Outside, Hogsmeade was silent, the muffled hum of distant laughter from the Three Broomsticks long faded.
We lay side by side, the warmth of the blankets mingling with the faint scent of butterbeer and woodsmoke that always seemed to cling to her. She was tracing idle patterns on my arm, her head resting against my shoulder, when I finally broke the silence.
"Rosie," I began quietly, "we need to talk."
Her fingers stilled, though she didn't lift her head. "That," she said softly, "never means anything good."
I sighed, staring up at the low ceiling beams. "It's… Aurora. Sinistra."
At that, she did move, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were searching. "Ah. The astronomy professor. The one who laughs at your terrible jokes."
"I'll have you know my jokes are excellent," I said lightly, before the smile faded. "But yes, her. Things have… developed, a little. And I'm starting to feel… well, guilty."
Rosmerta blinked at that, as though she hadn't quite heard me right. "Guilt," she echoed slowly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Gilderoy Lockhart, feeling guilty? I guess there's a first time for everything."
Her tone was teasing, but it couldn't hide the sadness beneath.
I turned my head to meet her gaze. "I know. Hard to believe, isn't it?" I tried to keep it light, but the words felt heavier than I expected. "You and I, this, it's always been easy. Comfortable. But if I keep seeing her and keep… this… it feels like I'm lying to both of you. And well, you know I don't like lying, not to you, you know of all my escapades with my more enthusiastic fans, I've never hid these things from you."
Rosmerta lay back down, her expression shadowed in the dim firelight. For a long time, she didn't answer.
"You've been saying things like that for years," she said finally, her voice low, steady. "That you'd end it, or that you'd settle down somewhere, or that you'd finally stop running from whatever it is you think you're chasing."
"That was different," I murmured.
She gave a small, humorless laugh. "It's always different, isn't it?"
Her fingers found mine for a moment, brief, uncertain, before slipping away again.
We'd been seeing each other for nearly ten years. What began as harmless flirtation had turned into something far more enduring, though neither of us ever dared to name it. She'd always played the part of the unflappable innkeeper, the woman who could charm a room and laugh off any heartbreak. But lying there, I could see the truth she never said aloud, that somewhere deep down, she'd hoped I might stay.
"I never wanted to hurt you, Rosie," I said quietly.
"I know," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But you always do, eventually."
The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the room.
After a moment, she rolled over, her back to me. "You should sleep, Gilderoy," she said, her tone composed again. "You've got students to dazzle in the morning."
I stared at the ceiling for a long time after that, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing. For once, I didn't have a clever line or a smile to hide behind.
Only the weight of the silence, and the faint, unshakable ache of something I couldn't quite name.
…
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