Sunday, January 30, 1994
(Gilderoy Lockhart)
It has been my experience that life, no matter how dramatically improved by one's presence, has a rather irritating tendency to settle back into something resembling normality.
Not true normality, of course. That would be intolerable.
But a version of it.
A month has passed since Aurora's birthday, and Hogwarts has resumed its usual rhythm; less fireworks, fewer declarations of brilliance, and, regrettably, far fewer opportunities for me to be applauded in a Great Hall setting.
A tragic loss for everyone involved.
Still, I have endured it with remarkable grace.
Aurora, for her part, has taken to wearing the ring with an elegance that I find both gratifying and entirely expected. It suits her, of course it does, I was the one to choose it after all.
The first time she showed it to Rosmerta, however… that was a moment worth noting.
I saw it, just for a second.
There was a very brief flicker of envy in her eyes.
Gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a warmth so genuine it would have been convincing even to a less perceptive man than myself, which is to say, most men.
She smiled and embraced Aurora as though nothing in the world could make her happier than her friend's happiness.
And perhaps, in that moment, nothing did.
But I had seen it.
And I have always had a talent for noticing the things people prefer to hide.
Any other woman would have turned to me not five minutes later with a carefully arranged expression and a question that was not quite a question.
And where is mine?
There would have been sighs. Subtle hints. Not-so-subtle hints. Possibly tears, depending on the level of theatrical ambition.
But Rosmerta did none of that.
She did not look at me expectantly, did not linger.
She did not even joke about it.
She simply… accepted it.
As though the possibility had never truly existed.
That…
That, I found, was far worse.
I have been called many things in my life. Brilliant. Dashing. Exceptionally gifted. A natural leader of men. A figure of undeniable charm and magnetism…
All of which are, naturally, accurate.
But I have also, on occasion, been an idiot.
A handsome one, certainly.
But an idiot nonetheless.
Ten years.
Ten years of half-promises, distractions, convenient disappearances, and the sort of emotional cowardice that I would never tolerate in anyone else.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling of my office as the realization settled in with all the subtlety of a Bludger to the face.
"Yes," I muttered aloud, "that was poorly handled."
An understatement.
The more I considered it, the more I found myself… annoyed.
Not with her, but with myself.
A rare occurrence.
Rosmerta had never demanded anything from me.
Not loyalty, not commitment.
Not even honesty, if I were being particularly uncharitable to myself.
She had simply… been there.
Warm, steady, and uncomplicated in all the ways that mattered.
And I had taken that for granted with the sort of effortless ease that should frankly be studied as a case of moral failure.
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face.
"Well," I said, sitting up again, "that won't do."
No, it would not.
Mistakes, I have found in the past year, are only truly unforgivable when one refuses to correct them.
And I, for all my many qualities, am nothing if not adaptable.
I straightened, a familiar spark of purpose igniting in my chest.
I would fix this.
Properly.
Not with empty words or fleeting gestures, but with something… meaningful.
Something worthy of her.
Something worthy of me, which, admittedly, set a rather high standard.
A plan began to form almost immediately; refined, elegant, and just the right amount of theatrical.
A surprise, of course. I do enjoy a good surprise.
The difficulty lay not in the idea, but in the timing.
I drummed my fingers lightly against the desk.
Too soon, and it would feel reactionary.
Too late, and the moment would lose its impact.
Then…
Ah.
Her birthday, two months away. Enough time to prepare something truly exceptional.
Yes.
That would do nicely.
"She won't see it coming," I murmured, a slow smile spreading across my face.
Which, in my experience, is when I am at my most effective.
…
On a more personal note, though I hesitate to dwell on matters that do not directly involve my brilliance, my own birthday passed just a few days ago.
A quieter affair, by necessity.
I spent it with my family, which, I will admit, has a charm of its own when one is not required to perform for an audience of hundreds.
My niece, Emily, shares the date.
Nine years old now.
Which means, Merlin help us all, she is only two years away from Hogwarts.
I watched her that evening, laughing over cake and entirely too excited about a set of enchanted storybooks, written by yours truly, and found myself struck by the rather alarming realization that time does not, in fact, wait for anyone.
Not even me.
"Two years," I said aloud at the time.
She looked up at me, frosting on her cheek, her Lockhart blue eyes sparkling with curiosity, such a shame her surname is Prewett instead. "What?"
"Nothing," I replied smoothly. "Just considering your inevitable rise to greatness."
She beamed.
Naturally.
The Lockhart influence is unmistakable.
Still… it is a curious thing, watching someone stand at the beginning of something you know so well.
Hogwarts.
Magic.
The future.
Time moves so fast.
Even when one would prefer it to slow down just slightly to admire the view.
…
And then there is Tonks.
I exhaled slowly, the earlier lightness fading just a fraction.
"Well," I said to the empty room, "that is… less ideal."
After Christmas, things have been… complicated.
Not dramatically so. No shouting or grand confrontations. Nothing one could point to and say, there, that is the moment it all went wrong.
Which, in many ways, makes it worse.
I have seen her of course.
At the Ministry and at Order meetings, always at the edge of things.
Always just far enough away to avoid conversation.
She does not look at me. Or rather, she looks, once, quickly, and then not again.
And when circumstances force proximity, she finds a reason to leave with admirable efficiency.
I have attempted, on several occasions, to address the matter.
But each attempt has been met with deflection or avoidance.
A change of subject so abrupt it would be impressive under different circumstances.
She refuses to speak about it, refuses to acknowledge it.
Refuses, it would seem, to acknowledge me.
I leaned back once more, staring at nothing in particular.
"I had hoped," I admitted quietly, "that we might… revisit the situation."
A poor choice of phrasing.
But accurate.
Whatever it was, whatever we were, it had not been insignificant.
At least, not to me.
Which, again, is a statement I do not make lightly.
I let out a soft breath.
"It seems," I went on, with a faint, wry twist of my mouth, "that particular ship has sailed."
And I, for once, had not been the one steering it.
A humbling experience, for sure.
But not one I intend to repeat.
…
I straightened after a moment, rolling my shoulders as though physically shedding the weight of the thought.
There were, after all, more pressing matters.
Aurora.
Rosmerta.
A plan to execute.
And somewhere, beneath it all, the quiet understanding that life, magical or otherwise, had a way of shifting when one was not paying attention.
Which was, frankly, unacceptable.
I rose from my chair with renewed purpose.
"No," I said firmly. "I will do better."
And, as always…
I fully intended to succeed.
…