Chapter Text
Gilderoy, as a rule, avoided the merry little band that was that group of Gryffindors two years above him. It was hard to perfectly do so, as they basked in attention practically wherever they went, causing trouble and putting together pranks that had other students talking about the group for days. But he at least managed to not talk to them, not interact with them, not give any reason for one to look his way. He was in his fifth year, after all, and while he wasn’t selected for prefect this time around—a foolish oversight—he had other responsibilities such as studying for OWLS, or tagging along with his friend who was selected as prefect to the meetings. Gilderoy was special, in a distinctly different way from those boys, and intended to prove his merits through less brash methods.
Why was Peter Pettigrew following him around, then?
“Lockhart—” Peter dodged past a student walking the other way with surprising agility, hurrying ahead in the corridor to catch up to Gilderoy—“Lockhart, I’m just asking, so you can just give me a straight answer. Where’s your cologne from?”
“Like I said, it’s a gift from my mother.” The only gift she’d given him recently, as his grades kept coming back only slightly above-average. Her high hopes for her sole magical child were not yet fulfilled, and Gilderoy felt her disappointment every morning in the Great Hall when not a single owl stopped in front of him. Just a few years ago he had been getting daily letters and weekly presents. Not that he needed them, since he had matured from his 11 year old self. That was why he hadn’t told Peter to fuck off yet.
“Great, so where’d she buy it from?”
“Do you keep tabs on your mother?” Gilderoy said through gritted teeth.
“No. But I do read the labels on the things I own.”
“The label is slipping my mind. Sorry.”
“Then check when you return to your dorm and tell me tomorrow.” Peter grinned, an attempt at charming. It totally wasn’t working, which was why Gilderoy immediately looked away from him to escape it. Peter was about a head shorter than him, despite being older, but somehow managed to get far closer to Gilderoy’s face than he thought possible. What in the bloody Merlin? Why was this harassment happening to him?
Gilderoy had barely exchanged two words with Peter before the start of this. He was the most unassuming of his friend group, small and stout with an inexpressive face where his friends were loud, laughing beanpoles. Other students often talked about Sirius and James and Remus on their own, whether about dating rumors or a bizarre disruptive prank or academic achievements, but not a whisper of Peter on his own. Gilderoy hadn’t even known he was capable of talking this much.
Maybe he was a bit too curious about why that was, and a bit stinging from a month of silence from his mother, and a bit too drunk, because last week at a Gryffindor party (a seventh year’s birthday, who knows why he even attended), he had approached Peter about it.
“Why are you so quiet?” he’d said over the chatter, firewhiskey burning down his throat. “Your bloody friends are all—” he made a blah blah gesture with the hand that wasn’t clutching a drink—“so why not you?”
Peter had stared at him. “Who are you?”
“Gilderoy Lockhart.”
“Lockhart. I heard maybe two words of what you just said.”
He’d scoffed and bent down, leaning toward Peter’s ear. “This alright?”
Before Peter could respond, he lost his balance and swung closer than he’d wanted, only stopped from falling on Peter by the quick hand that darted out to catch his shoulder. Gilderoy and Peter stared at each other, inches from each other’s faces. Peter’s eyes were fairly blue, wow. Gilderoy could hear him take a sharp breath through the nose, probably smelling the alcohol radiating off him. He expected to be pushed away, but Peter just said, “Yeah. This works fine. Tell me what you said again.”
Gilderoy would normally back off, but he was drunk enough now to do as Peter asked. “Why are you so quiet?” Why do you hang out with such larger-than-life people? Why do they hang out with you? Why is it that someone so seemingly-not-special can be friends with people like that? People Gilderoy admired, for all he claimed to be above them, like saying that would make it true?
Peter looked at him like he heard every unspoken word behind that question. “Lockhart, you said?”
“Yeah.” Gilderoy went a bit unsteady as someone bumped into him, but Peter’s hand kept him balanced.
“What year are you?”
“Fifth.”
“House?”
“Ravenclaw.”
“Explains why we haven’t met. And why you don’t know the answer to that question.”
Gilderoy scowled, annoyance falling over him like a blanket. “Don’t talk in riddles, I’m halfway through this bottle.”
“Yeah, probably not a good idea to drink through the other half.” Peter plucked the firewhiskey from his hands. He maintained eye contact as he lifted it to his own mouth and took a swig.
Oh, how the alcohol was making Gilderoy’s chest burn.
“The answer, anyway, is that I’m quiet until you get to know me,” Peter continued. “I wouldn’t call myself shy, really. Though I wouldn’t be bold enough to approach an older student and ask a question like that. You’re a bit interesting, Lockhart.”
“Of course I’m interesting,” Gilderoy replied, mostly automatically. It fell out of his mouth, really, the kind of thing he thought but rarely said. Something told him Peter wouldn’t mind the bluntness—the arrogance, if he was a bit more honest. He also suspected that for all that Peter ‘talked once you got to know him,’ the contents of this conversation probably wouldn’t make it to anyone else.
A smile crept over Peter’s face. He didn't respond immediately, leaving them standing far too close together and totally silent, leaving Gilderoy to wonder what exactly would happen next. But then he stepped back, still holding the firewhiskey, and turned his grip on Gilderoy's shoulder into a friendly pat. “You smell good, by the way.” Then he disappeared, and Gilderoy stumbled at the sudden loss of someone to prop him up and the strangeness of that statement. He felt cold for some reason.
He staggered around a bit longer the rest of the night, drinking water after a Gryffindor girl shoved it into his hands, and went to bed with a headache already fully formed. In the morning the encounter with Peter Pettigrew was fuzzy, and he determined that it had meant very little to the both of them and nothing at all significant had occured. He was confident in this, right up until Peter popped in front of him while he was walking to class a week later and began to chatter about cologne.
Gilderoy gathered up his dignity to scoff at Peter’s suggestion to tell him tomorrow. “There are plenty of scents in the world for you to choose from, you do not need to know mine.”
“But I like yours,” Peter said simply.
Gilderoy whirled on him, barely containing his anger, and suddenly realized they were alone. So intent on outpacing Peter, he had walked and walked until he passed the door of his classroom and ended up in some barren corridor. Peter had a cheeky look on his face like he knew Gilderoy’s mistake the whole time, choosing not to say anything. He deserved a slap.
Setting his book bag on the floor, Gilderoy leaned close to Peter, a snarl on his lips. He had a moment of deja vu seeing those eyes up close, but anger won out over getting flustered. “Of course you like mine, my mother picked a good scent. You go pick your own, or write to your family and ask them to pick one for you if you're incapable. Stop disturbing me over something so trivial.”
“Maybe it’s trivial to you, but for me this is actually quite ser—”
“Be silent already!” Gilderoy snapped.
“I thought you didn’t like me quiet?”
That gave him pause. He studied Peter’s expression, looking for something that gave away just how much of their late-night conversation Peter recalled, how much of it he wanted to bring up again. The tight-lipped smile and mischievous eyes gave nothing away. Gilderoy was starting to get an idea of how he was friends with those other three.
“Like I told you before, I’m quiet until you get to know me. And we got to know each other pretty well at Mary’s party, I'd say. So you can indulge me now, can't you Lockhart?” Peter sidestepped him, flicking a finger at the blond ponytail that had fallen over Gilderoy's shoulder. He walked straight forward, despite the wall in his path, raising a hand in a gesture of farewell. “Make sure you check your cologne label, okay? I’ll find you tomorrow to ask about it.”
He kept walking until he hit the wall, then the image of him flickered for a moment before disappearing. He must have muttered a spell under his breath, or entered some obscure secret passage. Either way, Gilderoy was alone and late for class. He stared at the spot where Peter had just been and seethed.