Chapter Text
“You’ve been gone all afternoon,” Lockhart said, without turning his head.
“I was a bit distracted."
Quirrell dropped into the sand. He'd been to Greece before, but never visited the beach.
Lockhart looked at home in a pair of small white swim trunks and sunglasses
"Do you remember that tiny island I told you about?" he asked Lockhart. "Owned by an English family?"
Lockhart rolled over and sat up. “Who? The Gordons?”
“Something like that.”
“How were they?”
A pause, as Quirrell squinted out at the water.
He squinted up at the sky, then transfigured a towel into a parasol against the sun.
“They were dreadful, honestly," he said.
“Dull, were they?” Lockhart asked, looking over his sunglasses at Quirrell for the first time.
Quirrell regarded him a moment. Lockhart's eyes were annoyingly blue against his tanned skin.
“They weren't much for conversation, let’s just say,” Quirrell told him at last. "Ghastly if you suffer ophidiophobia."
Lockhart made a sympathetic sound.
Quirrell picked up the compact mirror Lockhart had forgotten with him earlier. He turned it once in his hand before setting it carefully face down in the sand.
“That came in handy,” he said, brushing a thin dusting of stone from his robes.
Lockhart took the compact and glanced at himself in it long enough to adjust his hair.
"Ocean frizz." He looked back at Quirrell again. "You're not afraid of snakes, though."
"I know."
They sat in silence for some time, watching the other wizards and witches enjoying the weather.
"How did you find the island again?" Lockhart asked. "You didn't have to *row* out there, did you? That's murder on one's hands."
"Field glasses," Quirrell said. "Statuary like you wouldn't believe. Human form, exquisite detail." His mouth twitched slightly. "And no, it was a powerboat."
"You should take me," Lockhart said. "Rugged landscape. Might be good for a book shoot."
"Well, I thought so too," Quirrell replied. "So I asked around, found a local who had enough English to tell me Gordons lived there, when I asked."
Lockhart brightened, smile appearing. The smile that sold every book, the smile impossible not to return.
"Fabulous!" He sobered. "Is there a book in it, do you think?"
"Oh, I've no doubt of it," Quirrell said. "I misheard, you see. He didn't say 'Gordons', he said 'gorgons'. I was very fortunate you gave me that mirror to hold."
Lockhart pushed up his sunglasses to examine Quirrell closer, his eyes widening.
"It's a shame I wasn't with you, I know just the countercurse—"
Quirrell waved him off.
"I know, I know. Save it for the book." He looked Lockhart in the eye. "I'll need more of your mirrors, and an answer: could you produce the draught Pomona used last year on the basilisk victims? And don't lie to me, Gilderoy."
There was a large sigh as Lockhart considered. Finally, he shrugged. "If I remembered all the ingredients, maybe, potions was one of my better subjects. But mandrakes are out of season."