The Echoes Of Yesterday

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 1: Prologue

Harry Potter made his way back to his suite. Today had been a very good day. The children had loved their first dueling session, and with a bit of careful guidance, he’d made sure that no one in his second year DADA class had gotten hurt. To this day, he used samples of his former teachers’ lesson plans to guide his classes year by year. What he’d learned at Hogwarts, and after, had made him a fairly good professor in the end.

The first year was always the most routine. Simple spells of protection and the counter spells to the most minor of hexes and curses. It was more about learning the art of casting spells than it was about critical defense. As the years progressed, the classes grew ever more complex, preparing tomorrow’s wizards and witches for Dementors, Boggarts, Dark curses and desperate duels. Always at the center of it was Harry Potter, who had made something of a good life out of teaching at the school that held his best, and his worst, memories.

Hagrid, long-lived as any giant, was still teaching now, and was a source of great comfort when Harry was feeling a bit down. Ron and Hermione were still among his closest friends, and with Ron teaching basic flight and broom handling and care, he saw his old friends quite often. Neville Longbottom was teaching Herbology these days, and served as Headmistress MacGonagall’s right hand man and second in charge.

Harry had refused the position years ago, content merely to teach, while Neville, who had gained considerable confidence during the war, rose to the task admirably as the Head of Gryffindor House. Divinations was now taught exclusively by Firenze, the centaur that had long ago befriended Harry, earning the wrath of his herd. Arithmancy was now taught by Cho Chang, which had once been a bit of a ticklish situation, but had long since settled into a comfortable working friendship. Astronomy was taught by an elderly Ravenclaw. The professorship for the Runes department was held by a rather genial Slytherin. Charms was still in the capable hands of Professor Flitwick, and old Binns was still making History of Magic an occasion worthy of naps.

In a twist of irony that would have truly galled Snape, a former Hufflepuff now taught Potions, though Grimes was from a class that came some years after the war, and Transfiguration was taught by a Slytherin who had graduated long before Harry arrived at Hogwarts, but whose accomplishments in research had gained her quite a few accolades before she accepted a contract with Hogwarts. Despite the imposing name. Professor Graves was as well liked as ever Professor MacGonagall had been, if not perhaps a little more.

Hogwarts had enjoyed almost twenty years of peace and prosperity, allowing it to grow and change after the traumas of warfare. It had been a lot of hard work on Minerva’s part, getting people to send their children back to a school were a headmaster was once murdered in cold blood, but with the help of Harry and the rest of the staff, the doors opened a year after the war ended, and the halls were full of youthful voices. Harry hadn’t started as an instructor right away. He’d spent three years as an Auror, chasing down the last remnants of Voldemort’s wicked cohort. When it was done, he took his post at Hogwarts, discovered that it held certain satisfactions that could be found nowhere else, and settled into a quiet life as Hogwarts’ most famous instructor. He was occasionally fawned over by the press, adored by the children, a friend to the entire staff, and good at what he did.

He should have had no excuse for closing the door to his suite, opening a bottle of Old Ogden’s Finest Firewhiskey, and drinking himself to sleep at night. He should have been happy, but he wasn’t. Not really. He didn’t drink himself sick anymore…not the way he did just after his time as an Auror was finished. He never drank during the day, or let himself fail in his duties because of his private problems. He worked hard, and he needed sleep, and that only came with a price. Dreamless Sleep had lingering side effects after a few weeks, and almost every cure-all he’d ever heard of had some minor flaw that rendered them useless for him. He wasn’t that good at complex potions, and given that it was a private matter, he didn’t want help making something that would tell others about his problems. Whiskey could be dealt with by a standard Hangover Remedy that even he could brew, so at ten o’clock each night, Harry uncorked a bottle and filled his glass until he could rest in peace.

There were signs that others could see…if they were looking close enough. More than fifteen years of drinking more than a pint of hard liquor each night had taken its toll. His hands shook a little, but only when he tried to hold them still very late in the day. When he had a podium or a wand to grip, he was as steady as a rock. Faint hints of gray had speckled his black hair, which was perfectly natural, and his face had begun to show the small lines that marked him as well past thirty. He rarely flew his broom anymore, despite many plaintive requests from friends and students who had heard tales of his Gryffindor glory days. He didn’t really trust his nerves enough to execute the moves that had once been his hallmark on the pitch.

There were times when he quietly hated himself for his weakness, but how much was a man supposed to bear before he broke? This was his medicine. Sweet and strong, sure and predictable. This made his nights bearable. Perhaps it was weakness, and maybe he should have sought help long ago, but there were things he had never shared with others that tore at him even now, and he’d kept his secrets well. Even Ron and Hermione had never known his private shame, though they knew more about the real history of the war than the press had ever heard.

Harry had always been a private person at heart. He’d come so very far, but a part of him would always be the little boy beneath the stairs at Privet Drive, quiet and uncertain, horribly self-conscious and fearful of the disapproval of others. Because that boy would always be a part of him, Harry had shared only what he dared to share with those he loved. Their approval had meant the world to him, and he hadn’t dared to risk the loss of such a subtle but powerful thing. That choice had cost him everything that mattered.

And so he drank. One glass. Two glasses. A third and then the better part of a fourth. Alone in a comfortable professor’s suite in Hogwarts, Harry Potter dulled his senses in fiery liquor until sleep could claim him, free of memories and divorced from the cruelty of a thoroughly human heart. He would be thirty-eight years old when the summer holidays came about, and a single name crossed his lips with a sigh as unconsciousness finally stole upon him, just as it often had before.

“Draco.”

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TBC!