The Echoes Of Yesterday

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 20: Timely Interventions


Draco had passed through the wards in front of the door, and reached for the handle quickly, ignoring the lingering discomfort about his skin. He opened the door quickly and stepped into the room, and at first sight, Harry was no where to be seen.

The air of the room carried the scent of whiskey. A feeling of great tension and sorrow hung in the air itself. So still and quiet. Draco felt the hair on his neck rise…and then he saw a foot, on the floor, behind the desk. He’d meant to hurry, and he knew he ought to, but inexperience and fright slowed him. He crept forward, calling out to let the professor know he was here.

“Professor? Are you…are you alright? Professor? Sir?”

There was nothing…no response at all. He’d expected something different. A man in distress demanding aloneness. Outrage at this intrusion. Not this. Draco took a few steps more, each painfully slow, and took in the spectacle before him.

A bottle had been shattered against the wall, and the scent of whiskey was heavy in the air. The contents of the closet had been pulled out in an ungainly pile, and Harry Potter was slumped on the floor, on his back, staring at the ceiling, eyes vacant and lips moving ever so faintly.

Draco knelt beside the man, relieved that he seemed to be conscious after all, but when he spoke there was no answer.

“Sir? Sir! You need to let the wards down. You…you need help. They can’t come in if you don’t let the wards down. Please! Can you hear me?”

There was no sign of his presence even being acknowledged, and Draco panicked a second before wresting control of himself. They shouldn’t find him like this. Tear-stained and rumpled, whiskey and shattered glass everywhere. He deserved better than this. The wards could be dealt with in a moment, but he could salvage a shred of the man’s dignity right now.

A few spells and there was no trace of anything but the mysterious collapse of the professor. That would have to suffice. All that was left was to open the wards or break them entirely. It could be done…but…but for the feelings that overcame him, staring at the man on the floor.

Something weird and ethereal fluttered through him, raising even the downy hairs on Draco’s arm. He felt dizzy, odd, and vaguely like a passenger in his own body. He was speaking without thinking, leaning closer to Harry. He took the lean and handsome face into his hands, frightened by the intensity of sensation that came with touching another person in such a familiar way, but Harry gave no sign of consciousness still.

“Harry. You can hear me, can’t you?”

He’d just called the professor by his given name! It was an unthinkable act of familiarity. He hadn’t the right to do such a thing, even if the name had rolled across his palate many times in private, like an experiment to test it’s feel and flow. Harry. It felt weirdly natural to call him that.

“I know, love. It hurts…and I understand. You have to wake up. Let the wards down, Harry. There are people who love you out there. You need their help. If you love me, you’ll know what I’d want you to do. Let them help you, Harry. I…I love you.”

The man on the floor gasped deeply, eyes slipping back into focus only for a second, fixing on the warm and yet frightened gray eyes just inches above him, then tilted his neck ever so slightly, just as Draco leaned that last measure closer, his mouth meeting Harry’s as gently as could be.

Inside his mind, Draco railed against the temerity of what he’d just done! It was an even more shocking breach of protocol than he’d dared before…and whatever his personal thoughts on the subject might have been, this was playing with fire on an epic scale.

But the lips against his own worked softly, weakly and yet hungrily, like a sleepy infant’s blind quest for sustenance, driven by an internal need that easily overrode all obstacles. It was warm and smotheringly close, stealing reason and even the desire to resist out of shock and fear. It soothed like a healing balm upon flesh that had been seared and scorched, screaming for relief, and Draco gave in to that heady warmth and peace.

The wards slid away, and he could feel the magic lessening around him even as he came back to himself, taking control of his actions once more and pulling himself away from Harry…the professor. His mentor!

As the sledgehammer sense of realization hit Draco, Harry sighed deeply, going utterly limp once again and flopping onto the floor as boneless as an eel. Tears trickled faintly down the man’s cheeks, and only Draco heard the last whisper on Harry’s breath, as others dashed into the room.

“Draco…love…you.”

Draco himself was quickly brushed aside as Minerva McGonagall, Ron Weasley and John Prewett moved in, variously muttering spells of healing and other enchantments. Harry Potter’s limp body floated into the air, magically towed along behind Master Prewett while Draco numbly shuffled after, catching tidbits of the conversation as they went.

Some parts resonated, clear in his ears while he fumbled with his own thoughts in silence. Catatonia. Grief. Stress. Withdrawal. Dreams. He heard them, spoken despite his presence, which was ignored by all concerned while they made their way to the infirmary.

’I did this. To him. I did this. He never forgot. Never let go of any of it. I ripped that from him. He’s broken. I broke him. I never meant…I…’

They’d reached the infirmary doors, though Draco couldn’t recall most of the journey. He came back to himself only because Ron Weasley was looming before him, closing the doors after MacGonagall, Prewett and Harry Potter were through, blocking Draco’s way.

“I need to…I have to be…”

“You need to be shutting the hell up! I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but I’d bet my cotton socks that you’re right at the core of this! You’re a Malfoy right down to your bones, and there’s never been a one of them that brought anything but trouble with them. If you’ve any idea what’s good for you, you’ll get out of my sight in a hurry, and stay that way until you’re called for! Got it!”

Draco felt the faint flutter of outrage, familiar and comforting, then felt it slide away. He felt hollow, weak and tired, fading adrenaline having sapped the last of his strength from him. The scorn should have meant nothing, but it mirrored his own worst fears. He was the one who’d pushed too hard, too fast, in all the wrong ways. He’d brought all of this about. Harry Potter was in the infirmary, and it might as well have been his own doing.

Draco didn’t even answer. Shoulders slumped and mind numb from too many thoughts, he turned and wandered down the hallway in silence. He could hear the infirmary doors open and close again behind him.

No one else knew what Harry had said before he passed out again. None of them would have understood it. ’He wasn’t thinking of me. He never forgot. None of it. He still misses…’

The kiss. What a marvelous irony. A stolen moment, tasting what so many had dreamed of, and yet knowing utterly that he could never be the object of that kind of adoration. No one…no one would ever look at him that way…not with complete devotion in their hearts and burning in their eyes. On fire with need even after decades. That moment had been stolen…but it had been so good.

Students passed him in the halls, and he ignored them, as well as the whispers that followed. The duel. Word had spread of what he’d done…the way he’d disgraced himself. All that he’d imagined was possible here was in ruins. He’d destroyed it all. It was too much to absorb. More real than he could process. He wanted his room…and his book. He always felt better when he had his book. More than a few times he’d slept with it close, letting the ambience of comfort surround him pleasantly, warding off dreams that threatened to turn dark.

His room was as he’d left it, but it had no warmth. He’d have to leave here…and soon. He’d dueled a professor, spoken crossly to the headmistress. There would be no forgiveness for such things. His things would have to be packed. He would go back to that dreadful manor…huge and empty, save for the elves that maintained it against his return, just as they had for years and years.

He’d spent less than two weeks at the manor before he’d come to Hogwarts. It had been hellish. He’d always been alone…really…but not like that. Not physically the only human present. Not that he liked most people all that much, but they were always around. And then he was alone, listening to his own footfalls in long hallways and dining at a table that could seat fifty, but was set for only one. He’d never felt so intimidated by a place in his entire life. The thought of going back there made his stomach flip. He wanted his book.

His miracle. His salvation. Everything he’d endured had become bearable when he’d found it. Every feeling and thought he’d ever cursed himself for had become right and fair and good. It hadn’t left his side since his third year at Durmstrang, and even in that place it had been his constant lifeline to sanity.

The locks and wards were quickly spelled away, and Draco quietly plucked his book from the chest, fingering the binding and the gold that protected the corners. Utterly empty and exhausted, he felt alive when he held this. More was possible when it was near. There were things that could be believed in, that were real and true when it was present. In its pages he’d seen a world that was possible…but which had eluded the grasp of another by the slimmest of margins. Here he could find solace. Here, he was understood.

Draco took the book and sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning back against the frame, letting the vague and ill-defined sense of peace wash over him. It wasn’t enough. He would have to pack, and he would have to leave. There was no place for him here anymore. At least he wasn’t headed for Durmstrang or France. Even that vast and empty manor was better than either of those fates.

Draco closed his eyes and felt the faint moisture of tears at the corners, hating the heat of his own face and the breaths that came hard while he struggled to maintain his self control. Crying accomplished nothing. It was the fallback of weaklings and cowards. ‘Mama’s boys’ wept, but Durmstrang graduates did not! Slow breathing and hardened thoughts pushed the tears back. What could not be cured must be endured. He would pack and go before they made it the worse for him by shaming him publicly as some final insult.

He’d only plucked a few things from the room and placed them in the trunk, when Draco heard the firm knock at the door. He quickly dropped the book into his trunk and spelled it shut for safety, then hurriedly composed himself before answering. They’d certainly hurried in tracking him down. If it was to be, then so be it. He’d hear their condemnations before he left after all, but at least he might cadge some knowledge of Harry Potter’s condition from them before he left. He had nothing to bargain with but the sincerity of his intentions, and that would have to be enough.

To Draco’s surprise, the man waiting in the hall was not the Headmistress or her assistant, but the stout, balding and bespectacled Master Prewett. The professor had to be alright if this man was here already! It was a small relief, but it was something. Still, the elderly gentleman looked shrewd and more than a little cross, and whatever was to come of this meeting would likely be…unpleasant…to say the least.

“Master Prewett. Is…is he…?”

“Resting comfortably? Yes. He’s had a bad patch of it, though, despite all our best efforts.”

There was a subtlety about the old man, wistful and curious, and yet his eyes held no sign of hostility. Just vague impatience. Prewett kept his silence and waited, prompting Draco to say something.

“I…I understand. It’s…I upset him. The duel…and some things I said…after. I’m…I am responsible for this. I am leaving Hogwarts. I have no right to be here. I want to see…him…before I go. I‘m just…glad he‘s alright.”

The quiet little man sidestepped Draco and strolled into the room, pacing softly on the rugs with his hands behind his back. Draco closed the door, prepared for a tirade or a lecture, and turned to face the music.

“No. You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Malfoy.”

“What? What do you mean? Am I to be arrested?”

“No…not at all! You’re a student here, and before we’re through, you might WISH you’d been expelled, but if you wish to remain on these grounds, even if it’s only to assure yourself of Professor Potter’s well being, then you will remain a student here and be punished accordingly. That’s the deal, take it or leave it. Expulsion and immediate departure, or remain a student and accept whatever punishment is deemed fit. It’s in your hands now.”

“Why…why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t you…”

“Be tending to Harry Potter? He’s stable now. Overtaxed, exhausted, and sleeping like a log under potions so powerful that he’ll get the rest he needs no matter what. I asked to be the one to speak to you. The Headmistress gave me her approval…and here I am. But this conversation has a point. I need your answer now! Unconditionally. Will you accept whatever punishment is dealt you, in exchange for the right to remain a student here, or will you leave? No more questions! Answer me!”

A heaven sent gift? What was it about this place and these people? The unthinkable became everyday here! There had to be a catch, but did it matter? What price to see Harry Potter well? To make amends? To learn from a Centaur, and from Hermione Granger-Weasley? There was no negotiating in a position like this. He was being granted a nearly miraculous chance to stay…and he grabbed it before it could be taken from him.

“Yes! Whatever you want! I want to stay. I’ll make it right…I swear it! I’ll do whatever they ask. Thank you! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Thank you.”

John Prewett raised a fluffy white eyebrow above the rim of his spectacles and smiled, but the humor in that smile was muted.

“You should be very careful what you give thanks for, young man. You may not have such a cheery tone after your punishment has been decided, but we’ll see. I still think you’ve made the right choice, or at the least, the braver of the two. And now we need to have a very serious talk.”

Something in the elderly gentleman’s tone left no room for disagreement, and Draco suddenly felt a tremor of uncertainty. It was entirely possible that, no matter what he’d endured at Durmstrang, punishment here might be worse in its own way than any whip or strap could ever hope to be! What, exactly, had he just agreed to?

TBC!!!