The Echoes Of Yesterday

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 3: Down And Out


“This is the almighty savior of the wizarding world?”

“If you have any idea what’s good for you, you’ll keep that sharp tongue in your mouth, boy! Harry! Harry, are you alright?” Ron’s voice was hard and clear in the darkness.

Consciousness came back to him, and Harry’s mind reeled while his blurred vision took in his surroundings. The others loomed huge around him, seen as if through a long, dark tunnel, and while Ron was at his side, propping Harry’s head up, and Master Prewett was muttering spells from Harry’s left, a curious and yet disgruntled looking young man looked down at him with obvious scorn.

There were differences, and they became clearer as Harry’s full faculties became available to him again. The hair was much shorter than his Draco had ever kept it. The jaw was a bit stronger, and the young man’s lips were a bit thicker…more beestung and full than Draco’s had been. The eyes were more of a leaden gray, and his nose was less sharp and aquiline than Draco’s. The resemblance was uncanny nonetheless, and even looking at him hurt. It was like staring at the sun, and Harry very nearly hoped he’d go blind rather than endure another minute of this. He pushed Ron’s hand away and rolled to his feet, staggering a little while his vision swam.

“I’m fine! Just fine! Didn’t feel well this morning at all. Just a bit out of sorts, but I’ll be alright.”

Minerva MacGonagall stepped into view, looking piercingly at Harry through her bifocals.

“I should beg to differ until you’ve gone with Master Prewett for a thorough check-up! I won’t have you falling ill for lack of care at the start of term, Professor Potter. You’ll go to the hospital ward and get a bit of looking after. I shall join you there later and discuss a few matters with you then. As for the rest of you, do take your seats and we shall make this brief. I’m sure everyone is quite eager to get on with their day.”

There was no arguing with Minerva once an order had been given in public, and Harry knew better than to argue in a crowded room. Even if he was fine, and he was sure he was, she wouldn’t budge once a decision had been made, and the matter was settled. Harry let John Prewett lead him out of the room and down the hall without complaint, still haunted and dazed from what he’d just endured.

It seemed impossible. He knew that Draco had married…that was what had driven them apart in the end. Draco had insisted that his family required an heir, and that it was his duty to provide one. It had galled Harry to hear it assumed that he would play the role of ‘secret lover’ to the lord of the Malfoys, and he’d reacted predictably at the time, venting his outrage spectacularly, and that event had put an abrupt end to what had grown between them in the months leading up to the end of the war.

Draco had married a girl from an old European family. Claire DeLune had been a pretty little thing from France, educated at Beauxbatons, and ignorant of the war in general. Harry had joined the Auror service and poured himself into tracking down the tattered remnants of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. As soon as the wedding was a few weeks past, rumor reached Harry that Draco Malfoy’s young wife was already expecting. He’d tried very hard to avoid the rumor mill after that.

The child was born the next year, and Harry was far too busy to care, privately hating the surname Malfoy and all who bore it. Death Eater covens were everywhere, and many had refused surrender, choosing to fight to the death as Voldemort himself had done.

They never met again. Draco and his wife were killed by renegade Death Eaters just a year later, and Harry had headed the investigation afterwards. The child had been at its grandparent’s home, and the investigation revealed that Draco had known of a plot against him. Someone had tipped off his enemies regarding his movements, and though Draco had been cautious enough to place his child among relatives and under wards, when he attempted to leave France discreetly, he and his wife had been cornered and slain, the final and ultimate price of his betrayal of Voldemort and his flight from their fury with Snape.

That and the months afterwards were the ugliest times of Harry’s life. The disaster that had flung them together at Grimmauld Place had ultimately cost Draco his life, as well as the life of the woman for whom he‘d left Harry. The last time he’d looked at the face of his first and only lover, it had been cold and still, twisted in a permanent rictus of agony. The worst of his sins had been born looking at that grisly sight.

He tracked the killers for weeks, and had dispatched the two of them easily enough when the time came, but when he found the name of the one who’d turned them in, Theodore Nott, the last of his rage had needed a fashion in which it could be vented, and simple execution was not enough. For the false friend that had let Draco be killed over some petty childhood grudge, Harry had reserved a special fate.

He’d left Nott screaming for help, knees shattered beyond repair, helpless and wandless in the house of his forefathers. Just before he burned the place to the ground, he’d given the man’s pathetic pleas a single brief answer.

“I don’t know if there is a hell after this world that’s cruel enough to give you what you fucking deserve, so let’s see if I can make one for you right here!”

Those words had sealed Nott’s fate, and his blackened bones had been all that was recoverable from the wreckage of the Nott Estate. Harry had been suspended quietly, and the incident had been hushed up and buried. His friends in the Ministry had evaporated after making a final favor of clearing his record and protecting his name, and at nineteen years of age, Harry was alone in Grimmauld Place, walking down empty halls that had once echoed with Draco’s voice.

If it hadn’t been for Minerva’s letter…well, there was no point in kidding himself. He’d have gone mad if he hadn’t found a way to start his life again. Hogwarts had been a healing balm for a badly battered soul, and this had been his home ever since. John Prewett’s voice suddenly interrupted Harry’s musings.

“Almost there lad. Steady on. You look a bit peaked still. Can’t very well have you tipping over here and there now, can we?”

Harry shook his head, clearing his mind of the fog of memory. “I’m really alright. I swear it. I was just overcome for a moment. I can just wait for Minerva in the waiting room and I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll hear none of that! I didn’t get this position by making a habit of ignoring orders! The Headmistress wants you looked at properly, and I’ll be doing just that. Here we are then. In you go!”

And that was that. Prewett led him through the ward and into the examination room, then proceeded to rattle off more obscure spells than Harry had imagined necessary. There were a few non-committal grunts from the elder medi-wizard, followed by a few clucking noises that implied disappointment. A wave of his wand and Prewett locked the doors and magically silenced the room. Harry hung his head and sighed, waiting for the conversation he knew was coming.

“I’m a great believer in confidentiality, Mister Potter, but if you don’t heed my advice, I assure you that our next conversation will include the Headmistress. I hadn’t expected anything like this when we came here, and certainly not of you, but the truth is that your liver is in poor shape for a man of comparatively few years. It’s obvious that you’ve been drinking to some excess for quite some time. There are things that can help with this, and make it very easy to correct the damage, but you’ll have to work with me, and follow my instructions. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Mister Potter?”

Harry nodded, biting his tongue and fighting the urge to express outrage over this intrusion into his personal life.

“I don’t think you do. I’m talking about cirrhosis of the liver. I’m talking about a slow and ugly death. I’m not here to mince words with you, and I’m too old to be impressed or offended by much of anything. Tell me the truth…will you make a commitment to work with me on this, or will we continue this discussion with our Headmistress present?”

“FINE! Alright! Yes, I fucking drink too much! You think I’m too stupid to know that? I need to bloody sleep! I can’t be doped into a stupor on potions or withdrawing from Dreamless Sleep every few weeks. You fucking judge me after you fight a war before you’re even out of school! Watch the people you love die all around you…kill so that others can live! I…I…goddamnit! I’m…I’m sorry…it’s just…been a hard morning.” Harry buried his face in his hands, choking back a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“That’s a bit better! Nothing wrong with having emotions, lad. I expect you’ve bottled them up a bit too long. I’ll need a few days to prepare some specialized potions for a course of treatment. Some to ease the transition away from the drink, some for sleep if you need it, and another to clear up the damage you’ve done to yourself. I’ll expect you here again in four days. Perhaps after classes are out. I’d like to talk to you then…in depth. Until then, I suggest you start reducing the amount you drink, but don’t cut yourself off entirely until I have the potions ready. There’s no need to place your body under any further stress. That wouldn’t be any better for you than keeping up the drinking. Take some time and think, and come ready to talk…and ready to try. We can have you feeling like a younger man in just a few weeks if you give this your all.

And Harry…just so you know…I’m not judging you for any of this. I think no different of you than I did a few hours ago, but I won’t let you do this to yourself without intervening. Healers take an oath about that kind of thing, and I’ve never broken mine yet. I’m opening the doors and ending the spells for privacy. We’re done for now.”

Harry quietly stood up and made his way back to the waiting room. Minerva was on her way, one of his personal secrets was already out to Prewett, he’d passed out in front of the entire staff, and Draco’s son was attending Hogwarts. Quite frankly, the day just couldn’t get any worse.

Minerva walked into the waiting area, fixing Harry with a concerned look now that there wasn’t a cluster of onlookers.

“You are all right, aren’t you Harry? You gave us an awful fright back there.”

“Oh yes! Not bad at all. It’s…a bit personal, but nothing we can’t get sorted out easily enough. I’m just sorry to have worried everyone over nothing.”

“Very well then,” Minerva continued, adopting her usual crisp and professional tone. “I wanted to speak to you privately anyway, Harry. Young Lord Malfoy has only recently claimed the estate of his father after graduating from Durmstrang. Technically speaking, he needs no further schooling. He requested a year here to advance his studies at the school his father attended. Specifically, he requested extensive training in Defense Against The Dark Arts, and he was very specific about wanting to be tutored by you. I’ll be assigning you as his personal mentor…Harry? Harry! Master Prewett! Professor Potter has collapsed…again!”

TBC!