The Echoes Of Yesterday

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 5: Confrontation


It was surprising how liberating a moment like that could be. Harry spilled the worst of it, and things had slipped from his mouth that he hadn’t spoken of in almost two decades. Minerva took it all quite well. She was a good friend of many years, and she’d watched the quiet gentleman she knew so well grow from a nervous boy into a decent and capable man. It was a bit of a shock to her system, learning so suddenly that Harry was not only gay, but had remained celibate since the day Draco had left him, and that he’d carried the guilt of several murders with him since he’d quit the Auror service. For the most part, Harry reiterated his inability to cope with seeing the face of the new Lord Malfoy. The thought of seeing that face, lips curled in an arrogant smirk that echoed through decades, filled him with a terror and apprehension he couldn’t even begin to describe.

The oddest part was the shaky, empty sense of relief he felt afterwards. Minerva MacGonagall was a harsh taskmistress, but not an ogre. She ordered him to take the day off and return to his suite, and sent for Master Prewett, who would visit Harry a bit later. He barely heard her voice the entire time, still dazed by the realization that his secrets were no longer his own. Pleasantly, the world felt just the smallest bit brighter, especially since not one harsh word had been spoken toward him. It was worth noting, however, that while Minerva did not bring up the subject of teaching the Malfoy heir, neither did she suggest that she had given up. It was something to worry over some other time. Right now, Harry felt terribly wrung out, as if he’d had a long hard day instead of a scant hour since he’d woke.

There was no mistaking it. She meant to make him do this. Probably out of some mixture of perceived necessity and a desire to see Harry confront his past and ’come to terms’ with it. Harry had no desire to ’come to terms’ with anything. Mostly, he wanted to forget. He loved teaching. It afforded endless distractions, and the majority of his days were spent looking after and educating children who had so much potential. Each one was unique, and every situation was handled a little differently. Some needed additional practice, others a boost of confidence, and some needed discipline and a sense of what to do with their talents. These things kept him thinking much of the day and some of the night. The only hard time for Harry had been just before it was time to sleep.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t stopped drinking a few times in the past. He had, but it always ended the same way, with him waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, fighting the urge to scream. Three in the morning knew all of Harry’s secrets, and there was no hiding from his memories without something to dull his mind.

John Prewett was practically family, and a thorough professional. He was nearing seventy years old, but was as hardy as a man of nearly half his age. There was a good chance that Prewett knew how to blend a few potions that might be more effective than the ones Harry had tried in the past, and that was a small hope to cling to, but Harry still felt his stomach flip when he thought of what Minerva meant to have him do.

It seemed to be a Malfoy tradition in the making. Find the Boy Who Lived and turn his life upside down. Draco Malfoy had done just that, almost twenty years ago. Snape had taken up refuge with Death Eaters at first, while still passing messages to the Order. Draco had been ‘punished’ for his failure to personally kill Dumbledore, first with immediate torture, and then witnessed the murder of his mother. That event broke his mind and his spirit, and the pride that had kept him from begging Snape for help evaporated. When the time came for lines to be drawn and sides to be finally chosen, Draco and Snape had joined the others at Grimmauld Place.

Harry had still been angry then…especially at the potions master who had betrayed them all by taking that damnable oath at Bellatrix’s prompting. He should have been smarter than to let Bellatrix LeStrange set the terms of anything…much less an Unbreakable Vow. As for Draco, while the others scorned him completely, Harry had only felt pity. Draco had been as quiet as the grave since his arrival, and no one but Harry or Snape seemed to feel that this was a problem.

It took days just to get him to talk, and it took two weeks before he would stay in a room with others for more than a few seconds. The knowledge that he’d been played for a fool by a maniac half-blood had not set well with him, and shame was not something that Draco coped with well. Before long, Harry’s continued attempts to drag Draco out of his shell took their toll, and something rather like a bizarre courtship, comprised of bickering and moody silences, emerged from that first glimmering of friendship.

When it became clear that Harry was the only person besides Snape who could stomach his presence, Draco finally broke down and started talking about ‘normal’ things. Quidditch, magic, like and dislikes, and ultimately, his family, his fears and his feelings. He spoke of things to Harry that he’d never shared with anyone, newly confident that Harry would never abuse that knowledge. Sometimes the honorable streak in Gryffindors had its advantages, and Draco came to see that basic truth in Harry.

It happened so fast. One week they were in separate rooms with thoroughly separate lives, and in another week they were suddenly inseparable. Something in Draco had cracked. The façade of indifference and hostility evaporated, and he turned out to be needier emotionally than Harry had imagined, full of insecurities and hidden desires. The others were unaware of it, since neither Draco or Harry wanted to increase the tension in that household during wartime, but behind closed doors they enjoyed an intimacy that no one could have imagined or expected.

Moaning Myrtle’s odd statements came true before Harry’s eyes, and he found Draco to be a thoughtful and sensitive person, alternately worshipful of his parents and yet still terrified of their disapproval even after having clearly broken ranks with them politically. That he’d lost both his parents so suddenly forged a bond between them, both of them orphaned by the whims of the same madman. When he chose to show affection, it was without reservation, frighteningly honest when compared to his usual stoic silence or snarky bickering.

Harry’s life had been dominated by loss for so long that intimacy was simply intoxicating to him, and Draco made their time together a sensual feast. As it turned out, Draco had strongly preferred the passive role in their sexual explorations, but was by no means passive about the act itself. Harry was helplessly enthralled, sating Draco’s every desire as often as they could find the privacy to do so. It was utterly and completely the finest time of his life.

Three months. That was all they had gotten together. They’d never even spoken of whether it was love or not. Just three months of snatched happiness amidst fear and confusion. Then Harry fought Voldemort and won, nearly dying in the attempt. He’d only been well for a little more than a week when Draco had calmly announced his intention to seek out a bride and continue the Malfoy line. When Harry took umbrage at that, Draco had made it clear that he had no intention of doing more than his duty as a Malfoy and as a husband, and that Harry would naturally meet him whenever they could arrange to do so discreetly.

Harry had exploded. There was nothing else to call it. He’d nearly died and his last thoughts had only been of seeing Draco again. Not his parents, not Sirius or Dumbledore, just Draco…the boy he’d been shagging for three months on the sly. That was all it had been for Draco, or he would never have casually asked something so patently disgusting of Harry. The things Harry said that day were terrible, and he regretted them with every breath he’d ever taken since. It had hurt, to have such a thing asked of him, and he’d hurt Draco back in kind. It had ended so terribly, only to end again, forever, when Draco was killed in a cheap hostel in the north of France, trying to make a secretive journey back to England and the Malfoy estate.

If he’d just asked for extra protection, or if the Auror service had caught wind of the plan earlier instead of after the fact, if Draco had swallowed his pride and asked Harry for help directly…if…if…if.

Harry might never have stared into the blank eyes of the only person he’d ever touched, ever loved, ever known real intimacy with. Draco might still be alive somewhere, and maybe that old angst could have been put aside and some small shadow of the friendship they’d once built might have been revived. Instead, Harry had violated his oath as an Auror and executed three people in cold blood, one in the cruelest manner he could devise at the moment. His life had been indelibly marred by that time and those memories, by the words he’d spoken, and by the deeds he had done. He’d built a new life, one that he could live with in relative peace, as long as he could sleep. What would happen if they took that away?

Harry was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, desperately hoping that John Prewett could do what he’d claimed. The knock at the door was almost welcome by the time it came, interrupting a train of thought that Harry wasn’t really enjoying anyway.

The opened door revealed the rather impatient looking form of Draco, the new Lord Malfoy, foot tapping irritably on the stones of the hall floor.

“Well? You’re a teacher…why in the bloody hell won’t you teach me?”

Suddenly, ugly reminiscences about that past looked quite good compared to Harry’s current situation.

TBC!!!