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A Valentine's Day Massacre	By : pittwitch Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 11071 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Chapter Ten

~* All My Love *~

Late that same dismal night, in my house -- our house, I sat on the sofa, in the gloom of the dark, listening to the soft sounds of my family as they slept. Blissfully alone, I wept bitter tasting tears -- hot, scorching tears that could neither cleanse, nor redeem my tainted soul. I hid my face in my hands, salty rivulets tracking across the bones and veins there. I could not raise my eyes – raising them would meet the happy faces in the pictures mashed haphazardly on the mantelpiece. Why? The gods must know the darkness of my soul, must know the evil that resides so deeply within me. That could only be the reason why Ginny would be ripped from us, why happiness is not mine to taste for long. In my agony, I didn’t hear the stealthy footsteps. I jumped when I felt a soft hand on my shoulder, a familiar soft hand. Moaning, I sobbed one name, knowing that my mind finally had cracked completely, “Ginny.”

“Dad,” James’ voice was soft, softer even than his touch. “It’s me – James.”

My shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. I gasped for breath. My heart pounded relentlessly against my ribcage. I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.

“Dad,” he whispered as he slid onto the sofa next to me, his hand sliding down my arm. “I know.” His words stunned me out of my own misery.

Know what? How much could this young boy know? How much could any young boy know? With my glasses askew, I lifted my head from my hands to look into his kind green eyes.

“I heard Granddad and Uncle George talking.” He peered into my eyes, trying to see into my soul.

NO! My mind raged. Must hide everything. He cannot see. Pull yourself together, Potter.

“What did you hear, James?” I inquired with a voice that sounded so calm, so controlled, so foreign.

“Granddad told Uncle George you blame yourself – that you think Mum would never have been sick if it weren’t for you.”

Stunned, I drew back from my oldest son. If he could understand that, how much more could he guess?

“Uncle George told Granddad he could see how you’d blame yourself, but that we’d have to help you understand that you didn’t do this to Mum. Dark Magic did this, not you.” James moved away from me then as well, subconsciously answering my need for space. “Maybe this will help. Mum gave me this to give to you after…” He choked on his words then. He pulled a brown-paper wrapped parcel from the table behind him. His tears oozed from his eyes. He handed the package to me, stood, and left me to open it alone.

I sat in stunned comprehension with that package on my lap for what felt like an eternity: even as she was so ill, dying, Ginny worried about me – my sanity, or lack thereof. Slowly, I willed my fingers to pull the paper away from the contents. I found a red-leather diary with Ginny’s name embossed in gold. Reverently, I lifted it out of the paper to realize that there were actually two matching journals, the second with my name on the front. A note fluttered to the floor. My eyes followed its lackadaisical path, waiting for it to hit the carpet. Bending over, I picked it up to read.

Dear Harry, I know you’ve been suspicious of the diary/journal thing ever since my first year and … well, you know. But I’m leaving you mine to read when you need to remember the real life we shared. There is something so cathartic about placing a quill to parchment and allowing the words, thoughts, and feelings to take shape, giving them their proper place. I would love to know that you have somewhere to put those feelings you are so ashamed of – the ones you hide from everyone – including yourself. I love you, Harry, everything about you, even those things you keep in the dark. Write, love; write for me. Write for the children. Above all, write for yourself. Ginny

I fondled the parchment, rubbing it between the pads of my fingers in morbid fascination. Finally, as dawn broke over the horizon once more, I tucked Ginny’s letter inside her journal and carried both to my room. Another day began, and I was alone, always to be alone. The days passed quickly. James and Albus went back to Hogwarts. I went back to work. Lily went to Molly’s every day, just like before, only now, just Lily and I came home after eating dinner with Arthur and Molly. Sweet little Lily, her love shone from her eyes like a beacon from a lighthouse every time she came tearing up the path to meet me after a long day. The days began to flow together — melt into each other, barely distinguishable. Each night, before I closed my eyes, I gently touched that red-leather diary, laying my tired hand over it, yet afraid to open it, equally afraid to ignore it.

“Georgie porgie puddin’ and pie…” I woke to hearing Lily singing the old nursery rhyme as she skipped down the hall. I groaned, not ready to be awake after a long late-night meeting.

I could hear Molly in the kitchen, and soon, the allure of freshly brewing coffee tickled my nose, urging me out of bed. Running my fingers through my hair, I trudged into the kitchen only to be handed my mug filled with steaming black coffee.

“Good morning, Harry, dear,” Molly fussed, kissing my cheek.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Weasley.” I winked at her, our private joke. “Happy Valentine’s Day to you as well.”

ORDER her flowers as soon as possible, dunderhead! I scolded myself.

“Thank you, Harry.” She patted my cheek in her motherly way. “We’ll be off now; it’s Lily’s party day at school, you know.”

“Thank you, Mum.” I kissed her cheek.

Lily bounded into the room still singing, “Georgie porgie, puddin’ and pie.” I scooped her up to plant slobbery, whiskered kisses all over her freckled cheeks.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Lily.” She giggled, cupping my scruffy face in her hands, rubbing her nose on mine.

“You too, Dad.” Wiggling, she demanded to be let down, collecting her satchel and Molly’s hand on the way out of the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right, Dad?” she affirmed for me, reminding me of yet another boring meeting tonight.

“You bet, Flower-girl.” She giggled, let go of her grandmother’s protective hand, and skipped out the door, picking up her song once again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow too, Harry.” Molly waved as she hurried to catch my youngest child bounding around in the frozen garden.

Still not quite coherent, I stumped down the hall to my office, my precious coffee mug clutched in both hands, running down my to-do list in my head. Order flowers for Molly. Candy for Lily. Cancel meeting and take Lily for a special dinner. Letters to Durmstrang. All thoughts flew from my consciousness when I opened the door to the sight of a huge bouquet of blood-red roses on my desk, at least three dozen.

Stunned, and curious, I walked to my desk and sat in the creaky, comfortable chair to look for the card. I couldn’t find one. But, I did find a package wrapped in green paper, tied with a silver bow sitting behind the vase. Dread washed over me. Shuddering, I opened the package even though I already knew who had sent it.

Inside, I found my long-forgotten kid gloves; the gloves I had worn the night of Malfoy’s Ball. The memories of what I had been doing as my beloved wife had lain dying flooded back to the surface of my consciousness. My lips – my lips had been wrapped around his cock when they should have been consoling my wife in her last moments. My lips had been taking my own pleasure as hers waned. My traitorous lips had been giving pleasure to another. How could I? How could he? I remembered his face that night, remembered believing that I could see him sprout wings. He seemed angelic. Fucker. There’s nothing angelic about him. He started this disaster. HIM! The edges of my world turned a hazy red. Anger welled up inside of me, raging at his presumption. I felt a part of me die, the part of me that kept my inner demons in check. Bastard didn’t even have the courtesy to offer his condolences, but had a brass set of balls big enough to send me gargantuan symbols of undying love? Pay – I’ll make him pay, or finally play, play the puppy for me. No… pay. Malfoy must pay.

Resolve solidified my plans for the day. Family first. I sent Molly and Lily each their own bouquets and a box of Honeydukes’ best chocolates. I canceled the next dreary meeting. I dressed carefully, sliding a secret box from my desk drawer and into my cloak pocket. Now, I whistled for the family owl.

Scrabbling quickly, I quilled a simple note, “Lunch, 12:30,” on the ivory parchment. I sealed it with the Potter ring, and tied it quickly to the owl.

“Draco Malfoy,” I commanded the bird as it instantly took flight to obey. Smiling, pleased at my own deviance, I slipped my father’s Cloak from the hollow book which had contained it all these years, a decoy version of Hogwarts – a History. Satisfied, I Apparated to the spot just outside Malfoy’s offices to begin my plan. Scarcely conscious, I waited, doubly hidden under my Invisibility Cloak and protected with a most guarded secret shared from Snape’s dying memories – the Disillusionment Charm. No wonder the fucking Death Eaters could sneak in everywhere. I breathlessly waited for the tell-tale tap of polished wood against cobblestone.
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- 11
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A Valentine's Day Massacre